‘Yep. Because I looked at them all and saw myself a decade ago and realised that I was stuck. Still racing, not happy, not sad, just looking forward, doing what I thought I had to, earning enough money, and yet not fulfilled, not hopeful. I can’t count the times I said to myself that when I reached X or when I did Y then I’d be happy – things would be better, easier. But there was always another X or Y on the horizon and I knew I was never going to arrive. Do you understand that?’
‘I really, really do.’ She felt connected to him, his words so close to her own experience. In that moment she knew that for them to move forward, for this friendship to deepen, she would need to open up about her life, her past, her mother ... Shifting in the chair, her skin itched with discomfort. What would he think of her when he knew the full story? She’d go slowly, that was probablythe answer. ‘It’s partly why I swim. It’s like a reset. A good, positive thing that makes me so happy, and I do it just for me.’
There was a moment of silence but she felt no need to fill the gap with chatter; instead she was content, calm in his presence.
‘Do you sail as well?’
It was a straightforward question, an obvious one, really, when she considered the geographical location of her home. She shook her head and felt a shiver of fear at the thought of going out in a boat, knowing how quickly it could all go wrong and how a family, like hers, could be left struggling with the consequences decades later.
‘I’ve never, erm ...’ How to begin, where to begin? ‘I think I may have been out on a boat when I was younger. In fact, I don’t know why I said it like that. Yes, Ididgo out on a boat when I was little. With ... with my dad. He had a little boat calledErmest– after the River Erme, another Devon river.’
‘So you could have been called Ermest if the mood had taken him?’
‘Quite possibly.’ She smiled wistfully; it felt nice to talk about the man she only recalled in shadow. The outline of him without the detail. It was also refreshing not to see the pull of distress on Edgar’s face at the mention of Daniel Gunn. A look she was used to and was synonymous with her father’s name. Unsurprising, really, as all who knew and loved him and every local within living memory knew his story and this melancholic salute was almost mandatory. But not for Edgar, who had no prior knowledge and no embedded rumours; it was another reason to enjoy his company.
‘I’m wary of asking further about your dad after the way you reacted on the beach, and trust me, that’s not me pushing or prying.’ He sat forward, eyes wide, his words urgent. ‘I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable or for you to talk about anything that was triggering. So feel free to answer in any way yousee fit, or not, nothing matters – we have wine and crisps and nuts, and the night is young.’ He pinched several crisps and shoved them into his mouth, an act so unselfconsciously relaxed she felt another layer of reservation strip from her skin.
I do trust you. . .
‘I don’t ...’ She took a sip of wine. ‘... I don’t really remember him.’ The words were as painful to say out loud as they sounded in her head and it was a fact she rarely shared, only able to imagine how Nan and Uncle Sten would react to it.
‘Because you haven’t seen him?’ he asked softly, returning to their conversation at Hele Bay Beach.
‘He died.’ There. She’d done it. Ripped off the Band-Aid. ‘He died when I was seven.’
‘Oh, Tawrie.’ It was almost instinctive, the speed with which he abandoned his wine glass and reached across the table to take her hand. This contact sent a shiver of longing rippling through her whole body. Curling her fingers around his fleshy palm, their first touch, she sat quietly with him, almost in reverence for the news shared, and she was thankful for it, quite certain he could hear her loud heartbeat that filled her head. ‘I hate saying it, even now.’
Because it makes it real.
He squeezed her hand a little, the increased pressure speaking more than a thousand words.
‘But you have pictures? And I bet other people remember him. I know that for my childhood – not that it’s the same, and please don’t think I’m comparing my life to what you’ve been through – but I know that even if memories are a little hazy for me, it’s other people’s testimony, for want of a better word, that builds a picture, fills in the gaps for me. And so I think I have more memories than I actually do.’
‘Pictures? Not many really. A few, yes.’ She thought about the mostly blurred photographs of her with her dad on the harboursideor on the beach. Photos snapped, subjects off-centre, taken carelessly, hurriedly, without any awareness of the importance they would have. After all, what did it matter? It was just a day at the beach, a moment with a melting ice cream, a quick hug on her dad’s lap post-swim, a towel around her shoulders, her with a lopsided ponytail and a grin minus two front teeth, and him looking young and strong and kind, a day’s stubble gracing his chin as he beamed into the camera or smiled at her. ‘And it’s hard for me to talk to anyone objectively because of, erm ...’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because of how he died.’
‘How did he? I mean, I don’t know if it’s okay to ask, I don’t want to, erm ...’ he gabbled and withdrew his hand, reaching for his wine.
‘No, that’s okay.’ She kept her eyes on the tabletop, counting the crisps that had spilled from the packet, anything to divert her sadness and allow her to get the words out. One ... two ... three ... three and a crumb. ‘He drowned.’
‘Oh.’ She watched his shoulders fall and his head drop and she understood. It wasn’t a neat death. There was little comfort to be taken from it. No slipping away in his sleep or at the end of an illness with his family surrounding him, having had the chance to say goodbye, the event wrapped with bittersweet relief. There was nothing neat about it. Drowning was ragged, uncomfortable to voice, a word redolent with images of struggle and violence. ‘Yeah, so it makes it hard to talk to my nan or his brother or my ... my mum.’
‘That must be so difficult.’
‘Yes, I think so. And that’s why I don’t raise it, you know? It’s like the first thirty-odd years of his life might have been fantastic, but mentioning him, especially how he died, and it feels like everything that went before is reduced to that one day. And I don’t want to put them through it. They’ve been through enough.’
‘I meant hard for you.’
‘I guess. But I don’t know any different. People say you don’t miss what you never had, or in my case what you don’t remember.’ She twisted her mouth to suggest this might not be true.
‘I think they’re wrong. I know I miss what I never had.’ He spoke slowly, sharing his own confidence, which in some way levelled their emotional investment, swapping secrets, building a bridge of trust.
‘What didn’t you have?’
‘A normal family life is probably the best way to describe it.’
‘Jeez, find me someone that did!’
He laughed and drank. ‘I guess you’re right.’
