Swimming Lessons(50)

“I saved her,” you said without a trace of irony.

“What the hell from?”

“A sad and lonely life.”

“Bloody hell, Gil. I think you really believe that.” If you replied I didn’t hear. “Well,” he continued, “you’d better write faster. Get the next book written before she pushes out another sprog.”

“That’s the plan,” you said, and yawned. “I’ve got to go to bed. I can’t keep up with your late-night drinking now I’m a family man.” I heard you go down the hall towards the bathroom.

Over my head Jonathan swilled the whiskey in his glass and knocked it back. I smelled the fumes on his breath as he bent over me. Moments passed and then he whispered, “Ingrid.” His fingers moved the strands of hair from my face and stroked my cheek.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “In Norway,” I said, “when a person drowns you’re meant to go out in a rowing boat with a cockerel.”

“Oh yes?”

“When the boat is over the body, the cockerel is supposed to crow. And then you can retrieve it so they can be properly buried.”

I don’t know what Jonathan would have said—would he have preferred to know or to live with hope?—because we heard you pad back along the hallway from the bathroom, and I sat up.

“Come on, sleepyhead, time for bed,” you said to me. You came forwards and took my hand as if the past few months had never happened; it was the first time we’d touched in weeks. You didn’t look at Jonathan as you pulled me off his lap and led me into the bedroom.


Although I was still breastfeeding Nan and Jonathan received the occasional cheque from his travel writing, with three of us to feed and keep in whiskey, money was always an issue. We lived off vegetables and lentils, and sometimes I bought the remains of a fisherman’s catch going cheap. I thought it was this that made me sick one morning, but when I threw up a second time, I knew. You’d always insisted on using the withdrawal method for our contraception (some Catholic thing, I supposed). I should have been firmer, I should’ve insisted on taking the pill, should’ve taken it without you knowing. I’d already been dreaming of when Nan was older, of the places I could go, the things I could see, even if you didn’t come with me. The walls of the Swimming Pavilion were closing in. And when you caught me kneeling beside the toilet I didn’t need to explain.

“The second of six, remember?” you said when we were all in the kitchen. You hugged me and slapped Jonathan on the back.

“We can’t afford it,” I said.

“Of course we can.”

“I can’t scrimp and save anymore.”

“I’ll get a job. It’ll be fine.”

Jonathan laughed, stopping when he saw your face.

“What?” you said. “You think I can’t?”

“What kind of job?” Jonathan said.

“I don’t know.” You dismissed the question with a wave of your hand; nothing was going to spoil this news. “Something in Hadleigh—fisherman, baker, candlestickmaker, behind the bar with Martin.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. He thought it was funny.

“Talking of Martin,” you said. “A celebration is called for, I think.” You rubbed your hands together. “A lunchtime drink?”

“You finished the whiskey last night,” I said.

“How about that fine public house up the road? The one Martin opened up about”—you looked at your watch—“an hour ago?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

“Oh, come on. What the hell is wrong with both of you?”

“We don’t have enough money to go to the pub!” I was shouting. “We need more milk, more washing powder, more food.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Ingrid. I promise you it’ll be fine.” You swept me up in your arms and waltzed me around the kitchen, bent me over backwards, and kissed me with Jonathan watching.

We walked up the road to the Royal Oak, you carrying Nan, and Jonathan and me trailing behind.

There were several people in the pub: that farmer and his wife (the ones whose barn burned in the lightning storm); Joe Warren, who’d now lost all that weight; Mrs. Passerini with her yellow fingers, perched on her usual stool at the end of the bar; a couple of cattle-feed reps in their suits having a lunchtime pint; and of course Martin serving the drinks.

“Gil,” he said, smiling and holding his hand out. “Long time no see.”

Mrs. Passerini got down shakily from her stool, put her cigarette in her mouth, and lifted Nan out of your arms. Nan didn’t cry, just kicked her fat legs in her little white tights and gurgled.

“I’ve got an announcement, Martin,” you said. “Pass me a piece of cutlery.” You stood at the bar and took the long-handled spoon out from the pickled-egg jar and chinked it against the glass. The pub quietened.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you said, “we’re here to celebrate that the Colemans are bringing the average age of this village down to sixty. My beautiful wife, Ingrid”—you waved me over and pulled me in to your side—“is having another baby!”

I was passed around like Nan—hugged by beery neighbours, my stomach stroked by their wives—and you didn’t have to buy a single drink. At two thirty in the afternoon I left with Nan, and Martin locked the door behind us. You hadn’t asked him about a job.