Swimmer

The first time she knocked on the door it was hard. A rapping. 5am.

My first thought that first time, in that just a minute time, was “it’s happened again”. It was the sort of time you would do it. When I was barely awake. Defences not quite sharp enough not to open the door. Then I realised you were in the house already, sleeping in the conservatory over the drain on a half-hearted put-me-up.

All those sleeping bodies dotted about the house. A professor on the couch, two nine year old girls upstairs, one fourteen year old agog in a flush of his own hormone fug and one beloved best friend – who’d been beside me all night – her baby boy sprawled out at our feet – himself awash from a night of our black hair either side.

And no-one was stirring as I came down the stairs. I had to be the brave one who faced this strange early morning music. Like Raymond Chandler in Betty Boop pyjamas. Like an Indian brave. Last of the ageing Mohawk mothers.

It was probably just a parcel.

She was sort of hunched over with the cold. A combat skirt and matching hoody – still stylish even in desperation. Her face looked like a scrunched up walnut. How did we get to be this age?

She’d stopped going dark now. Gone that dusty brown colour while I was still clung to black like a gothic clanger. She’d been so startling when we were at school. Pretty Emma. The only other posh one. Pretending we were related. My family name hung about her tree a bit like the way we hung about on the pavement together.

“You got any alcohol”?

My first thought was – “you’ve come to the wrong place”. Five or six empty bottles lay about the kitchen floor from the night before. There may have been a drop left somewhere, but even through my sleepy hangover I could see that alcohol was the last thing she should be given.

My second thought was that sugar usually worked. For me. When I came home craving. Too early to have the first one. Teatime usually. Pretend alcoholic that I was. While the real thing was in front of me here. At 5 in the morning. Shivering in her silly mini skirt.

I gave her a hug.

“Wait a minute”.

I went to the fridge and got out a Capri sun.

“Take it. It’ll help”.

Fallen - a good term for the way I became unconscious last night. I’d crept in beside her. We spoke about stuff. She wondered where he was now. Him. The last time I’d heard he’d been up for some film. The tears came soggily. Drunk next to a best friend talking about love. Talk about night cap.

She left sucking the straw.

We all laughed so much afterwards.

Capri-sun.

Like Stellar Street.

Like Alcoholics Anonymous meets Friends Reunited.

I promised myself I wouldn’t drink that night. Her appearance had served as a smart warning to me.

She came again that evening. We were all drinking heavily.

I explained I had company.

She explained that she didn’t and kind of hopped away. So light. I hadn’t even considered asking her in. She’d almost become a fixture. Like some sort of haunted house aperitif on our weekend party menu.

I could hear knocking elsewhere. Almost unbelievably she was knocking elsewhere. I felt slightly possessive suddenly. But it passed.

She came again a few nights later. Somehow I’d expected her to disappear along with my houseguests – who’d all caught the Mallory Towers Express back to London.

You were here. Just you and me alone at last. Watching The Swimmer with its over contrasted sixties colours and burnt Burt Lancaster skin. Getting into the general childhood swimming pool party drinks before supper Graduate vibe. Marveling at the way women from those times managed to be so wobbly yet pointed. Pouring blithe spirits before lunchtime. From special trollies. Most of my father’s friends had been alcoholics. Those were the days.

Knock knock.

This time I let her in.

She could barely stand.

I quickly fed her a dried baby orange and half a bread roll. Like a sick duck. Not that I’d usually feed mandarins to mandarins. What was it with me and orange?

It’s funny how you cut to the quick in these sort of situations. Like in the war. How had this happened? Where were her children? Where was her husband? She came from the exact same geographical and historical spot in time. We were slightly related. It could as easily been her black hair next to mine on the pillow the other night. Easily have been her crying.

They’d all run away. Trying to save themselves from her need.

Why couldn’t she just stop? Maybe I couldn’t understand because I didn’t have that particular problem. At least I’d tried to stop stopping. Smoking. Obsessive drunken night texting poetry. And I’d got him out of my head at last.

Sort of.

I understood her perfectly.

It’s biblical isn’t it? The door thing. The letting someone in. Like an angel. Like a vampire. Knock and the door shall be opened unto you.

Texting everyone I knew then waiting for that first door to open, the first reply of the evening. That sort of thing.

I was alone when I thought I heard her again.This time I was in bed. I suddenly felt frightened. Like in that last scene from The Swimmer. I didn’t open it this time. Fed up with being frightened. What did she want from me anyway? What did I want when I knocked on people’s doors?

I love you

You’re beautiful

I can’t stop thinking about you

You’re amazing

Like a drug.