SEVEN

Tuesday was swimming day. The previous week the pool had been bursting with young women, discussing their hairstyles and fingernails. Half the world lacked the necessities of life and the other half indulged itself in unnecessary adornments. And as for food! Thousands, millions, scraped a living, eating grains of rice – whatever they could find -while the rich nations of the world were glued to their televisions, watching chefs compete to cook prettily arranged platefuls of fig parcels, stuffed with marzipan and pomegranate.

Stepping into the pool, Jane laughed at herself out loud. She was a puritan, and not ashamed of it.

Fortunately, there were only two other people in the water today, a large woman whose features were not flattered by her pink rubber cap, and an elderly man with the boniest shoulders Jane had ever seen. The website for the leisure centre gave the impression the water was blue, but of course it was the tiles that provided the colour. Twenty-five metres long, with eight lanes, and next to the main pool, a learner one, where a small band of children splashed about, enjoying themselves, all except one little lad who disliked getting water in his eyes.

Swimming was one of Jane’s activities. Singing was the other. And today she was combining the two. She could do the crawl, but the butterfly was too much like hard work, and recently she had stuck to backstroke; soothing, although she would prefer to be looking at the sky rather than a white ceiling with brown stains. A three-legged deer? A tortoise or possibly a turtle? As a child, she had lain in bed with measles, and only the cracks in the plaster for entertainment. Eddie had explained it was “art trouvé”, art found wherever you looked, if only you had the eyes to see it: lichen on red brick walls; the peeling bark of silver birch trees. You’ve a closed mind, Jane, you don’t think it’s art unless it’s framed and hanging in a gallery. Not true, but she had played the ignoramus because art was Eddie’s domain, not hers.

Someone blew a whistle and Jane bumped her head on the end of the pool. Two girls, aged about nine or ten, had done dive bombs into the water and it was against the rules. So was swearing, ducking, pushing, and petting.

The whistle blew again. ‘Don’t run!’ And the girls, who had climbed out of the pool, clung together, giggling. Poor things, it was worse than school. Quite recently, the pool had been renovated; no chipped tiles or broken taps, and the attendants were smartly dressed in white T-shirts and green shorts. They sat on chairs, high above the water, waiting to save lives. What did these lithe young men and women think about the odd bods that swam slowly back and forth? Probably never gave them a thought. It was a job, not well paid but reasonably agreeable, and possibly the first rung on a ladder that led to a career as a personal trainer.

As she moved through the water, she sang, leaving out the odd word, either because she had forgotten it or because she was out of breath. ‘Row the boat, row the boat, steadily onwards, de dum de de dum dum, submit to the tide. If we keep on rowing and something the something, we’ll get where we’re going ahead of the tide.’

Choir was on Wednesday afternoon, mostly retired people but a few younger ones. It provided companionship and people claimed it was good for your physical and mental wellbeing. Jane had made a friend of a kind. She was called Yvette and she had a habit of removing specks of fluff from her cardigan, and from other people’s clothes too. Fluff. The handcuffs. Don’t think about it. Eddie home in four days’ time. Did she still think of it as home? No, The Spruces was her home now. But she might be pleased to see Rousseau.

‘We’ll get there, we’ll get there by rowing together.’ She swam faster, trying not to think about the offending item, hidden behind the herbs and spices. Eddie disliked spicy food so it was fortunate meals at The Spruces appeared to be bland, not to say tasteless. What would she be doing now? Sitting on her bed, staring into space, or down in the day room, watching the flickering images of daytime telly. Jane’s throat constricted, and she climbed briskly out of the water, pulling off the red wrist band with the number of her locker.

Getting dried and dressed was the least pleasant part since the changing rooms had slimy floors and it was not uncommon to find the odd sock or even a pair of knickers, and once, a stringy purple thing she supposed must be a thong. She had considered joining a health club, where only an exclusive few would use the pool, but peeing in the water was hardly the preserve of the masses.

Feet dried first, and slipped into sandals. Swimming costume removed. It was made of smooth, synthetic material but still stuck round her middle. Clothes pulled on or up as fast as possible. Her cold fingers always struggled with the hooks on her bra. It was right what they said, that pleasure was relief from pain. Food when hungry, a drink when gasping with thirst, and warmth when your body felt so chilled it had started to ache. Perhaps if she had more fat on her she would feel less cold, but putting on weight would be like the beginning of the end.

Blissfully warm, and pleasantly tired, she opened the door of her cubicle and came face-to-face with a familiar figure.

‘Corinne.’ She would have to stop and have a few words.

‘Jane, what a surprise and how lovely to see you. Do you come here often? Sorry, Noel’s always accusing me of talking in clichés. You were an English teacher, weren’t you? When I was at school I don’t think we did clichés. Metaphors and similes but I never understood the difference. And I was hopeless at spelling. We had a test twice a week and I was nearly always bottom. Corinne’s bottom, everyone used to say. It was a huge joke.’

‘Children can be cruel.’

‘Oh, no, it was the teacher. Are you a good swimmer? I’m not. I like swimming in the sea, but it’s such a long way to travel and then you’d have to drive all the way back.’

‘I’ve just completed my ten lengths.’ Corinne’s swimming costume would have better suited a slenderer figure, but the shade of eau de Nil was pleasant enough.

‘Oh, you’ve had your swim. What a shame, we could have had a coffee together. I tell you what, if you wait in the café; I only ever do four lengths. After that I’m shattered. I do it for Noel’s sake.’

‘He likes you to be fit?’ It was a malicious thing to say since it could be taken to mean Noel thought her overweight, but Corinne found it hilarious.

‘So I can swing from the chandelier!’

‘Yes, I see.’ She did, but spoke in the kind of tone that implied she had no idea what Corinne was talking about. ‘You and Noel are friends, aren’t you?’

‘I like to think so.’ How did Noel stand the woman? Gus was right: it must be the sex.

‘He says you’re an expert in English. English Literature, isn’t it, Jane? Noel goes running.’ Corinne clenched her stomach muscles. ‘Lots of people do, don’t they, but I get out of breath. It’s my metabolism, do you think that’s what it is?’

‘I doubt it,’ Jane said, but a group of school children were hurrying past, little girls, giggling and squealing, and Corinne misheard.

‘Yes, I thought you’d know about it. Noel says you’re a fount of wisdom. What is a fount? Noel knows everyone in Faraday Road. He’s very friendly. Everyone likes him. He introduces me to people but it’s so difficult remembering their names. Not yours, Jane. Jane Seymour, she was married to Henry the Eighth. Was she beheaded or divorced?’

‘Neither. She died, following complications after the birth of her son.’

‘Oh, what a shame. When your parents chose the name —’

‘It’s not actually my first name. Dora, after my grandmother, but I prefer Jane. You complete your four lengths and I’ll find us a table.’