Claire stands in her kitchen watching as the birds flit between the cherry tree and the fence, waiting for the kettle to boil. It’s a non-descript dismal day and the atmosphere at home hasn’t been great. She and Pim have not really patched things up after their row on New Year’s Eve about Jenna and Rob, and he’s retreated into a conveniently all-consuming ball of stress about his classes starting up again. She’s spent the last fortnight on her new January diet, but so far she’s yet to lose so much as a pound. She can feel the call of the chocolate brownies she’s double taped into a tin box in the cupboard, like an evil whisper.
Pim sits with his headphones on at the kitchen table. In fact, she’s entirely invisible to him, she realises. There’s a staff meeting going on and she hears him laugh.
She wonders, if things had turned out differently, whether she might have been a teacher herself. Then it might have been her having that easy camaraderie, her belonging to a team. Back in her twenties, she used to have a good job in a recruitment agency, but she gave it up when they moved to Brighton for Pim’s job and she was concentrating on getting pregnant. And then, when she had babies, they became her focus. She wanted to give her all to being a mum. But, now, all the good years have rushed by and she can’t help feeling that she has nothing to show for herself.
While she waits for the detox teabag to brew, she picks up her phone and scrolls through the Sea-Gals chat. She likes the clips that Helga posts of the starlings and the gulls. Their house where she grew up in Ireland was inland from the coast and they hardly ever visited the rugged beaches. Even so, she’s always thought of herself as a coastal kind of person. That’s why she and Pim had moved to Brighton.
But now, she marvels at how she’s lived by this huge other element for a decade and has really not taken much notice of it. How has she not known about the tides or the currents? How has she mostly ignored the sunsets and sunrises?
Now that she’s started sea swimming herself, she notices women like her everywhere. She’s discovered The Salty Seabirds, an offspring of a social enterprise set up by two women to help people with their mental health. She was surprised to learn that there’s thousands of members on the Facebook group and she joined up herself, reading the helpful tips on swimming in cold water. It feels exciting to be part of such a big community, but she likes being part of the Sea-Gals group the best.
Today, Dominica has reposted a picture of a swimmer in a Wonder Woman cape from another sea swimmers’ group, the Blue Tits. It’s been so long since she’s been away anywhere that Claire feels a little thrill at being connected to these women on the other side of the country.
She studies the picture – a group of women larking around on the shore; women in costumes with wobbly bottoms just like hers, their gloved hands held aloft, grins on their faces. It’s comforting to know that her tiny gang on the beach is part of a vast movement of swimmers. When everyone else is moaning half the time, the fact that there are people enjoying the benefits of cold water feels like a massive force for good. She likes to think of this veritable army around the coastline of Britain as hardy, can-do types who get things done. Because that’s the gist of the post. That swimming in cold water invokes one’s inner superhero.
Claire has never thought of it like that, but it’s true. Not believing in a million years that you might be able to go in, and then actually doing it is powerful stuff. You may find, the quote says, that your superhero power stays with you through the rest of your day. You might find the courage to wear a brighter colour or say something daring at a meeting.
She can see that Dominica is typing and she clicks the message. She’s asking if anyone is around now for a swim at low tide. Claire feels a leap of excitement. She looks at the clock on the cooker. She can do it. She can get down there and back before she really has to chivvy the boys along with their schoolwork. Pim doesn’t notice as she leaves.
The tide is going out and there’s a sea mist making everything slightly blurry when Claire joins Helga and Dominica on the beach.
‘They must know something we don’t know,’ Claire says, as she puts her bag down. The surfers, clad in black, are floating on the still water by the burnt-out pier. There’s not even the hint of a wave. What are they doing?
Tor comes down from the prom to join them, her feet sliding in the slope of pebbles. Apart from their gang and the surfers in the distance, there’s nobody around, except for the man she can see stretching on the bandstand next to a tent. Not a very relaxing place to pitch up, she shouldn’t imagine.
‘Look.’ Helga points toward the groyne to where there’s a small brown bird on the pebbles.
‘It’s a turnstone.’
Claire watches as it picks over a shell then looks up to check that nobody has seen it, then puts its head down again. If Helga hadn’t pointed it out, she’d have never noticed it. She can see that the bird is torn between the world at its feet and the world around it. It’s fascinating to watch.
In the water, they all set off in a slow swim parallel to the shore. It’s taken a will of steel, but Claire’s proud of herself for getting in with the minimum of fuss, like Helga. She watches her gloves beneath the surface, still hardly able to believe they’re hers. She got the neoprene boots and gloves online and she feels more like she belongs now she has the right kit.
‘How are you finding it?’ Helga asks her.
‘Fecking cold, but good.’ Somehow it feels OK to swear in front of Helga.
‘Hmm, my temperature gauge says that it’s bloody cold. Not fucking cold,’ Tor says, and Claire laughs, realising that this is an ‘in’ joke between them all.
‘It’s fucking cold in February and March,’ Dominica clarifies in a posh accent, as if that’s an actual thing.
‘I’m glad you’ve got a working temperature gauge. I don’t seem to be able to control my temperature at the best of times,’ Claire tells Dominica. ‘I wake up all the time in the night with hot sweats.’ It’s the first time she’s admitted this, but she sees that Tor and Helga are listening, so she goes on. ‘It drives my husband crazy. I can’t bear for him to touch me and I fling off the duvet and then I lie there, feeling myself sweating from head-to-toe and it’s disgusting. My nightie clings to me, my hair gets sodden, and my scalp feels like it’s on fire. Then, just as quickly, I’m freezing and shivering.’
‘Oh yeah. That.’ Dominica clearly understands exactly what Claire is describing.
Claire tells them about how frustrating it is to be so clumsy and how Pim and the boys tease her for mispronouncing her words and forgetting everything.
‘They make me feel like a right eejit.’
‘Don’t they speak menopause?’ Dominica asks. ‘I know exactly what a thingummy in a whatsit means in the right context.’
‘At least someone does.’
‘It sounds to me like you need to get tooled up. First off, you need a Chillow Pillow.’
‘What’s that?’
Dominica flips over on her back so that she can talk more easily to Claire. Her words mist on the water as she explains that it’s a thing you put in the fridge and then under your pillow at night and then you can flip it to stop your head being so hot.
‘And I’ve heard the magnets are great,’ Dominica continues. ‘My sister-in-law swears by them. Menopoised. That’s the site. I’ll send you the link. You put a tiny magnet in a plaster on the back of your neck on a heat acupressure point. Works wonders for some.’
‘You’ve been through the menopause?’ Claire asks.
‘Yep,’ Dominica says. ‘I was forty-eight.’
‘I’m forty-four,’ Claire says.
‘Yeah, well, that was eight years ago.’
Claire is stunned. She thought Dominica was younger than her, not almost a decade older. But her wisdom is comforting and she’s glad she’s having this chat, because it’s not until this moment that Claire has considered that there may be alternative solutions to her menopausal symptoms.
‘My husband says I should go to the doctor to get on HRT.’ Much as she’s suffering, Claire doesn’t believe stuffing herself full of hormones is going to make the feeling that she’s changing go away. And she’s heard that HRT only puts the menopause off. She doesn’t want these hot sweats when she’s seventy. She tells all this to Dominica, who completely agrees. She asks Claire about the supplements she’s taking and tuts when Claire tells her that she’s not taking anything. There’s clearly so much more she can be doing to help herself. Dominica says she’ll put some links on the chat.
‘When I was your age, women never talked about the menopause at all,’ Helga says, joining in the conversation. She’s ahead of Claire and her knees break the surface of the sea occasionally. Other than that, her head glides as gracefully as a swan. Claire has to swim a little bit faster to keep up so she can hear her. ‘It came as a complete shock to me. In the space of a month, everything dried up. My skin, my vagina.’ Tor and Claire laugh at how candid she’s being. ‘I’m serious. My libido disappeared along with my waistline. Just like that.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ Claire says.
Dominica chips in, ‘I’d always been so slim and trim and then, without doing anything differently, I put on weight and sprouted a muffin top.’
She’s so statuesque and beautiful. And she certainly doesn’t have a muffin top and Claire’s about to say so, when Helga continues, ‘But it passes. And the second act of life is by far and away the most rewarding.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ Claire says.
‘And believe me, this is the best thing you can do.’
‘Is it?’
Helga nods. ‘Oh, yes. For the menopause? You have to be out in nature. You see you are changing from a girl who is tied to the moon and her cycles, to the slower pace of Mother Earth. When you reach the change, it’s as if you come into land like a bird. I find that I’m much more in tune with the seasons now than I’ve ever been.’
As Claire swims on, she chews over this nugget of wisdom from Helga, feeling it penetrate her like a warm glow. This is a new way to think about the future. She likes that idea of coming in to land on Mother Earth. It’s comforting somehow. As if she still has a purpose. As if she’s still relevant.
Without discussion, Tor, Helga and Dominica turn around to swim back the way they came and a little wave goes up Claire’s nose. Their stuff in the pile on the beach suddenly looks like miles away, but Helga has struck out back across the width of the beach, like a mother duck leading her ducklings. Claire is slightly out of breath, feeling her legs kick out behind her but, in the water, she doesn’t feel lumpy or fat. She feels strong.
‘I’ve always been scared of the menopause,’ Tor says. ‘And having that all to come. I’m scared I’ll turn into an old hag.’
‘Oh, I hope you do,’ Helga announces. ‘I totally identify as an old hag. I always draw in a new box on those government forms when they ask me.’
‘That figures,’ Dominica teases her.
‘A hag in days gone by was a wise woman. Someone who lived independently. Who knew about remedies,’ Helga says matter-of-factly.
Tor smiles. ‘You’re a very fit old hag, Helga.’
‘You enjoy being young,’ Claire tells Tor. ‘With that lovely figure of yours. I’d so love to be skinny.’
‘I hate being skinny,’ Tor exclaims. ‘I hate being flat-chested and having a boy’s bum. Why do you want to be skinny?’
Claire is surprised – by her admission and by the genuine confusion on Tor’s face. ‘Well, to be healthier for a start. To feel attractive again.’
‘You don’t feel attractive? Does your husband tell you you’re not attractive?’ Helga asks and Claire is shocked by her directness.
‘Pim?’ Claire feels suddenly disloyal somehow, ashamed that Helga would think that of him. ‘No … no …’ she stumbles, but the truth is that she can’t really remember the last time Pim properly flirted with her. She can’t remember the last time she spontaneously snogged him. It’s been so long that the thought of it is preposterous. That if, say, she were to press him against the fridge and kiss him – with tongues – he’d think it was some kind of assault.
‘Then who is telling you you’re not attractive?’ Helga asks.
‘I am, I suppose …’ she trails off. She can’t admit the truth. That she looks in the mirror and often turns sideways, viewing the flap of her stomach above her butchered double Caesarean scar with a loathing so violent it sometimes makes tears come to her eyes. And how she increasingly wonders where her youthful skin went and what on earth she can do about her grey roots.
‘Nonsense. I want you to model for me,’ Helga says.
‘Model?’
‘I teach a life-drawing class. You’re so much more interesting than Keith.’
‘I don’t, I can’t …’
‘Yes, you can,’ Helga says encouragingly, meaning it.
At that moment, a wave comes from nowhere and crashes over their heads.
‘That took me by surprise,’ Claire splutters.
‘There’s nothing like the slap of a wave on the back of the head to remind you who’s boss,’ Helga says. ‘Look out, here comes the break.’
She nods towards the surfers in the distance near the burnt-out pier who are all on the move.
Another wave breaks over Claire’s head and she’s dragged forward then gets her feet down. Tor bodysurfs past her like a dolphin, making a gleeful whoop of joy.
Claire is still smiling when she gets back to the house. Pim is already complaining about his workload, about the latest dictate from his nemesis – the deputy head, but, for once, she remembers the swimmer in the superhero cape and, before she knows what she’s doing, she stands her ground.
Facing him, she tells him that before he sets up for the day on the kitchen table, it’s not convenient for him to be working in her space. He’s to shut the wooden doors to the dining room area, or to retreat upstairs to the small study. She can’t continue to pussyfoot around.
‘I need my space,’ she tells him. ‘And it doesn’t work for me going forward that you’re in it.’
He looks surprised. ‘But you’re not doing anything.’
She opens her mouth, shocked that this is actually what he thinks. ‘Pim, I do everything. Every bloody thing. I clean, I tidy, I wash and iron, I think about, shop for and make every bit of food that goes into your mouth, then I clean your plate away and use my very underutilised brain to plan the next meal to keep it interesting – not that any of you ever … ever appreciate it.’
Her voice has risen. She can’t believe she’s actually said these words out loud, rather than muttering them silently to herself.
‘Claire—’ he says, but she holds up her hand.
‘Please don’t try and justify yourself. Just hear what I’ve just said.’
‘All right. I hear you,’ he says, in a slightly defeated way. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.’
His computer makes a sound – another Zoom call. He gets up and takes his laptop and leaves her shaking in the kitchen.
She holds on to the kitchen worktop and looks at the magpies in the cherry tree. After a moment, she flicks on the radio. A pop song is playing from the nineties – the Cardigans – and she knows the tune. She hums it, letting her voice and her mind reclaim her kitchen.
‘Not doing anything,’ she says aloud. ‘The feckin’ cheek of it.’