Page 52 - WTP Vol. V #5

how can’t get going, feeling that he is sinking rather than swimming, aware of a growing ache in his foot that warns him of a cramp. He makes his way to the side and edges down the pool trying to keep his foot straight, but the unavoid- able spasm seems to fold his foot in two. He hauls himself up the metal steps, hoping that the relay swimmer does not see him struggling. Marjorie continues her clockwork drill, but he knows she saw him get out.
~
In the men’s shower he stands under thin needles of hot water, willing it to inject warmth back into his flesh. He flexes his foot against the spasm, holding onto the wall. It takes a while for the pain to ease enough for him to limp to a curtainless cubicle.
Marjorie is waiting for him in the crowded recep- tion area. Don pads toward her, his feet still feel- ing the spasm of cramp. Little kids bubble from the crèche with their damp-haired mothers. Mar- jorie looks neat again, her hair perfect, lipstick and powder re-applied. It is as if she hadn’t been swimming at all. It’s amazing how quickly she can change. She must have come out just after he did. She’s wearing her best woollen jacket that she put on for her hospital appointment. He hates the way it encloses her like a blanket, and that her tailored trousers sag like old women’s trousers, pouchy and formless. Don preferred it when they were a bit too tight.
A young man is hosing down the floor of the changing area, swilling white clouds of disinfec- tant down the grille. He looks up and asks Don if he is all right. Of course he’s all right, it’s just tem- porary—he’s not an old dodderer. The boy—yes the boy, he can’t be more than twenty—has the physique of a bodybuilder, muscles bulging from the sleeves of the leisure centre’s uniform orange polo shirt. The lad tells Don to take care on the wet floor as he reels back the hose, whistling a tune that Don recognises, popular when he was as young as the boy. The old tune lodges, like pins and needles, in his head, as he sits on the slatted seat, bending and massaging his foot until the cramp eases.
They go upstairs to the café, following the piped music to the café. It is a large open-plan space, with an expanse of blue swirly-patterned carpet. He feels as if he is trying to walk upon gently swaying water. His ears still have water in them, and he pokes at them with his fingers, attracting a comment from Marjorie.
Don slides off his trunks and wraps the towel around his loins. He walks gingerly over to the mirror, peering into it for reassurance. The man in the reflection has shadows about his face, broken veins on his cheeks and nose. His hair is flattened to his forehead, like crayoned lines drawn on a photograph. Don dries it under the hand dryer, feeling it fluff up as if it has come back to life. He lets the hot air stream over his shoulders and arms and stands there until he is dry.
The place is crowded—the tables occupied mainly by women and small children. Although
it is lunchtime, Marjorie wants only a skinny latte, decaffeinated. No food. Don orders a bacon roll, which Marjorie declares to be full of fat. He fancies a cake too, but thinks better of it. A white- hatted woman behind the counter pours hot wa- ter over a teabag in a metal pot for one, and gives him a tiny jug of milk.
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They find a small table by the window overlook- ing the pool. Marjorie sits in her coat, cradling her latte. Don stirs his tea in the pot, watching the teabag spin in the water. Below them, the pool is clearing as the morning bathers leave. The atten- dants remove the lane marker. There’s a special session for older swimmers after lunch. “Aqua- movers” it’s called. Exercise for the over-65s. Don shudders at the idea, imagining some perverse burlesque form of synchronised swimming—old women in ugly matching flowery hats and frilly