The Swimmer. Roma Tearne

back, that day proved to be one of the most productive of the summer. I finished the poem and later even managed to do a bit of weeding in my vegetable patch. The sun had given my tomatoes an intensity of flavour. I picked a few and some runner beans, too. I decided to grill the fish with dill and parsley. It was all planned. The basil-soaked olive oil, the fresh bread. The pudding was to be apricots, halved and stoned and tossed with slices of watermelon and late strawberries in a dressing of my own invention. I had a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge but then, remembering how my swimmer had drunk his beer so thirstily, I put the last of Jack’s cans to cool. I was excited. It was years since I had cooked for a man. At six o’clock the phone rang. It was Heather. I sighed. Heather is my only friend left in Orford. As a child, Heather hated her own mother. She used to want to be part of our family and our mother was very fond of her. Later, when everything went cold at home, Heather would still sometimes visit us. Occasionally she even used to cook for us, making cakes that she knew Mum and Jack liked, fussing over them and bringing presents from the farm. I remember after one such visit Mum saying Heather should have been her daughter. I think I stopped believing that Heather was my special friend after that.

      ‘How’s the visit going?’ she asked me now.

      Heather knew all about Jack. She knew I dreaded these annual visits and she knew about the long-running battle over Eel House.

      ‘They’ve gone away for a few days.’

      Instantly I regretted telling her.

      ‘Poor Jack,’ she said. ‘Have you driven him away?’

      ‘Of course not!’

      I was back on the defensive.

      ‘How about supper over here, then?’

      ‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I haven’t done any work for ages and I’m on a roll now.’

      ‘Of course, of course…um…well, never mind…’

      She made a sound as if she was gulping down some food and all the irritations of the past few days gathered in me. I could tell she was hurt by my refusal of dinner. The hurt was constantly in her voice and the more she tried to hide it, the more distant I became towards her. But, I suppose living alone had made me waspish.

      Why am I friends with Heather? When we were children her parents ran the farm on the other side of Orford, along the Unthank Road, the unfashionable side of town. We met each summer but then, after Dad died, apart from the odd visit, we went our separate ways, I to Cambridge and Heather into marriage to a difficult man, another farmer. She had three children in quick succession. The process aged her. We kept in touch spasmodically, but never met up again until my mother died. Then she tried to resurrect the friendship with the absence of the years lying unspoken between us. As a reunion, it was not successful. Mother had just died after a long and rambling descent into dementia. I had been the one to look after her, until Ant put a stop to that and I was forced to put her into a home. More guilt. The transfer killed her; of that I remain certain. We had about two months before the end when I tried belatedly and unsuccessfully to address the past, and then she died. Heather came to the funeral and fussed over Jack even though he had done nothing for Mother for years. She blamed me for the feud over Eel House, telling me that, as we only had each other now, I should try to sort out our differences. I never forgot that remark, made on the steps of the crematorium.

      ‘Try to understand him, Ria,’ she had said, in her kindly voice.

      I had been too shocked to defend myself. Looking at Jack’s handsome face, I suspected him of complaining about me. I never really forgave her after that.

      These days, now that her children have grown up and left home, Heather has drifted away from her monosyllabic husband and started throwing herself into local politics. She has a large circle of acquaintances to whom, when I first arrived in Orford, she introduced me. I think she hoped I would meet a suitable man. It was kind, but the ploy didn’t work. Neither her male friends nor I were interested. After a while she gave up and we continued our lukewarm relationship, regardless. The trick of intimacy evaded us both.

      There was a short, awkward pause.

      ‘Did you get the local paper?’ she asked.

      ‘No, I forgot. Why?’

      ‘You know about the calves that were killed?’

      ‘Probably a fox,’ I said.

      ‘A fox can’t slit throats,’ Heather said quickly. ‘Anyway there’s been an attack at the circus. Did you hear about that?’

      ‘You think it’s related?’

      Heather loved a good crime story. In this, as in so many other things, she and my mother were similar.

      ‘Of course! The woman’s passport was stolen, you know.’

      ‘So? What are you saying?’

      ‘Well, obviously it’s worrying. Clem has become paranoid. He thinks there are terrorists in Suffolk. Muslim terrorists!’

      Clem was the husband. Paranoia was his speciality. I laughed.

      ‘So the terrorists go around slitting up animals? What for? Doesn’t make sense.’

      She was silent.

      ‘Yes, I agree. So what are you doing this evening?’ she changed the subject.

      I had the feeling she wanted to catch me out, and this both annoyed and made me nervous.

      ‘I’m really exhausted, Heather. And I simply must work.’

      She rang off a few minutes later, her disappointment hovering like cigarette smoke in the air. To dispel it, I tuned in to the local radio station. There was nothing new. They were still talking about the animals that had been found with their throats slit. There was also speculation that the woman who was attacked had been part of a drugs ring. There was no mention of Heather’s terrorist theory. I went back to my cooking.

      My swimmer arrived just as I was pouring a glass of wine. The halibut, creamy white and melting at the touch, was almost cooked. He entered the kitchen silently, lifting up the latch. With the practised hand of a burglar, was my first ironic thought. He was wearing a clean T-shirt and had a folded piece of paper in his hand.

      ‘I have brought some music,’ he announced.

      I could see straight away that he was keen to play the piano, so I took him into the drawing room. As I set the table in the garden, music drifted out through the open window like wisps of scent. All my irritation over Heather, the vague anxiety she had induced in me, evaporated instantly as I listened to Ben playing French jazz and managing somehow to make the piano sound both unfamiliar and mellow. Confused, I felt the light from this summer evening fall sweetly through the tangle of trees. Roses bloomed. I stared at the old garden table set for two and, as if on cue, the phone rang, and rang again, insistently. The music faltered, almost stopped, then continued regardless as I hurried into the kitchen and closed the door. I picked up the handset and moved towards the small scullery.

      ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I was listening to some music,’ I said.

      ‘You’re out of breath,’ Miranda remarked.

      I took a deep breath.

      ‘I didn’t hear you ring,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘Are you having a nice time?’

      The piano stopped and I heard footsteps approaching the kitchen but Miranda was still talking. I suspected she was trying to make amends for Jack’s brusqueness, but I could have done without it just at the moment. On and on she went; how wonderful the weather was, how dreadful the children were, how they squabbled, how crowded the Broads were, the ghastly day-trippers. I listened, saying as little as I could, not wanting to prolong the conversation, wanting her to finish.

      ‘Jack’s meeting someone in the pub,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Ria, sometimes I think he’s trying to take over the world!’

      I