Swimming Lessons(19)

When we broke away we were shy, surprised. I fumbled in my bag for my key, and when I unlocked the door you were right behind me. I manoeuvred myself so I was inside the hallway while you were still on the step.

“Well, good-bye,” I said. “Thanks for the drink.”

Your hand was on the door, pushing.

“Wait, Ingrid,” you said, and I paused. “If you won’t come to lunch, come to a party to celebrate the end of term. Next weekend. Saturday.” You looked like a hopeful boy; you might have been sixteen and me the older woman.

“Maybe,” I said, and shut the door.

I ran up the three flights of stairs, and with Louise standing behind me saying, “What? What? Where’s the bloody eggs and bacon?” I shoved up the sash window at the front of the flat and leaned out. You were three houses down already.

“Yes!” I shouted.

I need you.


Yours,

Ingrid


[Placed in The Complete Poetical Works of Amy Lowell, 1955.]





Chapter 11



The loose floorboard in front of the kitchen cooker creaked while Flora lay in the cooling bathwater. The music in the sitting room had come to an end and she gripped the sides of the bath, bringing her knees up to her chest without sloshing the water. She turned her head towards the door, waiting, listening again for the creak, but there was only the gurgle of the under-floor pipes. Pressing with her palms against the rim of the bath, she lifted herself up and pushed her bottom against the cool of the wall tiles and her head against the ornate mirror saved from a long-ago house. Now hung on its side, the frame was lopsided and flaking gilt into the water.

The towelling curtain that hung around the bath to keep out draughts was pulled open, and Flora saw a shadow pass across the crack under the door, and she shoved herself farther backwards as if hoping the mirror and the tiles could soften and envelop her. The doorknob twisted and Flora screamed, her heels slipping on the enamel so that she plonked down and a wave of water flowed over the side of the bath. Her sister stood in the doorway.

“For goodness’ sake, what’s all the screaming about?” Nan said, coming into the room and flapping a towel she picked up from the floor. She held it out for her sister and pushed the bath mat into the puddle of water with her foot. “I’ve put the kettle on.” She turned to go.

“I’d rather have something stronger,” Flora shouted. And then to herself, “Maybe a whiskey.”


In the kitchen Nan had tidied up and pushed the books to one end of the table. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow,” she said.

“And I thought you were Mum,” Flora said. “I heard the creaky floorboard, and I really thought you were her.”

“Which creaky floorboard?”

“The one in front of the cooker.”

Nan looked at her blankly.

“How can you have forgotten?”

“There’s never been a creaky floorboard. It’s just your imagination running away with itself again.” Nan stood in front of the cooker and rocked back and forth. There was no squeak.

“I thought you were Mum,” Flora repeated, tying her towel around herself more tightly.

“You must have fallen asleep in the bath. You left the record player on and your bags and shoes were on the doorstep. Didn’t you hear me come in?”

“No, I suppose not.” Flora felt as if she’d been cheated. Nan put two cups of tea on the table. “How’s Daddy?”

“He’ll be discharged tomorrow, hopefully.” She looked at her watch. “Later today.” She sighed and poured milk into her cup. “But he’s weak; he’ll need looking after. I’ve arranged for some compassionate leave from work.”

“Isn’t that for when someone’s dying?” Flora said. “He’s just got scrapes and bruises, a black eye, that kind of thing, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.” Nan didn’t look up as she spoke. “That kind of thing. He was very lucky.” She blew across her tea, rippling the brown surface, pushing back the tide. “Goodness, I’m so tired.”

Sometimes Nan surprised Flora: when she moved her head a certain way, or if soft lamplight caught her, she could be beautiful for a moment, like sunlight on the peak of a wave, there and gone. But more often, Nan was out of proportion with her surroundings—broad shoulders, with hands large and muscular enough to catch a slippery newborn. She was wearing her uniform, dark-blue patches showing under her armpits, the fabric tight across her large chest.

Nan started to say something but changed it to “Aren’t you going to put some pyjamas on?”

“Probably not.”

“You must be cold.”

“Not really.” Flora sniffed the bottle of milk, put it down, and stirred her tea with the end of the pen that had been lying on the table.

“Please use a teaspoon. For my sake,” Nan said wearily.

Flora stood and the towel, which had come loose from under her arms, remained on the chair. She strode naked to the cutlery drawer and yanked it open, Nan huffing behind her.

“What?” Flora said. “I got the spoon, didn’t I?”

“Flora,” Nan said, and put her head in her hands in exaggerated distress. Flora opened the cupboard under the sink to hunt for her father’s whiskey. She opened several more cupboards. The fourth, in the corner above the toaster, was packed with tins of dog food, all of them lined up with their labels facing outwards. Flora stared for a moment, then closed the door and sat at the table. She wrapped the towel around herself again as a concession to modesty. She tried to think of a way to shift the subject around to who their father had seen in Hadleigh but couldn’t work out how to do it without Nan dismissing it as nonsense.