Swimming Lessons(55)

But when we got home, I did tell Jonathan everything. He’s a good listener, he didn’t interrupt me, he let me relate all of it while we sat with our backs against the Agglestone watching Nan with her legs splayed out in front of her, playing with the sandy soil.

“I’m going to leave him,” I said.

“Really?” Jonathan said quickly. “You’ve decided?”

“Probably.”

He sank back into himself.

“I just haven’t worked out how I’d live. What job could I do? No education worth talking about, no experience, and a baby to look after. There’s not enough money for any alimony.”

“There are ways,” Jonathan said, without looking at me. With a fingertip he drew a spiral in between Nan’s chubby legs. She leaned forwards, patting the ground and laughing, raising red dust. He drew it again.

“There are always ways.” I sighed, and gave a halfhearted laugh. “Perhaps I could turn to prostitution. Get Gil to pick me up. That’d give him a surprise.”

“You don’t know that’s what he was doing.”

“Why is it you always defend him?” I said. Nan rocked herself forwards and grabbed on to the rock, levering herself upwards until she was standing. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it was all in my imagination. I saw him going into a house with a woman. I don’t know what he did in there, not really.”

Nan looked over her shoulder at us, smiling, pleased with herself. She let go of the rock with one hand.

“You’re right,” he said. “Perhaps she was his therapist.”

“Some kind of therapist!”

“I was joking,” Jonathan said. “Look, I just want you to be sure. I don’t want to be the one to persuade you.”

“You don’t think I should leave him, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, Jonathan, you’re so old-fashioned. So Catholic.”

“Take a lover of your own, then,” he snapped.

Nan let go of the rock and, shocked to find she was standing unaided, toppled backward onto her bottom and after a pause began to cry. Jonathan picked her up and swung her onto his shoulders. We walked home in silence.

The next day I said I’d buy one of the new home pregnancy tests, but you insisted I take a bottle of urine to Dr. Burnett.

“More accurate,” you said.

“Cheaper,” I thought.

It was positive.


I finished this letter an hour ago. I’m sorry about the places where the ink’s run, but I’ve decided I can’t write anymore. What’s the point? These letters and my stupid idea of putting down the truth only causes me pain, and most likely you’ll never read them. So this is the last.


Addio,

Ingrid


[Placed in Italian (Teach Yourself), by Lydia Vellaccio and Maurice Elston, 1985.]





Chapter 29



In the kitchen a few days later, Nan said, “I telephoned Jonathan this morning.” She was standing with her back to Richard and Flora. Her words dropped into the washing-up bowl in front of her, as if telephoning Jonathan were an everyday occurrence and she were hoping they would sink and no one would notice she had spoken.

But Flora said, “Our Jonathan?” They didn’t know any other Jonathan. The thought of his coming was one of relief; that there would be someone other than Nan and Richard to tell her what she should be doing. Three or four times a year Jonathan and Flora met in London. He took her to an exhibition, the aquarium, or an art gallery, then out to dinner; somewhere expensive, with white linen tablecloths and heavy silver cutlery. And he would ask about her art, and she would tell him what she was working on, both of them knowing they were making conversation until they could get round to the subject of the Swimming Pavilion, Gil, and finally, over glasses of cognac, Ingrid. Jonathan wanted to know how Flora’s father was, what he had been doing, and she would try to make their visits to charity shops or walks along the beach sound interesting. In return, Flora wanted old stories about her parents and Jonathan—hippies camping in the garden, playing cricket in the hallway, telling ghost stories and getting drunk on Irish whiskey. Like a child at bedtime, she never tired of listening and would mine each story for every tiny detail. Although he never said it, Flora was sure that Jonathan searched for Ingrid in crowds, like she did. He looked for her on the tube at Lancaster Gate, in the throng of tourists watching the sea horses being fed, or in the tour group standing in front of Monet’s Bathers at La Grenouillère.

In the kitchen, Nan turned. “Dad asked me to invite him.”

“What?” Flora said. “To the house?”

“Who’s Jonathan?” Richard said. Flora ignored him. She was irritated that he was still there four days after her fight with Nan, eating their food, hanging around, talking to Gil with the bedroom door closed. She wondered what Richard had told the bookshop about why he needed the time off; whether he’d said it was because he’d been asked to be at the deathbed of a famous author, or if he’d admitted he was there to burn a houseful of books.

“Dad wants him to bring Louise and . . .” Nan began.

“Louise?” Flora jumped in.

“I was as surprised as you are.”

“Is Jonathan his brother?” Richard said. Flora wondered if during the night he bashed out all the information he had gathered during the day on Gil’s old typewriter.