The Drowning Pool. Syd Moore

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      Take me to him.

      Down, deeper into the blackness of death, swirling, searching for welcoming numbness.

      Then suddenly fingers around the back of my neck, gripping my dress. Hands about my waist, heaving, lifting, bearing me through the water. Staggering, falling, up again. On the grass. The hardness of the road, mud under my head. Coughing water, air. Two faces above, father and another, a woman full of tears: Mother. Oh, Mother. Look what has become of me.

      Beyond them, a crowd.

      A woman in a black bonnet has stopped to stare. She nudges her gentleman companion. ‘Who is it there?’

      A voice loud and booming. ‘’Tis the Sutton girl in the Drowning Pool.’

      The woman clucks. ‘It wouldn’t take her, see. She floats.’

      ‘No, the water will not take her sort.’ A large man now, white beard, shabby frock coat. Fierce. ‘She cannot drown herself.’ He makes the sign of the cross.

      Spittle on my feet.

      ‘Witch.’

      ‘Sarah!’ The voice cut through the scene like a blast of cold air. Familiar, shrill – Lottie.

      ‘Deaf as a bloody post. What are you doing? Standing there like a zombie? Your jeans are soaked.’ She was holding an ice cream to me. ‘I thought I may as well get one for us too.’

      The sun was burning my back. The cheerful sound of beach pandemonium hit me again.

      I was back.

      The sea lapped at my knees.

      The children to my left had retreated, their sea wall long defeated by the tide.

      ‘What’s up?’ Lottie grimaced at my stricken expression. ‘Did the tide creep up on you? Have you got a cossie underneath that? If not I think I’ve got a spare pair of shorts somewhere. Come on.’ Her sturdy ankles sank into the sand as she returned to the blanket.

      I tumbled forwards out of the sea and sat down. My shadow mimicked me but it was alone.

      What had just happened?

      I touched the centre of my chest, lightly. It rose and fell in a super-quick rhythm. There was some pain but not of a physical kind. I had known this misery when I first lost Josh: I was cloaked in gloom, the feeling had followed me back from the dream.

      What on earth was I doing to myself?

      It must have been brought on by my earlier musings about Josh. I cursed and kicked up the sand with my foot.

      I’d heard a phrase used once to describe this sort of thing. What was it called? Oh yes – a waking dream.

      That must have been it.

      Perhaps I still had a lot of alcohol in my system. I had certainly been knocking it back last night. The natural balance of my brain must be off. A sudden surge of the wrong chemical had churned up some morbid hallucination.

      ‘It’s the booze,’ I thought.

      ‘It’s the tumour,’ an inner demon said.

      Or perhaps it was a side effect of cutting back the medication?

      I’d seen a woman at Stealth Records come straight off lithium and go completely hat stand. One day she was striding through the atrium in a neat Chanel two-piece, barking orders at her p.a., the next she was barefoot and wandering the corridors. She went on sick leave and never came back.

      I wasn’t going to go that way.

      My hands were trembling so I clenched them tightly and took a deep breath in, held it, then blew out slowly. After several repetitions the shakes started to subside.

      With some effort I took a step forwards. Plastering a bright smile onto my face, I returned to Lottie and the boys.

      Alfie and Thomas were a way away. They had built a sandcastle and were using it as a backdrop to some as yet unwritten Spiderman episode featuring lots of explosions.

      I sat down next to Lottie and licked my ice cream, trying to settle my nerves and ignore the aftershocks of the incident.

      ‘Sorry, Sarah. Couldn’t find the shorts. Must have left them at home.’ Lottie dabbed her hands with a wet wipe and offered me the pack.

      ‘No thanks.’ My cone trembled. ‘In a minute.’

      ‘What’s up, Sarah?’ Lottie’s smile was encouraging.

      I contemplated her open, oval face, the dark glossy locks that curved around it, the slightly Roman line of her nose and her big loud mouth. A sensible and rather noble older sister, Charlotte Rose was a good woman. Strong too. Her broad shoulders had taken much of the burden when our dad died.

      I took a breath. Now was the time. ‘I might have a brain tumour.’

      The smile melted down her face.

      ‘But then again, I might not.’ I told her why.

      She didn’t take it very well, so after I recounted most of what Doctor Cook had said, I omitted the hallucinations bit. ‘So what’s next? When do you get the hospital appointment?’ Lottie’s eyebrows knitted together. There she went – organizing, reorganizing, taking charge, planning, trying to contain her alarm.

      I couldn’t remember. ‘I guess it’ll come in the post.’

      ‘Yes, but when?’

      ‘Soon.’

      My big sister sighed and gazed out into the estuary. The tide had turned and some of the children were picking over the rock pools with buckets and fishing nets. Alfie and Thomas had abandoned their Spiderman game and were crouching over a dead crab. ‘Well, will you let me know?’

      I nodded.

      ‘Have you told Mum?’

      I shook my head. ‘No. There’s no point worrying her at this stage.’

      ‘OK.’ Lottie leant over, grabbed my free hand and rubbed it. ‘You know it’s probably nothing. Like the doctor said. But I’m glad you’re taking it seriously. I understand that you don’t want to tell Mum now but if something does …’ she trailed off and sent me this small, mournful smile. ‘You’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

      I stuffed the remnants of the cone into my mouth and tried hard not to cry.

      Lottie and Thomas came back to the house to clean up. After tea I opened a bottle of Spanish wine. I shared half of it with Lottie before David arrived to pick up his clan. He had a sheepish air about him, perhaps guessing that Lottie had confided in me. I did my best to be bright and jolly. Then Alfie chucked a hissy fit about Thomas packing up, and demanded his cousin stay for a sleepover. But it was gone seven so once Lottie and co. had beaten a hasty exit I plopped him briefly in the bath then sang him to sleep.

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