Swimming Lessons(78)

“Gil saw Ingrid?”

Flora put her hand in the pocket of her shorts and found the toy soldier there. She rubbed its head. “Apparently, Mum was standing outside a bookshop in the rain.”

“What did she say? What happened?” Jonathan said.

“I only meant he thought he saw her; they didn’t speak.”

“Oh, Flora.” Jonathan sounded as if he thought she’d made it up.

“What?” Flora said. “Why shouldn’t she be in Hadleigh? It’s as sensible as anywhere.”

The four of them stood, none of them looking at each other, until Louise said, “Shall we go in? I think it’s starting to rain.”


“Jesus, what happened here?” Jonathan said, looking into the house. Half-fallen stacks of books lined the walls, but the earlier landslide had left the narrow passageway rocky with splayed books piled up and blocking the way to the kitchen. The telephone wire was still stretched tight across the gap—a tripwire set to catch unwary visitors.

Flora led the way into the bedroom. Rain was beating against the seaward windows and thrashing the tin roof, and the air inside was stuffy and stale. Gil opened his eyes. She thumped her father’s pillows like she had seen Nan do, efficient and nurse-like. A sickly smell of persimmon came off his pyjamas, and she worried that she was supposed to have washed him. He raised his eyelids slowly; even this an effort. It was Gabriel he stared at first, taking him in, and Flora saw each cleft chin, the same square jaw; one man healthy and handsome, the other a decaying mirror image. Gabriel and Jonathan stood at the end of the bed with Gil’s emaciated body—his death’s head on the frame of a stick man—reflected in their expressions. Only Louise was able to hide her shock.

“Would you like something to drink, Daddy?” Flora said. “I could make you a cup of tea.”

Gil slid his eyes towards the beaker of orange juice on his bedside table, and she held it up to him so he could suck from the straw.

“Gil,” Louise said, stepping forwards, putting her hand on his. “It’s so lovely to see you.”

He turned his head. “Always a sight for sore eyes, Louise.” His tongue made sticking noises in his mouth. He moved his focus back to Gabriel.

“So,” Jonathan said, filling the silence. “What’s the story? How are you feeling?”

“Fucking awful,” Gil said, each word drawn out. “Dying isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Only Gil smiled, thin lips and a mouth with too many teeth.

Jonathan took a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches out of his pocket. Louise caught his eye and shook her head. Reluctantly he put them both back. “It’s bloody hot in here,” he said, taking off his jacket and laying it across the bed. “Do you mind if I open a window?” He didn’t wait for a reply but went to the one facing the veranda. He wiggled the catch until Flora followed.

“Don’t you remember, there’s a knack to it,” she said. “The frames have warped. You’ve got to give it a tug before you can turn the handle.” The window opened. A torn and folded beer mat fell out—Ridley’s 1977—and the brown smell of wet earth came into the room.

“Shh,” Gil said and cocked his head. They were all quiet. “Can you hear it?”

There was the sound of the rain falling on the roof. “The carpenter’s plane,” he said. “He’s making the coffin outside the window.” Gil’s shoulders shook and he made a haw haw haw noise, and it took Flora a moment to realise he was laughing. “He shouldn’t bother.”

Gil closed his eyes and they stood waiting, watching, and Flora listened for his breath’s rattle again, or another car on the drive.

“Perhaps I should make some tea,” she said, but didn’t move.

“I thought we could have a party,” Gil said, paused, breathed, looked up at them without moving his head. “For old times’ sake; for Ingrid. She always liked a party, didn’t she, Jonathan?”

The visitors looked from one to the other.

“Did she?” Jonathan said, and as if realising this was the wrong answer, continued, “Of course she did.”

“Dancing, whiskey,” Gil said.

“Daddy,” Flora said. “I’m not sure Nan would let—”

Gil lifted the fingers of his hand that lay on top of the cover, stopping her. “She’s not here . . . I decide.”

“Gil—” Louise began.

“Whiskey,” he said to Flora. “You know where.”

Flora hesitated, wondering still if she should put the kettle on instead. She hovered by the door. Gil paused, gathering strength and willpower. “Think of it like a wake, one where the corpse is still sitting up and talking.”

“I, for one,” Jonathan said, “could do with a whiskey.”

“And what’s a party without music, Gabriel?” Gil said. Gabriel was gripping one of the bedposts with both hands, holding the fish with the open mouth.

“I didn’t bring my guitar.”

“Shame,” Gil said, not taking his eyes from him. “Fetch the turntable from the sitting room. You’ll know what to put on. Jonathan, help him.” Gil closed his eyes, resting, but still none of them moved. “Go,” he said, and crooked an index finger to call Louise to him.