Swimming Lessons(53)

“Swimming?” the doctor said.

“In the sea,” you said. “In the middle of the night, in the morning, in the evening—any chance she can get.”

Dr. Burnett glanced at his watch. “Dear me, no. Rest is what’s called for here. She should avoid all physical exercise.”

We argued in the car on the way home, your knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“Looking after Nan isn’t restful either,” I said. “But are you going to get up in the middle of the night when she’s teething, when she’s got a temperature? Are you going to clean up when she’s been sick, change her nappies? Are you going to stop writing so that you can push the pram up to the shop because there isn’t any food in the house?”

“It’s fucking swimming, Ingrid,” you said.

“Swimming isn’t strenuous, Gil. I happen to find it restful.”

“This isn’t about you, for God’s sake.” The hedgerows rushed past us.

“I know what it’s about. You don’t need to tell me.”

“This is our baby, and you’re happy to take a risk with its life because you’d rather go for a fucking swim.”

“Gil!” I shouted. “There isn’t a baby. I lost it, remember, while you were getting drunk.”

You became patronizingly calm, but your teeth were clenched. “I meant next time, Ingrid, of course.”

I stared out of the passenger window at the sea. In my head I was saying, If there is a next time. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the journey.


Four months later, you sold a short story and when the money came through, in true Gil style, you spent it on a holiday to Florence. An early birthday present or our second honeymoon, you said. I arranged for Megan, from the village, to take care of Nan while we were away. Megan was a year younger than me, happy to have some time off from the dairy, I thought. She picked Nan up with a confidence I still didn’t have, held our daughter on her hip in a way that made me feel as if I’d been faking motherhood for thirteen months.

She stood with Nan on the veranda as we got into the car, and she looked at me with pity, and naively I thought she must have heard about the miscarriage. She held Nan’s tiny wrist so that our daughter waved us good-bye as you reversed the car out of the drive. By the time we reached the main road, my eyes had filled with tears. You put your hand on my knee.

“It’ll be fine. Megan will look after her. What’s the worst . . .”

“. . . that could happen,” I finished for you, smiling feebly. But I didn’t admit, not even to myself, that the reason I was crying wasn’t because I was already missing Nan but at the relief of getting away from her.


Florence, 15th to the 19th of June, 1978. You had it all planned out. In the mornings we’d go for thick strong coffees at one of the little cafés on the Piazza della Repubblica and you’d order us two cornetto semplice. We’d stroll in the Boboli Gardens, and in the Accademia we’d stare up at Michelangelo’s David. After a long lunch we’d go back to bed for the afternoon. Later, you’d take me to La Specola and show me the three supine wax women that you fell in love with when you were fifteen, no matter that their insides are on display for everyone to see. You’d tell me how you visited them every day to escape the claustrophobia of your bullied mother and the wheezing pump of your father’s portable oxygen machine as the three of you did a latter-day version of the grand tour. We’d eat dinner at ten, finishing with chestnut ice cream and more coffee.

The sun was warm and Florence was beautiful, the hotel and the room perfect. We sat on the stone window seat and you kissed me with the sounds of the street coming in: car horns, raised Italian voices, and the click of women’s shoes on paving. You started to undress me, one button at a time, but I had to prise myself away and run to the bathroom so I could vomit into the toilet bowl. A queasy feeling had come over me as soon as we’d stepped onto the train at Pisa, but I’d ignored it.

“Can I do anything?” you said from outside the bathroom as I retched. You couldn’t hide the excitement in your voice.

I laid my forehead against the cold tiled wall and called out, “It must have been something I ate on the plane. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment.”

You didn’t come in. I heard you opening the suitcase clasps, then the drawers and the wardrobe, putting your notebooks and pens on your side of the bed, whistling through your teeth. The nausea rose again, my eyes watered, my forehead turned clammy, and I retched once more. I remembered to be thankful for the decent hotel and the clean bathroom with a toilet unsoiled by anyone other than me, even if we couldn’t afford these things and I’d be paying for them in reduced housekeeping money long after we returned to England.

After a while, when you heard me flush and run the tap, you came to crouch beside me where I sat on the floor. The tiles were embossed with a map of Italy, the sea around it an unreal blue, capped with white waves from which fishlike sea creatures jumped. “Do you think . . .” you said, a stupid smile across your face. “Is it possible, already?”

I flapped you out of the bathroom and was sick again.

“I’m sorry,” I said when I made it to the bed. “I’ve ruined our holiday.” You lay beside me, your head propped up on an arm, and stroked my hair.