Swimming Lessons(15)

Flora hadn’t been back for a month or two, and in that time it was as if the books had spawned. When she looked into the sitting room it was the same: nearly all the surfaces—the side tables, coffee table, and sofas—were covered. A second wall of books as high as her waist had always leaned against the outer one, but now that had grown in height, sagging in places and collapsing in others like a rockslide on a mountain road, and a third buttress was in development, encroaching on the diminishing space. She was surprised Nan hadn’t said anything; her sister would surely have been worried about their father’s state of mind before now.

From the doorway, Flora saw that the record player was clear of books and a record had been left on the turntable. Just for the sound of something so she wasn’t alone in the house, she made her way across the room and switched it on, and a guitar started, a man sang. She picked up the album cover—one she hadn’t seen before among her father’s collection—showing a man sitting at a kitchen table, pots and pans hanging above his head. Townes Van Zandt was written along the bottom. She turned the volume up so she would be able to hear it through the house, and then she flicked the sitting-room light off and went down the hall. There were fewer books in the kitchen, but they still hugged the walls, cluttered the table, and roosted on the counter. These had strips of newspaper, hanging out like loose grey tongues marking pages. Flora picked up a brick-red hardback without a jacket, its cover worn in places to brown suede: Queer Fish by E. G. Boulenger. She flicked through it and one of the homemade bookmarks fluttered to the floor. She stopped somewhere in the middle and held the book up to her nose—dust, memories, and the smell and colour of vanilla. She found a pen and at the bottom of the page drew a phalanx of fish dropping from a rain cloud. She closed the book, replaced it, and checked in the fridge: a bottle of milk in the door, four eggs in a box, an opened packet of smoked bacon secured with a pink elastic band that the postman must have dropped. Flora sniffed the milk, filled the kettle, and spooned leaves into a teapot.

Using the telephone in the kitchen, she called her sister’s mobile—Nan had programmed the number into Gil’s phone—and let it ring until the message service kicked in and Nan’s infuriatingly calm voice, the one she must use for women in labour, invited the caller to leave a message or, if it was an emergency, to call the maternity ward. Flora tried Nan’s house: no reply. She scrolled through the telephone’s contacts list searching for her father’s mobile number, but when it wasn’t there she was almost pleased that Nan hadn’t thought of everything. Flora considered phoning the hospital to ask about Gil but told herself that if there was something urgent, Nan would try to find her.

With her cup of tea, Flora walked back along the book-lined hallway, running her fingers along the spines as she passed: an Italian phrase book, How to Breed Cats for Profit, Jaws. She stopped to flip the record and then went into the bedroom. For the first nine years of Flora’s life it had been her mother’s, filled with her mother’s things, and although her father had occasionally spent the night there rather than sleeping in his writing room, Flora still thought of him as a visitor to the house. The bedroom was on a front corner, with two side windows facing the sea and one looking out onto the veranda. She put the light on and saw this space was also full of books, against the walls and stacked beside the bed. A glass of water stood on top of a pile on the bedside table, and on the other side, the digital alarm clock that had stopped working years ago perched on another stack. The bed, an ancient giant that used to dominate the room, was now overshadowed and reduced by paper. The blankets and cover were rumpled, and one of the pillows still bore the indent of a head, as if someone had been there just a few minutes before. Flora put her nose to it, smelling the khaki colour of unwashed hair. She wasn’t sure what she had been hoping for. If her mother had come home it was ridiculous to think she would have got into bed. Flora opened the wardrobe, half hoping the greatcoat would be hanging there. She remembered the odour of it, thick and heavy like the stems of nettles and tangled undergrowth. She had liked to hide things in the pockets. No greatcoat. Just Gil’s shirts, all facing the same way, pairs of trousers folded over the hangers with the creases crisp, a jacket, a suit Flora couldn’t remember him wearing, and two pairs of slip-on shoes. They might once have been stylish: soft Italian leather, hand stitched, but now split around the seams and the heels worn down. She realised her father must have moved back into the house.


When she was fourteen, just over four years after Ingrid had disappeared, Flora had come home early from school to discover Gil and Nan clearing away her mother’s clothes. As soon as she opened the front door she heard Nan talking in the bedroom.

“It’s time, Dad,” Nan was saying. “Having this stuff around isn’t healthy for Flora. You know she comes in here all the time, dressing up, playing with the jewellery, spraying Mum’s perfume. I can smell it on her.” Her father mumbled a reply.

Flora didn’t wait to hear more. “What are you doing?” she said as she burst through the bedroom door.

Gil stood in front of the dressing table holding open a bin liner, his face turned towards the sea as Nan tipped in all the lacy silky things that Flora liked to stroke.

“We’re having a clearout,” Nan said, opening the bottom drawer, which Flora knew contained jumpers because when her sister was at college and the house empty she took them out, pushed her face into them, then refolded each one and put them back. Gil said nothing, just continued to hold the bag open and stare out the window.