He was so beautiful and fat and brown, she longed to call to him. The parents hadn’t noticed his departure, they were so intent on building their castle. The man was kneeling down tunnelling a moat round the castle, forging a hole under a bridge, keeping the sand firm with his other hand. The girl was laughing and very close to him, bending over to look. The man suddenly turned round, looked at her for a second, and then kissed her, taking her by surprise. For a second she struggled then lay still in his arms, kissing him back. Imogen looked away. The world was like Noah’s ark, everyone in twos, in love with each other, except her. She looked back at the child, then gave a strangled cry of horror. He was teetering on the edge of the rocks now, looking down into the deep water, where more sharp wicked rocks lay beneath the weed below. The next minute he had overbalanced and fallen in.
Imogen gave a scream.
‘He’s fallen in!’ she yelled to the couple, who looked round at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Vite vite!’ she went on in her schoolgirl French, ‘Il a tombe.’
Frozen with horror, neither of them moved. The only thing to do was to plunge into the water herself, swimming round the rocks to where she could see the little pink sunhat bobbing on top of the water. The current was suddenly terrifyingly strong, tugging her in every direction. When she dived under, frantically searching around, all she could feel was thick weed, and sharp rocks jagging her legs. She surfaced gasping, to find the man swimming in her direction, followed by the hysterically screaming mother.
‘Ici,’ she called to them shaking her hair out of her eyes. ‘He’s down here.’ And she plunged down under the surface again. Next time she came up for air, choking and spluttering, the father had reached her, his face ashen, the mother followed him, frantically dog-paddling, still yelling hysterically.
Over and over again, they all dived down. He can’t be still alive, thought Imogen despairingly, then suddenly between two rocks, she felt something soft, she tugged and tugged, but the object seemed wedged by the weed. She surfaced once more, her ears drumming.
‘I think he’s down here,’ she spluttered. ‘I can’t shift him.’
Taking a huge breath, she plunged under once more and this time managed to catch the child’s hair, and then one arm, and just as she thought her lungs would explode, she dislodged him, and lugged him to the surface. His eyes were shut, his mouth open.
The mother redoubled her sobs.
‘Help me,’ gasped Imogen, taking great shuddering gulps of air.
She was so exhausted now, the child felt like lead in her arms.
The father took the weight from her, and together they towed him to the shore, with the mother screaming behind them. They laid the child on the sand, and the man started pummelling and pumping at his chest.
‘Let me do it,’ said Imogen, frantically trying to remember her first aid classes. First you had to jerk back their heads to see if the wind pipe was blocked. It didn’t seem to be. Then bending down, she put her lips to the slack little mouth, and slowly started breathing into it. He felt so cold and lifeless. She had a terrible feeling they were too late. She was so worn out by diving, it was almost impossible to keep her breathing even. She tried to ignore the hysterical ranting of the mother.
It seemed for an eternity she laboured, but it was obviously hopeless, not a flicker of response, there was no point in going on. She willed herself to continue, she could feel the sun burning into her back, then suddenly, miraculously, there was a faint flutter in the child’s chest, and slowly she could feel his lungs expanding like a bellows, and gradually with agonising slowness he took up the breathing of his own accord.
Imogen knelt back on her heels, feeling dizzy, the next minute the child opened bloodshot eyes, gave a sob, and was violently sick.
‘He’s going to be all right,’ said Imogen.
The mother’s hysterics incomprehensibly increased. Imogen noticed a trickle of blood on her left leg where she had jagged it on the rocks.
‘
‘He’ll be OK honestly,’ she said, wrapping another towel round him. They still seemed incapable of movement.
‘You must get him home at once,’ she urged them as though speaking to children, ‘and keep him warm and very quiet, and call the doctor immediately.’ The man began to gibber his thanks.
‘Honestly, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘You’re probably suffering from shock too,’ she added to the snivelling mother. ‘But he’s all right,
‘But how did you come to be here?’ said the father in very broken English. ‘Didn’t you know the beach was private?’
‘Oh, goodness. No I didn’t. I’m so sorry. But look, the important thing now is to get him home.’
‘Where are you staying?’ asked the father slowly.
‘In Port-les-Pins.’ She picked up the shivering child in his towel and handed him to the father. ‘At once, go home. C’est tres important.’
Only after she’d got dressed and begun the long walk home did she realise how much the incident had shaken her. She must go back to the hotel and tell someone. Her thoughts veered towards Matt and then away. Matt was out of bounds and belonged to Cable. Perhaps Madame was in; she was always good for a gossip. But when she reached the hotel, she heard the ricochet of bullets and the thunder of horses’ hooves coming from Madame’s room behind the reception desk — the family must be stuck into some television Western. Then she saw Nicky’s key was missing from its hook; he must be back.
She ran upstairs and knocked gently on his door; there was no answer. She knocked again. Perhaps he was asleep. She tried the handle and the door opened. The shower was going. He couldn’t have heard her. Then she saw Cable lying naked on the bed, her beautiful breasts poking up in the air. She was smoking a cigarette and laughing and saying something to Nicky, who was obviously in the shower, because he shouted back something Imogen couldn’t hear and Cable laughed even more.
Imogen shut the door and ran down the corridor. Her legs felt completely weak. Her body was one burning blush. Oh, poor, poor Matt; he loved Cable, and she could do this to him. And Nicky, allegedly his great friend, pretending he was going off to practise tennis. What on earth would happen if he came back from Marseilles and caught them at it?
In a state of complete shock she wandered round and round the town, then went and sat trembling on the beach. A sailing boat was putting out. She noticed how pretty its red sails looked against the darkening blue of the sea, and the soft ochre of the sand. She wished she were on that boat escaping from all the turmoil and cross- currents and the misery.
Chapter Thirteen
She was suddenly aware of a clock striking seven and, turning round, saw that the tables at the bars along the front were filling up. It was part of the Port-les-Pins ritual. Every night you sat and drank and commented on the beautiful people drifting along the street on foot or driving slowly by in open cars. Often they merely paraded to one end of the beach, turned round and walked back again, over and over again, so everyone could admire them. Reluctantly she decided she had better be getting back.
The rock that overhung the bay was turning rose red in the sunset; the cypress trees reared up stiff as cats’ tails against the glowing sky; the sea was veiled in an amethyst haze.
To her horror the first people she saw were Nicky and Cable drinking vodka and tonics under a Coca-Cola umbrella which gave a faint red glow to their sunburnt faces. Cable was wearing a white lace top tied under her breasts, with matching lace Bermudas which would have made anyone else look fat. Her long expanse of midriff was as smooth and brown as mahogany. Nicky was wearing white trousers and a grey cashmere sweater, his black curls still hanging in wet tendrils from the shower. They both looked superbly indolent, replete and handsome, like two panthers after feeding time.
