Emma came up beside him. ‘It’s almost an isthmus,’ she explained. ‘So from the back garden there are steps down to the ocean beach.’ She turned and pointed to the other wall. ‘Behind that is the bay beach, maybe a five- or ten-minute walk.’
‘It’s j-just so incredible,’ was all that Danny could manage to stutter.
Mrs Taylor called from the kitchen, ‘Martin, show Danny where to put his bag.’
‘OK. And then we’re going swimming.’
Mrs Taylor made a peeved sound.
‘We have to train,’ Martin insisted.
His mother came into the living area, absent-mindedly scratching at her white bra strap, just visible beneath the open neck of her light blue linen shirt. She walked over to a cabinet and opened it. ‘I was going to order us some fish and chips.’
‘We have to train. We’ll all eat after practice.’
It couldn’t be, but it sounded as though Martin was giving his mother an order. But Mrs Taylor didn’t seem to mind; she was twisting the silver bracelet on her wrist as she examined the shelves of bottles in the cabinet. Danny heard her say, ‘I told your father to order Bombay Sapphire gin — he knows she only drinks Bombay Sapphire,’ as he followed Martin out of the room.
‘Are we going to swim in the bay or the ocean?’ asked Danny, and Martin gave him a what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about? look.
‘In the pool, of course, dickhead,’ Martin answered.
Standing naked in the bathroom, his Speedos in one hand, Danny looked down at his body. His chest was chiselled and strong, his biceps seemed enormous, and so did his calf and thigh muscles. What wasn’t changing was his height; while Martin was getting taller, Danny wasn’t growing at all. That was all he prayed for, that he would grow taller. That was why Coach said he wasn’t ready, why he had to be patient, why the Coach had changed his training, his workout, even his stroke. ‘The butterfly is your stroke, Danny. Your body dictates your stroke.’ But he didn’t want the butterfly to be his stroke. When he dreamed, when he saw the medal around his neck, the flash of the cameras, heard the anthem playing, it wasn’t for the butterfly. ‘It’s your stroke,’ the Coach insisted. ‘Take heed of your body. It’s your stroke.’ He didn’t want that body, he didn’t want that stroke.
The Taylors’ pool was in-ground and built just below the courtyard; you could sit on the tiled edge and look over the ocean, you could see the sunset from the pool.
Danny said to Martin, ‘I’m doing freestyle.’
‘Suit yourself, Shorty.’
It was only a twenty-footer, so at first it was more exercise than training and at first Danny wasn’t thinking of Martin, wasn’t even conscious of the boy at the other end of the pool. All Danny cared about was the commanding and storming of the water, and then, as he found his rhythm, he had no more need to think of moving and breathing and being stable in water than he would walking and breathing and balancing on land. He was thinking of the white of Emma’s shirt against the flushed pink of her chest; he was thinking about how lucky Martin was to have such a beach house. He felt at home in it already, felt it was his and Martin’s. Danny stopped and rested his forehead against the white tiles.
On the other side of the pool, Martin was thrashing through the water. If Frank Torma had been walking the length of the pool he would have been shouting, ‘Do not soot your lood too fast, Taylor! Slow it down, slow it down.’ It was Taylor’s weakness: he went too hard too early, exhausted himself. Danny slipped beneath the surface of the water, slowed his stroke till he was in line with Martin, till his left arm punched the water with Martin’s left arm, until his right hand touched the tiles at the same time as Martin’s right hand. Danny turned and Martin turned and Danny thought, I am going to beat you, bastard.
At first Martin was unaware that they were racing. Danny kept the pace, so they were neck and neck, till Martin suddenly sensed it. Danny kicked, picked up speed. Stroke, kick, stroke, breathe. Martin also increased his speed but his kicks were thrashings, his strokes manic, and though he shot ahead his tumble at the turn was inelegant. Danny maintained his pace, the water turning from liquid to air. He let Martin gain half a length, and then a length — stroke, kick, stroke, breathe — was gliding and then Danny began to kick harder, feeling the pull and surge of his muscles in his arms and across his chest, and then he was half a length in front, a steady half a length, breathe, stroke, kick, breathe, stroke, kick, and the water was speaking to him, whispering to him, the water was a tumult, a spray, a thrash of waves as Martin picked up speed; it would not be enough, he had exhausted himself. Danny felt his legs as part of a machine, kick kick kick kick, and he was a body length in front and the water was whispering to him that Martin was dropping back, that Martin was no longer with the water but fighting the water. Danny was one body length, two body lengths, three lengths in front, and Martin had disappeared, he was a whole lap behind, Martin might as well not be in the water, and Danny glided to the end of his lap and pulled himself up on the tiles and exhaled, long, hard breaths, and he was better and faster and stronger and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a race and that Coach said that his body was demanding a new stroke. He had won.
Martin came up for air beside Danny. His face was red, ugly from the exertion; he gasped for breath, spewing water, shivering, his body trying to adjust to being at rest. Danny wasn’t spent, he felt the waning sun on his shoulders, saw it spread firelight and ruby rays across the sky and sea. He turned to Martin and said, ‘You ever call me Shorty again, I’ll fucking deck ya.’
By the next evening the house was full of guests. Mr Taylor had come down from his office in the city. He nodded to Danny but didn’t speak to him. It wasn’t that Mr Taylor didn’t like him — Martin had assured him that that wasn’t the case. But they could not speak to one another, it was as if their shared language did not have the words in it for them to understand one another. So Mr Taylor nodded and Danny muttered an aho for hello and a té that would do for a thanks.
The grandmother was yet to arrive — she was being driven down from Melbourne by Martin’s youngest uncle — but everyone else was gathered in the enormous living room, waiting for her. Mr Taylor’s eldest sister and her husband were there (she was a car wreck, explained Martin; she was a drunk and he was a loser with no head for money), and their two children, Vincent, who was twenty-one (and a junkie, explained Martin) and Siobhan (who was nineteen and thick as thieves with Emma); another sister and her husband (her second, shrugged Martin, only a schoolteacher, something boring like that); and one more brother and his wife (we call her the gold-digger, said Martin) and their three kids who were all under ten and who were quiet and well-behaved and nothing like Regan or Theo. Danny was wearing his white school shirt and his school tie and was sitting between Martin and Vincent, who smelled a little off, like parmesan cheese, and whose knee kept shaking.