Swimming Lessons(29)

Deflecting her, Flora said, “This is Richard.” She turned towards the veranda, and Richard moved out of the shadows and down the steps to shake Nan’s hand.

“How do you do?” Nan said, unable to resist her natural inclination to be polite no matter the circumstances.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Is there anything I can do?”

“Well,” Nan said, running her hands through her hair, “perhaps you could help me get him into the house. I think he might need to be carried.”

“Carried?” Flora said. “Why can’t he walk?”

“I’ve told you,” Nan said. “He’s tired. Why don’t you go and put the lights on so we can see what we’re doing.”

“There’s a power cut.”


Flora stood close by with a candle while Nan woke their father and introduced Richard. In the end Gil struggled out of the seat by himself, brushing off any helping hands but allowing Richard to tuck his arm under Gil’s elbow as they walked around the car.

“Oh, Daddy,” Flora said, her hand going to her mouth. The candlelight showed butterfly stitches across Gil’s left cheek; the eye above it was dark and swollen shut. A graze speckled his forehead. He looked smaller, thinner, than when she had last seen him.

“Flo,” Gil said sleepily. “Do you have the book?” He reached out for her hand with his right, and Flora saw that his left arm was held in a sling.

“He keeps going on about the book he had with him when he fell,” Nan said to Flora. “We don’t have it, Dad.”

Flora pressed her father’s hand, the skin as soft as sandpapered wood, the bones inside fragile. She kissed him on his good cheek, smelling the sour breath of sleep and under it his familiar odour: pepper, dust, and leather—otter brown.

Nan helped Gil into bed while Flora held the candle. The light hollowed out his good eye socket, gouged craters into his cheeks and cast distorted shadows on the wall. Under his coat, Gil was wearing the pyjamas that Nan must have taken into the hospital. He winced when his bandaged arm was touched, but then sank into the bed with a sigh.

“Love you, Daddy,” Flora whispered in his ear, although he was already asleep.

In the kitchen they sat with Richard and talked in the half-light, working out who would collect Gil’s car from Hadleigh and drinking tea made with water boiled in a pan on the gas hob. Flora had hers black, not trusting the temperature of the fridge. She had seen Richard take note of the books in the hall, the sitting room, and the kitchen, but he made no comment about them. Instead, looking straight at Nan, he said, “What did your father say about seeing your mother?”

It was the question Flora wanted to ask, but she was shocked at Richard’s audacity.

Nan’s fingers tightened around her cup. “He was mistaken,” she said stiffly.

“You mean he’s changed his mind about what he saw?”

“Richard,” Flora said; a warning.

“I mean what he saw isn’t possible,” Nan said.

“But—” Richard began, and Flora put her hand on his and squeezed. “Is he going to be all right?” he continued.

Nan made a low hum, her mouth closed. Flora caught a glance from her sister before she looked away again.

“You’re worrying about his wrist, aren’t you?” Flora said.

“He has a urinary tract infection. It probably explains some of his confusion, but . . .” Nan paused.

“What?”

“Things have become”—she chose each word carefully—“potentially more . . . complicated.”

“What do you mean?” Flora said.

“He’ll be fine at home, Flora. We’ll do everything we can to make him comfortable.”

“You think his wrist is broken, don’t you?” Flora put her cup on the table and tea slopped over the edge. “We should take him back in. Get another X-ray.”

Nan and Richard looked at each other, the light from the candles moving across their faces so she couldn’t read their expressions.

“No,” Nan said softly. “He should stay at home with us. If he’s here I can keep an eye on him.”

The three of them sat in silence, sipping at their tea until Richard said, “It’s late. I should get going.” He stood up.

“Tonight?” Nan put her cup down. “I thought you’d be staying.”

“Would you like me to stay, Flora?”

“Richard’s got to work tomorrow,” Flora said.

“I could leave in the morning.”

“You’ll have to get up at a ridiculous time.”

“I wouldn’t,” Richard said. “It’s Sunday; the bookshop doesn’t open until eleven.”

“It’s far too late to go now,” Nan said. “You can sleep in the writing room.”

“If he’s going to stay, one of the sofas will do,” Flora said. “It’s only Daddy who sleeps in the writing room.”

Richard looked from one sister to the other.

“The sofas are full of books,” Nan said. “And it would mean making one of them up.”

“It won’t take a minute to throw a sheet over a sofa,” Flora said.

“Dad isn’t sleeping in his writing room now.” Nan stood. “Come on, I’ll show you the way.”