‘Lundy? Good Lord! How many miles is that?’ Her nan sat back, her hand at her throat, gathering the braid-edged collar of her dressing gown to her chest.
‘Twenty-three, twenty-four miles,’ she guesstimated.
‘Well, make sure you’re back in time for your shift. Don’t want our Connie on the phone, you know what she gets like.’
‘Yep.’
Tawrie made her way out into the early morning, thankful for the Victorian cast-iron street lamps that helped light the way. Her nan’s casual observation had made her laugh; the very thought of her swimming all that way, even if it were possible to navigate the rocks, wrecks and shipping lanes that lay between the mainland and the island was ludicrous. It was a feat only achieved by one or two people at most, ever, and they had started their swim further around the coast from Hartland Point. As she’d be swimming from Hele Bay Beach, not only would she be on the wrong side of the peninsula, but it was an almost impossible distance to swim, novice or not.
On her sturdy bike, she navigated the back roads, lanes and snickets of the town. There was something thrilling about being out and about at this hour, as the town was still waking; it changed the way the place felt. The streets were quiet yet familiar, curiouslyintimate and with a peach glow not dissimilar to the wintry evenings of her childhood. It reminded her of walking home from school in all weathers, running to keep up with Connie and her lipstick-wearing, boy-chasing friends who ignored her. It also evoked memories of her dad, and with this thought came the curious smell of nail polish.
‘Time heals all wounds ...’ It was a familiar phrase, and countless were the times she’d heard it mouthed by good-hearted acquaintances. It had been hard to understand the meaning of it when her dad died when she was only seven. And when finally she reached an age when she did understand it, she also knew it to be utter crap. Time didnotheal her longing to be back in his arms, to hear him laugh, to ask him all the questions that she didn’t know she had to ask, to dance with him in the kitchen, to ask his advice, to have his presence on birthday and Christmas mornings, smiling, proud ... Healing didn’t come into it; it was more a case of muddling through and hoping things might get easier, that she might ache for him a little less.
Kitchen lights popped on as she cycled by, no doubt followed by the click of a kettle for that first cuppa and the rubbing of eyes as Ilfracombians got ready for the day ahead. Georgie, who delivered the milk, lifted his hand in a wave. It was nice to see him; usually the only sign of his presence was the crate of semi-skimmed and full-fat left at the back door of the café – an order that quadrupled in the summer months. Georgie was one of the happiest people she knew, having arrived in the town only a year ago. He and his wife Cleo lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of town. He was always smiling and never more so than when he got the opportunity to show her a picture of his little boy – a beaming toddler called Tommy who looked just like his milkman dad. His paternal pride cut her with a knife made of longing.
Making good use of her robust legs it felt like no time before she pulled out on to the top of the slipway that took her down toHele Bay Beach. Leaving her bike on its side, she tiptoed across the wet sand and shingle, feeling the crunch underfoot as she listened to the ocean jump against the rocks. Its roar and the fine spray of water it threw into the air seemed to her to be, if not a statement meant to challenge her, then certainly a question. Despite the fact her eyes had become accustomed to the shadowy morning, it was hard to see too far out into the bay. She was, however, acutely aware of the vast body of water that both called to and repelled her. This body of water that had swallowed her dad whole and failed to spit him back out. Who in their right mind would want to get into it?
‘You don’t have to do this, Tawrie. You can chicken out. No one cares,’ she whispered.
But that wasn’t strictly true.
Shecared.
Looking around, she was slightly surprised to realise she was the first to arrive. Surely the seasoned Peacock gang had not cried off today of all days. Although she had to admit it was a sound excuse for abandoning her mission, and she decided there and then that if no one else arrived, she would take it as a sign from the universe that she’d be better off in bed, and trudge home, showing mock disappointment.
‘Hello, dear!’ She heard the voice before she saw the wiry form of an old woman walking slowly up from the shore.
‘Oh, hello!’ She waved. With at least one other Peacock here, this was happening! Her gut bunched with nerves.
It was only as the woman drew closer that Tawrie noticed she was not just old, but really old. At least a generation older than her gran. She was also not alone, as an elderly man followed a few paces behind. Of similar stature, both were wearing thick vintage-style wetsuits that came over their heads and zipped up under their chins, allowing their faces to peep through. She did her best not to reveal the mixture of surprise and admiration she felt at their age. Theylooked like bowlegged Jacques Cousteau impersonators, with inflated pink floats dangling from their waists to their ankles.
‘Are you Tawrie Gunn?’
‘I am.’ She gripped her duffel bag to her chest as if it were a shield.
‘You must be related to Freda then?’ The woman smiled as much as her tight hood allowed.
‘Yes, my nan.’
‘I know her from the doctors’; we’ve chatted there in the waiting room a couple of times. She’s friends with Mrs Tattersall over in Combe Martin, isn’t she?’
‘That’s right.’ This wasn’t uncommon in a small town, everyone keen to join the dots, find a connection.
‘Well, we live next door to Mrs Tattersall’s son Henry.’ The woman pointed up towards a row of cottages a stone’s throw from the beach. Tawrie envied their front-row seat and view of the water.
‘Ah yes, I know Henry.’ The man sported a fierce moustache, which must take a lot of work to maintain.
‘And Henry went to school with our daughter Alisha, who now lives in London. She’s a physiotherapist.’
‘Oh great!’ This passing of information, too, all quite standard. It was the showing of credentials, proof that you belonged. It also left her with the tang of envy on her tongue: lucky Alisha to have upped and left, followed her dream ...
‘She’s divorced.’ The woman’s mouth narrowed in disapproval and Tawrie felt a flicker of pity for Alisha, the London-living physiotherapist, who she suspected might be on the receiving end of that tight, disapproving expression more often than was fun when it came to the subject of her marital status.
Her body gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Anyway, welcome to the Peacock Swimmers!’ the woman yelled with her arms held out, full of energy despite the early hour. Tawrie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
‘Thank you.’ Looking over the woman’s shoulder as the old man came closer, she wondered where everyone else was.
