Swimming Lessons(4)

“Hang on,” he said. “Gil? Your father’s called Gil? And isn’t your surname Coleman?”

Flora sighed. She hadn’t realised he knew her surname. It had taken a little less than two weeks for Richard to work it out. That wasn’t bad; once, she had discovered that a boy had only slept with her after he had found out who her father was. She never returned his calls.

“That Gil Coleman?” Richard said. “The Gil Coleman who wrote A Man of Pleasure?” She knew without turning around what the expression on his face would be, and that was why, she reminded herself, she must never sleep with a bookshop assistant again.

“That’s the one,” Flora said, pressing sketchbooks and a box of charcoal on top of her clothes.

“My God. Gil Coleman is your father. I can’t believe it. I thought he was dead. He hasn’t written anything else since that book, has he?”

“I expect you think it’s all a bit I Capture the Castle.” Flora tried to laugh it off. But looking at Richard from where she sat on top of the case trying to lock it, she could see he had remembered that there was something else; another thing that was memorable about Gil Coleman apart from the book he had written. It was coming and it was best to get it over with, and then she could leave and not see Richard again. The suitcase clicked shut.

“Wait,” he said, sitting up straight, with one hand on his forehead and the other in the air, as if she had been doing something to stop him thinking. “Wait, I know this story.”

“It isn’t a story, Richard. It’s my family.”

“No, of course, sorry.” He was still trying to remember when she turned away from him and dropped the tablecloth around her feet. She opened the case again, took out a clean pair of knickers and pulled them on. She found her jeans, sniffed the crotch, and stepped into them. She didn’t look at Richard because she couldn’t bear to see the dawning of that little piece of knowledge.

Flora picked up a bra, tried to hook it together, missed the catches, tried again, and heard him say a short, embarrassed “Oh.” When the bra caught, she squatted beside the bed and fought her way into a T-shirt that had been lying there. Richard leaned forwards and gently took hold of her wrist. The black shoulder socket she had drawn on him flexed as his arm moved, and he said, “I’m sorry. About your mother.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Flora said brightly. “She might not be dead.”

“But,” Richard said, “I thought she—”

“The newspapers,” Flora spoke over him, “got it wrong.”

“—drowned . . . a long time ago,” Richard finished.

“I . . .” Flora started. “She’s lost, that’s all.” The coconut smell and the golden honey colour came again, her mother turning in sunlight. “We don’t know what happened. And it was eleven years ago. But now she’s back. Daddy saw her in Hadleigh.” Flora couldn’t hide her excitement.

“What?” Richard still had hold of her wrist.

“I can’t go into it now. I just have to get home. He needs me.” She sat on the bed beside him. She knew she wouldn’t see Richard again, because he would look at her differently now that he had learned who she was. She hated it when her parents became the thing men found most interesting about her.

“Let me drive you.” His hand slipped from her wrist and held her fingers. “Is Hadleigh where your father lives?”

“Nearby. I’ll get the last train; it’s no problem. You probably need to get back too.” She was aware of the change in his posture at these words, a realization of what she might mean.

“When does it go?” Richard stood up, pressed his phone.

“About ten, I think.”

“That’s in fifteen minutes. Flora, you won’t make it. Take my car.”





Chapter 2


THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 2ND JUNE 1992, 4:04 AM


Dear Gil,

It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep. I found a pad of this yellow paper and I thought I’d write you a letter. A letter putting down all the things I haven’t been able to say in person—the truth about our marriage from the beginning. I’m sure I’ll write things you’ll claim I imagined, dreamed, made up; but this is how I see it. This, here, is my truth.

If I asked, could you say when we first met?

I can tell you. It was the 6th of April, 1976, although I’m being easygoing with the word ‘met.’ It was a Tuesday. Sunny and warm, with an excitement that spring had arrived and was going to stay. Louise and I had been sitting on the lawn outside the university library ignoring the notices to keep off the grass and talking about what we were going to do with the rest of our lives. Of course, neither of us knew what it would be, but we both agreed it would be different from our mothers’ lives (keeping house, looking after children, not working), which we dismissed as parochial and pointless.

“I’m not worried about having money,” Louise said.

“Or things,” I said.

“God, no. Things—children, husbands, houses, men—just tie you down. Stop you doing what you want to do. It’s all about education now. That was the problem with our mothers—no education. No degree. What use were they to anyone?”