Swimming Lessons Page 7

  “Not now,” Nan said, rolling over in her bed.

  They were silent until Flora said, “Do you remember when I found a life-size plastic whale’s head washed up on the beach?”

  Nan gave a small laugh. “You insisted we drag it home.”

  “You would only help me some of the way and then you dropped your end.”

  “There was a bad smell about it. It was slimy and full of water. It must have been in the sea for ages. It was disgusting.”

  “I carried on pulling it, though.”

  “You could have only been about six. You got it all the way around the point to our beach. I think it was the rocks at the bottom of the chine that defeated you.”

  “I remember asking Daddy to hang it on the wall of the sitting room like a big game trophy. He said we could borrow Martin’s wheelbarrow and go back the next day.”

  “That was Mum,” Nan said.

  “No, it was Daddy. I remember.”

  “Dad wasn’t even there.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Nan sighed. “He wasn’t, Flora.”

  “Where was he, then?”

  A few seconds passed before Nan said, “He was just away.”

  “Well, whoever it was, the next day the whale’s head had gone,” Flora said bitterly. She still wanted it, still wanted someone to blame for its loss.

  They were both silent, and when Nan’s breathing slowed and deepened, Flora whispered, “Do you ever think you see Mum walking along the street?”

  Nan didn’t reply.

  Chapter 12

  THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 8TH JUNE 1992, 7:05 AM

  Dear Gil,

  This morning, a little before six, I gave up trying to sleep and went to the sea for a swim. I was halfway down the chine, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a pair of flip-flops that had been left in the hall, when I heard someone running behind me. I turned and there was Flora, barefoot and in just a towel, coming after me.

  “Mum! Wait!” she called. “I’m going to swim, too.” Flora is like a cat, she wants everything on her terms. If I’d asked her to come with me for a swim, she’d probably have said no. Occasionally she’ll allow me to stroke and pet her, but if I put out an uninvited hand she’ll often scratch and claw, and run away.

  There was no one on our beach: too early for joggers or over-enthusiastic dog walkers. The tide was going out, sucking at the sand, rattling the loose stones, and the sea was the colour of wet denim. Above it, the palest lemon yellow stained the sky. We dropped the blanket and the towel on the rocks and stood at the edge of the water. Flora put her hand in mine.

  “What’s the worst that could happen,” I said. She squeezed my fingers, and my heart was so full of love for her. She counted to three and we ran into the water, high-stepping through the wavelets, laughing and shrieking at the cold. And when the water was up to Flora’s thighs, we plunged forwards and under. The coldness, as ever, was thrilling, breathtaking, a shock to every nerve. We came up gasping, and Flora stuck her nose out of the water like a seal as she bobbed about in the waves. She’s a fine swimmer—strong shoulders, with an even stroke. Her swimming coach is already saying good things about her. Flora’s a different child in the water, calmer and more self-aware. No, that’s wrong: she becomes one with it, literally in her element. You should see her.

  She says, “When Daddy watches me swim in the gala . . .” or “When I look up from the pool and see Daddy . . .” or “When I win the competition . . .” What shall I tell her, Gil? When are you coming home? She needs you; we need you.

  In 1976, on our way to the party, you drove us southwest, the noise of the road a roar in your little Triumph. We crossed the Thames twice, and it wasn’t until the terraced houses that pressed up against the sides of the dual carriageway yielded to playing fields and then countryside that I understood the party wasn’t in London. I’d never been out of the city before, except when I’d had to catch the train from Liverpool Street to Harwich and then a ferry to Oslo to visit my father once a year until he died.

  I watched your profile as you drove, and once when we stopped at a red light, you leaned over and, with your hand around the back of my head, pulled me towards you and kissed me until a car horn sounded behind us. Somewhere near Basingstoke you said, “A slight detour. We have to pick Jonathan up from the station. It won’t take long.”

  Jonathan. It’s difficult now to recall my first impressions. Tall, of course, and something off-centre in his clothes, his Irish accent, his face. I worked it out a while ago: he’s like one of those Michelangelo figures high up in the Sistine Chapel (Ezekiel or Jeremiah), their perspective perfect when viewed from the floor, but see them up close and they’re distorted—out of alignment. Despite the cigarette permanently hanging from his lips, Jonathan is the healthiest-looking man I know: muscled, ruddy, and freckled, as if he spends his time working outdoors instead of hunched over a desk. That day, do you remember, he was wearing plus fours and mustard-coloured socks with brogues as though he were on his way to a round of Edwardian golf. Beside him on the pavement was a porter’s trolley loaded with a barrel of beer, a milk-bottle crate of spirits, and, dangling from his raised hand, a full-size human skeleton. He held it high so its feet were flat upon the pavement and it appeared to stand beside him.

  We got out of the car.

  “What in God’s name have you got there?” you said. Passers-by (porters and businessmen, a woman with a child wearing reins) turned to stare.

  “Annie, meet Gil,” Jonathan said. “Gil, Annie.” He jiggled the skeleton so its bones clattered.

  “Surely you didn’t bring it all the way on the train?” You shook your head and laughed.

  “You told me I should bring a guest.” Jonathan squinted through his cigarette smoke. “And I see you have, too.”

  “This is Ingrid.”

  Jonathan bowed and the skeleton dipped with him. While the two of you loaded the car boot with the alcohol, I held Annie, her knees on the pavement as if begging or praying, and saw a look pass between you both. I couldn’t interpret it at the time; it’s only with hindsight that I know Jonathan’s raised eyebrows meant he was questioning the wisdom of bringing me to the party. And your quick shrug to him, how shall I decode that now: recklessness, bravado, or a master plan?

  In the car, Jonathan folded himself into the passenger’s seat while Annie and I lounged in the back.

  “She’s been very well-behaved,” he said. “She sat beside me for most of the way until the guard wanted me to buy a ticket for her too, on account of her taking up a seat. After that she was happy to sit on my lap and fell asleep, actually. I think she might have been at the booze when I wasn’t watching.”

  “Did you get the whiskey?” you asked.

  “Of course,” Jonathan said. “How many people have you invited?”

  “Just a few. The regulars from the pub, neighbours. I thought we’d keep it small.”

  “Oh,” Jonathan said. “And I might have invited a few more than a few.”

  “Hang on,” I said, my head in the gap between the two front seats. “Invited?”

  “Bloody hell, Jonathan. Not all those old hippies you’re always picking up?”

  “You know they’re very friendly.”

  “This is your party?” I said.

  You smiled, winked, and tweaked my cheek for reassurance.

  Do you ever get that memory trick, where you think about a place and realise you are already there? It happens to me often now when I’m remembering, sitting here in the early mornings. Memories unwind: the high blowsy hedgerows of summer, walkers in shorts standing on the verge to let the car go past, the sweet tang of cowslip, the village sign for “Spanish Green only,” the flash of the sea through a farm gate, and apprehension and excitement building inside me. I can see the view through the windscreen as you turn the car onto the drive. I can remember my gasp at that first proper sight of the land (grass and gorse) dipping away towards a wide expanse of sky and the busy water,
shining. I hadn’t imagined there could be English views as beautiful as those I’d seen in Norway. I can recall getting out of the car and turning towards the house (low and wooden, single-storied, with a tin roof) and the veranda, its paint peeling and a circular table at one end. A cricket pavilion, I thought. And with a jolt I realise I’m on that same veranda, I’m sitting at that memory table writing this letter. That house from sixteen years ago is my house now.

  The cars and camper vans boxed each other in on the drive and people crowded the veranda, the hall, the sitting room, and the kitchen. Men shook Jonathan’s hand, a few slapped you on the shoulder, and the girls kissed you, embraced you for slightly too long; seemed disappointed, I thought, when you introduced me. Someone turned up the music, opened the French windows, and four girls in orange jumpsuits danced. The people squashed in to see, sweating in the summer evening, shouting above the music and conversations. The bottles Jonathan had brought were poured, glasses lined the windowsills, the air filled with smoke, the pub up the road closed, and the party swelled. And when your house was bursting with dancing, and shouting, and people drinking, I lost sight of you.

  In the sitting room you’d introduced me to Martin and George, then left to get me another drink. Maybe you thought I’d be safe and occupied talking to those two. Every now and again I stood on tiptoes to check your whereabouts, only half listening to their conversation. A ring of people had drawn away from the dancers and I glimpsed you being pulled by one of them into the group. I saw your head dip towards hers, heard whistles and claps, and the gap through the people closed. I craned my head.

  “They’ll be troublemakers, mark my words,” George was shouting over the noise. “Campfires on the beach, broken glass, used rubber johnnies . . .”

  “New holiday homes mean more people. And that means more business,” Martin said.

  “. . .troublemakers, all of them. . .” George said.

  “More shandies, more pints pulled.”

  “Village girls being pulled, more like.”

  “Good for business,” Martin said. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together.

  “Get them pregnant and then bugger off to Blackpool or wherever they’ve come from.”

  “It won’t be people from Blackpool. They’ve got their own beach,” Martin said.

  “It’ll be like the GIs all over again.”

  “I don’t think the new holidaymakers are likely to leave used rubber johnnies on the beach,” I said, still looking through the crowd for you, “and get the village girls pregnant.” I left them to continue their argument and pushed my way through the packed room. The slower music had been replaced with something more rhythmic, the beat thrumming up through the wooden floor to my bones. I stood at the edge of the circle of men watching the dancing girls, just three now. One of them had taken her arms out of her jumpsuit and rolled it down around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She danced by rotating her hips; and her breasts, small and tipped upwards at the nipples, were surprisingly solid. I asked a man if he’d seen you, and without taking his eyes from the girl he said, “Who’s Gil?”

  I edged out of the sitting room and put my head around the door across the hall (your bedroom). On the four-poster bed a man and a woman were jumping, shrieking and flinging themselves backwards like five-year-olds. The room next door had two single beds in it, both of which were occupied. I watched for a while but none of the five people in the room were you. I joined a queue of women waiting for the loo; I stayed long enough to see someone who wasn’t you come out of the bathroom.

  In the kitchen, two spiders (one of them the fat, pendulous-bodied kind, the other thin and quick) were waiting to see what prey might come by to tease before they gobbled it up.

  “And who have we here?” The man slurred his words as he ground out a cigar in the sink. Joe Warren was still fat then, the fattest man I had ever seen, with the belt of his trousers hoisted up over a protruding stomach larger than a pregnant woman’s.

  “Have you seen Gil?” I said, reversing accidentally into Denis, standing behind me. I spun around.

  “Gil?” Denis said, looking over my head. “Do you know anyone called Gil, Joe?”

  Joe laughed, deep and throaty. “I don’t think I do,” he said. I turned back towards him. People pressed past us, some leaving the kitchen, others coming in looking for drinks. A girl in a maxi dress fell off a chair, lay on her side on the floor, tucked her hands under her head, and closed her eyes. A baby slept in a carry-cot on the table amongst the bottles.

  “I don’t know why you would want Gil when you could have me,” Denis said. I looked at him over my shoulder. The tip of his tongue came out and licked his moustache; too red, obscene. “A bird in the hand and all that.” He reached down and pawed at my bum. I took a step away from him and towards Joe. Denis closed in behind me.

  “A little uptight this one, I think,” he said.

  “Are you Gil’s new secretary?” Joe asked, pushing himself away from the kitchen counter and swaying like a skittle.

  “No, I am not,” I said. “I’m his . . .” But I didn’t know how to finish and the chatter in the kitchen was too loud anyway.

  “Your glass is empty,” Denis said, pressing himself forwards. “Find the young lady a drink, Joe.”

  Joe checked through the bottles and glasses on the kitchen table. “What’ll it be?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I don’t want another drink.”

  “Cinzano Bianco?” Joe said, finding a bottle with something left in the bottom and pouring it into my glass.

  “What’s that old philanderer Gil got that we haven’t?” Denis said. “Apart from looks, of course, and physique.” When Joe laughed, his stomach laughed with him.

  “I think this one likes to take dictation,” Denis said.

  “She can take my dictation,” Joe said.

  “Bottoms up.” Denis drank from his glass and at the same time gave me another squeeze. I turned and took Denis’s balls tightly in my hand. He stopped laughing.

  “Ingrid?” An Irish voice behind me. Jonathan.

  “Have you seen Gil?” I let go of Denis and stood up straight. The spiders withdrew.

  “He had to go out. Come on.” Jonathan took my arm, steered me from the kitchen, down the hallway, and outside. A small group was sitting at one end of the veranda, and I smelled marijuana. Some of the cars had gone from the drive, but I could still hear people indoors dancing and laughing as we sat side by side on the wooden steps. The sky in the east was deep blue above a black strip of water. Jonathan took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket; I accepted the one he offered. He fiddled with his box of matches and didn’t meet my eye as he held the flame up.

  I inhaled tentatively and on the exhale said, “Where’s he gone, then?” and Jonathan flicked his eyes up at me, the fire reflected in his pupils.

  “I haven’t known you for long,” he said, “and I can tell you’re a nice girl. But I’m not sure if you’re the right kind.”

  “The right kind of girl for what?”

  “For Gil.” He stared into the night as he spoke. “He’s not an easy man.”

  “Who said I’m looking for an easy man?”

  “And . . .” He trailed off.

  “He’s twenty years older than me and my university lecturer,” I finished for him.

  “I was going to say he’s only looking for two kinds of women, and I don’t think you fit into either category.”

  “And what categories are those?”

  Jonathan inhaled, blew smoke out through his nostrils. “The first sort are women he’ll sleep with for a week or two until someone else takes his fancy; women who won’t make too much of a fuss when he doesn’t return their calls.”

  “And the second sort?” I took another tentative drag on the cigarette.

  “A wife,” Jonathan said. I coughed out the smoke in my throat and he laughed. “See, I said you didn’t fit either category.”

  But I wasn’t cough
ing at the shock of what he’d said; I was remembering your letter. “Maybe he’ll make someone the perfect husband.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I waited for him to go on.

  “We have different views of marriage, Gil and I. We were both brought up Catholic, did you know that? Although none of it’s stuck with him—he shucked it off years ago.”

  “And you still believe?”

  “Oh, I pick and choose. Sleep with who you like, but one at a time.” He laughed again. “And that goes for married people, too.”

  “Gil doesn’t hold with that view?”

  “Perhaps it’s him you should be asking.”

  “You’re not painting a very nice picture,” I said. “I thought you were friends.”

  “We are. He’s funny and charming, good-looking, and a bloody fine writer.” Jonathan put his hand over his heart. “But I think you should know what you’re getting into.”

  “And do you warn all his potential victims in this way?”

  “No, you’re the first,” he said.

  “Oh.” I was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see my consternation. I stubbed my cigarette out on the step beside me.

  I wasn’t worried about Jonathan’s warning; I was thrilled by it. I imagined a third category I’d create. Gil Coleman would fall in love with me but I wouldn’t fall in love with him; I’d make love with him for the summer, and when the autumn came I’d go back to university. And at the end of my final year, I’d leave to do all the things Louise and I’d planned.

  “Can you see the beach from the end of the garden?” I said after a few moments of silence. I stood up, took a couple of paces off the path into the long grass. There was a flickering light at the bottom, a lamp or a candle shining through a window. “What’s that?” I said. Jonathan stood beside me.

  “Gil’s writing room.”

  “He’s writing? Now? I thought you’d said he’d had to go out?”

  I took a step forwards. Jonathan sighed. “Well, yes. Probably writing.”