Nellie walked along the riverbank. She was going to swim and wash off the dust that clung to her from a day spent turning hay. She stopped and undressed under the willows, slipping into her swimming clothes. She had stitched lead weights into the hem of a cotton farm smock to keep it from lifting up in the water, and wore two pairs of black stockings for modesty’s sake. Nellie loved the Little River. It was shallow at its banks but, according to village legends, deep enough in its slow-running centre that a heavily laden hay wain pulled by two horses had once fallen in and was never seen again. Nellie hoped one day to find the sunken cart. All year round she swam. In spring and summer, she pushed through clouds of midges and bobbing ducks. In winter, she broke the ice and dived in, coming up with mud on her nose, red mottled skin and an unexpected grin on her face. Rose had always disapproved. Only labourers, farm dogs and water rats swam in the river. Nellie could still remember teaching herself to swim as a child, Vivian standing on the riverbank, her hands holding tight the rope they’d tied around Nellie’s waist, ready to pull her out if she went under for too long.
