The Kedgley twins swim through my summer memories. Pansies stretched over meagre buttocks, copper-wire arms smacking green water which, from my observation post, had grown a quivering skin. Inside our beach house, the same weather as at home: cold fronts, storms. After breakfast, I escaped to the cliff to read Agatha Christies, feet dangling over the ocean pool.
Metal clanged, thongs slupped across tiles. I watched them tuck grey frizz into caps, sidle in, wobbly as baby giraffes.
They swam in silence. Except once.
Annie’d be 70 today, Jean said between laps.
Yep, Moira said.
They set off again, limbs ploughing the sparkling soil.
Always wondered about it, Jean said.
You weren’t there, Moira said. Chasing that no-good feller.
You may as well not’ve been, Jean said. Nose in a book.
I saw something, Moira said.
You tell me 55 years later? Jean said.
You never asked, Moira said.
At that, Appointment with Death lost its allure. I waited for their fingers to touch paint-blistered coping.
I was rereading Anna Karenina, Moira said. Coming up to the train scene.
Where she throws herself on the tracks? Jean said.
Yep, Moira said. I took a breather. Dad was fishing off the pier. Mum and Ralph building sandcastles. No Annie. Dad had picked on her that morning. Said she looked lumpy in her new bathers. She cried, dug a big hole. I looked down it. Course she wasn’t there. Maybe she’s in the water, I thought.
She couldn’t swim, Jean said.
She wasn’t in the shallows, Moira said. Way out, past the pier, I saw a blob. Purple, like her bathers. A pink arm, waving.
Waving for help? Jean said.
Or waving goodbye, Moira said. I couldn’t tell.
When they dragged themselves out of the water, they had grown a century older.
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