I'll tell you about the craft-related stuff I got up to another time, meanwhile here's a story that I hope you'll like. Happy reading!
THE GREAT WHITE
“She’s new,” Moira said. “We’ve not seen her before.”
They were in the car park, Moira enjoying a cigarette while Claire ate chocolate coated raisins. The women discreetly observed the newcomer lock her car and crunch across the gravel toward the main doors.
Hilldown Leisure Centre had a forlorn appearance. At 7 o’clock on a chill January morning it was showing its age. The municipal building squatted at the edge of a trading estate and beside a small shopping precinct with peeling paintwork. There was only one shop open, its graffiti covered metal shutters having rolled back ten minutes ago. Claire watched the newsagent half-heartedly swipe a mop across the shop’s doorstep. Moira stubbed out her cigarette, popping a mint into her mouth.
“All set?”
The women walked into the leisure centre’s overheated reception area where the receptionist, an indifferent lad in his late teens, gave them a perfunctory nod.
“Morning ladies.” He swiped their membership cards. “Hot showers are on the blink. Sorry about that.”
They walked toward the changing rooms accompanied by the familiar smell of chlorine and air freshener. Posters on the walls gave last year’s Christmas schedule.
“It’s getting shabby,” Claire said, “though aren’t we all?”
“Heard the rumours about reduced opening hours?” Moira asked. “They might only offer three days a week. The council’s got to slash its budget somehow.”
They’d both taken early retirement. Moira had raised four children while holding down a full-time job. After twenty years of marriage her husband indulged in a mid-life crisis, acquiring a powerful motorbike. The marriage floundered, but before divorce proceedings started he lost control, ploughing his bike into the back of a cement truck. Moira benefitted from a generous life insurance pay-out and gave up work. She began regular sessions at Hilldown pool which was where she met Claire.
At the time Claire was trying to get a vending machine to release a packet of crisps from its iron grip. Moira suggested giving it a hefty shake.
“Really?” Claire asked nervously. “Aren’t there stats about people killed by falling vending machines?”
“Lies, damn lies and statistics.” Moira walloped the machine, knocking the crisps off their perch.
“I shouldn’t really.” Claire retrieved them. “But I missed breakfast, and studies show it’s the most important meal of the day.”
Claire, Moira soon learnt, set great store by healthy eating advice, despite the constant snacking. A social-worker, burnt out by her mid-forties Claire had been signed off with stress and plagued by debilitating migraines before accepting early retirement. ‘Best move I ever made,’ she told Moira. ‘Money’s tight, but I’m happier.’ She took up swimming, going to early lane sessions at Hilldown pool for three months by the time Moira joined.
The 7 o’clock swimmers were a largely unchanging crowd. Apart from Moira and Claire, there was Lyn, in her seventies, a sprightly and surprisingly powerful swimmer. She wore a plain navy swimsuit and a white bathing cap snapped smartly over her ears. Three men swam too, a trio with balding grey-haired heads and differing degrees of paunch as if they were at separate trimesters in a pregnancy. Claire padded out from the changing rooms, leaving her flip-flops at the poolside, noting the grimy turquoise ceramic tiles surrounding the steps into the water.
“They could do with a scrub,” she told Moira who followed her in. Claire hesitated as she always did, enjoying the water lapping around her at waist heigh, then ducking down, feeling that brief shock of cold before warming up again. The pool was divided into lanes by lines of alternating red and white floats. Notices at each end denoting two slow lanes, two fast lanes and one for mixed abilities. Lyn and two of the men were ploughing up and down the fast lanes. Another of the trio ungainly crawled along a slow lane.
Claire and Moira were usually the only ones in the mixed abilities lane. They liked to swim and talk, speeding up and slowing down as conversation ebbed and flowed. However, as they began their first length Claire noticed someone new coming out from the changing room. The person they’d seen in the car park. A statuesque woman, nearly six foot and broad shouldered, hair flattened under a turban style bathing cap. Her swimsuit was a riot of tropical flowers and glossy foliage, colourful macaws and parrots.
“Hey, Moira. Look!”
The woman was carrying a snorkel. She slid into the pool, pulled on a diving mask and waded over to the mixed abilities lane before adding the snorkel and setting off with a steady, confident breaststroke.
“Really!” Moira was staring over her shoulder as the woman caught them up. “That’s not very polite.”
The woman’s head was flat down in the water, her gaze on the pool’s floor. Within moments she’d tangled with Moira’s legs. The woman looked up, seemed annoyed and promptly moved around them before resuming her face down swim.
“That’s not on,” Moira said indignantly. She glared at the lifeguard. “I’m going to complain.”
“Leave it,” Claire said calmly. “She’ll be a one-hit-wonder. Here this week, gone the next.”
They resumed their swim, but their normal rhythm was interrupted. Every two or three minutes the woman in the tropical swimsuit met them mid lane. Her head was resolutely down, looking straight into the water and she didn’t slow down when they crossed paths. After a few lengths Moira and Claire took the strategy of least resistance and moved out of the newcomer’s way. Neither felt relaxed at the end of their session, a situation made worse by the ice-cold shower.
“Let’s hope that’s the last we’ll see of her,” Lyn remarked. “Snorkeling in a public pool. Silly girl.”
But the woman was back the following week, resplendent in her tropical rainforest swimsuit. Once again she bought the diving mask and snorkel with her, and once again she focused her gaze away from the direction of travel. Moira was more belligerent this time, deliberately slowing her speed, not always moving out of the way. There was more tangling of limbs until the woman said curtly,
“You ought to be in the slow lane.”
“You ought to look where you’re going,” Moira retorted.
The woman gave a mirthless smile.
“It’s a public pool. I’ve every right.”
After the session Claire checked with the receptionist who confirmed ‘yeah, she can use a snorkel, no rule against it.’ Moira even emailed the council but again the response came. No rule had been broken. ‘Try to come to an amicable agreement,’ the council official suggested. ‘Perhaps switch to another lane?’
“Why should we?” Moira protested to Claire as they huddled in the car park the following week, Moira smoking a cigarette and Claire drinking a carton of strawberry smoothie. “It’s her that’s in the wrong.”
“Well, technically she’s not,” Claire said, “though morally she is. I mean, it’s not really pool etiquette, is it? If there’s such a thing.” She peered shortsightedly at the carton’s label. “Crikey, the calories in that. I could’ve just spooned sugar into my mouth.”
“She charges up and down that lane like it’s her own private pool.” Moira lit another cigarette from the stub of the last one. “Like she’s a Great White Shark, always moving, can’t stop or she’s done for. That swimsuit too! You’d think she was poolside in a Miami beach resort. All she needs is a Pina Colada with a paper parasol in it.”
As if she’d been summoned the woman’s car rolled into the car park, sending up splashes of muddy water from the many potholes. She got out of the car, eyes fixed on Moira in an almost mocking way.
“Cow!” Moira hissed.
“Moira, shush! She’ll hear you.”
This time it was the lifeguard who suggested Moira and Claire change lanes. ‘You like a bit of a natter. The other lady seems more serious about her exercise. Maybe scoot over to the slow lane?’
Instead they upped their speed, occupying the lane with a grim determination. Several times ‘the Great White’, as Moira now referred to her, had to fall in line behind them, displeasure at being thwarted almost tangible through the ripples in the water.
“This can’t go on,” Claire said. Breaking from their usual routine she and Moira were sat in the shopping precinct’s café after the session ended. They nursed weak cups of tea, ignoring grease smears on the table. “I’m thinking,” she went on, “of knocking swimming on the head.”
“You can’t!” Moira protested.
“There’s Pilates at the community centre,” Claire said. “My hair won’t reek of chlorine.”
“You’re giving in,” Moira told her. “It might sound childish, but it’s like we’re being bullied. The Great White’s treating us like minnows. Like pond weed.”
“It sticks in my craw too,” Claire said, “but I’m tired of it. Let her have her way. What does it matter?”
In the end Moira persuaded Claire to keep going, but the fun had gone out of it. Then on a dank February morning they arrived at the leisure centre to see a laminated notice sellotaped to the door.
‘Due to council cutbacks Hilldown Leisure & Sports Services will run a restricted programme from 1st March onwards. Due to financial restraints the pool will regrettably close in three months time. Apologies for any inconvenience caused.’
“They can’t!” Claire was shocked. “That’s outrageous. I know it’s desperate for a refurb, but closing it?“
“We’ll start a petition,” Moira said. “Get on Twitter and Facebook. For pete’s sake, this council’s supposed to be promoting healthy lifestyles, not making them more difficult.”
They were so intent on the notice and its consequences that neither observed a familiar presence approach them.
“What’s this?”
Moira and Claire instinctively moved aside as the woman read the notice.
“Well!” She pursed her lips. “That’s not on. We’ll form a pressure group to stop it. Get local press interested. You two will get involved, won’t you?”
Claire was about to speak when Moira surprised her by saying,
“You can’t stop progress. It’s a done deal by the look of it.”
“That’s a defeatist attitude,” the woman said. “We can start on online campaign. I’m experienced at building websites – “
“I’m sure you are,” Moira cut in. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
They scuttled inside, leaving the woman at the door.
“We should offer to help,” Claire said, feeling guilty.
“Aren’t you switching to Pilates?” Moira was snappy. “Anyway, I might give spinning a go.”
However, the two continued using the pool most weeks, noting how active the Great White was with her petition and hastily printed flyers. She was featured on local TV news and in the free paper pushed through the neighbourhood’s doors. Moira heard her interviewed on regional radio and tried to ignore the jealousy welling up inside her. The campaign gained traction, a prominent businessman adding his support, promising to part fund a refurbishment. The Great White set up a crowdfunding page, and Moira watched with a mix of resentment and admiration as donations steadily mounted up. Schoolchildren lobbied the council and, after much debate councillors finally relented on plans for the pool’s closure.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Claire asked when Moira told her the news. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I suppose,” Moira conceded.
“The staff will keep their jobs and – well – I’m not sure Pilates is for me. Everyone’s so bendy and stretchy. I prefer our swimming sessions,” Claire said. “There’s something about bobbing around in the water, letting your mind drift away. If my thoughts drift in Pilates I’m three moves behind everyone else. What about you? How’s spinning?”
“Ghastly,” Moira admitted.
They arranged to swim the following day. There were already signs of improvements. Over the weekend, out of date posters removed from notice boards, scuffed paintwork now gleamed. Even the tiles around the pool had been scrubbed, Claire noticed.
“Someone’s had the pan scourer on those,” she said, laughing. Lyn was there, drilling up and down a lane with steady, even strokes. The trio of balding men with paunches were following each other in a far lane, their steady breaststrokes causing gentle ripples in the water. Through the rectangular slices of window running high around the walls Moira saw the bluest of skies with not a cloud in sight.
Claire nudged her.
“Hey, look who it is.”
A woman in a familiar tropical patterned swimsuit was padding along in pink flipflops toward the poolside, her hair hidden by a turban style bathing cap.
“No snorkel or mask,” Claire whispered.
The Great White slid into the water, dipping fully under then standing up, her eyes meeting Moira’s before sliding over to the far side of the pool when the trio of balding men were. Moira watched one of them raise his arm and wave enthusiastically at the Great White who waved back. Then, to Moira’s surprise the Great White bobbed under the line of floats and into the slow lane. The man who’d waved did the same.
“It’s a pool romance,” Claire whispered as the pair smiled and giggled before starting a slow, stately breaststroke, arms moving in unison like synchronized swimmers. “Isn’t that sweet?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Moira admitted grudgingly.
“At least we can swim in peace now,” Claire said. “Shall we?”
They swam a dozen or so lengths, but Moira found it strangely unsatisfying without the drama of tussling with the Great White. After the session ended, she waited in the reception area while Claire finished drying her hair. Moira passed the time reading the laminated notices by the entrance.
Junior Karate 6 till 7 every Friday.
Elderly Aquarobics Tuesdays & Thursdays.
There was another notice, handwritten on a sheet of lined paper.
For sale: snorkel equipment. Good condition. £10 or nearest offer.
Contact Wanda for more info.
Moira sensed someone nearby. Turning her head she saw the Great White. Afterwards Moira couldn’t explain to Claire how it’d all happened or why. But the upshot was that five minutes later Moira’s purse was lighter by ten pounds and she owned a second-hand snorkel and a diving mask retrieved from the boot of the Great White’s car.
“What on earth will you do with them?” Claire asked, equally bewildered.
“Well – I suppose – “ Moira shrugged. “I’ll learn to snorkel.”
“Really?”
“Uhm - I suppose.”
A breeze ruffled Moira’s hair. She had the oddest feeling, as if something significant had just happened in her life. A vision came into her mind. Herself in a tropical print swimsuit and turban style bathing cap ploughing relentlessly up and down a lane in the leisure centre pool. Up and down regular as a metronome. Arms slicing through the water. Legs scissoring sharp as blades. On and on this vision of Moira swam. Always moving, always travelling forward.
P.S. If you enjoyed this story, there's more of my work to be found in my short story collection, 'The House on Steep Street'. Available via Amazon, and - hopefully - clicking on this link will take you there.
