Diving Board

pett ripples 2

‘Diving Board’ took third prize in the Worcester Flash, 2015 and appears in the anthology, ‘A Stash of Flashes’ available from Black Pear Press


Loretta raises her arms in the air, leans forward. Her body hurtles through the echoing space of the swimming pool, a thin, white bird. She hits the water with a splash, goes under, comes up grinning, thumb in the air, kicks her legs, is out and off again.

The boys behind me, shove and grunt. Their familiar accents rise and fall. My toes curl against the edge of the board. I feel the slippery wetness under the soles of my feet, the air chilling my arms. The board springs a little, uncertain.

The water is blue like the postcard that sits on our mantelpiece. But how far away it is.

 My teeth chatter. I feel the weight of the boys behind me.

 ‘Gerra move on, won’t yow?’

 ‘Urry up. Way ent waiting all day.’

  I close my eyes, open them again. Raise my arms like Loretta. She’s already at the foot of the diving board, impatient, waiting. I know she’s there.

 ‘Curm on!’

  My heart is pitter-pattering like raindrops on the roof. I bend my knees, grit my teeth. The board springs up like a trap.

I hit the water sooner than expected. Chlorinated water in my mouth, nose aching. Down here it’s another world, a light and heavy world, the sounds of kids coming from miles away, as if they were inside the pipes we like to play in on the way to Hill Pool.

 I surface, gasping, choking, eyes stinging. Everything blurry, loud. Loretta is already at the top of the board again, fearless. She’ll fly into that water time and time. Every holiday till we’re fifteen and she is pregnant but still fearless. Every holiday till we’re fifteen and she has bruises and a black eye and is still fearless.


I swim across the reef, miles and miles from home, watching the fish and fronds of anemones like patches of Howard Hodgkin paintings.
I am not fearless.
I tumble under fierce and terrible waves and battle with the board under the weight of a cold, grey sky, the sea scummy and mean.
I am not fearless.
I reach for my son’s arm, feeling the deep, silent current taking my feet.
I am not fearless.
Down, down, down into the silky water, holding my breath. Down, down, down into the weight and the silence, picking up the sea urchin shell, delicate and light as joy. Down, down, down into a transparent and breathless world where light is not what it seems and darkness creeps under the rocks.
Down and down and I am not afraid.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths