AN: Thanks for reading, and for your comments so far. Potentially anachronistic cultural references continue unabated...
Chapter 5
I'm back at "The Shack". Caroline Bingley insisted on naming their 12-bed holiday house and had it engraved in steel on the imposing gate at the end of the drive. It might have been funny the first time a self-absorbed multi-millionaire labelled his holiday monstrosity a "Beach Shack", but not so much anymore. Bing and Caro emerge at around midday to find me sprawled in the airconditioned theatre watching Top Gun and thinking of her.
Bing settles in next to me with his cup of coffee and Caro huffs impatiently, rolling her eyes at the excessive testosterone on screen. She's dressed for the pool in a provocative one piece that somehow contains less fabric and reveals more skin than the usual string bikini. She seems put out that I am not similarly attired, having dressed for the frigid temperature I had set for myself in the theatre. "I'll be relaxing by the pool, boys." I nod a goodbye, barely casting a glance away from the screen, and leave Bing to respond.
"Ok, Caro. Slip, slop, slap out there! Or stay in the cabana! You remember what happened last time. It was worse than that chemical peel - you couldn't go out for days."
"Charles! It was not that bad, and I won't be out for long. Don't forget Louisa and Henry are arriving this afternoon." She saunters out sashaying her hips due to the inexplicably high heeled sandals she chooses to wear around the house. I wasn't looking, but it's difficult not to see when she saunters, some might say, saucily, past the screen to pick up a magazine from the end table next to my recliner.
I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter that I have never shown one iota of interest in her in the lifetime I have known the Bingleys, so I stopped paying attention years ago. It was an odd sort of cruelty, but it was now so far gone it could only end up as the worst kind of awkward conversation - where she would say "of course, she wasn't flirting with me" with that nasally whiny inflection, and I would have to pretend to believe her, but we would both know it. It was just easier for everyone to ignore it. I don't think she spends many nights alone pining for me or anything. Caro is just used to getting whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. She's just never been able to get me, so I think flirting with me is a reflexive habit she falls into whenever I'm around.
Charles waits for her to leave the room before he leaps up and insists we sneak off and visit the Bennet girls. Before his other sister and her husband arrive. I pretend to drag my feet, but I can't maintain a strong argument as I really don't want to face Louisa and Henry with only Caro for company. So, we do, literally, sneak out the front door and drive away while Maverick and Goose are playing volleyball to the dulcet tones of Kenny Loggins singing "Playing with the Boys".
The _ Youth Camp site has been there forever. My mum used to bring us to places like this when I was a kid all the time. It reminded her of simpler times, simpler joys, that you didn't need a lot of money to experience. Dad would have taken her wherever she wanted to go, we could afford to go to the French Riviera for a week if she wanted, but she always chose local campsites filled with people who made their own fun exploring the dunes, building forts and sandcastles, and lighting fires on the beach to sit around and tell ghost stories after midnight. I loved those days, she wouldn't let Dad bring work with him and even if he could only come for a few days, he was always completely there for us.
Mum wanted to recreate that part of her childhood that she called the Sunny Years. Before her dad left and her mum fell into a deep depression that lasted pretty much the rest of her life. I don't remember a happy Nan.
I'm glad I still have a good relationship with Aunt Patricia. She married really early, but really well, and Steve, despite being one of the wealthiest pastoralists in the country, still calls himself a "farmer" and dresses in faded denim and worn army surplus shirts, calls my aunt his "Lady Wife", and treats her like royalty. They're like what my mum and dad were like before she got sick. Richard has an older brother who by gift and inclination will take over "the farm", and in testament to the strength of their family ties, there is no bitterness. Richard forged his own way in finance, and earned the position as CFO, despite me dropping the nepotism card whenever I disagree with him. There's no limit to how often the pot can call the kettle black in my book.
All of this somehow goes through my mind as we pull into the long drive and make our way to the cabins and campsites spread out along the scrub line between the land and the sea. Mum brought us here a few times over the years. It hasn't changed a bit, though everything looks smaller, as things do, when you're the one who has grown. The summer after she died, I stayed with the insane aunt and that stands out for all the wrong reasons. I'm still recovering from that summer. I lost a mother, gained a sister, and hit puberty with no one but a crazy lady to talk to.
Bing parks in the visitor bay and we hop out and head towards the mess hall. The place is pretty quiet. It's weird to be here with Bing. I am so removed from this kind of life now, but it's so familiar, and the memories it evokes, especially of my mother, are warm and comforting. These memories usually make me sad and bitter. It is destabilising and my defences go up immediately.
Bing is all smiles as he greets the camp director, Errol, who identifies us as friends of Jane Bennet. His warmth and charm immediately set everyone at ease, and as such we are half an hour into the subtle but effective get to know you questions before anyone thinks to let him know the Bennet girls are out for the afternoon. This is an alcohol-free Leaver's Camp, with a special focus on underprivileged kids in the community and as such there are lots of optional activities for the campers and the leaders who, unlike their drunken brethren in every other location around the traps, are awake and busy in the daylight hours, instead of hungover and wasted. I see notices for half day hikes, museum tours, surfing lessons and so on, and the three sisters have joined a group touring the nearby caves with a local guide.
They will all be back later that afternoon, so we decide to get lunch in town, cruise the surf shops in order to return a few hours later. The Bennet girls will be on duty tonight, running a quiz night in the mess so Bing has no choice but to come back here if he wants to see her. He really wants to see her. Errol tells us we're welcome to stay for dinner and the rest of the evening's activities.
Bing texted Caro and Louisa to let them know to find their own fun for the rest of the day, and then switched his phone off. We make sure we avoid their favourite haunts as we kill time and as Bing has no patience, we head back to the campsite an hour before they're due back. We are drawn to the sound of raucous game play on the grassed area behind the mess hall. Errol greets us warmly and engages us in conversation as though we're long-lost friends. Bing can get along with anyone, and in no time has been drafted into the high-octane free-for-all that is Ultimate Frisbee. Errol had been attempting to draw me into the conversation and I have no desire to make a new friend, so I follow Bing into the game, humming Kenny Loggins.
An hour in and I realised this was the first time in forever that I had just let go and have fun with people I didn't know. I was playing a team sport with complete strangers, like I knew what I was doing and didn't break out in hives when the game became a contact sport. I introduced myself as Darcy, with no preamble and if anyone had known who I was, they made a good show of pretending they didn't care. I honestly think some of them had thought it was my first name. Happily, the competition was fierce, so I was spared any small talk or awkward conversation. Bing and I had somehow managed to bring our team into the lead when the general consensus was to call time, declare our team the victors and head to the beach to cool off. As I had been dressed for the arctic freeze of the media room when we headed out the door, my only option was to swim in my blue cargos or run up the beach to "The Shack" to get my boardies, and face Caroline and Louisa.
Having already stripped down to skins up top during the game, I join the swimmers. My life has been so regimented and so sterile, calculating every strategic consequence for every move I made in every situation I encountered in the last three years, that the freedom I experience in just swimming in cargos instead of bathers was revelatory. Like it was a giant FU to convention or something. I felt young again, as I floated past the breakers listening to the deadened sounds that pulse under the water, to be felt rather than heard. I had to laugh. I was still young enough, I supposed.
I frog kick into an arching back somersault and then power into freestyle strokes to take me away from the voices I hear around me. Time takes on a different meaning as I focus purely on the strokes but eventually, I angle my strokes to shore and note that I have somehow been taken much further out to sea than I had intended. Rotating around and kicking myself high out of the water, I can now see the subtle current change I had overlooked and realise I have swum straight into a rip. I began assessing my physical state as I was treading water. I know what I have to do, I just have to make sure I have energy reserves enough to do it. The full-length cargo pants suddenly feel 10 times heavier, my muscles feeling the strain of carrying their sodden weight as they flex and relax to keep me afloat.
There is no one left in the water or on the shore. I didn't think I had swum that far, but clouds have rolled in, and the sky and sea are now a menacing grey, but I am not going to panic. It's important not to tire early, so I pick my line tracing a nearly parallel path along the coast with just a few degrees of incline towards a fixed point on the distant shoreline of the curving bay and start swimming. I maintain steady even strokes, switching from freestyle to breaststroke and then backstroke for variety, and then float on my back to rest every 5 minutes before starting all over again. This continues for I don't really know how long, but I continue checking my fixed point and switch to back stroke until I need to rest. At some point, when I flip over, I hear a voice calling.
I immediately tread water and scan the coastline. I notice dimly that the clouds have darkened the sky further, but the afternoon sun has broken through and lights a figure that is waving and shouting what sounds like my name. I blink everything into better focus and realise I am now much closer to shore and may be out of the rip. I put on a burst of speed, angle directly into shore and manage to reach the line of breakers to catch a few waves in. The coastline looks very different, but I can see her waving me in furiously.
A few moments of inattention and fatigue mean that a rogue wave coming from somewhere to my left catches me unawares and I founder, tumbling over and under, becoming momentarily disorientated. Tiredness turns to panic as my body screams for oxygen, but the darkened sky makes it harder to discern up from down. Seconds feel like minutes until I hit the bottom and find the strength to kick up. I break water and inhale just before I'm hit by another wave from the other direction, thanks to the curving bay and the reef. I'm driven under once more, pounded against the blessedly closer sea floor, but still unable to get my bearings. I hear her scream my name as I go under, she must be in the water now, and I hang on to the sound as I expend the last of my strength, righting myself and somehow kicking towards the surface. This time, I surface into a trough, but I'm not entirely sure which way to turn.
