Swimming Upstream

3

Martin stood by the car in silence and held the back door open.

“Uh uh, sprained ankles in the front,” said Catherine, tugging at the passenger door and helping me inside. She climbed into the back seat with my crutches.

Martin got into the driver’s seat beside me and started the engine. He drove silently out of the hospital gates and out onto the ringroad. Once or twice I caught him glancing in my direction. When I glanced back at him, he looked back at the road ahead of him and smiled. I was a little taken aback at his cheek. Here he was, engaged to be married, and yet he was chatting up strange women at the swimming pool and inviting them for coffee. Surely he must at least be wondering if I was going to tell Catherine? The tension between the two of us was palpable. Catherine, however, didn’t seem to notice anything and talked all the way back about school, telling various anecdotes about the two of us for Martin’s benefit.

The strange thing was that I barely remembered any of the events that Catherine was talking about.

“Do you remember that time I came over to your house?” asked Catherine, as we stopped at the traffic lights on Hills Road. I noticed that Martin was going the wrong way back, or at least taking a longer route than necessary, but I didn’t like to comment. “We must have been ten or eleven. Your dad threw your bike onto the neighbour’s skip because you had left it on the path outside?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I really don’t.”

“Go, on, you must remember. You promised to put it away in future but he wouldn’t let you have it back. We sneaked out later to see if we could rescue it, but it was gone.”

“I don’t remember Catherine, honest. I don’t even remember ever having a bike.”

“Well, I guess you didn’t after that,” said Catherine, quietly.

I turned back and smiled at her. “It’s not you, it’s me. There’s loads of stuff I seem to have forgotten.”

“Me too,” said Catherine, cheerfully. “Mind you, I did miss a lot of school. Glandular fever. I had it every summer. And bronchitis in the winter.”

“Sticky mattress more like,” said Martin, speaking for the first time. “Your parents were too soft on you.”

I felt Catherine tensing behind me.

“You caught up, though,” I said quickly. “You didn’t fall behind. That was amazing.”

“I was good at exams, that’s all. I knew the formula. How to give the examiners what they wanted. I wasn’t naturally brainy like you. Lizzie was the clever one,” she said to Martin. “She got five A’s in her first year report and she was Student of the Year. I was so envious.”

“Hmm,” I sighed. “Now that I do remember. The girls in my class buried me in the materials box during needlework and took it in turns to sit on me.”

Martin let out a short snort of laughter. “Sorry,” he added.

“That’s okay,” I smiled. “I’m over it.”

We turned right off Gonville Place into Mill Road. The house would be empty and in darkness, of course, but since we had left the hospital I realised I’d been harbouring a small and selfish hope that maybe the tour would have finished early and that Larsen would be here. I really missed him, I realised that now. Maybe we could talk things through, be honest with one another, discover what was wrong and fix it - find a new bright way forward, together. Telling Catherine about him at the hospital, talking about how we had met, had reminded me of the passion between us, of how much he had meant to me, and still did. It had reminded me of exactly how much I had to lose.

“Which street is it then?” asked Martin.

“Sorry, sorry. Just here, turn left,” I apologised.

Martin pulled up outside the house. I thanked him for the lift. He shrugged by way of reply and nodded at the house. “No-one home?”

“No,” I said. “My boyfriend’s away. Due back tomorrow.”

“Pity,” he said quietly as Catherine got out of the car to help me out.

I turned to look at him. What was a pity? That I was on my own tonight? Or that I had a boyfriend who was coming back tomorrow? Martin just looked back at me and smiled.

Catherine opened my door. She handed me my crutches and helped me out of the car.

“Can you manage?” she asked. “We can help you inside if you like?”

“It’s okay. I’m going to have to get used to these things sometime.”

Catherine stared up at the house. “Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? I don’t like to leave you.”

“I'll be fine. Honest,” I smiled.

She held me steady while I hooked my swimming bag over my shoulders and fished around in the side pocket for a pen. I wrote my telephone number down on the back of her hand.

“I'll call you,” she smiled. “I really want to stay in touch.”

“Me too,” I said, pleased.

We hugged, and said goodbye.

I pushed open the front door and walked into the living room, hoping irrationally for the habitually irritating sight of Larsen's jacket dumped on the stairs and his trainers under the coffee table. But - nothing. The room was empty and the magnolia and fawn-flecked carpet stretched ahead, unspoilt. I poked my head round the door to the kitchen. Instead of the usual sink full of plates and cups and the crumby work surfaces I'd been half expecting, the sink was empty and every surface still gleamed and sparkled, just as I'd left it that morning. I checked the answer phone machine. There were no messages from Larsen.

I shrugged off my coat and began to heave myself shakily up the stairs. Half way up I became afraid I was going to fall back down. I decided it would be easier to leave the crutches behind and go up backwards on my bottom. Once or twice my foot thudded against the stair and a spasm of pain shot through me, causing me to squeal and stop and gasp for breath. At last I reached the top and, hauling myself up with the aid of the banister, I hopped heavily and slowly into the bedroom. I would have to get in to work somehow in the morning, I decided. Grab a taxi. I really didn’t want to miss my first chance at presenting on prime-time radio. In any event it was too late now to call and line up someone else. I shrugged my bag off my shoulders, set my alarm for 3.00 a.m., and pulled out the bottle of painkillers they'd given me at the hospital. The label said I should take one or two, with food. I swallowed three, undressed, and crawled under the duvet where I lay, cold and dejected, until sleep overcame me.

When I woke it was daylight and the sun was streaming in through the window. I felt a fleeting, random burst of happiness; then I tried to move my legs and the gentle throbbing started up again. The memory of last night’s events crept over me. With a start, I remembered that it wasn’t supposed to be daylight; it was supposed to be 3.00 a.m. I reached out and pulled my alarm clock from off the bedside table. I groaned, and flopped back down onto the pillow. It was ten past eleven on Tuesday, as far as I could tell. I had slept through the Breakfast Programme. Not only had I missed my moment of glory, I was going to be in big trouble with my boss.

I lay motionless on my back for a few moments. My arms and legs felt like lead weights. Eventually, I lifted my head. It felt heavy too. I flung myself sideways out of bed and landed on the floor with a thud. Pain shot and burned its way through my ankle and up into my shinbone. My entire body felt bruised and stiff. I crawled to the top of the stairs, and peered through the banisters, where I could see the answer phone machine flashing like crazy.

Going downstairs was easier than going up. I could either hang onto the banister and hop, or slide all the way down on my bottom with my good leg as a lever and my bad leg in the air. I tried both. Sliding down won in the end, because it was quicker. I crawled frantically to the telephone and pressed the button on the answer machine. There were three messages, two from Phil, the station manager, and one that was just nothing except white noise and what sounded like music and people talking in the background. Phil wanted to know what had happened to me, and why I hadn’t turned up for work. He sounded concerned the second time. I deleted the messages and dialled Phil’s direct line number. It went to answer phone. I left an apologetic message and then spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa, watching daytime TV, going over and over everything in my head and waiting for the phone to ring.

At six I heard the sound of a key wriggling noisily in the door lock and the front door opening. I leapt up from the settee and hopped across the room. Larsen stood in the doorway, looking drunk and dishevelled. His eyes were cloudy and red-rimmed, his chin was covered in a couple of days’ worth of stubble and his long blond hair was lank and matted. He was wrestling with his jacket, trying to yank his arms out, but he was all twisted up. One arm sprang free and caught the doorknob.

“Ouch,” he said, shaking his hand and sucking it. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

Momentary relief that he was back was quickly replaced with the anger and frustration that had been brewing inside me all afternoon.

“Shut up,” I hissed. “And shut the door.”

“But it hurts,” Larsen whined. He closed the door and leaned against it.

I remained standing on one leg in front of him, hanging onto the banister for support. “You’re drunk.”

Larsen cocked his head to one side. “What are you implying?”

“Look at the state you’re in! Where have you been?”

“Erm. The pub?”

“The pub,” I repeated, nodding.

“What have you done to your foot?” Larsen said, suddenly stabbing the air repeatedly in the direction of my bandaged ankle, as if it was something I maybe hadn't noticed.

“What do you care?”

“Is it all right?” His eyes widened in sympathy.

“No, it's not all right,” I said. “It's not all right at all.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“We had this little party, you see…” Larsen began.

“Who’s we?” I said. “I thought you were in Manchester?”

“Ah, and now that’s where you’re wrong.” Larsen wagged his finger. “You’re normally right, Lizzie, about everything in fact. I’ll give you that. But on this occasion…”

“Where were you then?” I demanded.

“The Juggler's to begin with, and then ...” He lowered his head. “Back at Jude's. C'mon Lizzie, don’t give me a hard time.”

“Jude? Why were you at her house? What happened to the gig last night?”

“Cancelled.” Larsen looked up at me again. “So we came home, went down the pub. Everyone was there. Doug and Marion, Brian...”

“And Jude.”

“Well…yeah..”

“So what about me? Did you not think to tell me you were back? Why didn’t you come home?”

Larsen was sobering up pretty quickly. “I tried to phone you, I left a message ...” He tailed off. “Didn’t I?”

I took a deep breath. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“At Jude’s, I told you. All of us. It was late…”

“Where at Jude’s?”

“Where did I…?” Larsen paused. “I need a drink.” He walked into the kitchen. I hopped after him. He pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge and swigged from it and, at the same time, switched on the kettle, which started to boil loudly.

“So?” I asked, over the noise of the kettle.

“What was the question again?”

“Where did you sleep? I asked you where you slept. At Jude’s. On the sofa? On the floor? In her f*cking bed?” I screamed at him. The kettle boiled to a crescendo and switched itself off.

“No. No, of course not. I slept on the floor.” Larsen leaned towards me and took my hand. I pulled it away.

“Are you lying to me?”

“I swear.” Larsen pulled me towards him again. “Come on baby. Give me a break. We were all drunk. We just crashed.”

“God, Larsen, I could have really done with you being here last night - and today. You’ve been back in Cambridge for twenty-four hours and you didn’t even think to phone...”

“F*cking hell, I’ve had enough of this,” Larsen announced suddenly. “I’m going to bed.” He pushed past me and headed up the stairs.

He re-emerged a few hours later. I was sitting in the living room watching the news.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, appearing in the doorway.

“Dave phoned. He’s dropping your gear off tomorrow. I’m sorry the Manchester leg of the tour got cancelled.”

“Yes, well at least we played Bradford and Leeds. So that paid for the petrol. Makes sitting in the back of a van for hours with Dave’s sweaty armpits and a drum kit in your back all worthwhile.” He paused. “D'you want a cup of tea?”

I shrugged and stared at the telly. The Chancellor of the Exchequer had announced that high street spending was up by fifteen percent.

“You been out shopping again?” Larsen smiled. I didn't laugh. He sat down next to me and took my hand. I let it flop in his, like a fish.

“How's your ankle?” he asked.

“Sprained.”

“How did it happen?”

I told him. Larsen looked shocked. “What the hell were you doing, crossing there?”

“I don’t need a lecture,” I said. “It hurts.”

He folded his arms and sat back, staring at the telly. A minute later he turned and smiled at me, leaned forward and promptly started kissing me. I was so surprised, I couldn't react for a second or two. Larsen took that as a green light, and thrust his hand up my jumper. I pulled back.

“What?” He looked hurt.

“This isn’t the time…”

“It’s never the time,” said Larsen. “These days.” He stood up.

I looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“To get a drink,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

The noise of the television suddenly became too loud. I picked up the remote and switched it off, lit a cigarette and looked around the room, trying to figure out something to say before he came back; something to make us both feel better. I looked at the walls - white with a shade of green - that Larsen and Doug had painted when we first moved in, and the framed oil on canvas over the gas fire that Jude had given us as a housewarming present. It was supposed to be a man and a woman embracing but it just looked like streaks of angry colour and meant nothing to me. I suddenly felt the urge to throw something at it. I wondered if I concentrated hard enough I could make it fall off the wall.

Larsen returned from the kitchen with a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He looked from me to the painting and back again, and frowned.

I said, “You don’t know how tired I get, doing a different shift every week. And I’m in quite a lot of pain, you know.”

Larsen said nothing. He twisted the top off the whisky bottle and poured two generous measures.

“Not everything can be solved by jumping into bed or downing a bottle of Jack Daniels,” I added.

Larsen handed me a glass and I took it. “I can’t do anything to please you anymore,” he said. “I don’t have anything you want.”

“Oh Larsen, that’s not true!” I protested weakly. “It’s just… different now, that’s all. Things have changed.”

“Well, I haven’t changed,” said Larsen.

I sighed. I realised he thought of this as some kind of plus point.

“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You never change. You’re still exactly the same as you were when I met you, only you drink more, are at home less, and I’m sorry to tell you, Peter Pan, you’ve got a few more wrinkles on your face.”

Larsen’s hand flew automatically to his cheek. He stood up and started pacing the room.

“That's so bloody typical,” he said, angrily, and stopped to jab his finger at me. “You used to like me the way I was. You thought I was funny, even when I was drunk. I never pretended to be anything I wasn't.”

“Well, it stops being funny after a while.”

“And what about you?” he continued.

“What about me?”

“Well, if I'm Peter Pan, then you're bloody Wonder Woman. All you care about is reading the bloody one o'clock news and roaming around the countryside, chasing after the story that's going to get you that news editor job that you're after.”

I took a large swig of whisky. “What's wrong with roaming around? I like roaming around. I want to go everywhere. You don't want to go anywhere. I want to go to Paris…Rome…I want to go to Africa. Bosnia, maybe.”

“Bosnia?” Larsen looked up at me as though I were an alien. “You are kidding, right?”

“It’s important, what’s happening to the people there. The Serbs…”

“There is no way you are going to Bosnia!”

“My problem,” I said, ignoring him, “is that I don't know where to go first. With you it's a choice between the Juggler's Friend or the flipping Dog and Duck.”

“Oh that's great,” said Larsen. “So everyone's got to be a high flyer like you. Well maybe I like being here.”

“But you never are here!” I spluttered, and banged down my glass. Larsen stared at me, wide-eyed. I bit my lip and said, more softly, “You're never here when I come back.”

Larsen sighed and refilled our glasses. “If you're talking about last night, I'm sorry.”

I lit a cigarette. Larsen looked at his feet. “I love you,” he muttered, eventually.

I shook my head. “No. No you don't.”

“What?”

“You don't love me, not really. That's just something you say to keep me loving you.” Larsen opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again. “If you loved me, I'd feel it,” I added. “But I don't. I just feel…” I tailed off. “Tired,” I said, finally.

“Tired? Tired of what? Tired of me?”

“No. No, I don’t mean that.” I sighed. “Not tired of you. Just tired. Tired of being the strong one.”

“I'm no good for you. You don't need me,” said Larsen.

“How do you know what I need?” I sighed, frustrated. “You think you know, but you don't.”

“Funny that, isn't it?” said Larsen, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “I've only lived with you for the last six years -”

“- Seven,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“It's over seven years.”

“Is it?” Larsen looked at the blackness outside the window for a minute, then nodded. “Yep, you’re right.” He turned and grinned at me. I smiled back, the tension between us broken. We both fell silent and sipped our drinks.

“Bosnia,” said Larsen, half-smiling and shaking his head, as if I were child. “You don’t want to go to Bosnia.”

“No, you don’t want to go to Bosnia,” I said. “I’m not you!”

Larsen looked hurt. “Have you any idea what it’s like reporting from a war zone? It’s not just about getting your face on the telly, you know. People go missing, get kidnapped…”

“I know...”

“You know. You know it all, don’t you? You won’t be told anything!”

“Well, why do you want to tell me everything.”

“Because I care about you! That’s why!” Larsen got up and lit the gas fire and sat down in front of it with his back to me, staring into it as if it were a real one. After a while I got up and settled onto the floor beside him. He put his arm round me and I leaned my head against his chest. My face was pleasantly warm and the whisky was making me dozy.

The telephone was ringing. Larsen stirred beside me, but neither of us moved. The answer phone clicked on and I could hear Phil’s voice telling me he hoped I was all right and that I shouldn’t rush back. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“Is that a good thing, do you think?” I asked Larsen.

“They’re not going to sack you, Lizzie. They love you.” Then Larsen added, “And I love you, you know. I really do.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“But maybe,” he said, looking not at me but at the small blue and white flames that were dancing around in the fireplace. “Maybe we should break up.”

I looked up at him. He was still beautiful. He smiled down at me and I could see in his eyes that nothing had changed for him. He still loved me in exactly the same way that he always had - too much, but not enough, at exactly the same time. He held me tighter.

“Maybe you're right,” I agreed. “Maybe we should.”