As it is, I’m bursting to talk to her about it. Maybe we’ll be able to sneak off later and I can tell her. Not that there’s much to say, but I just want to relive it. Get her opinion on him, on me, on everything. God, I’m like a teenager, all nerves and jittery excitement over a boy.
‘What the hell is going on over there?’ Richard’s smile turns to a frown as he looks at something beyond my shoulder. ‘Down by the river.’
I turn, as does the rest of the small crowd around the ice-cream van. It’s like ripples in water, the sense of something off, spreading from one person to the next. I squint, the brightness of the day too much. In the distance the riverbank is busy. Where people had been lying or sitting on blankets, they are now on their feet, all facing the other way. Mothers hold their toddlers close. I can feel it from here; the relief and guilt in the tightness of a grip that screams thank God it’s not my child.
Child … river … girl gone in … has someone got the ambulance men … Jesus where was the mother … what is wrong with people …
The words drift back at us, Chinese whispers passing through the field, and suddenly I know, I just know, Ava is somewhere beyond all those people, she’s central to whatever has happened.
I drop my ice cream as I start to run.
‘Lisa?’ Marilyn calls after me, confused. I barely hear her through the wall of my panic. This is my fault, all my fault, and pride and falls and happiness and loss and I run and I run, pushing hard through people as I force my way to the epicentre. Please God, let my baby be all right, please God let my baby be all right … my brain screams the prayer at a God I know isn’t listening and my eyes water with the kind of tears that come from terror.
As I break through the final row of people, the first thing I see is the St John’s ambulance men, big figures in green uniforms blocking my view. Sunlight flashes from the silver foil of a blanket and for a moment everything sparkles, distracting me, and then she stands up and I see her. My baby. Soaking wet but alive.
I run to her, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face into her stinking hair. Oh God, she’s alive. She’s safe. My baby is safe.
‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay.’
She gives me a half-smile and I half-laugh in return, but it’s nearly a sob. And then suddenly her friends are there too and we’re a huddle of love around her, all their young voices high-pitched in my ears: What happened, I was just, oh my God I can’t believe, Jesus Ava, you saved him, this is mental … I cling to her, to all of them, not trusting myself to speak as relief makes my limbs tremble.
A woman’s arm breaks through, reaching for Ava, and we splinter outwards. I see my own fear and relief reflected in the young woman’s face. She can only be about twenty-five. Something has settled into her face today, I think. Something that wasn’t there before.
‘Thank you,’ she says, through her tears. ‘Thank you. I don’t know how he got over there. He was supposed to be with the others …’
She’s holding him tight. A little boy, wrapped, like my little girl, in a silver blanket. His big eyes peer out. He’s not crying. He’s too busy trying to process it in his young head. The danger. My heart stops for a moment. How old is he? Two or three? The same age as Daniel. As Daniel was. The world fractures around me again, my seeds of happiness blowing away through the cracks. This is what happens when you relax, my inner voice tells me. This is what happens when you let yourself be happy.
‘Look this way please!’ The voice is so commanding and I’m so lost in my relief for Ava, and the reminder of Daniel, that I do as I’m told. We all do.
I’m blinded by the flash.
21
Local teenager saves toddler from drowning in dramatic river rescue …
Tragedy was averted at Elleston town’s annual festival when plucky sixteen-year-old Ava Buckridge saved two-year-old Ben Starling from the River Stour. Ava, pictured below, was enjoying the sunshine when screams alerted her to the horror of two-year-old Ben struggling in the water. The quick-thinking teenager dived in without hesitation and pulled the boy to safety.
The toddler had been playing with his cousin and older children but wandered off, and, unknown to his young mother, found his way across the bridge where he slipped on the steep riverbank. Thankfully, Ava, who swims at county level with Larkrise Swimmers at Elleston pool, was on hand, and Ben was returned to his mother safe and well.
The pretty sixteen-year-old is humble as well as brave, commenting, ‘I saw the little boy in the water and a man was pulling his shoes off to jump in. I swim every day and knew I would have a better chance against the currents, so I just ran. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a bit cold!’
22
LISA
I tell myself I won’t look, but my eyes drift to it every time I have to pass the front desk. Marilyn had one newspaper article laminated to keep, but Penny had this one framed. She says it reflects well on the company. Marilyn has all the press reports cut out in an envelope. So does Ava. I don’t even want to touch the paper. I feel as if my face shines out from each picture, though in truth I’m half turned away in most.
The mug scalds my hand as I come back to my desk. It’s almost comforting, this pain that keeps me in the present.
‘You must be so proud,’ Marilyn says, for about the thousandth time this week, as I put her drink down. She’s got a new Internet page open. It’s the Larkrise Swimmers and Ava’s coach. He’s put a piece up about her and how all children should learn to swim. My jaw aches from tension. Why can’t they all shut up and go away?
‘Of course I am, how many times can I say it?’ I hold my mug tighter. ‘To be honest, I’m just happy the little boy is okay.’ Ben. His name is Ben, but when I see his face in the paper my breath catches as if he is Daniel. He’s not Daniel. Ben is alive. Daniel is dead. There are more pictures of Ava than there are of Ben and his mother. I’m not surprised. She looks like some American starlet in all of them. Denim cut-off shorts and her soaking T-shirt slick against her body. She loved the fuss too, as I cringed and tried to pull her away. I stood no chance. She and her friends were happy to pose. Too many pictures. Too many with me skulking in the background.
It’s only local news, I tell myself, over and over. No one pays it any attention. It will fade. They’re Alison’s words. I called her on Sunday, breathless and panicky and apologetic for disturbing her weekend. Her voice was soothing and reassuring. It dripped cool and professional into my ear. I would be fine, she said. It would blow over, she said. She told me to call again if I felt my anxiety getting too much. She told me to do my breathing exercises. I heard children in the background. It’s hard to imagine her with a life of her own. Funny how we put people in boxes. She’s always only professional with me.
My calmness lasted for about five minutes after putting the phone down and then the fear and worry crept back in, and I haven’t been able to expel it as I’ve crawled through each day. If anything, my tension has got worse. It hasn’t helped that some reporter from the largest of the local rags got hold of my mobile number yesterday and called wanting to do a mother-and-daughter interview. I turned it off after that and haven’t turned it on since.