Mary Brown, Stroud u3a
'Rescue'
'Rescue'
There it was at last. So blue. It took a while for them all to get out of the coach, as most seemed, like her, to be older and less able, but at last she was on the beach. She took off her sandals, felt the wonderful sensation of sand between her toes and turning up her trousers, headed for the sea.
She had survived the long journey, first speeding along the motorway, then agonisingly ever more slowly as the narrow road twisted down to the sea. She had been remembering childhood seaside holidays, both as a child and with her children, the impatience, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ That first glimpse of the sea, sometimes long before they got there, and then wondering if that actually had been the sea, or just sea shaped cloud. She had loved the sea all her life, and had missed it now that age, and particularly infirmity, meant that she had not seen it for a few years. But she saw an advert for a day’s coach trip, and here she was.
Her life was so empty now that she was living alone, and there was so much she could no longer do; she didn’t go to the cinema or theatre as she couldn’t hear. She had to pay someone to clean her house, which was frustrating: watching the work being done not quite as she would have done it, but not badly enough to complain. When her children made their infrequent visits, she sensed that they were coming out of duty, rather than pleasure, and the grandchildren were always lost in their mobiles. She tired so easily: went to bed early, got up late, had a sleep at lunch time, and the rest of her day seemed consumed by just keeping herself alive. There was no pleasure in cooking for one. She wondered often what was the purpose of living longer, if you were hardly living. But that was how it was nowadays, longer life was supposed to be a great achievement, even if it was not longer healthy life. She sometimes saw old women on local TV celebrating a 100th or 105th birthday from a wheelchair in a care home, hardly able to blow out the candles. Was that life? The vicar had taken to telling her that she was ‘wonderful’ for her age. Do you deserve congratulations for not being dead? She wondered. Now she put these thoughts away for the day; she had discovered coach trips, perhaps there were other things that she could do that she hadn’t considered.
She paddled happily along the beach, glad of her sticks to keep her upright. She could no longer jump over the waves as she had both as a child, and then as a young mother holding a child by each hand. Savouring the scent of the salt, enjoying the waves breaking over her legs soaking her trousers, she wished she could swim in it. She was tempted, but had only brought a towel, not a costume. It was some years since she had given up going to the swimming pool, but the sea was different. The cliffs towered above the beach, the seagulls screamed, it was all as she remembered. The sun was shining, which it hadn’t been at home. She felt at peace. She couldn’t say she felt young again, but she realised she was singing to herself, ‘How Great thou art’, one of her favourite hymns. She paddled on slowly, marvelling at her happiness.
Then she heard it, ‘Help!’ She looked inland, there were a lot of people on the beach, but none was taking any notice of the cry. ‘Help!’ Again. She looked out to sea and saw a small head above the waves, which disappeared, then came into view again. A child. Still no one on the beach took any notice. ‘Help!’
Suddenly she was taken over by something greater than herself: she threw her bag, her sticks and her jacket onto the sand and plunged fully clothed into the waves. In the sea she found she could still swim, despite her mobility problems. She set off towards the crying head. She relished the way the waves, supported her with their constant swelling and subsiding, something you don’t get in swimming pools. Waves are mystical, spiritual even, they and their tides are the magic of the sea. 70 years ago she had taken life saving classes, and had a row of certificates that she was very proud of, but she had never saved a life. Now it all came back to her, the different ways to hold the body, that the victim might struggle. He was not very far out, the beach must have shelved, he was much lighter than the friend she had practised with at school, and put up no struggle. She was soon back into shallow water and waded onto the beach with the child in her arms. On the sand she collapsed, still clutching the child.
Now she was surrounded by the people who had not heard the cry. A woman in hysterical tears grabbed the child, screaming. The child screamed even louder. They moved away both sobbing. Someone provided a towel, helped her off with her wet clothes, another offered a warm jumper, trousers, another a rug to wrap her in. She couldn’t dress herself as she was shivering so hard. Someone else produced a thermos and offered her a cup of tea. Everyone was talking at once. Someone had dialled 999. She tried to sit up and sip the tea, much too strong and sweet, but her shivering split most of it, soaking a stranger’s trousers. She felt herself the centre of a circle of well meaning and compassion. She felt safe.
Then it hit her. The pain. It enveloped her, consumed her. She screamed, louder than the child and his mother together. She clutched herself, then fell back onto the gentle sand, defeated by pain.
After what seemed like an hour, or perhaps a year, she was no longer conscious of all these concerned strangers. She was aware that the child had stopped crying, but his mother hadn’t. Soothing noises surrounded her. The pain overcame her. As two paramedics finally ran across the beach, she sank into blessed oblivion.
The sea, the sea; she had swum in it once more. She felt herself becoming part of it, and it part of her. The sand clung to her body. This was where she belonged. She had saved the child. Had she saved herself? Had she escaped that purposeless life that had been hers?