Swimming Lessons(21)

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.