Free Stories by Doris Lessing

rock. Sunlight was falling through it, showing the clean, dark rock of the tunnel, a single mussel shell, and darkness ahead.
    He was at the end of what he could do. He looked up at the crack as if it were filled with air and not water, as if he could put his mouth to it to draw in air. A hundred and fifteen, heheard himself say inside his head—but he had said that long ago. He must go on into the blackness ahead, or he would drown. His head was swelling, his lungs cracking. A hundred and fifteen, a hundred and fifteen pounded through his head, and he feebly clutched at rocks in the dark, pulling himself forward leaving the brief space of sunlit water behind. He felt he was dying. He was no longer quite conscious. He struggled on in the darkness between lapses into unconsciousness. An immense, swelling pain filled his head, and then the darkness cracked with an explosion of green light. His hands, groping forward, met nothing; and his feet, kicking back, propelled him out into the open sea.
    He drifted to the surface, his face turned up to the air. He was gasping like a fish. He felt he would sink now and drown; he could not swim the few feet back to the rock. Then he was clutching it and pulling himself up onto it. He lay face down, gasping. He could see nothing but a red-veined, clotted dark. His eyes must have burst, he thought; they were full of blood. He tore off his goggles and a gout of blood went into the sea. His nose was bleeding, and the blood had filled the goggles.
    He scooped up handfuls of water from the cool, salty sea, to splash on his face, and did not know whether it was blood or salt water he tasted. After a time, his heart quieted, his eyes cleared, and he sat up. He could see the local boys diving and playing half a mile away. He did not want them. He wanted nothing but to get back home and lie down.
    In a short while, Jerry swam to shore and climbed slowly up the path to the villa. He flung himself on his bed and slept, waking at the sound of feet on the path outside. His mother was coming back. He rushed to the bathroom, thinking she must not see his face with bloodstains, or tearstains, on it. He came out of the bathroom and met her as she walked into the villa, smiling, her eyes lighting up.
    “Have a nice morning?” she asked, laying her hand on his warm brown shoulder a moment.
    “Oh, yes, thank you,” he said.
    “You look a bit pale.” And then, sharp and anxious, “How did you bang your head?”
    “Oh, just banged it,” he told her.
    She looked at him closely. He was strained; his eyes were glazed-looking. She was worried. And then she said to herself,Oh, don’t fuss! Nothing can happen. He can swim like a fish. They sat down to lunch together.
    “Mummy,” he said, “I can stay underwater for two minutes—three minutes, at least.” It came bursting out of him.
    “Can you, darling?” she said. “Well, I shouldn’t overdo it. I don’t think you ought to swim any more today.”
    She was ready for a battle of wills, but he gave in at once. It was no longer of the least importance to go to the bay.

Pleasure

    T here were two great feasts, or turning points, in Mary Rogers’ year. She began preparing for the second as soon as the Christmas decorations were down. This year, she was leafing through a fashion magazine when her husband said, “Dreaming of the sun, old girl?”
    “I don’t see why not,” she said, rather injured. “After all, its been four years.”
    “I really don’t see how we can afford it.”
    On her face he saw a look that he recognised.
    Her friend Mrs. Baxter, the manager’s wife, also saw the magazine, and said, “You’ll be off to the south of France again, this year, I suppose, now that your daughter won’t be needing you.” She added those words which in themselves were justification for everything: “We’ll stay faithful to Brighton, I expect.”
    And Mary Rogers said, as she always did: “I can’t imagine why anyone takes a holiday in