This morning, a little before six, I gave up trying to sleep and went to the sea for a swim. I was halfway down the chine, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a pair of flip-flops that had been left in the hall, when I heard someone running behind me. I turned and there was Flora, barefoot and in just a towel, coming after me.
“Mum! Wait!” she called. “I’m going to swim, too.” Flora is like a cat, she wants everything on her terms. If I’d asked her to come with me for a swim, she’d probably have said no. Occasionally she’ll allow me to stroke and pet her, but if I put out an uninvited hand she’ll often scratch and claw, and run away.
There was no one on our beach: too early for joggers or over-enthusiastic dog walkers. The tide was going out, sucking at the sand, rattling the loose stones, and the sea was the colour of wet denim. Above it, the palest lemon yellow stained the sky. We dropped the blanket and the towel on the rocks and stood at the edge of the water. Flora put her hand in mine.
“What’s the worst that could happen,” I said. She squeezed my fingers, and my heart was so full of love for her. She counted to three and we ran into the water, high-stepping through the wavelets, laughing and shrieking at the cold. And when the water was up to Flora’s thighs, we plunged forwards and under. The coldness, as ever, was thrilling, breathtaking, a shock to every nerve. We came up gasping, and Flora stuck her nose out of the water like a seal as she bobbed about in the waves. She’s a fine swimmer—strong shoulders, with an even stroke. Her swimming coach is already saying good things about her. Flora’s a different child in the water, calmer and more self-aware. No, that’s wrong: she becomes one with it, literally in her element. You should see her.
She says, “When Daddy watches me swim in the gala . . .” or “When I look up from the pool and see Daddy . . .” or “When I win the competition . . .” What shall I tell her, Gil? When are you coming home? She needs you; we need you.
In 1976, on our way to the party, you drove us southwest, the noise of the road a roar in your little Triumph. We crossed the Thames twice, and it wasn’t until the terraced houses that pressed up against the sides of the dual carriageway yielded to playing fields and then countryside that I understood the party wasn’t in London. I’d never been out of the city before, except when I’d had to catch the train from Liverpool Street to Harwich and then a ferry to Oslo to visit my father once a year until he died.
I watched your profile as you drove, and once when we stopped at a red light, you leaned over and, with your hand around the back of my head, pulled me towards you and kissed me until a car horn sounded behind us. Somewhere near Basingstoke you said, “A slight detour. We have to pick Jonathan up from the station. It won’t take long.”
Jonathan. It’s difficult now to recall my first impressions. Tall, of course, and something off-centre in his clothes, his Irish accent, his face. I worked it out a while ago: he’s like one of those Michelangelo figures high up in the Sistine Chapel (Ezekiel or Jeremiah), their perspective perfect when viewed from the floor, but see them up close and they’re distorted—out of alignment. Despite the cigarette permanently hanging from his lips, Jonathan is the healthiest-looking man I know: muscled, ruddy, and freckled, as if he spends his time working outdoors instead of hunched over a desk. That day, do you remember, he was wearing plus fours and mustard-coloured socks with brogues as though he were on his way to a round of Edwardian golf. Beside him on the pavement was a porter’s trolley loaded with a barrel of beer, a milk-bottle crate of spirits, and, dangling from his raised hand, a full-size human skeleton. He held it high so its feet were flat upon the pavement and it appeared to stand beside him.
We got out of the car.
“What in God’s name have you got there?” you said. Passers-by (porters and businessmen, a woman with a child wearing reins) turned to stare.
“Annie, meet Gil,” Jonathan said. “Gil, Annie.” He jiggled the skeleton so its bones clattered.
“Surely you didn’t bring it all the way on the train?” You shook your head and laughed.
“You told me I should bring a guest.” Jonathan squinted through his cigarette smoke. “And I see you have, too.”
“This is Ingrid.”
Jonathan bowed and the skeleton dipped with him. While the two of you loaded the car boot with the alcohol, I held Annie, her knees on the pavement as if begging or praying, and saw a look pass between you both. I couldn’t interpret it at the time; it’s only with hindsight that I know Jonathan’s raised eyebrows meant he was questioning the wisdom of bringing me to the party. And your quick shrug to him, how shall I decode that now: recklessness, bravado, or a master plan?
In the car, Jonathan folded himself into the passenger’s seat while Annie and I lounged in the back.
“She’s been very well-behaved,” he said. “She sat beside me for most of the way until the guard wanted me to buy a ticket for her too, on account of her taking up a seat. After that she was happy to sit on my lap and fell asleep, actually. I think she might have been at the booze when I wasn’t watching.”