Swimming Lessons(24)

“You know he’s been buying them for years,” Nan said.

“Yes, but it’s never been this bad. You can hardly walk down the hall.”

Nan sighed. “It was even worse a few weeks ago. I popped over one morning and Dad had spent the night pulling nearly all the books off the shelves—mountains of them in the sitting room and the bedroom, like there’d been an explosion. He said he was looking for something.”

“What?”

“Goodness knows. He became all evasive. ‘Letters’ was all he would say. It seemed he’d been up for the whole night, flicking through every book. The ends of his fingers were red raw.”

“What letters?” Flora yawned.

“I have no idea. All the books are full of letters and bits of rubbish.”

“You should have called me. I would have come.”

“It was all right in the end. I got him into bed, and when he was asleep I put most of them back. But I did manage to fill a few carrier bags to take to the shop in Hadleigh without him knowing. Viv was really pleased to have them.”

“Viv?” Flora said.

“She bought the bookshop a couple of months ago. She’s trying to turn it around.”

“I bet she was pleased to have them,” Flora said sarcastically. “Daddy bought most of them from her in the first place.”

“It’s a lovely bookshop now. Viv’s very choosy about her stock.”

“I remember the smell of it. Old brown wood and smoke, like the smell of a country house with open fires. I haven’t been in it since Daddy took me years ago. I must have been about eleven or twelve.” Gil had told her to choose any book in the whole shop—whatever she wanted. Flora had picked out Lady Chatterley’s Lover without knowing fully what it was about, but somehow understanding it was a dangerous choice. Gil had raised one eyebrow but let Flora take it to the desk to pay.

“Does your father know you’re buying this?” Harrold, the shopkeeper, had looked at her over his glasses.

“Of course, Harrold,” Gil said, appearing from behind the Local History section. “It’s not up to you what my daughter reads.” He handed over the money. Outside the shop Gil took the book from her and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You won’t be reading this for a while.” He laughed. “Let’s go and get an ice cream.”

In the kitchen Nan said, “Oh, you should go again. Viv is so welcoming and happy to show people around and recommend things.”

“You seem to know a lot about her.” Flora licked marmalade off her knife. She looked up at Nan. Her sister’s cheeks were flushed. “Really?” Flora said, smiling, her head on one side.

Nan rinsed a dishcloth under the tap and wrung it out. “She’s just . . . she’s just a very nice woman.”

“That’s wonderful,” Flora said. She got up and hugged her sister, whose arms hung limply by her side, the dishcloth still in one hand. “I’m so pleased for you.”

“I think you should change out of that dress,” Nan said.


Once more, Flora sat in the driver’s seat of the Morris Minor. Nan leaned in through the open passenger window. There was no sign of last night’s storm and no fish on the road. The sky over the heath was blue and cloudless. Cars disgorging from the ferry streamed past, and the road verges were packed nose to tail. A queue had built up in front of the Morris Minor, impatient motorists wanting to pass to catch the ferry. Flora, picturing her father waiting for them in hospital, wanted to get going too. “Can’t we just go in yours?”

“We can’t leave this car here,” Nan said. “It’s blocking the road. Try the ignition one more time.”

“It’s not going to start.” Flora felt like weeping.

“Aren’t you meant to pull out the choke or something?” Nan said.

A driver in one of the cars in the queue tooted a horn.

“It’s broken.” And to prove it, Flora turned the key once more. The awful clunk sounded again.

“I’ll call the garage and you’ll just have to wait with it. I’ll go and get Dad on my own.”

“But I want to come.”

“You shouldn’t have driven, then. You should have come down this morning by train like I suggested.” Nan took her phone out of her handbag, looked at the time, rolled her eyes, and called the garage.


In the cab of the tow truck, Flora stared out of the rear window over the roof of the Morris Minor as they drove away from the ferry and the hospital, towards Hadleigh. The line of traffic heading in the opposite direction stopped to let them out, and she saw on the road a single fish that must have been under the car, its scales winking in the sunshine.


“Fan belt,” the man said as he withdrew the top half of his body from under the bonnet.

“Is that important?” Flora said.

He laughed. “It’s not going to go without it. Take a walk, get yourself a cup of tea, and come back in three hours or so. We should have her all fixed by then.”

The route from the garage to the sea took Flora through the public car park. Halfway across she noticed her father’s car, a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen. When she peered through the window, she saw that all the footwells and the seats, apart from the driver’s, were full of carrier bags spilling out secondhand books.