Swimming Lessons(23)

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 coughing 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.”

I couldn’t see his features, couldn’t make out his expression.

“That’s ridiculous. He’s having a party.” I flung my arm back toward the house. “Which he invited me to. And he’s writing?”

“He does that. Sometimes. You won’t want to be disturbing him now.” Jonathan took my hand, led me up the steps. “Come on, time for another drink and a dance—you do dance, don’t you?”

I looked over my shoulder at the yellow square of light.

This morning, as I write this letter, the garden is missing the tap, tap, tap of your typewriter.

We love you.


Ingrid


[Placed in The Cocktail Party, by T. S. Eliot, 1950.]





Chapter 13



In the morning when Flora got up, Nan was already in the kitchen making breakfast.

“Glad to see you managed to put some clothes on,” Nan said. Flora was wearing Ingrid’s pink chiffon dress again. Nan set a plate on the table. “I phoned the hospital. I thought we could go and see if you can get that car working, and then you can follow me there.”

“Can you pass the marmalade?” Flora said.

“I’ve already put marmalade on your toast.”

“Don’t worry,” Flora said. She got the jar and a knife and took them to the table.

“Flora, there’s something . . .” Nan sat opposite her.

“What?” Flora looked up. Nan stared at the toast. “I’ve always liked my marmalade to go right up to the edge.”

“Yes,” Nan said.

Flora saw purple shadows beneath her sister’s eyes. She took a bite of toast, and after a while Nan stood and began to tidy the kitchen, eating her own breakfast as she wiped the surfaces.

“When did the number of books in the house get so crazy?” Flora said.