Swimming Lessons(52)

She looked through her sketchbook: Nan hanging out the washing, Martin in his slippers reading the paper, Richard sleeping, his glasses skewed on his face.

After a few minutes Gil said, “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“What?” Flora said.

“Bring your chair closer.”

Without standing, she shuffled her chair towards his.

“Closer,” he said. She moved until the arms of their chairs were touching. Behind him, some optical illusion made the sea appear higher than the land, as if it were being sucked away in the presentiment of something momentous. “It’s always been you and me, Flo, hasn’t it? I should have let your sister in more, and your mother of course. But that’s done now. There’s something I want you to do for me.”

“What is it? I’ll do anything you want, Daddy.” She sought his hand from under the blanket.

“I want you to get me a baby’s boot. One of those knitted ones.”

Flora pulled her hand away. “A what?” she said.

“And it must be blue. Blue wool. I don’t need a pair—just one will do. I wondered if Nan might have them at the hospital. I can’t ask her myself; she’ll think I’ve gone mad.”

“Christ, Daddy.” Flora laughed. “I thought you were going to ask for something important. You nearly made my heart flip.”

“It is important. It’s very important. I need it, Flora.” Gil’s face didn’t change.

“Come off it, Daddy. You can let me in on the joke now. What do you need it for? A one-legged baby?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Flora stopped smiling.

“Completely.”

“God, Daddy. What is all this?”

“I’m going to bury it.”

“What?” Flora said again. “Why?”

“It’s just something your mother . . .” He stopped midsentence, as if checking his words. “So you won’t ask Nan?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Forget I ever asked. Forget it.” Gil tucked his hand back beneath the blanket, rested his head against the wing of his chair, and said something under his breath.

“What?” Flora said. He didn’t repeat it, but it may have been, “Baby shoes, never worn.”


Later, when Gil had gone inside, Flora picked up her torn drawings and walked to the end of the garden with a box of matches and burned each page, letting the black flakes float into the nettles.





Chapter 28


THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 16TH JUNE 1992, 4:35 AM


Dear Gil,

Yesterday, before the morning bell, Flora’s teacher met me in her classroom. She showed me a letter and asked me whether I’d written it:


Dear Mrs. Layland,

It is with my deepest regrets that I write to tell you Flora was unable to come into school yesterday. Her father came home to spend some time with his daughter and that is the reason she didn’t come in. I also write to let you know that he is still home and so Flo might not be in in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Ingrid Coleman


I cried in front of Flora’s teacher, not because the letter was so clearly written by a desperate child, and not because Flora is missing school or lying—although that’s what Mrs. Layland thought—but because she doesn’t need me.


On the 9th of February 1978 you drove me to the check up appointment you’d made with my doctor. I didn’t want to go: what was there to learn? I’d been pregnant and now I wasn’t. You’d barely spoken after I’d woken you that morning. I thought I heard you crying in the bathroom, but the noise stopped when I rattled the door handle and called your name. When you came out you sat in the kitchen brooding over a cup of coffee.

Jonathan stayed a week longer, but in the end I don’t think he could stand the melancholic atmosphere that settled over the house. I was sad to see him go, although not having him around meant one less thing to think about.

At the surgery you remained in the waiting room until the examination was over and Dr. Burnett called you in.

“I’m pleased to say everything is where it should be.” The doctor addressed you. You didn’t laugh and he continued: “Miscarriage this early is much more common than you’d think. And Mrs. Coleman is only . . .” He looked at the envelope that contained everything he knew about me.

“Twenty-one,” I said.

He peered over his half-moon spectacles as if he were surprised I’d spoken. “Twenty-one, yes,” he said. “Still almost a child herself.”

“But what’s wrong?” you asked.

Dr. Burnett removed his glasses. “Mr. Coleman, there is nothing wrong with your wife. Go home and carry on doing the things you’ve been doing, and I can assure you she’ll be pregnant again in no time.” He put his glasses on again and wrote something about me in a spiky hand at the bottom of a piece of card, and slipped it into the envelope with the others. “Plenty of good food and rest.” He clicked the end of his pen. The appointment was over. I half rose, but you stayed in your seat.

“You’d advise then,” you said, “that she shouldn’t go swimming?” The question was unexpected.