One of the Girls(40)

‘Bella and Fen are over there,’ she said, pointing to where two snorkel pipes broke the surface. ‘I’ll go with them.’

‘Okay,’ Robyn said, reassured. Then she replaced her snorkel pipe, dipped her face into the sea, and began to kick.

When Robyn reached the islet, she checked for sea urchins before hauling herself up the rocks. Her skin, pale beneath a thick layer of sunscreen, was studded with goosebumps.

The rubber strap of the snorkel mask pinched as she snapped it off. She removed her fins, then stood, hands on hips, seeing how far she’d come.

The yacht drifted distantly on its anchor. It was so far away that she couldn’t clearly see the others on board. Water from her ponytail trailed coolly down the length of her spine. She shivered. What if I can’t make it back?

Dragging her gaze from the yacht, she squinted up at the craggy crown of rocks ahead of her. A blue arrow had been painted against the face of a boulder, signalling the direction to climb. She began to move, grasping at angular edges or nooks, heaving herself upwards.

Her skin dried in the heat, whorls of salt left behind on her forearms and shins. The soles of her feet absorbed the chalky warmth of the rocks as she pushed on, heart pounding.

After a few more minutes, Robyn arrived, breathless, at the very top. She blinked, a small gasp of surprise leaving her throat. She was standing on a flat expanse of rock that jutted like a natural dive platform above a smooth pool of deep blue water. Nature’s most perfect plunge pool. The water was so absurdly clear that she could see the striations in the rock beneath the surface. She laughed, thrilled by the secret beauty of the place.

She edged forward, drawn towards the enticing blue.

Jump, a voice whispered deep inside her.

She felt the kick of adrenalin in her chest. She could do it – plunge straight into the cool expanse of water.

If Jack were with her, she would be telling him to stand back, to keep his distance, warning him about the dangers of the rocks, of the water, of the sun. When you have a child, you become alert to danger. You notice the speeding car, the poisonous berries, the bee wafting in the long grass. You scan. You tune in. But then it becomes impossible to tune out.

Maybe that extra awareness arrives at a time where you’re getting used to a new body. Muscles have loosened, skin has stretched and, suddenly, that brave, lean, tough person that was once you, has disappeared – and for the life of you, you can’t remember how to get her back.

Robyn could never quite articulate her feelings about motherhood. It was like a grieving and a becoming in the same breath, over and over. Inhale, exhale.

The loss was vast: the mourning of her old body, of her sleep, of freedoms she’d once taken for granted. Before Jack, when she decided to go for a walk, she would simply pick up her keys, leave the house. Now it was a complicated choreography involving packing snacks, stocking a changing bag, loading things into a buggy, negotiating the wearing of shoes, negotiating the leaving behind of a huge plastic sword grabbed at the last moment to fight dragons, and then finally, finally leaving the house.

She’d walk, hands gripped to the buggy, or else holding his small pudgy fingers when he refused to stay buckled in, and even when she was consciously trying to slow down, take in her surroundings, she was still responding to demands, trying to decipher the small words that bloomed fresh from his mouth each day.

There were a thousand compromises.

A thousand gifts: ‘Mama, buzzlebee!’

Yes, baby! Yes!

Standing above the swimming hole, Robyn understood that she’d lost part of her old self when she’d become a mother. She’d forgotten who she really was, what she wanted. It was like those listless days as a young teen, where she’d flop around the house declaring she was bored, only for her mother to ask, Well, what do you want to do? And she wouldn’t know. Just wouldn’t know.

For so long, she hadn’t known what she wanted to do, so instead she’d chosen what she should do.

Standing on the coarse hide of the boulder, she looked down. The water was deep, deep blue. A perfect, bottomless place to dive. How high up was she, anyway? Maybe thirty feet? Forty?

It’s only water.

She inched closer to the edge, toes curled. She felt the rough grain of the rock beneath her bare soles, hot and hard. The sun throbbed against her scalp. She looked at that water, enticingly cool, and felt something stirring. It was a yearning, an unpeeling of something. As scary and exposing as it was thrilling.

Robyn took a breath.

Jumped.

Robyn’s feet peeled up and off the rocks, her body rising, arms reaching.

She felt the moment of suspension when she was neither lifting nor falling. She caught a glimpse of the yacht’s mast in the distance; the shimmer of the sea; a white gull, wheeling.

Everything and nothing nearby. Just her. The sky. The sea.

Her body, strong and capable.

A wild roar left her throat – a pure sound of abandon and exhilaration. It reverberated from the rocks, surrounding her in an echo of rapture. Then came the fast, plunging descent. Hair lifting from her head, body plummeting downwards. Then the smack of salt-drenched liquid enclosing her.

Fizzing sound blooming underwater, eyes open to the sparkling dive.

A glorious falling through layers of blue.

The slowing.

The moment of neutral buoyancy. Surrendering. Letting the moment stretch.

Then – a kick of her legs.