Bitter Water by Gordon Ferris Page A

glasses.
    ‘You can stop here the night. What’s left of it. But don’t get any ideas, Brodie. Your old room, OK? It might be dusty. Everything’s locked up . . . ’
    I smiled. ‘ Sláinte , Sam. To my old room, dusty or not.’
    ‘Cheers, Brodie. Now give me the list. Then you can tell me all the gossip about this job of yours . . .’
    I woke Saturday morning unsure of where I was or who I was. Or whose head I’d borrowed. Sam was nursing a tea when I got down to the kitchen. I guess neither of us was a pretty sight.
    ‘I should have brought two fish suppers. To soak it up.’
    ‘You’re the snake in the garden, Brodie.’
    ‘You brought the apple.’
    ‘Don’t get at me.’
    ‘I need some fresh air.’
    ‘Fancy a swim?’
    ‘What? Where?’
    ‘The Western Baths Club. Just over the back of the park. Off the Byres Road. As a woman, I’m only an associate member but I can take a guest. The Bathsmaster is a Campbell. My folks got me in years ago. I should use it more often. More than once a year.’
    Suddenly the thought of sliding into a cool body of water seemed exactly what my hot brain needed. To feel weightless. To float on my back and let all the cares drift away from me. To let the cool water soak into my skin and rehydrate my poor innards.
    ‘I don’t have a cossie.’
    ‘They provide them. Red for a boy. Black for us girls.’
    ‘Lead me to it.’
    She did. It was bliss. I’d seen the building years ago and admired its Athenian red sandstone colonnades. We walked into an imposing tiled hall with a double-sided staircase winding away from the front door. Sam asked for the Bathsmaster, her namesake Robert Campbell. An upright man in his late years appeared with a smile.
    ‘Miss Campbell, how nice to see you. But it’s not ladies’ day.’
    ‘I know, Robert. But I’d like to introduce Major Douglas Brodie. The major would like to join the club. Do you have a vacancy for a war hero?’
    ‘I’m sure we do, Miss Campbell. Welcome to our club, Major.’
    I nodded with all the dignity expected of a decorated veteran.
    ‘We’ll need another seconder, but I’m sure that’s no bother, and in the meantime, we can provide temporary membership for a month while we check out references and do all the paperwork.’
    The Bathsmaster personally went off to get a pair of trunks and towel. I turned to Sam.
    ‘References?’
    ‘They just want to know if you’ve got a job, Brodie, and haven’t got a criminal record. You don’t, do you?’
    ‘Thanks for the unquestioning belief in me, Sam. Can I afford this?’
    ‘It’s only five guineas. Can you afford not to? You’re drinking too much.’
    ‘ I am . . .!’
    Robert appeared and I was left to stifle my protests. Besides, she was right.
    Sam left me to it and I took my first glorious dip in the great vaulted chamber. The dangling trapezes and hoops over the pool were a bit too much mens sana in corpore sano for my liking, but the swimming itself was bliss.
    That night I met Morag for a drink and a long walk by the river. I suddenly felt confused holding hands with this nubile wee lassie and stealing kisses like a spotty youth.
    ‘How old are you, Morag?’
    ‘Ah’m nineteen. Twenty next month.’
    Oh, God. ‘Do you know how old I am?’
    ‘It disnae matter. You’re a nice bloke. An officer in the army. And you write great. A’ the girls fancy you. A’ that stuff about the Slattery gang . . .’
    Just what my ego needed: hero worship by a teenager. We kissed and cuddled on a bench, but I could swear there were a pair of shrewd blue eyes watching every move. Appraising. Mocking.
    The swimming club was closed on Sunday or I’d have gone back for more. Carving steady lengths gives a man time to think. Time to weigh the attractions of a bouncy wee redhead versus a hard-shelled blonde.
    Instead I woke early in my hot bed and replayed in my head the image of a pool that was so far removed from the pea-green experience of my youth. No