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Authors: Margot Livesey

BOOK: Homework
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“What sort of surprises?”
“You can't ask that, else it wouldn't be surprising.”
Jenny scampered over to the rock I had indicated and buried her face in her hands. “You get out the presents,” I whispered to Stephen. “I'll do the cake.” I lifted the cake out of the plastic container. It was only slightly more misshapen than before. I pushed the candles into the holders and held a match to each in turn, but I could not keep them all lit simultaneously; even while I was lighting one, another, already lit, flickered out.
“Can I come?” called Jenny.
“Not yet,” said Stephen. He knelt beside me and shielded the cake with his jacket. As I held the match to the tenth candle, he called out, “Jenny.” We began to sing loudly and slightly off key, “Happy Birthday.”
 
After tea Jenny announced that she wanted to play hide-and-seek. Stephen looked at his watch. “It'll have to be a quick game,” he said. “The tide was already turning when we came out here.”
“You be it, Celia,” said Jenny. She smiled at me.
“The island's huge,” I protested. “I'll never find you.”
“Yes, you will. Daddy and I will hide together. You have to
count to two hundred slowly. And you mustn't look.” She took Stephen's hand and pulled him to his feet. “Close your eyes,” she said.
The sun was shining. I lay back on the blanket. Once when Lewis and I had gone to Brighton for the day, we had met a group of blind holiday-makers, tapping along the pier with their canes. Lewis had remarked how pointless it was to take the blind to the seaside. But as I lay there, listening to the soft slapping of the water on the rocks below, breathing in the salty air, I understood that the sea was unmistakable to every sense.
I climbed down to the shore and began to search among the large rocks that lined the water's edge. The salty smell, which had wafted to me so pleasantly as I lay in the sun, was here transformed into a more dubious odour. After walking a hundred yards in either direction without finding anything besides an old lobster pot and the corpses of fish and seagulls, I scrambled back up to the blanket. I paused uncertainly. Surely they would not hide anywhere too distant; part of the fun of hide-and-seek was the possibility of discovery. Then I thought of the ruined settlement we had passed. It was the perfect hiding place. I made my way back along the narrow sheep path.
There were the remains of what looked to have been four houses. Only the exterior walls still stood; the interiors were filled with rubble and the rapacious nettles. I wondered how long it was since people had lived here. As I walked round, peering through the empty doorways, I kept expecting Stephen or Jenny to burst out from behind one of the low stone walls; the only sign of life was a wren running along a fallen branch.
I did not know where to look next. From what I had seen, there were not many places to hide on the island; there were few large trees, and although the long grass and uneven ground would probably conceal anyone from a short distance,
I was sure that they would not choose such an unfair method.
“Stephen, Jenny,” I called.
I stood still, listening. I heard nothing save the wind rustling in the trees, and the occasional bleating of sheep.
I tried again, cupping my hands to my mouth. “Stephen, Jenny. I give up.”
We had made no contingency plan, but the most sensible course of action seemed to be to circle back to our picnic place. I would wait there, and surely they would find me. I set off, shouting periodically.
The picnic basket and blanket were exactly where I had left them, but the sight of these familiar objects did not reassure me. Something about their appearance made me think that the moment before I came into view Stephen and Jenny had been sitting here. Although I knew this was absurd, I glanced around uneasily and called their names. The answering silence only made me feel more abandoned. It was almost five o'clock. I was not sure when we had begun playing, but at least half an hour must have passed. What could have happened to them? Could they have been swept out to sea or trapped in a cave? Suddenly I had a more realistic fear. Every minute the tide was rising. We were in danger of being cut off, just as Jenny had imagined.
If they were not back in five minutes, I decided I would carry our things across the island to where we had come ashore. I sat down and immediately stood up again. I wandered around, unable to keep still. A minute passed. Then another. Stephen had told me that it was the Babylonian astronomers who had introduced the minute, but how had they been able to measure something so subjective without mechanical means? No two ever seemed to pass at the same rate.
At last five minutes stammered by. I felt reluctant to leave the one place where I was sure that Stephen would be able to
find me, but there seemed nothing else to do. Perhaps they had assumed that we would rendezvous by the causeway. I had neither pencil nor paper, but I arranged three branches in the shape of an arrow pointing back the way we had come.
Then I set off, the rucksack on my back, the basket in one hand. As I hurried along the path, my panic increased; I did not know if I was in flight or in pursuit. Several times on the rough ground I almost fell. The journey which in the company of Stephen and Jenny had been comparatively short now seemed endless. I was afraid that I had lost my way. At last I spotted the lookout post. I struggled up the final incline, hoping that I might find the middle-aged couple. They were gone, and as I came over the top, I saw why. Between the mainland and the island lay an unbroken sheet of water.
Slowly I began to walk down towards the shore. I told myself it was ridiculous to be afraid—I was in sight, almost within sound, of humans, cars, civilisation—but I was terrified. At every step it seemed that the earth might swallow me. I passed a sheep; it raised its head and stared at me with callous yellow eyes.
Suddenly I heard a faint sound. I stopped. It could have been only the cry of a gull. The sound came again, and I made out the syllables of my name. Frantically I turned around, looking back the way I had come. Then a movement on the mainland caught my eye. I saw our car and, at the water's edge, a figure, waving. Stephen began to wade towards me. The water reached barely above his ankles.
I watched his progress. In his light blue shirt and jeans he seemed to glide over the rippling surface of the water, and as he grew larger, I moved from fear to anger as easily as I might have crossed the threshold from the kitchen to the dining room. I continued to walk down towards the shore.
“Celia,” he said, when only a few yards separated us. “Thank goodness you brought everything. I had no idea the tide would come in so quickly.”
“Why did you leave me behind?” I demanded. I had meant to ask the question loudly, but my voice came out as an absurd squeak.
Stephen launched into an apologetic story. Jenny had suggested that they hide by the lookout post. When they arrived there, she had announced that she wanted to get something from the car. He had given her the keys. She had dropped them on the far side, and he had gone over to help her look for them. They had found them a few minutes ago. “I'm dreadfully sorry,” he said. “I shouted for you. When there was no answer, I didn't know what to do. I thought if I didn't find the keys, we'd never get home.” He held out his hand. “Give me the rucksack and let's wade across before the water gets any deeper.”
I took off my shoes and rolled up my trousers. As I followed Stephen through the water I felt cheated of my anger. He had deprived me of my justification; he did not even need to tell an elaborate story. The name “Jenny” rolled over my objections, like a wave over a sand castle, obliterating them without a trace.
On the shore Jenny was waiting. “You were nearly cut off, Celia,” she said, hopping up and down.
“But we rescued her,” said Stephen, hugging me close.
As if our song exhorting the sun to shine had had some permanent effect, each day following our visit to the island was hotter than the one before. The city took on a summery guise; even the blackest of buildings seemed to grow lighter in shade and softer in outline. Weather was the major topic of conversation; everyone commented upon the heat and what measures they had taken against it. Stephen wrestled with his pupils; exams were imminent and still no one could concentrate. Suzie came to work in bright red shorts, provoking disapproval from Clare and envy from Marilyn, myself, and the rest of the staff. The manuscripts over which I laboured grew limp in my hands. The sun did not set until almost eleven, and when darkness finally came, Stephen and I lay down to sleep covered by a single sheet. With each passing day the sky grew less clear, and by Thursday the sun was invisible beneath a lemony haze.
That afternoon everyone who did not have some urgent task on hand left the office early, but Clare had asked me to check through a biology manuscript because the science editor was on holiday. There were innumerable figures and photographs, and it was almost five-thirty by the time I escaped. Outside, the air was heavy with moisture, and the pavements seemed to shimmer with heat. As I walked to the bus stop I could feel my blouse sticking to my back. When the bus arrived, there were no window seats. I perched uneasily
beside an elderly woman who was fanning herself with a newspaper.
“You look hot,” she remarked.
“I am, but I'm on my way swimming.”
“Swimming. How lovely. I'm afraid I never learned.” Now that I had shown myself receptive, she continued to talk about the weather, past and present, until we reached my stop. “Bye-bye, dear,” she said, as I rose to leave. “Enjoy your swim.”
The bus pulled away. I began to walk down the hill. A group of children passed me, exclaiming over their ice creams. I was tempted to stop and buy one, but I told myself it would be a mistake so soon before swimming. I kept walking. I turned into the narrow street where the pool was. When I rounded the bend, Stephen came into view. He was sitting on the steps of the baths, wearing a white T-shirt and brown shorts; he was staring straight ahead and did not notice me. I stopped mid-stride. Nowadays I hardly ever saw him from a distance, and I remembered, almost with surprise, how good-looking he was. Then I moved; he caught sight of me, jumped up, and came to meet me.
“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said.
“It's fine.” He put his arms round me. “You're all sweaty,” he said. “Nice.”
As we stepped through the outer door of Glenogle Baths the smell of chlorine fell over us like a blanket. The baths were on the upper floor and, with every step we mounted, the heat and the odour grew more intense; by the time we reached the turnstile, I felt dizzy.
“Two adults,” said Stephen, holding out a five-pound note to the woman in the office.
“One pound forty. The adult session doesn't start until six-thirty. You don't want to go in there with them. Listen.” She gestured towards the pool, from which came an immense, muffled din.
We climbed another flight of stairs and passed through the doors onto the spectators' balcony. We sat down on a wooden bench overlooking the pool. The shouts of the children echoed around us and beneath the opaque glass roof the water was dazzlingly bright. The edge of the pool was ringed with old-fashioned cubicles; I was reminded of the pool where I had learned to swim and of Mr. Brown, the formidable Liverpudlian, who had taught me. I was describing his draconian methods when a voice behind us said, “Stephen.”
We turned round. A plumpish man with a dark beard was smiling at us. “Julius,” Stephen exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
Julius came forward and shook Stephen's hand energetically. “This is my local pool.”
“Ours too,” said Stephen. “Celia and I moved into a flat in Trinity a couple of months ago. Celia, this is Julius.”
Julius said hello and sat down beside me. “So how are you?” he asked. “Still with the same school?”
“Yes,” said Stephen. “Deirdre and I are now the oldest members of the staff. It's a little worrying.”
“You mean the longest serving,” said Julius. “You can't possibly be the oldest.”
“We certainly feel like the oldest some days. What about you? Are you still working with young offenders? Julius is a social worker,” he explained.
“No, I've moved on to junkies. I work in a clinic in Leith. We have no money, no accommodation, and a flourishing AIDS epidemic. At least with my young offenders, I had occasional success stories. Now I never get any cases that aren't desperate. On average I go to a funeral a week.” He spoke rapidly as if anxious to hurry over these unpleasant facts. When he finished, we were all silent for a moment. Below us some young boys were storming the inflatable crocodile which was tethered in the middle of the pool.
“That sounds terribly hard,” I said.
“It is. The only way I can cope is by trying to forget about it when I'm not working, but that's not easy.” He shook his head, then turned to Stephen. “How's Jenny?” he asked.
“She's fine. She just had her tenth birthday, and she's showing signs of being good at languages, like Helen.”
“Has she grown?”
“She's still small for her age, but incredibly poised.”
“She always was.” Julius turned to me. “I lived with Helen and Jenny for a while. I'm afraid that Jenny never really became reconciled to my presence.”
“She's much happier now,” said Stephen. “She and Celia get on very well together.”
“Good for you,” said Julius. He sounded as if he thought such praise was seriously earned.
A woman in a striped T-shirt and shorts came to the edge of the pool and blew several loud volleys on a whistle. There was a general splashing towards the sides, save for a couple of boys who disappeared underwater. “Everyone out,” she shouted.
One by one the children disappeared into the cubicles around the edge. Gradually the water grew still, and the reflected light from the ceiling came together in one smooth rectangle. The lifeguards removed the inflatable and set up lanes. “Come on, Ceel,” said Stephen, pulling me to my feet. “Let's go and make waves.”
Julius followed us downstairs. “Nice to run into you both,” he said. “The best of luck.” He smiled at me.
After the steamy atmosphere the water felt cold, and I shivered as it closed around my thighs. I adjusted my goggles and pushed off. Julius's remarks about Jenny had made me think again of the visit to the island, and as I swam up and down, I remembered that awful moment when I had looked out across the empty water and known myself abandoned. And it was true that but for the chance of my walking over to
the causeway I would probably have been stranded on the island for the next eight hours. Stephen would not have risked leaving Jenny alone on the mainland to search for me. That evening we had gone round to see his friends, Molly and Ian, and in talking to them my narrow escape had become a humourous narrative: the perils of Pauline. I had succumbed to the bantering, even embellished the episode, but in my heart I felt that Stephen had failed me; he ought not to have left the island without me, and his apologies had been insufficient. I wondered what it was that Jenny had wanted from the car; no one had thought it worth mentioning.
At the shallow end I collided with a pregnant woman. She swam on unperturbed but I stopped and stood up. On the far side of the pool I saw Julius swimming doggedly up and down. Stephen surfaced beside me. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Without his glasses his face looked peculiarly vulnerable; his hair was dark with water. “All right,” I said.
“Shall we do six more lengths?”
I nodded. He pushed off, and more slowly I followed. By the time I finished my six lengths Stephen had already got out. I was wading towards the steps when ahead of me Julius swam up to the bar. Before he could turn, I had reached out and touched his shoulder. He stood up, coughing. “Celia,” he said. “Sorry, was I in your way?”
“No.” I had not known what I was going to say, but his expression was so kindly that I found myself asking, “I wondered what you meant about Jenny.”
Julius looked around the pool, and I realised that he was searching for Stephen. Then he said, “I feel awkward saying this. There were just lots of small mishaps. Jenny always seemed to be spilling her paints over my desk; I would find drawing pins in my shoes; once she even set fire to my briefcase. I could never prove that she did any of this deliberately—I
mean she was only six—but it caused a great deal of friction between Helen and me.” He smiled. “It was soon after Stephen and Helen separated, and Jenny was obviously having a hard time. We all were. I'm glad she's settled down.”
“Thank you,” I said. And then, although it seemed foolish, both of us waist deep in water, I held out my hand to Julius.
In my cubicle I dressed quickly, conscious that Stephen was waiting. When I emerged, he was standing in the hall, reading the notice board. I apologised for being slow. He said that was fine, and I thought, with relief, that he had not seen me talking to Julius. We descended the stairs and stepped outside.
Evening had brought no lessening of the heat. The grey sky still covered the city like a lid, and as we headed towards home the sweltering streets took on an almost surreal quality. Stephen told me about his day; a girl had burst into tears at the results of a test. We were walking along in the shadow of the high stone wall which surrounded Warriston Cemetery, when I asked what had happened between Julius and Jenny. “It sounded like they didn't get on terribly well,” I said. I tried to appear only moderately interested.
He shrugged. “I don't really know. Jenny was so young that she couldn't explain her unhappiness, and for obvious reasons I wasn't particularly close to either Helen or Julius. I suspect that he rather overdid being a stepfather. He'd read all the right books, and he couldn't leave Jenny alone.”
“When did he start living with them?”
“As soon as I left. Julius and I virtually passed each other in the hall.”
Stephen had always made it sound as if he had been the one to initiate the separation and move out; now, hearing the edge in his voice, I realised that although he had indeed moved out, he had not necessarily done so willingly. I experienced one of those moments, comparable to the morning I
had learned of Jenny's existence, when everything I knew about him shifted. A feeling akin to anger prompted me to praise Julius. “He seemed a nice man,” I said. “I'm sure he meant well.”
“I'm sure he did,” said Stephen, sighing. “Christ, I hate this humidity.” He pushed his hand through his damp hair and gave me a small, apologetic smile.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I was behaving with Stephen as I had so often behaved with Lewis, saying less than I knew or wanted to. I stopped, seized his arm, and pulled him to me. I should not hold it against him that he had been unable to leave Helen, nor that he was an indulgent father. He was as frail and human as myself. I buried my face against his chest; through his T-shirt I could smell the odour of chlorine still clinging to his skin.
 
We were in bed and had just turned off the lights, when the storm finally broke. The first rumbling of thunder was so faint that neither of us was sure of having heard it until a few seconds later, when the room was lit by lightning. Then came another roll of thunder, markedly louder. We both began to count, measuring the distance of the storm. Each successive flash of lightning was followed more closely by thunder, and each clap of thunder was louder than the one before. When the storm was only two miles away, I heard a new sound, a slight rustling. The window was wide open, and the air was trembling in the fabric of the curtains. Suddenly there was a bang so loud that the house shook, and then in the silence came the whispering of rain. Stephen touched me, and as the rain grew stronger, we began to move together.
 
The heat had caused a surge in our garden; overnight it seemed the vegetables had shot up and with them the weeds. Next evening after supper Stephen went out to do some
weeding, while I did the washing up. I was scrubbing a particularly stubborn casserole dish when the telephone rang. I wiped my hands on my jeans and went to answer.
“Hello, Celia,” said Helen. “How are you? Jenny had such a good time at the picnic last Saturday. She said you made a wonderful cake.”
I was so startled that all I could think to say was: “I'll get Stephen.” Then I accidentally dropped the receiver, and the clatter seemed to reinforce my brusqueness. Somehow Helen was always one step ahead; now her politeness shamed me, as her earlier rudeness had taken me aback.
Stephen was digging the vegetable bed at the far end of the garden. I could, by raising my voice only slightly, have drawn his attention, but I walked over the grass and did not speak until I stood beside him.
“What does she want?” he asked. He sounded irritable, but already he was stabbing the fork into the soil, going off obediently in the direction of the house. I began to dig in his place, turning over the soil between the rows of lettuces, carrots, and spinach. Above me, on the telegraph wires that stretched across the garden, the swallows sat and twittered.

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