Madeleine Dunnigan is a writer and editor. Her fiction has appeared in Momaya Short Story Review 2020, Horrid Covid and Aurelia Magazine. Her non-fiction has appeared in 3:AM, and Journals of a Pandemic, and she co-founded Ladybeard magazine. She is a recipient of Goldsmiths’ Isaac Arthur Green Fellowship.
She is working on Moonshadow, a novel about the fractious relationship between a mother and son, set in ’70s London. Below is an extract.
Contact: madeleinedunnigan [at] hotmail [dot] com
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Katharina
Katharina plunged under and the cool water surrounded her. She cut through it and for a moment was suspended in total immersion, before breaking the surface for air. She had been coming to the ponds for years. Enjoying the walk across the heath to the other side: that sense of calm when arriving at the wooded path and that thrill upon opening the gate. The water between the trees. Breathe, and under into the murk. They said bigger things lurked in the dark. Sometimes one died and floated to the top, a bloated body on the water. Up again and she was in the sparkling world. Sunlight on water, nothing like it. And above a circle of blue, fringed by the tops of trees.
A shriek cut through Katharina’s thoughts. She was part of a small cohort of women who swam all year round, but the summer brought with it longer hours and lighter swimming; it also brought the young folk. Their lithe bodies splayed out on the grass, nipples upturned toward the sun. They were annoying but their bodies were beautiful. Katharina had done some covert sketching until she was asked by one of her models to please stop. Another noise behind her and she turned to see a girl gripping the ladder, lowering herself inch by inch into the water. The lifeguard approached and Katharina heard the beginnings of the usual spiel, are you used to swimming in cold water? Could you do a length for me? Katharina liked the lifeguards because the lifeguards liked no one. In their fitted caps and loose T-shirts they observed the swimmers with an expression of boredom at best, disdain at worst. The sounds of the amateur swimmer and lifeguard faded, drowned out by the birdsong and the steady swipe of her breaststroke.
Later, on the grass, she pulled her swimsuit down to her waist and let the sun warm her. So what if she was nearly fifty. Let them look. It was only going to happen to them too. Katharina came to the ponds when she was stressed, when she was tired, or when she’d had one too many the night before. Now, with the sun on her lids, she let herself think back to yesterday. Another failed interaction with Jean. It was a strange feeling, not knowing where one’s child was. Having all the threads of control that once bound them to you cut. A small part of Katharina was pleased when he left. It had felt like a holiday for a few hours. Then the fear crept in. She called Kelly. Not there. Dina. Not there either. Dina had been sweet but was there a hint of judgement, too, when she asked, what did you say to him?
A trickle of water slid down Katharina’s front making her shiver. She towelled herself once again, rubbing her breasts vigorously while staring back at a young woman across the paddock until the other looked away. Katharina hated being cold. If her house was on fire Katharina would probably die trying to save her bedding. She put it down to the freezing passage from Hambourg to Southampton. She couldn’t remember anything apart from the cold and silence of the other children on the boat. Children don’t cry very much, they’re impassive. It is difficult to know what they’re thinking; Katharina has never been able to figure Jean out. When she arrived in Southampton she had a fever and angry spots on the inside of her throat. The British weren’t meant to let in children with foot and mouth, but the doctor looked her in the eye and said, ‘You’re fine’. Then she was on the train, looking down on row after row of dirty terraced houses and large advertisements for Bovril and Ovaltine. It had seemed so depressing, so old-fashioned, compared to Germany. It was then that she cried.
It was busy today at the ponds, women covered the grass and chatter drifted over. She liked listening to others’ conversations, their complaints: therapy and boys mainly and, once, an affair between a Jehovah’s Witness and a Catholic. But today, she managed to find a secluded patch at the back of the paddock and she stretched out, letting her body relax.
It was at moments like this that Katharina became acutely aware of her position. In short, she was alone, surrounded by others telling her what she was doing wrong. She had wiped away tears and kissed cut knees. She had shown him that despite the nightmares there was love in the world. So much love, she struggled to breathe when she thought about him. Only to wake up one day and realise her son was a stranger. To be alone again.
What had really happened at Rotherfield Hall? At home Katharina’s answer machine was filled with messages from the headmaster asking her to please call the school. Something held her back. She told herself it was because she wanted to speak to Jean before she listened to whatever crap the school had to say, but now she realised that she didn’t want to know. Or was it that she already did?
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’
Katharina sat up. The paddock had filled; now a girl was arranging herself next to Katharina. Her movements were awkward as if she didn’t know her own body. Katharina would have liked to draw her – the way her hip bones jutted out slightly and her tummy wrinkled. The high arches of her feet. Her hands – long fingers, barely tapered. Her restlessness, unable to get comfortable, lying down and sitting up, self-conscious and yet graceful.
‘Here,’ Katharina moved to give the girl more room.
‘It’s so cold, even in summer,’ her teeth were crooked when she smiled.
‘It’s your wet suit,’ Katharina replied, taking out her cigarettes, ‘keeps you cold.’
The girl hugged her knees to her chest. ‘You don’t have a spare cigarette do you?’
She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen, Jean’s age. ‘Sure.’ Katharina held out the packet and then her lighter. The girl smoked awkwardly too.
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘forgot mine. This is actually my first time here.’
‘And?’
‘It smells a bit doesn’t it?’ the girl was avoiding looking directly at her, Katharina noticed with amusement. She had probably never seen so many topless women.
‘You get used to it. Most important thing is to get warm after.’ Katharina took out her book but kept the girl in the corner of her eye. After a while, she pulled down her swimsuit: slowly at first, one shoulder strap at a time, and then very quickly. The girl took out a book and Katharina saw the title: The First Circle, Alexander Solzhenitsyn.
‘How are you finding it?’ Katharina said. She couldn’t help it, the coincidence was too great.
‘My father gave it to me. It’s meant to be really good.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘He won this big prize apparently.’
‘The Nobel.’
‘But I find it a bit confusing, with all the different names.’
‘I just gave it to my son,’ Katharina found herself saying. He had become fanatical about Chairman Mao and she wanted to show him that communism wasn’t without fault. ‘Probably the wrong thing for a sixteen-year-old.’ Something about the girl made Katharina want to tell her all about Jean. To say, I don’t know where my son is.
‘I’m just not a big reader you know.’ The girl looked away, scanning the crowd.
Katharina had thought they would discuss it together, Jean coming into the kitchen book in hand, argument on his lips. Jean, lover of Russian literature and aspiring sculptor. Who would go to Ruskin in the autumn, or perhaps Chelsea, where she taught and where he would develop his practice using London-sourced clay and home-made glazes. Inspired by the Arts and Craft movement, seeing purpose beyond the decorative in ceramics. But, of course, Jean wasn’t a big reader either, wasn’t much of anything.
‘My son must be about your age?’ Katharina said, trying to draw the girl back to her.
‘I’m seventeen.’ The girl said.
‘A difficult age. I was – well it was different for me. I was at art school, but now in some ways it’s so much harder for young people.’ The girl made a non-committal noise. Why was she so embarrassed? ‘Lots of pressure I imagine,’ Katharina offered her another cigarette, but she refused. She wasn’t embarrassed, Katharina realised, but bored. Katharina was boring her. ‘Do you draw?’ she said and then, because the girl didn’t respond, because Katharina was desperate, because it was better to shock than to bore, ‘You’d make a wonderful life model.’
The girl’s concentration was elsewhere. There might have been slight colour in her cheeks when she said, ‘I’m not really into art and stuff,’ but then she waved to someone across the field and gathered her belongings. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said, the relief of escape making her once again kind.
Katharina watched as she walked across to another girl. She watched as they sat close together and she felt herself bristle as they broke into laughter. That awful woman who’d been staring at her breasts earlier was looking again. Katharina stuck out her tongue. What did you say to him? Dina’s question floated back to her. Saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. She lit another cigarette. Fine. Fuck them all. The sun was high and the heat, combined with the smoke, made her light-headed. She hadn’t asked for help and she didn’t need anyone else. In fact, she wanted to be alone. She had come simply to have a swim and to lie on the grass, which she now did, blowing smoke into the endless sky. Finally, some peace.