Page 21 of Someone in the Water
30th June
I shift my weight and slice through the wake, splitting the morning sun’s reflection in the flat water. I take one hand off the rope and trail my fingers. When my outer thigh starts to shake, I straighten up – my leg enjoying the reprieve – and whip back through the wake to the other side. Staff are allowed to ski on three mornings each week, but only Dom and I can drive the boat, so I don’t always get the chance to go out. But we had one spare slot this morning, and Dom said I could take it.
A few minutes later, Dom brings the boat as close to the beach as possible and drops into neutral. I fling the rope handle in his direction and sink into the water. After pulling the rope in, he navigates his way over to the pontoon while I swim the mono-ski to shore.
‘Thanks for that,’ I call out as Dom jumps out of the boat and moors up. ‘I owe you one!’ The words hover in the air, and I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable inuendo. But Dom just lifts his hand in acknowledgement and disappears into the hut. I exhale, feeling like I’ve dodged a bullet.
I know I need to talk to Dom about our night together – tell him once and for all that it was a mistake. But every time I come close to it, he says something funny, and I laugh instead. Also, when he touches me – nothing sexual, but a hand on my back, or our shoulders brushing as we navigate around each other on the boat – I don’t pull away. But Izzy would be horrified if we got together, and it’s not fair on him to leave things ambiguous.
I step out of my beach shorts, rinse off the salt water in the outdoor shower, and towel-dry my body. Then I pull on my uniform. Wednesday morning is when the under-tens kids’ club do their water sports – and it is always chaos.
An hour later, the noise levels are off-the-scale, and I’m getting a headache. My comment about owing Dom is proving painful in a different way – because he has used it to bagsy driving the boat while I manage four screeching eight-year-olds in brightly coloured surf suits and bloated buoyancy aids that make them move like robots.
‘Now just grip tight onto the bar,’ I say to the boy bobbing in the water, his arms high and fingers curled around the training bar that I’ve clipped to the ski pole. ‘Keep your knees tucked up high and relax. The boat will do the rest.’ I give Dom the okay symbol, and he gradually picks up speed. A moment later, the boy, Bertie, rises out of the water. His face is a mix of pride and terror – an expression I’ve seen countless times – and his knuckles are white with the effort of holding on.
‘Wow, look at you!’ I call out over the sound of his skis slapping against the churning water. ‘What a superstar water-skier you are!’
The boy beams with happiness, and I smile back, but keep my attention on his form. His adrenaline will be surging, and keeping two skis under control is hard work for young legs. At some point exhaustion will kick in, and I need to spot it before it causes him to fall. A couple of minutes later, his left ski skids, and I notice that his knee is trembling more than it was. I give Dom a thumbs down and he gradually slows the boat.
‘That was brilliant. You’re a natural,’ I tell Bertie. ‘Now you swim around to the back of the boat, and I’ll hoist you up. Right, who’s next?’
I turn towards the other three children as I drop the ladder for Bertie. But suddenly a noise out to sea makes me twist back around.
‘What the hell was that?’ Dom says.
‘It sounded like someone screaming.’ I lift my hand to screen out the sun and search the water. ‘Look, I think something’s up with the cat.’ Izzy is sailing a few children on a catamaran, but the mainsail is flapping in the breeze. The children are huddled on the trampoline and one of them seems to be in trouble.
‘Pull the kid in,’ Dom instructs. ‘I’m going over.’
I pull Bertie up, followed by the ladder. My voice has an authoritative edge as I tell the children to sit still, then I watch as we get closer to the sailing boat. When we arrive, the scene makes my stomach churn. ‘Dom, radio through to reception,’ I say as quietly as possible. ‘Get an ambulance. And a container of ice.’ Then I lie across the edge of the boat and reach for the catamaran.
‘Frankie!’ Izzy calls out. ‘I told him to pull his hands in!’
I slide onto the boat.
‘My finger!’ a boy moans. Then he turns his head, spews up an acidic mix of croissant and smoothie. Three other children scream, crawl into each other.
A large patch of the navy trampoline is stained black with blood. My stomach flips again.
‘I was tightening the mainsail,’ Izzy shouts. ‘I told them all to keep their hands away, but he clearly didn’t listen because his finger got caught. I can’t find the first-aid box!’
‘Dom, throw me our first-aid kit!’ I kneel by the boy, find his eyes. ‘What’s your name, honey?’
‘Felix,’ he whimpers. ‘My finger … I’m scared.’
I look down, swallow some vomit of my own. Then I turn to the sound of Dom’s call and catch the green plastic box he’s thrown. I twist off a cap of saline solution, douse the tiny centimetre-long fingertip lying on the trampoline and seal it in a plastic bag. Then I repeat the process, using the new tube of solution to clean Felix’s wound, and wrap what’s left of his finger in a gauze dressing.
‘Felix, you are the bravest boy I’ve ever met. But I need you to do one more thing for me.’
‘I want my mummy,’ he moans. His eyes roll back. ‘It hurts too much.’
‘I know you do. And I’m going to take you to her, I promise. But our boat is much faster than this one. And we need to get you to a doctor so he can fix your finger. Okay?’
‘I want to come too!’ a girl wails, her knees up by her chin, her teeth chattering.
‘And me!’
‘No, kids,’ Izzy says, shaking her head. ‘I know this has been really scary, but Frankie is going to look after Felix, and we’re going to sail back to shore. I promise I’ll make it fun.’
