Against the Tide Read online

  He raised himself up an elbow and peered at me. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  What was he trying to tell me? ‘Why doesn’t he come in here? Change with the rest of us?’

  He smiled. ‘Probably doesn’t want to show us his war wounds.’

  ‘Seriously? Was he badly shot up?’

  He laughed. ‘Only thing damaged was his arse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He sat on it for so long. No wounds, Jack. He was in Ally Sloper’s Cavalry.’

  ‘Can’t imagine him on a horse.’

  ‘Neither can I. It was a nickname for the Army Service Corps. ASC, get it?’

  ‘You got me there.’

  ‘Yes, our beloved centenier spent his war years procuring livestock for the troops to eat.’

  ‘So that’s the connection with his butcher’s shop?’

  ‘His family had that before the war. But that’s not the reason he got the cushy job. He was fit enough for the front line but volunteered his expertise.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he seems to hate me so much.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s you in particular, but it’s not for me to tell. You need to ask your father, or your uncle.’

  ‘Oh, that business in his shop. Mum mentioned something about a fight a long time ago. Phillips sacked someone. Uncle Fred went to see him and they had a big argument. I didn’t know Father was involved.’

  ‘No, everyone knows about that.’ He paused, considering. ‘I mustn’t speak out of turn, but there was a water polo match back before the war – must have been the summer of 1911 or 1912. All I can say is your uncle had to jump in to separate them.’

  ‘What? My father and Phillips fighting in the pool?’ I couldn’t imagine it. Not much of a contest. My father was a great bear of a man.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking but Phillips wasn’t always that shape. It was a good fight whilst it lasted. The funny thing was that Fred came off worst and got bashed by both of them.’

  ‘I’ll ask Uncle Fred about that. I’m sure you’re making it up.’

  ‘Oh, no. It happened. They were both suspended. None of us really knew what it was about, though we suspected that a girl was involved. Anyway, that was a long time ago.’

  ‘Hey, come on. Don’t leave me in suspenders.’

  ‘Right, but you will have to promise you didn’t hear this from me.’ He waited.

  ‘Okay, I promise.’

  A secretive smile crossed his face. ‘I believe her name was –’

  ‘Renouf, you little shit.’ A wet polo cap slapped my face. Fletcher jumped onto the platform, towering over me. ‘We lost that because of you and you can’t even look after the kit. You should have rinsed it along with your stupid little brain!’

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you, Fletcher? What have I done to upset you?’

  ‘Apart from break his swimming records and steal his girl? Probably not much,’ Nutty answered.

  His languid tone provoked a fit of the giggles, which I couldn’t contain. I tried but had to surrender to insane cackling.

  ‘Shut up, farm boy. It’s not funny!’ Fletcher boiled over, thrust forward and grabbed my throat.

  Trapped between the bench and the platform, unable to use my legs, I flapped uselessly at him. Dimly, I heard Nutty protesting. Unable to breathe or speak, I pleaded with my eyes. Light faded, leaving an image of his smile as I drifted into a roaring darkness before his face disappeared, and I collapsed onto the concrete floor.

  Cookie materialised to lift me back into the sun. I rolled onto the platform, still in a daze.

  ‘You all right, Jack?’

  I blinked, tried to cough. Nutty pressed a bottle of lemonade into my hand. I looked around and saw Fletcher, slumped on the bench, holding his head. The drink was warm but I managed to gulp some of it down.

  I smiled my thanks to Cookie, then turned to Nutty, sure that he had been telling me something important before Fletcher arrived. ‘What were we talking about?’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘Ah, your mother –’

  ‘Is Renouf here?’ Nelson’s voice cut through the chatter. He spotted Fletcher first. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Slipped,’ was Cookie’s reply.

  ‘Disappointed in love,’ was Nutty’s.

  ‘Clumsy lump. Renouf, we need to see you in the manager’s office. Get dressed and cut along.’

  Nutty rolled his eyes at me and mouthed “later” as I struggled into my clothes.

  3

  Patrick Brewster had been secretary/manager of the club for the past two seasons, after a long career in the Royal Navy. As I stood before his desk, he spoke to Nelson.

  ‘You know my feelings on sportsmanship, Jim. Water polo is not a game for hooligans; it was devised by gentlemen and should be played in that spirit. What happens in the harbour in Guernsey, once every two years, should not influence the way the game is played here, in our pool.’ He stroked his beard. ‘That great spirit, which drives our amateur sport, is indeed fundamental to the Olympic Movement, and should not be subverted by those from Europe,’ he waved towards the east, ‘who believe sport is a form of warfare and not a game.’

  There was more to this than throwing a leather ball around a floating pitch. I felt a flush spreading to my cheeks, sensed Nelson’s discomfort behind me. Where was this leading? Were they going to throw me out of the club for defending myself?

  Brewster leant back in his chair and sucked on his pipe. ‘We are competing against the crew of HMS Jersey next week. Shall we send them back to sea with broken teeth, cut lips and fractured noses?’

  Nelson cleared his throat. ‘It was my fault. I should have replaced Jack at half-time when I realised what was happening. The Dutchman –’

  ‘He has a name you know.’ Brewster fumbled around for the scrap of paper. ‘Kohler, that’s it, Rudolph Kohler. He’s here on holiday, staying at the Palace Hotel. The manager asked me to find a game for him. Seems he plays in the Dutch league. Fine hospitality we’ve offered.’ He scratched his head. ‘Now, what to do, eh?’

  Phillips spoke up. ‘Well, Mr Secretary, under the club rules, exclusion for brutality should be reported to the full committee and the player suspended until a meeting has been convened.’

  ‘Quite, thank you. Yes, that’s clear enough. Tell me, do we have any discretion in the matter –’

  ‘Really, Mr Secretary. We can’t ignore the rules. That, that –’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Centenier Phillips.’ He looked up at me. His tone was formal now and I stiffened. ‘Jack Renouf, following your actions this afternoon, I have no option but to suspend you from water polo until next Sunday, when this incident –’

  ‘Just water polo? Surely he must be suspended comp –’

  Brewster continued over Phillips’ interruption. ‘Just water polo, gentlemen. That is sufficient penalty. Renouf will miss the match against the Royal Navy and, I believe, the league match next Friday. Is that correct?’

  Nelson nodded. ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘Well, gentlemen, thank you for your time. I’d like a few private words with Renouf, if you don’t mind.’

  Phillips clearly did mind but left, trailing indignation.

  ‘Now, Jack.’

  ‘Sir, you saw what happened. It’s not fair. He was fouling me all the time and the referee ignored it. I had every right –’

  ‘That’s enough. Now calm down.’

  I was seething with frustration and determined to have my say. ‘He broke every rule in the book. He even tried to drown me and I’m the one who gets punished. It’s bloody ridiculous.’

  Brewster laughed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Renouf, it’s not about right and wrong. You were stupid enough to retaliate where everyone could see you. What do you expect? Of course you have to be seen to be punished. You can’t elbow someone in the face in front of hundreds of witnesses and be applauded for it.’

&nbs
p; ‘But, he –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he did. If you are going to play the game with adults then you have to learn to take responsibility for your actions. You were in the wrong and you know it.’

  I sighed. He was right, Fletcher was right; they were all bloody right. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I apologise. Thank you for dealing with me –’

  ‘That’s sufficient. You will still be able to swim in the match. Get some training in. Try to get that qualifying time. Now get out of here before I change my mind and feed you to the fish.’

  I started for the door.

  ‘And, Jack, a word of advice. We all make enemies in life, that can’t be avoided, but one of the secrets of happiness is to be very careful who you pick as friends.’

  That wasn’t the advice I wanted. I was about to challenge him when I spotted my reflection in the window. I was nearly nineteen, going on ninety, if some of my friends and relations were to be believed. Perhaps this was a lesson to be learned, but I’d damn well pick who I wanted as friends – not who my father, my uncle, or any other busybody adult felt was appropriate. I swallowed my retort and left.

  Phillips was waiting. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Mind your…’ I bit my tongue. ‘Not much. Just some advice about controlling myself.’

  ‘Stand up for yourself, Renouf, but don’t lose your temper like that. If that had been against Guernsey, we would have been stuck with only six men. For God’s sake, we could have lost the match and the donkeys would have laughed their hind legs off.’

  I wasn’t sure if he really was angry, but we were in the shade so his face wasn’t flushed from the sun.

  ‘Don’t believe everything your Hebrew friend tells you. Mr Brewster is right; there is another way. You have to play to the rules; without them, we’re lost. Be strong, but play like, like…’ he struggled to complete the analogy, ‘an Englishman.’

  So there we were, two Jerseymen, whose aspirations should be to act like Englishmen, and one of us was a Jew hater. That explained a lot about Saul’s treatment, and about Miko’s.

  My impulse was to snap back, call him a fascist, spit some of Shylock’s lines at him: “Hath not a Jew eyes…” Instead, I mouthed the Kipling poem on my bedroom wall. ‘‘‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you”; is that what you mean?’

  He grabbed my elbow and leant closer, his fetid breath in my ear. ‘The trouble with you, Renouf, is that you spend too much time with your head up Shakespeare’s arse.’

  He turned and waddled off, shaking his head. A Strauss waltz floated from the speakers, soothing the ranks of sun-seekers sprawled in deck chairs, reading their Sunday newspapers. Enjoy your holiday – it might be the last for some time, or so the headlines implied.

  Saul approached with Rachel. She stopped and peered at me in the shadows. The sun was in their eyes and she had to squint. In contrast to Saul’s pale features, her face was tanned. Normally, her eyes were a rich coffee; now, after several dives from ten metres, they were tinged with pink. She fluttered her thick charcoal lashes and smiled.

  ‘We’re wandering along to the beach café for an espresso. Want to join us?’ she asked.

  I smiled back, noticing that Saul’s eyes were still bright with anger. ‘Thanks, Rachel, perhaps later.’

  She hesitated. I felt that she wanted to talk to me alone, but Saul tugged her arm. She shrugged, mouthed ‘see you’ and followed him towards the bridge. They paused at the kiosk and Saul doffed his hat to me.

  Someone punched me from behind. I spun, arching my elbow to strike back.

  Caroline gasped in surprise. ‘Christ, Jack. Don’t hit me as well.’

  I exhaled sharply and turned to face her, my pulse racing.

  She twitched one of the blonde tresses from her forehead. ‘Well, have you been suspended for your brutality, my little angel, or have they given you a medal for thumping the poor foreigner?’

  I shook my head. I needed to get away, needed some distraction. A few hours with Caroline would be good. I also needed to start taking it less seriously. ‘He deserved it. If he’d carried on marking me like that, we’d have had to get married.’

  ‘How splendid. Do tell me more.’ She looped her arm into mine. ‘You can give me all the sordid details on the way.’

  ‘Way? Where?’

  She dragged me along the bridge. ‘ To the hospital, silly. I’ve arranged to pick up our friend and take him back to his hotel and you’re coming along to apologise.’

  Why should I apologise to the Dutchman? It was his bloody fault anyway. I jerked her arm back as we reached the gate and pulled her into the rail.

  ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’ There was concern in her voice now as she looked enquiringly at me.

  I stared out over the beach, seeing only shades of grey, oblivious to the sprawl of near naked bodies and children screeching about on the sand.

  I felt her hand on my cheek. Her voice was soft. ‘I think you’re feeling a little guilty, aren’t you?’

  I sighed and nodded.

  ‘You’re also realising that you are not as innocent as you were a couple of hours ago.’ Her hand caressed my ear. ‘That was brutal, Jack. Cold, calculated, murderous even.’

  I didn’t respond.

  She turned my head to face her. ‘I think you’ve grown up a bit this afternoon and it frightens me.’

  I stared back. We might only be eighteen but we had shared so much, had been as intimate in body and thought as I believed possible. How could she know me so well when I didn’t really understand myself? I shrugged, helpless for words, desperate for her to change my mood.

  Her light blue irises, also red-rimmed, from plunging fifteen feet underwater, expanded as she smiled. ‘Do you remember when we stood on this bridge before that first party at Saul’s and you made me pour that decent bottle of claret into the sand?’

  I grimaced.

  ‘Yes, you bastard. I can’t believe I let you. I should have hit you over your thick head with it. And all because you don’t approve of drink.’

  ‘We didn’t need it. Of course, you didn’t know Saul then. If you had, you would have realised that his parents keep enough alcohol in their apartment to float the Queen Mary.’

  ‘I really didn’t understand you then. I’m not much wiser now. Jack Renouf, you are a bloody puzzle.’

  I grinned. She had lifted my mood. ‘Come on then, Florence Nightingale, let’s get this over with.’

  4

  Feeling more relaxed, I hugged her, conscious of the soft warmth under her thin dress and the seductive power of her perfume. Sometimes, when we were alone in the house, Caroline raided her stock and amused herself by making me apply eau de cologne and parfume to various intimate parts of her naked body. This testing of my “nose” was one of her favourite games. I usually had difficulty identifying all the ingredients, but I could recognise jasmine and guessed this was her current favourite, Coco. Whatever its composition, it was sufficiently powerful to shift thought processing from my brain to a less inhibited part of my body. Get the Dutchman out of the way, it pleaded.

  She’d left her father’s Bugatti, a 57C drophead coupe, in Roseville Street, just across the main road.

  ‘Come on, Jack. I’ll make sure he doesn’t eat you.’ She jumped into the scarlet roadster, pressed the starter and had the eight cylinders roaring a fortissimo chorus in bottom C before I could close my door. She dropped the clutch and bounced onto the crown of the road, jerking me back into the cream leather seat.

  I gritted my teeth. The bonnet was long and the front mudguards so sensuously rounded that even I had difficulty seeing the road. She was a good six inches shorter than me and her Ray-Bans, with their rose-coloured lenses, couldn’t have helped as we charged through the empty streets to the General Hospital.

  She pulled up alongside the entrance in Gloucester Street and pointed towards the granite façade. I started to protest but she shoved me out and ordered me to get t
he “casualty” while making her only use of the rear view mirror so far, to reapply her make-up and fiddle with her hair.

  I returned a few minutes later, struggling to keep the grin off my face. ‘He’s already been collected I’m afraid. The hotel sent a car.’

  ‘Damn!’ Caroline thumped the wooden steering wheel. ‘Get in. We’ll go and see him at the Palace, then.’

  ‘But why? Why do you want to drag me up there?’

  She looked up at me, the bright spots on her high cheekbones shining through the rouge, crimson lips pouting in disdain. ‘Jack, you know you have to apologise to him. I saw you smiling as you got out of the water. You didn’t lose your temper. You planned that and you must make amends.’

  ‘What?’ I kicked the tyre in disbelief. ‘You were the one who shouted out “Do it!” You wanted me to hit him.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. I most certainly did not. You must have imagined it. Perhaps it was someone else who called out. Rachel, perhaps?’ She looked witheringly at me. ‘You are so crass sometimes, I almost despair of you. I thought you sportsmen were supposed to be gentlemen. Now, are you coming with me or do I have to go and apologise for you?’

  My friends wondered why I put up with her. Perhaps they were right, but she was so different, exciting, unpredictable and challenging. Yet, she was surprisingly vulnerable. I never bragged about how far we went, in contrast to my friends who kept a score of their, often imaginary, successes. That was private, between the two of us, besides which, no one would have believed me.

  ‘Dear Jack, you look like one of your precious cows waiting to be milked. Are you coming with me or are you walking home?’

  We glared at each other – my anger threatened to overwhelm what little sense remained. I looked away. There was an iron cannon in the park across the road. Perhaps I should go and kick that instead. It was probably more malleable than her self-belief. Sod it. Did I really want to end it here, now, over a bloody Dutchman? I turned back. She was still staring at me but her lips curled into a hint of a smile. Was it triumph or understanding? I was sure that, before the end of this crazy day, our relationship would be resolved, one way or another, but not here by the side of the dusty road. I clambered into the car and stared straight ahead.