Swimming Lessons(42)

“My goodness, what a bed,” the midwife said, and then, “Looks like I wasn’t needed after all.” She sat on the edge of the mattress and took hold of my wrist. She was tall and thin, with the blue belt of her uniform pinching her waist.

“Waspish,” you said later.

A round white hat was stuck on the back of her head behind a severe middle parting. “I’ll need to carry out a quick examination,” she said, lifting up the sheet covering my legs. “Mr. Coleman, I’d be obliged if you’d leave the room.”

I could see you were about to argue. “A cup of tea, Gil,” I said. “Please?”

“And leave the baby with us,” she said.

The midwife tutted as she examined me. “I always prefer it if my ladies are shaved before delivery,” she said. “It makes everything so much neater. Did you lose a lot of blood?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have plenty of pilchards and Guinness, just to be sure. Well, you’ll do. Legs together, please. Let’s have a look-see at baby now. You don’t have to breastfeed, you know.” She took Nanette from me, unwrapping her. “Lots of women are bottle-feeding these days. Formula’s got everything in it, and more.” She inspected the umbilical cord and seemed satisfied. Nan was weighed on portable scales, wrapped up again, and handed back.

I felt nothing. I waited for the rush of love I knew was supposed to come, and I wondered what my mother had thought when she looked at me for the first time. A few days later, when I was still forgetting there was a baby in the next room and would only remember when the front of my dress became wet, I telephoned my aunt. She was delighted to hear she had a great-niece, said she would visit as soon as she was able, and, when I asked, she told me that my mother had loved me from the moment she saw me. I believed then—but didn’t say—that there had to be something wrong with me. My aunt never made it over from Norway; she died a week later.


I woke a little while ago to see Flora sitting beside me in her nightie. The sun was up and there was dribble on my cheek where I’d laid my head on the table to close my eyes for a few moments; it seems my little sleep had become a couple of hours.

“What are you doing?” Flora asked.

“I’m writing,” I said.

“But you’re not a writer. Daddy’s the writer.”

I paused, thinking about all the things I could tell her. “Yes,” I said. “Daddy’s the writer. I just write letters.”

“In your sleep?”

“I was writing before I fell asleep.”

“Who do you write letters to?”

“Daddy.”

“What do you put in them?”

“All sorts of things.”

“Do you write about me?”

“I haven’t got to the bit where you were born.”

“Does Daddy write back to you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he hasn’t read my letters yet.”

“Why?”

“They’ll be waiting for him when he gets home.”

Flora huffed, as if the idea of writing anything was ridiculous and exhausting.

“Why don’t you just talk to him?” she said.

Why don’t I just talk to you? Because you aren’t here, because even if you were, you wouldn’t listen.


Yours,

Ingrid


[Placed in Egon Schiele, by Alessandra Comini, 1976.]





Chapter 23



When Flora returned from the beach, Nan was on her knees wiping the kitchen floor, wringing a sopping cloth into a bucket. The chairs had been lifted to stand amongst the books on the table, and Richard was washing something under the tap.

“What happened?” Flora said, standing in the doorway.

Nan looked up, pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. “The washing machine leaked. Some kind of blockage.”

“Found the culprit,” Richard said. He placed the little soldier on the counter beside Nan’s head.

“How on earth did that get in the wash?” Nan stretched her neck to look at it.

“It’s mine.” Flora stepped forwards and snatched it up. They stared at her. “I found it,” she said, “on the beach in Hadleigh,” and she backed away across the hall and into the bathroom. Behind Flora’s eyes, Ingrid turned from the Swimming Pavilion, the towel over her arm and a book in her hand.

Through the gap in the door Flora heard Nan say, “For goodness’ sake,” her voice breaking.

“Come on,” Richard said. “Up with you. Come on.” There was the sound of a chair being placed on the floor and Nan sniffing.

“I can’t do it anymore,” Nan said. “I just can’t do it.”

“You don’t have to.”

Flora had to lean forwards to catch what Richard was saying.

“If I don’t, then who will?” Nan said.

“People will manage. You’re not Gil’s wife and you’re not Flora’s mother. These aren’t your roles, Nan.”

“Things would fall apart if I wasn’t here.”

“So let them,” Richard said, his voice calm and soft. “It’s time to start your own life.”