Disclaimer

42. SUMMER 1993

She remembers sitting up, shouting Nicholas’s name. She had fallen asleep on her towel, lying on her front, her feet facing the sea. She had been exhausted. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she had allowed herself to lie down with her head resting on her hands because Nicholas had been content.

She’d given in and bought him the red and yellow rubber dinghy he’d seen on their first day, when she and Robert had held his hands and they’d walked along the promenade. On that first afternoon she and Robert had steered Nick away from the inflatable dolphins, sharks, and boats, and bought him a bucket and spade and a small truck to play with on the sand. But he’d cried for the dinghy and on that last day she had given in. It would make him happy, and if he was happy, then she could rest.

She looked up now and again to check he was okay and he was, sitting in the dinghy on the sand, happy at being the captain of his ship. But the next time she looked, the dingy was bobbing around in the waves. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. She stood up and called his name. The waves were frisky now, and they rocked the boat, back and forth, but he was still smiling, still happy. And there were others in the water, diving in and out of the waves. No one seemed worried. She marched towards the sea, her eyes never leaving Nick, calling his name, louder each time, but he didn’t look up. He was lost in his own little world. Then frisky became rough, and the waves swelled and tugged at the boat.

He was out of his depth and being pulled further by the sea, out to where the ocean became dark, then black. The sun had gone and the wind had come up.

“Help,” she shouted, running now. Then “Help me,” she screamed, shivering, terrified. She remembers her words with shame: “Help me,” not “Help my child.” “Help me.” She ran into the water, up to her waist but it wasn’t she who swam out to her child. She knew she wasn’t a strong enough swimmer and she was scared. She was scared of drowning. She forces herself to admit it.

She dissects that moment, sparing herself nothing. She didn’t risk her own life for her child’s. She knew they would both drown if she swam out. She’d always been frightened in the sea — didn’t even like putting her head under. It’s men who drown rescuing children and dogs, not women. Fathers, not mothers. Strange that, but she can’t remember ever hearing about a woman jumping in to rescue a drowning child, but she can recall plenty of occasions when men had thrown themselves into roaring rivers or dirty canals, not thinking about themselves, just driven on by blind courage. There must be women who have done it, but she can’t remember reading of them. So, she is not quite alone in lacking the bravery to go in after her son that day. If it had been a burning building, or a window ledge at the top of a skyscraper, or a madman pointing a gun, it would have been different. Then she would have found the courage. She would have run through fire, risked falling to her death, jumped in front of a bullet for Nick, but the sea? The sea had thwarted her.

And then he raced in, brushing her aside as he ran past, then diving like a lifeguard into the waves. Why were there no fucking lifeguards on this beach? There was not even a flag. He was the one who responded to her cries for help. “No,” she screamed and the word left her mouth before she could stop it. A howl which no one understood. She didn’t want it to be him. Not him, please. She watched as he swam towards the dinghy. It was tipping back and forth wildly: Nicholas was trying to stand up. Oh God, please don’t stand up, you’ll fall in. She tried to gesture with her hands for Nick to sit down, but he was too far out to see her.

Others were standing with her now. A couple with a toddler and another family, English, kind, the mother’s arm around Catherine. And Spanish families too, all gripped by the sight of the little boy bobbing dangerously out to sea and the young man striking out to reach him. She remembered how strong he was, and she knew he would make it to Nicholas. There would be no stopping him. And he did and the people around her smiled and the English mother squeezed her shoulder and smiled too but she didn’t smile. She felt sick as she watched.

He was swimming back, dragging Nicholas in the dinghy behind him. It was hypnotic watching him: one armed, one handed, just keeping going. It was heroic. He was brave. She was thinking this when she heard the fear in the voices around her. A gabble of Spanish and then the English father: “He’s in trouble, they need help,” and he was about to run in himself when a younger Spanish man beat him to it. Not as young as Jonathan, but still young. Late twenties? Her age? He swam out, grabbed the rope, then turned back and swam towards the shore with Nicholas safely behind him. For a while it looked as if they weren’t moving, the waves beating them back, the current pulling them away from the shore, but he managed it, this other Spanish man. He moved closer and closer to the shore and to safety. And everyone looked at him and Nick, not Jonathan. They all assumed he was okay.

And then Nicholas was back on the shore and she scooped him out of the dinghy, wrapped him in a towel and held him close. He was shivering from cold, his chattering teeth rendering him speechless. He buried his head in his mother’s chest and she pulled the towel right up over his head, like a hood, protecting him, holding him. Then she turned and saw the young Spanish man and the English dad swim out to Jonathan, who had been left behind. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to get back to shore. He was flapping his arms, pushing down at the sea. It was all in slow motion.

People were speaking to her in Spanish, kind voices, smiling, stroking Nicholas’s head, happy at the rescue of this little boy. And then the English mother pressed against her ear and whispered:

“Don’t let him see. He mustn’t see.” And a few of them gathered round to screen Nicholas’s view of the beach. Catherine turned to see Jonathan’s body being carried from a boat. A speedboat had come but too late to help and she watched as Jonathan’s body was laid out on the sand. Then she looked away. She shielded Nicholas.

“You’re hurting me,” were his first words.

She hadn’t realised how hard she had been pressing her son against her. Other mothers had gathered round, forming a barrier to protect the child from seeing the body of the man who had saved him.

“You should take him back to your hotel,” said the Englishwoman, her hand on Catherine’s arm. “Where’s your stuff?”

And Catherine pointed to her towel and bag and the woman went and gathered them up and Catherine put a T-shirt on Nicholas, and took his hand.

“Shall we go and see if the hotel will do you a hot chocolate?” She was shocked by the calm in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said brightly, and he picked up the rope to take the dinghy with them.

“Let’s leave it here, Nick. We’re going home tomorrow. We won’t be able to take it on the plane. Someone else can play with it.” She braced herself for tears, but he was fine about it. Forgotten already. The novelty worn off. He didn’t mention it or the incident again. Ever. She waited for it. For the memory of his fear, of the realisation that he was too far out and she wasn’t with him, that the sea was too rough, that he had been rescued, but it never came. He never said a word about it. He was freezing, he had said that, but he never said that he thought he would drown. He never said he was scared. Perhaps he hadn’t been. He’d been cold and he’d wanted to get back to the beach, but then someone came and got him. Simple as that. He had never really feared for his life.

As they walked up the steps from the beach, Catherine looked back one last time and saw Jonathan lying on the sand, covered in two towels. Dead. She knew he was dead. And what did she feel? She presses herself. What did you feel?