Swimming Lessons(72)

“How did it get here, and what happened to the other things Mum had on the beach?”

“The same way that the ridiculous dress that you insist on wearing got back,” Nan said. “I put the things away, in the airing cupboard, in the wardrobe, on the bookshelves, wherever they were meant to go—which is a lot more than other people do.” She picked up half a lemon and crushed it in her fist so the juice flowed out from between her solid fingers into the bowl of sour cream.

“But how did they get home?”

“I don’t know. Martin must have brought everything over the next day—Mum’s clothes, the towel. Somebody picked it all up from the nudist beach and stuffed it in a bag. One of the search party, I suppose.”

“And her book?” Flora said. “What happened to that?” She wasn’t sure why it was so important to know how her mother’s things had got home, where they were now. An answer to a question she couldn’t quite work out.

“Like I said, I put things away in their proper places.”

“Didn’t the police want to see them?” Richard said.

Flora had almost forgotten he was in the room. “The fucking police were only interested in whether Daddy had murdered her and buried her body under the floorboards.” Flora stamped a foot. “But as soon as their dense little heads had worked out that he hadn’t, they weren’t interested in anything,” she said. “No suspicious circumstances. They were crap.”

“Flora,” Nan said, “that’s not fair. Mum was an adult.” To Richard she said, “She went for a swim; she left her clothes on the beach. The coast guard searched, of course, but . . .” Nan trailed off.

“What about her passport?” Richard said. He opened a cupboard and found the teapot, brown and round with several zigzags running through it where it had been glued together. He held it up to the window, as if unsure it would hold water.

“It was never found,” Flora said, as if proving something.

“She hadn’t used it for years—not since I was a baby. It would have expired anyway.” Nan stirred the sour cream with a spoon.

“You think she’s dead, too, don’t you?” Flora said. “I bet you’ve always thought that.”

Nan looked at her, sighed, and sat opposite, placing the glass bowl on the table between them. “She wouldn’t have left without writing a letter, a note, something. She wouldn’t have done that to us. She went for a swim, got into difficulty, and drowned. It’s as simple as that.” Nan gave a small laugh, and when Flora didn’t speak, she continued, “Mothers don’t leave their children.”

“Who says so?” Flora dipped a finger into the sour cream. “Fathers leave their kids all the time and there’s barely a shrug—or maybe someone’s a bit disappointed. Why should it be so shocking when a mother does it?” She put her finger in her mouth.

“Tea, I think,” Richard said.

“It’s different for mothers,” Nan said.

“Why? Because mothers are meant to love their children more than fathers? Because it’s supposed to come naturally?”

“I see it all the time at work,” Nan said. “There’s an instant bond between the mother and her child. The father might be in the room, might even be the first to hold them, will be delighted, but it’s not the same.” She stood and picked up the bowl.

“It wasn’t like that for this family, though, was it?” Flora said. “You just don’t like to admit it. Our mother didn’t have an instant bond with us. I’m not sure she had a bond with anyone. Probably all she had was duty, expectation, and guilt. She could have left because it was all too much and still be out there.”

Nan talked over the end of Flora’s words. “I don’t know why you want her to come home if she was so terrible.”

“Being a mother didn’t come easily to her. Not like being a father does for Daddy.”

“You have no idea, do you, little sister?” Nan shook her head. Richard waited with the tea caddy in his hands.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Flora said. “He’s been a good father.” Nan took a deep breath, and Flora waited. “What?”

“The man’s dying. It’s not right to talk about this now.” Nan stirred the cream once more.

“When will it ever be right?”

“You really want to know? How about this? He was a womanizer. He slept with whoever he could get his hands on.”

Flora laughed. Richard swilled warm water around the teapot and counted three spoonfuls of leaves into it.

“When I was fourteen, fifteen,” Nan said, “every time Dad went out, Mum and I used to worry where he’d gone, who he would bring home to that damn writing room.”

“That’s ridiculous. Daddy wouldn’t do that.” Flora’s voice rose; she felt the rush of anger and expected Richard to intervene, to say something, but he was waiting for the kettle to boil.

“What did you think he was doing there? Writing?” It was Nan’s turn to laugh. “For your whole life he only managed to produce one book. And what a book that was. I’m still not sure how much of it’s true. I could never work it out.”

From the corner of her eye, Flora saw Richard look at her. “Of course it’s not true.”