Swimming Lessons(56)

“He’s Dad’s best friend,” Nan said.

“Was,” Flora corrected.

“I’ll have to get some more food in. Cook something nice. A salmon, perhaps.”

“And Louise—who’s she?” Richard asked.

Flora looked up at Nan, who was drying her already dry hands on a tea towel. Nan stared back, her mouth set, her eyes pitiless, and Flora realised she was probably wearing the same expression, a mirror of her sister’s. Richard looked between the two of them.

“Oh,” he said. “That Louise.”





Chapter 30


THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 22ND JUNE 1992, 9:00 AM


Gil,

I wasn’t going to write again. I mustn’t write—it hurts and doesn’t solve anything, but I have to put this down on paper. I need to get it out of my head and right now there’s no one else to tell.

I went to the sea again this morning for a swim. (Early.) I shouldn’t have gone. Oh God, I shouldn’t have gone. It was still dark and cold so I wore your greatcoat, the one you got from a young man in Moscow in exchange for a borrowed pair of suede shoes. (“Tell me the Moscow story, Daddy,” I can hear Flora saying, swamped by the coat, her little head poking out the top.) I was naked underneath it; I’ve always liked how the heavy wool scratches and tickles. It smells like a musty version of you.

The beach was empty. The tide was going out, leaving a wide ribbon of seaweed creased on the sand and swaying in the shallows. I walked around Dead End Point to Middle Beach, where the sea is always clear. I unbuttoned your coat and, I don’t know why, but I checked the pockets first before I took it off. Flora must have been wearing it again, because I found the queen of hearts from the pack of cards which has those ladies on the back, two sheets of Green Shield Stamps, and my purse! Still with ten pounds and a few pence inside. I put everything back, folded the coat, left my flip-flops on top, and ran into the sea opposite the beach huts.

The water was steady and black. An inch below the surface my body disappeared as if it didn’t exist. I swam straight out toward the rising sun, which was underlighting the clouds with a dramatic orange as if I were swimming into a Renaissance landscape. It shone a path over the water’s surface, saying, “This way, straight on,” but I tired and turned back towards the shore. I swam a lazy breaststroke, keeping my head above the water, and in the distance I saw a light: a campfire in the dunes.

Do you remember when we used to go to the sea together in the middle of the night to cool down, that first summer? We’d strip off, grabbing on to each other, yelping and laughing, and run across the sand and into the sea through the night air, as warm as noontime.

When I reached the beach, the flip-flops and the coat had gone. My first thought, and I feel guilty writing it, was that Flora must have followed me, but she wasn’t there. I searched the length of Middle Beach, and in front of the last hut I found a discarded and crumpled queen of hearts. There was no sign of my purse or the other things. I could have gone home. I should have gone home, but I was so angry. I needed that money; Flora loves that coat! Then I remembered the campfire I’d seen from the water and, without stopping to think, went in search of it.

I crouched in the dawn, watching two men drinking and laughing. The flickering orange from their fire set their skin alight and I recognised your coat, slung around one of the men’s shoulders. The other appeared to have square tattoos on his cheeks and forehead, and it took me a moment to see that these were the Green Shield Stamps. Behind a tuft of marram grass I growled, long and low.

“Did you hear that?” greatcoat-man said, looking up.

“What?” the other said, drunk, I think, and slow to react.

I rustled the grass and greatcoat-man stood. “There’s something out there.”

“It’s the weed giving you the heebie-jeebies. Here.” The man held out his hand to the other, the lit tip of a cigarette glowing.

I jumped into the ring of firelight like a wild woman or a tiger. I made a grab at the coat; even if my purse was no longer in the pocket, I was bloody going to get it back. But the man was on top of me before I could stop him, still wearing the coat, his weight pinning me, a hand across my jaw, pushing the side of my face into the sand away from the fire, and giving me a mouthful of grit. I don’t know what happened to Green Shield Stamp-man; I didn’t see him. I think the one with the coat had expected me to be male; his arm was tensed, flexed, and his hand a fist. But he must have realised what, or who, was beneath him, and his grip changed—as if it wasn’t a fight he was after. With one hand constricting my throat he pushed his thighs between mine. I don’t think I shouted. I tried to shake my head, tried to say no, please no, tried to get out from under him, but his hand pressed harder. And I stopped struggling. Struggling, I decided (have decided), would (will) make it worse. As the man was unzipping his trousers, my left arm became free and I moved it out across the sand, my hand scuttling sideways until it came across a cylindrical object, smooth and light. An empty beer can. My hand dropped it and moved on towards the flames. While the man on top of me grunted with the effort of keeping me down and releasing himself, my hand closed around a thick stick lying at the edge of the fire. I lifted it up, the end glowing white with heat and ash, and I lowered it over the man’s back, pressing it against the olive wool of your coat. There was the smell of burning fabric, and I forced the stick down harder. He didn’t notice until his T-shirt began to burn, and for some moments more, while he was screaming, I clamped that man to my body with my arm and the stick until he managed to roll off me, swearing and yelling. He flung the greatcoat away and I grabbed it, dropped the stick, and ran.