She knew you weren’t in there, that you haven’t been here for months (I’ve just worked it out, and you’ve been gone for three-quarters of a year), but perhaps Flora liked to imagine your door opening, you sweeping her up, striding over to the house, and fixing everything. Nan tried to catch my eye, to share an expression with me. I turned away, but not before I saw those raised eyebrows, that adult understanding of where her father might be—too many things guessed at without any real knowledge, even for a girl of fifteen. Of course, you aren’t here to fix Annie; you aren’t here to fix anything anymore.
“Daddy’s in London doing things with books,” Nan called out to her sister, and Flora stopped her hammering and gave the door a kick instead. Later, when I kissed her good night, she asked whether you’d be home in time for her swimming gala, and I didn’t know what to say. What shall I tell her, Gil? And what do I say to Nan when she raises her eyebrows again with that knowing look? That I’m tired of forgiving you? That I’m not sure I want you back this time?
So, Annie. I couldn’t bear to just sweep her up and tip the pieces into the dustbin (jaw against ankle, hip touching skull), so late yesterday we piled all the bones we could find (Flora crawling in the dust under the beds—I’m sure several teeth have vanished) into the old Silver Cross pram I found under the house, and bumped it down the chine to the sea. Every time a wheel hit a stone, Annie’s remains jumped and rattled.
We carried the old Silver Cross over the sand, up to the far end of the beach where it tapers away under the cliff. As the sun set behind the village, the children helped me dig a hole—the three of us excavating rocks for half an hour—then we laid Annie to rest and toasted her with flat lemonade. We put the picnic rug over the top of her grave and ate jam sandwiches.
“I think we should say a prayer,” Nan said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Flora said. “You don’t believe in God; none of us do.”
“But a prayer is still a nice thing to say and sometimes it makes you feel better,” Nan said patiently. She bowed her head. “To dear Annie. We will miss you. May your bones be washed by the salt water, your spirit return to the sand, and the love we had for you be forever around us.” (Nan can be quite poetic when she puts her mind to it.)
“Amen to that,” Flora said.
“Amen,” I said.
Later, after the children were in bed, I went again to the beach. I lay on the grave with the stars shining above in the huge arc of the sky and wondered where you were lying, and I thought about all the things that have gone wrong and whether we will ever be able to put them right.
It was Jonathan I told first about the pregnancy. Not you, not Louise, and actually for a while I denied it to myself—the frightening idea that something alien had set seed inside me. I wanted Jonathan to make it go away. I wanted it to never have happened. But perhaps there were other things Jonathan didn’t want to face, because he said I had to tell you.
“You should make the decision together,” he said.
I tried to tell you that I didn’t want it, wasn’t ready, might never be ready, but you put your finger on my lips and said, “Marry me,” and all those plans of creating my own category and giving you up after the summer disappeared like a wisp of sea mist under the relentless energy of your sun. You stroked my stomach. “One down, five to go,” you said, and took me to America to celebrate.
Do you remember the yard sale we stopped at on the road between Sebastopol and Guerneville after we’d driven north from San Francisco? And those three grown-up brothers selling the contents of their grandmother’s house, everything laid out by the side of the road for any passing tourist to rummage through? Heaps of tarnished cutlery, books, threadbare linen piled on decorating tables, and a leather three-piece suite set out in the front yard.
“Let’s buy it,” you said, bouncing on the cushions.
“Gil, get up,” I said, pulling on your hand. “Don’t be silly. It’s horrible, and how would we get it home?” You gave me a tug so I fell into your lap. You held me by the waist and kissed me, and we toppled sideways, you manoeuvring until you were lying on me in full view of the house.
“Tell me what you want me to do. We can do anything—anything at all,” you whispered.
“Gil! Someone will come. Someone will see,” I said. And then, as a final attempt to get you off, “The baby!”
“Who’ll come? The Three Brothers Grimm?” Your hand was under my skirt and your mouth pressed against my neck.
“Gil!” I struggled, but I was laughing, too, twisting my head to move your lips from my ear. I think you might even have got as far as unzipping your fly when a shadow fell across my face.
“What the fuck?” said the man looking down on us. From where I lay, I could see the bottom of his belly hanging over the cinched belt of his jeans.
Still on top of me, you reached for a box of books beside the sofa and picked up the top one. “How much for this?” You smiled your most handsome smile. I pushed hard against your chest with my hands and scrambled out from underneath you, pulling my skirt over my knees, sitting up straight and blushing like a teenager caught by a parent who’s come home earlier than expected. You sat up, too, and flicked through the book, stopped at a page and read. The margins were filled with notes and drawings. “In fact,” you said, “how much for the whole box?”
Later I learned the cost of that holiday. Everything, including the box of books, bought with money we didn’t have.
Yours,
Ingrid