“Chucked me out of the disco,” Cooper would say and roll off. Then he would hitch up his trousers and lie on his back beside her, their fingers entwined. Sometimes they shared a cigarette; other times he fell asleep and his fingers would go slack.
On the last night before Cooper was due to go home—to a northern city and with nothing said about love or keeping in touch or meeting the following summer—while he moved on top of her, Flora gazed upwards, watching the branches of the hornbeam slice the moon like a pie. Later that night she returned to the tree with a penknife. And to leave her mark on an object that would still be there long after she’d gone, Flora cut a nick in the trunk and pushed a human tooth into the gap—one of half a dozen she kept in an old cuff-link box of her father’s.
Flora trekked up the final sand dune with a puff of effort; the suitcase and her satchel were heavy. The inky sea bled out before her, mixing with the sky at an indefinable point. The rain had stopped abruptly, in the way that the weather along the coast could transform from hour to hour, and the only noise was the grate of the waves and the wind rattling the trees behind her. To her left, the beach curved away out of sight around to the ferry and The Pinch, while to the right, a concave mile of sand swept into indistinct shadow, backed by more dunes and then a car park. Beyond this were a few lights from the dozen houses, shop, and pub that made up Spanish Green, the village where Flora had grown up. In the distance, a chalky cliff rose to mark the edge of Barrow Down. But in front of her right now was the nudist beach, the place where her mother had disappeared. For the first time in nearly twelve years, Flora stepped onto the sand where the sea was retreating. She took off her shoes and socks, tied her laces together, slung her shoes around her neck, and strode towards home in the shallow waves, trying to imagine who, if anyone, would be there to meet her.
Chapter 6
THE SWIMMING PAVILION, 4TH JUNE 1992, 5:00 AM
Dear Gil,
(I’ve been thinking about getting a dog. Flora would love it. A red setter or an Irish wolfhound—a big dog that would bark at the wind when I take it to the beach. I know you don’t like dogs. But you aren’t here.)
I took my time reading the book you’d lent me. I can’t remember the title now, but it was a terrible title and a terrible book, and I couldn’t work out why you’d given it to me. I worried I was missing something. While I cycled to the university and home again I composed sentences in my head, sentences that were positive or at least constructive, but I couldn’t find anything to redeem the book. I studied the parts you’d highlighted—the sex scenes you’d underlined and your margin notes—trying to analyse what you meant and blushing at your crude drawings. A few weeks passed; I went to several of your classes and hung around at the end each time— putting my coat on slowly, taking my time to pack my bag, hoping you’d ask me about the book. I was always the last student to leave, but you never called my name, never asked me to stay behind.
I thought you must have forgotten, so one afternoon when I had a free period, I went over to your office. He won’t be in, I told myself, although that morning I’d put on my yellow crocheted dress, the one that never failed to get comments. He’s a rude bastard and he won’t be in, I repeated. But when I walked the footpath, you were hanging out of your office window four floors up, smoking a cigarette. You saw me and smiled, and gave me a kind of salute, which I took to mean come up, so I went through those echoing stairwells and corridors to your office, half terrified, half expectant.
As I lifted my hand to knock on your door, it opened. You stood there, holding the glass jug of your coffee percolator, and from the surprised expression on your face I immediately realised that the wave from the window had been a hello, not an invitation.
“How lovely,” you said. “Were you coming to see me?” You moved past, and there was that smell again, which made me close my eyes for a moment so I could concentrate on inhaling it. “Go in,” you said. “Make yourself at home.” You held up the jug. “Water,” you said, and went off along the corridor.
I stood in the small space between the sofa and the armchairs breathing you in, tugging at the bottom of my dress, and regretting my choice. A brown Smith-Corona sat in the middle of your desk with a piece of paper curling out the top. I leaned over it and, hooked by the word “Guy,” straightened the page and read about a man on a beach waiting for a woman. I read until I heard a cough behind me.
“Sorry.” I jumped back.
“It’s OK.” You laughed at how flustered I was. “But maybe you should wait until a later draft to read it.”
You put the coffee on and flapped a newspaper around the room. “I make coffee because I hate the smell of cigarettes. I’m trying to give up,” you said. “But then I always want a cigarette to go with my coffee. Know what I mean?”