A Year at the French Farmhouse(67)

She flapped out a towel and made herself a little base from which to operate – book, water bottle, sunscreen, beach bag - then sat for a minute, feeling the sun play on her skin. Looking around, she noticed several faces she half recognised – the woman from the bricolage, one or two people she’d seen at the supermarket. A man whom she’d spoken to briefly with Frédérique, resplendent in his Speedos.

She’d always been quite self-conscious about being in a swimming costume in front of people she knew. When she’d lived in England, she’d drive twenty miles to a slightly further away swimming pool rather than risk parading in what was basically underwear in front of people she worked with, or might bump into in her professional life.

Now she lived so close to such a gorgeous location, she was going to have to get used to it. Nobody else seemed in the slightest bit self-conscious – whatever their body shape – stopping and exchanging greetings with other beach users, standing and having a chat, or striding into the water with confidence.

After a surreptitious but undignified change under a towel, she emerged triumphantly in her bikini and, for the first time, prepared for a lake swim. She walked down towards the water’s edge, smiling at children making sandcastles, nodding at their parents, feeling generally at one with the world and if not part of things, then at least on the periphery.

The water was warmer than she’d expected, and despite the ‘sea-like’ appearance of the lake, was perfectly still. She walked in to waist height – gasping when the water hit her thighs, then lower stomach – then, first checking she was in the cordoned off swimming area and that nobody was in her way, she plunged forward and began a gentle breaststroke.

Lily had never been much of a swimmer. She loved the idea of swimming, loved being in water. Loved the sensation of moving forward, kicking her legs and gaining momentum. The problem was she wasn’t actually very good at it, which meant that she expended the kind of energy that an accomplished swimmer might expend in an hour just navigating a length.

The water was not her friend.

But if she was going to be living in a lakeside paradise, she ought to try to get to know it a bit better. Feeling herself just inching forward with breaststroke, she changed, diving under the water slightly and kicking her legs. She gained momentum and – briefly coming up for air – dived below the surface again, enjoying the sensation of being submerged briefly in her own little world, hearing only the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat.

Her vision was clouded by debris stirred up from the lake bed and – resolving to buy goggles – she closed her eyes. Then she kicked forward, enjoying the added meditative quality that shutting off one of her senses brought – of being alone, underwater, focused just on herself, on her movement. She kicked again and… collided with something soft.

Hitting the thing sent her reeling and she stood up, slightly unbalanced, gasping for air. Only to see a man doubled over in front of her. His back was covered in a thin sprinkle of hair, and his skin was lightly tanned. His hair, a blonde mop, flopped forward as he bent down, clutching himself.

‘Oh god. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was… I had my eyes closed and…’

The man straightened up; his face slightly flushed, his mouth contorted. ‘It izz OK,’ he said. ‘I em fine.’

‘But you…’ She wasn’t sure quite what to say. ‘I’ve hurt you.’

‘I will be OK in a minute,’ he said, a single tear rolling down his cheek. ‘Please, continue your swim.’

She awkwardly, but gratefully, turned and disappeared under the lake’s surface. This time keeping her eyes open despite the cloudy water, she pushed herself forward once again, then turned and swam back. The man had hobbled into the shallows and she now had most of the area to herself. Gaining a little momentum, she completed another length, and kicked back to her original position – only to find herself now confronted with a set of extraordinarily hairy legs and a pair of orange Speedos that only became visible through the cloudy water when she was a little too close for comfort.

Seeing the orange beacon-like glimmer of Lycra, she came up abruptly, not wanting to repeat the horror of her earlier collision, only to find herself standing in front of a person she recognised.

What was he doing here, in the water, when she hadn’t seen him at all on the beach?

‘Lily Buttercup!’ Frédérique said, laughing. ‘I did not know you like to ’ave a swim ’ere.’

‘Oh,’ she said, feeling suddenly embarrassed at her sodden hair and half-nakedness. ‘Oui, j’aime, I like the water. It’s my first swim here though.’

‘Ah, but I like to come often in the summer after my work is done,’ he says. ‘But not so much the winter, eh. Mais il y a une association – a club you can join, if you wish. They like the water all the year.’

‘Er, thank you,’ she said, trying to keep her gaze on his eyes. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen a male torso before – the beach was littered with them. But having involuntarily imagined what Frédérique might look like under his shirt in the past (in her defence, notary appointments are long) she felt as if somehow he might be able to read that in her eyes. As it was, her imagination hadn’t been far off – he was just as tanned and toned as she’d imagined, albeit with the hairiest chest she’d ever had the pleasure to peruse up close.