Mum and I have been talking. Not about anything big or important, just talking. Last night we were laughing like idiots over a box of scraps she bought at an auction. There was a lot of lace and embroidery, and a huge pair of Victorian knickers with ribbons on the legs, which we took over to Matt and Ben as a present. They thought they were pretty funny too.
‘There’s going to be a fight over who wears them,’ Matt said, laughing.
‘Not with me there won’t,’ said Ben.
It seems like ages since Mum and I went out together, but today we’re in town, shopping for my room. We buy things I don’t really need, but are just fun to have. It feels strange being together, but nice too. We even look in the piercings shop and consider how Mum would look with an eyebrow ring. She’s got pink streaks in her hair already – just tiny little bits that you only see when the light catches, but they’re there.
After an hour or so, we sit down on some seats outside a shop, and when I look up, there’s the old swimming man standing in front of us.
‘Are you the young lady who was there when I was drowning?’ he says.
I stare at him like a fish on a plate. Mum nudges me. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You must be Mr Cornwell.’
I’d kept the newspaper cutting after what happened. There’s a picture of ‘Mr Harold Cornwell, 72’ with his arm pointing out to sea, and another one of him and Banks together, like father and son. It’s a clean version of Banks of course, with him still smelling of ‘Honeycomb and Rose’ soap, courtesy of us. The article just calls him ‘Stuart Banks, a homeless man’ and goes on to tell the story of how he dived into the freezing water with no thought for his own safety. There are two follow-up articles. One about the dangers of swimming in the sea when it’s too cold or you are over a certain age, and one about the homeless situation. I expect everyone else has forgotten by now, recycled the paper or thrown it away.
The old man is smiling at me, but he’s hard to recognise when he’s all dry and dressed and so far from the sea. ‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ I tell him.
He looks more than all right. He’s wearing a blue jacket and cap and his face is bright. Standing close by is the old woman. She’s clutching a string bag and twisting at her headscarf.
‘I’m fine,’ he goes on, ‘fine. But your friend, the young man, I’m not so sure. I see him sometimes and I wondered if he’s quite well? He’s taken to paddling at the water’s edge and I just wondered…’ He looks at Mum and back to me as if not certain who to talk to. ‘He’s surely not well enough to go in?’
We look at each other like two children in a conspiracy. Maybe when you get really old you don’t have to play by the rules any more. You can keep secrets or share them, just as you please. You can even swim on snowy days without anyone telling you off.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t see him much.’
Mum is busy in her bag, but I know that her ears are on alert. The old man smiles at me, nods and moves off. He’s given me his message, but I already know Banks isn’t well enough to swim. I just can’t make him get out of the water.
‘I didn’t know he still went down to the sea after all that happened,’ I say to Mum. ‘You’d think he’d not want to.’
I wonder if it’s Harold who now gives Banks his sausage rolls and cups of tea. Perhaps they’ve developed a whole relationship I know nothing about. I feel a stab of jealousy and shake my head at the old man’s back. As soon as he reaches the old woman, she takes his arm and steers him away like a tug picking up a boat. Mum and I watch them leave – two slowly moving objects in a sea of urgency.
‘That’s nice,’ says Mum. ‘To know he’s all recovered.’
We get up and continue to shop, but now my mind’s out there on the water. The wind is fresh in my ears, the stones so cold that numbness reaches through the soles of my shoes.