SHORT STORY OF THE YEAR
Turning Point
She possessed a quirky little desk calendar on which the date had to be manually altered each day. This small task was just one component of a routine that took place in the afternoon, although sometimes much earlier. It occurred to her that, should she start moving the marker on to the day after next or the day after that, she might be willing the weeks to pass by with increasing urgency. With vivid imagination, she saw a sort of time machine of her own making emerge, eventually spinning out of control and becoming a vortex that would swallow her up, whisking her away to who knows where or when? Did she really care?
As dusk approached, she’d check at regular intervals that the front door, back door and French windows were securely locked. Meanwhile the curtains would be drawn and lights switched on, reassurance being drawn from the cocoon-like environment thus created.
Various self-imposed, small rituals which helped to absorb time and bring the evening closer included the laying out of her nightclothes in the morning as soon as she was dressed; likewise, peeling the vegetables and setting her place at the table in readiness for her lunchtime meal as soon as breakfast was over. Other domestic chores carried out, many of which really didn’t need doing so often, made her existence bearable until the time came for her first gin and tonic of the day.
This drink, which she sipped with her main meal at around one o’clock in the afternoon, began as the equivalent of a single measure but, during lockdown, had gradually grown in quantity. Other indulgences during this period of isolation had been binge-watching programmes on Netflix or Amazon, a second large glass of gin and tonic whilst tuning in to the six o’clock news and further gratification in the shape of a mug of hot chocolate before bedtime. In this way her appetite for the escapism provided by television drama, G&Ts and her craving for something sweet were satisfied. A feeling of despondency lingered nevertheless; one that she didn’t know quite how to dispel.
Her husband had died well before retirement age a few years previously but had left her with sufficient means to ensure that she didn’t have to continue working. She gave up her job as a librarian but later regretted having done so. Since his death, and especially following the start of the pandemic, her world had shrunk leaving this rather solitary and cautious creature to occupy herself mainly with maintaining her small terraced London house and tending its tiny garden.
Her life wasn’t entirely devoid of pleasure however. She derived satisfaction from observing the birds pecking at the feeder and the way in which the robins and blue tits would bide their time until the magpies and blackbirds had had their fill; likewise, watching a random cast of butterflies who seemed to dance on the sidelines whilst the serious work of harvesting pollen was carried out by the bees. And she found the lace-like structures suspended from her porch and front gate, created by those industrious spiders, enchanting in their fairy-tale appearance, particularly when bejewelled with dew.
With lockdown over, other diversions came in the form of attending occasional lectures at the local community centre, visiting her housebound sister-in-law and taking frequent brisk walks to the shops. After one such foray, she called in at the doctors’ surgery to pick up her relative’s repeat prescriptions. As the queue moved slowly forward towards the dispensary counter, she found herself standing next to a notice board on which were displayed a number of flyers and leaflets with information about support services, voluntary groups, exercise classes, etcetera. One notice in particular attracted her attention. She studied these details for some time, unable to determine exactly what it was that was fuelling her interest to such a degree. Even though way outside her comfort zone, the possibility of investigating this prospect further was proving inexplicably tantalizing. The small poster had also caught the eye of the lady standing behind her and she found herself, reluctantly at first, drawn into a conversation about such an opportunity. Although normally quite shy, she found herself warming to this person.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On a truly beautiful crisp morning later that month, she enters Hyde Park and heads towards the Serpentine, spotting the woman she’d met at the doctor’s surgery coming from the other direction. They’re linking up at the appointed time, having had one or two telephone conversations meanwhile about the precautionary research carried out prior to embarking on this joint escapade.
The doctor had been fully supportive, given our protagonist’s excellent state of physical health and could immediately envisage several advantages ahead for the rather withdrawn woman sitting in front of her.
Entering the Lido via the gate next to the Pavilion and registering at the reception area of the beachhead, the risks and ‘dos and don’ts’ are duly imparted and the two women proceed to the changing rooms from which they emerge with a mixture of excitement and dread. They’ve rather self-consciously chosen to don waterproof gloves and socks, whilst exuding an all-too-evident ‘what on earth are we doing here’ demeanour.
They approach the waterside carrying their caps and goggles and then, as if to delay their initiation for as long as possible, seek out the lifeguard, asking him to reiterate the rules and regulations. With no excuse for further dithering the moment has come to ease themselves into the oldest and arguably the most iconic open water swimming location in London. It’s time to rediscover the bathing prowess of their earlier lives.
On this late spring morning the lake is cold, very cold. The chilling effect takes their breath away. However, this gradually diminishes and first one, then the other dips further into the water before trying a few hesitant strokes. After a minute or two these recent acquaintances simultaneously start giggling – they’ve done it! They’ve actually done it! In their glee, this pair of normally reticent people give each other a nervous hug, rejoicing in the fact that something very promising may be within their grasp.
And this proves to be the case!
Gin and tonics have long since ceased to be part of our brave swimmer’s regular routine but not so the hot chocolate which she continues to drink, even on warm days, at the Lido Cafe Bar after a swim. Her name and that of her new friend are now on the waiting list to become full members of the Serpentine Swimming Club. They’ve signed up for the half-mile event to raise money for children with cancer in the summer and in preparation they’ve booked a coaching session with the charity’s director. They’ve even talked about joining the traditional Christmas Day Swim. Also under discussion has been the prospect of wild swimming elsewhere, which could open up a whole host of fresh experiences; but for now these converts to the joys of life at the Lido are continuing to take great pleasure from the whole exhilarating experience of exercising in the water surrounded by the flora and fauna and the camaraderie of other swimmers.
In a better frame of mind than she has been for some time, our woman of courage, for that is exactly what she is, now looks forward to the start of each new day and as a consequence she rarely thinks to update that quirky little calendar sitting on her desk.
Author: Wendy Smith, Padbury