Swimming Lessons(10)

Chapter 6


THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 4TH JUNE 1992, 5:00 AM


Dear Gil,

(I’ve been thinking about getting a dog. Flora would love it. A red setter or an Irish wolfhound—a big dog that would bark at the wind when I take it to the beach. I know you don’t like dogs. But you aren’t here.)


I took my time reading the book you’d lent me. I can’t remember the title now, but it was a terrible title and a terrible book, and I couldn’t work out why you’d given it to me. I worried I was missing something. While I cycled to the university and home again I composed sentences in my head, sentences that were positive or at least constructive, but I couldn’t find anything to redeem the book. I studied the parts you’d highlighted—the sex scenes you’d underlined and your margin notes—trying to analyse what you meant and blushing at your crude drawings. A few weeks passed; I went to several of your classes and hung around at the end each time— putting my coat on slowly, taking my time to pack my bag, hoping you’d ask me about the book. I was always the last student to leave, but you never called my name, never asked me to stay behind.

I thought you must have forgotten, so one afternoon when I had a free period, I went over to your office. He won’t be in, I told myself, although that morning I’d put on my yellow crocheted dress, the one that never failed to get comments. He’s a rude bastard and he won’t be in, I repeated. But when I walked the footpath, you were hanging out of your office window four floors up, smoking a cigarette. You saw me and smiled, and gave me a kind of salute, which I took to mean come up, so I went through those echoing stairwells and corridors to your office, half terrified, half expectant.

As I lifted my hand to knock on your door, it opened. You stood there, holding the glass jug of your coffee percolator, and from the surprised expression on your face I immediately realised that the wave from the window had been a hello, not an invitation.

“How lovely,” you said. “Were you coming to see me?” You moved past, and there was that smell again, which made me close my eyes for a moment so I could concentrate on inhaling it. “Go in,” you said. “Make yourself at home.” You held up the jug. “Water,” you said, and went off along the corridor.

I stood in the small space between the sofa and the armchairs breathing you in, tugging at the bottom of my dress, and regretting my choice. A brown Smith-Corona sat in the middle of your desk with a piece of paper curling out the top. I leaned over it and, hooked by the word “Guy,” straightened the page and read about a man on a beach waiting for a woman. I read until I heard a cough behind me.

“Sorry.” I jumped back.

“It’s OK.” You laughed at how flustered I was. “But maybe you should wait until a later draft to read it.”

You put the coffee on and flapped a newspaper around the room. “I make coffee because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I’m trying to give up,” you said. “But then I always want a cigarette to go with my coffee. Know what I mean?”

“Absolutely,” I said. I’d never smoked a cigarette, and in England my coffee came out of a jar.

“So, what can I do for you?” You paused and looked at me, your unshaven chin tucked down and your eyes up. “Ingrid.” You were twice my age, a university professor; my university professor.

“I came to return your book,” I said, sitting in the middle of the sofa.

“Book?” You said from behind me, where you were flinging coffee dregs from the window. The machine rumbled and hissed on the desk.

“Sorry I took so long. I hope you haven’t missed it.” I fished the novel out of my bag and held it flat across my white legs where my dress had ridden up.

You put the cups down and, sitting on the arm of the sofa, took the book from my lap. I pulled again at my hem. You flicked through the pages, stopping at several points and smiling to yourself.

“I found your notes very helpful . . . ” I trailed off.

“What?” you said, looking at me as if only then remembering I was there. You shook your head.

“Your margin notes,” I said.

“Margin notes? You didn’t think they were mine?” You laughed, head tilted back, showing your teeth—an infectious laugh, so that, despite feeling young and stupid, I smiled.

“Oh Christ, they’re not mine. I was trying to show you another reader’s interpretation—that we all take different things from books. I may have underlined a few phrases in my time, folded over some corners, but I can honestly say I’ve never drawn a cock and balls in the margin of a book.” Heat was rising up from my neck. You bent back the page you had open and held it up to me. “Juvenile marginalia,” you said. “Drawn by a boy, about fifteen, a virgin, never been kissed, masturbates frequently. Cocks aren’t ever drawn by girls. And they are always drawn by their owners—have you ever seen a frenulum in a margin?”

I shook my head because that seemed the correct response. I’d no idea what a frenulum was. I knew my face was red, but you were gracious enough not to comment.

After a moment you said, “I take it you didn’t like the book?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “It was one of the worst books I’ve ever read.”

“You read it all?”