Swimming Lessons(49)

And then Jonathan came to stay.

He’d been down for a day or two after Nan was born, but now he arrived with a toy bear that growled when it was upturned, two bottles of Kilbeggan, and a round of Gubbeen for me.

We were both so thankful for his arrival that we moved from our defensive positions, and on his first evening the three of us stayed up late, passing the baby in the opposite direction to the whiskey and the cheese.

“Smells like the bog,” you said when I unwrapped it.

“I camped on the farm where they make it and helped with the milking,” Jonathan said.

“Jonathan—the world’s best lie-abed—got up to milk the cows?” I said, my mouth full of soft yellow cheese and cracker.

“Needs must when you’re a travel writer.” He laughed and then stopped. “A terrible thing happened while I was there.” We watched his face. His eyes shifted away from ours and momentarily he pressed his hand against his mouth. “A child fell in the bog and was lost.”

“Oh God,” I said.

“Lost?” you said, holding Nan tighter. “How the hell do you lose a child in a bog?”

“Her brother dared her to cross it. She sank and he couldn’t pull her out.”

“Oh God,” you said. “How old was she?”

“Six. Her brother ran to the dairy and a group of us ran back with him, but he couldn’t remember the exact place where she went in, and we found nothing. Nothing. The whole village came out to search.”

“And you didn’t find her?” I said.

“She was gone,” Jonathan said.

“Not even a body to bury? I can’t imagine anything worse.”

We were silent until you said, “Of course that isn’t the worst thing. Finding the body is surely more terrible, more absolute. With a body there is no possibility of hope.”

“I’m telling you,” Jonathan said, “the child was gone.”

“Maybe she was,” you said, “or perhaps one day she’ll come walking back into Bally-whatever saying she bumped her head, forgot who she was, and wandered off. Without the body her parents are free to imagine, to hope for anything.”

“But maybe they’ll be hoping forever,” Jonathan said. “What kind of life would that be? You can’t exist like that, with not knowing.”

“It’s about believing two opposing ideas in your head at the same time: hope and grief. Human beings do it all the time with religion—the flesh and the spirit—you know that. Imagination and reality.”

“That old Catholic upbringing rears its head again,” Jonathan said. “Pass the whiskey, I need cheering up.”

The two of you carried on drinking and talking until Nan fell asleep, and I lay on the sofa with my head resting in Jonathan’s lap and shut my eyes to listen as I drifted in and out.

“I bumped into Louise when I was in London,” Jonathan said.

“Ingrid’s Louise?” you said. “I haven’t seen her since the wedding.”

I heard more whiskey glugging, the chink of glass on glass.

“I took her out to dinner.”

“Really?”

“Well, OK, she took me out to dinner.”

“She’s still into women’s lib?” Your voice was less distinct; you must have got up, turned away from us.

“I suppose. She did pay.”

“And you paid her back in kind, did you?”

“The kind where you only leave a deposit? No, I’m not her type.”

There was a click as you switched on the record player, and a shuffle while you put an album on the turntable. The music started, the needle finding the beginning of a track. Wedged on the opposite sofa, Nan gave a single squawk and you turned it down.

“If there was an offer on the table I’d be very happy to carry out a thorough audit of her fixed assets,” you said quietly.

“I’m sure you’d depreciate them.”

“Let’s say there would be a definite upwards movement of goods and services.” You both sniggered like schoolboys and Jonathan’s leg muscles twitched under my head.

“So, how’s family life?” Jonathan said.

“Good, fine.” You were unconvincing.

“Because I have to say there’s been a bit of an atmosphere.”

“Has there?” You sounded defensive.

“You’re missing being the bachelor about town, is it?”

“I’ve finished with all that,” you said more loudly, and I wondered if you’d guessed I was listening.

“Really? I didn’t think you took your marriage vows so seriously. You know, I never imagined you would settle to life in the country. Wasn’t this place meant to be somewhere for writing and parties? I thought you’d escaped for good when your father died.”

“What do you mean? What’s Ingrid been saying?”

“I haven’t spoken to Ingrid,” Jonathan said. There was a pause. Perhaps you both looked at me, trying to decide if I really was asleep. “Don’t be cruel to her, Gil. She deserves better. If you’re going to fuck around, let her go.” You were both silent, drinking, until Jonathan said, “I didn’t think being barefoot and pregnant would be Ingrid’s thing either. I thought she wanted something more.”