“The kind where you only leave a deposit? No, I’m not her type.”
There was a click as you switched on the record player, and a shuffle while you put an album on the turntable. The music started, the needle finding the beginning of a track. Wedged on the opposite sofa, Nan gave a single squawk and you turned it down.
“If there was an offer on the table I’d be very happy to carry out a thorough audit of her fixed assets,” you said quietly.
“I’m sure you’d depreciate them.”
“Let’s say there would be a definite upwards movement of goods and services.” You both sniggered like schoolboys and Jonathan’s leg muscles twitched under my head.
“So, how’s family life?” Jonathan said.
“Good, fine.” You were unconvincing.
“Because I have to say there’s been a bit of an atmosphere.”
“Has there?” You sounded defensive.
“You’re missing being the bachelor about town, is it?”
“I’ve finished with all that,” you said more loudly, and I wondered if you’d guessed I was listening.
“Really? I didn’t think you took your marriage vows so seriously. You know, I never imagined you would settle to life in the country. Wasn’t this place meant to be somewhere for writing and parties? I thought you’d escaped for good when your father died.”
“What do you mean? What’s Ingrid been saying?”
“I haven’t spoken to Ingrid,” Jonathan said. There was a pause. Perhaps you both looked at me, trying to decide if I really was asleep. “Don’t be cruel to her, Gil. She deserves better. If you’re going to fuck around, let her go.” You were both silent, drinking, until Jonathan said, “I didn’t think being barefoot and pregnant would be Ingrid’s thing either. I thought she wanted something more.”
“I saved her,” you said without a trace of irony.
“What the hell from?”
“A sad and lonely life.”
“Bloody hell, Gil. I think you really believe that.” If you replied I didn’t hear. “Well,” he continued, “you’d better write faster. Get the next book written before she pushes out another sprog.”
“That’s the plan,” you said, and yawned. “I’ve got to go to bed. I can’t keep up with your late-night drinking now I’m a family man.” I heard you go down the hall towards the bathroom.
Over my head Jonathan swilled the whiskey in his glass and knocked it back. I smelled the fumes on his breath as he bent over me. Moments passed and then he whispered, “Ingrid.” His fingers moved the strands of hair from my face and stroked my cheek.
I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “In Norway,” I said, “when a person drowns you’re meant to go out in a rowing boat with a cockerel.”
“Oh yes?”
“When the boat is over the body, the cockerel is supposed to crow. And then you can retrieve it so they can be properly buried.”
I don’t know what Jonathan would have said—would he have preferred to know or to live with hope?—because we heard you pad back along the hallway from the bathroom, and I sat up.
“Come on, sleepyhead, time for bed,” you said to me. You came forwards and took my hand as if the past few months had never happened; it was the first time we’d touched in weeks. You didn’t look at Jonathan as you pulled me off his lap and led me into the bedroom.
Although I was still breastfeeding Nan and Jonathan received the occasional cheque from his travel writing, with three of us to feed and keep in whiskey, money was always an issue. We lived off vegetables and lentils, and sometimes I bought the remains of a fisherman’s catch going cheap. I thought it was this that made me sick one morning, but when I threw up a second time, I knew. You’d always insisted on using the withdrawal method for our contraception (some Catholic thing, I supposed). I should have been firmer, I should’ve insisted on taking the pill, should’ve taken it without you knowing. I’d already been dreaming of when Nan was older, of the places I could go, the things I could see, even if you didn’t come with me. The walls of the Swimming Pavilion were closing in. And when you caught me kneeling beside the toilet I didn’t need to explain.
“The second of six, remember?” you said when we were all in the kitchen. You hugged me and slapped Jonathan on the back.
“We can’t afford it,” I said.
“Of course we can.”
“I can’t scrimp and save anymore.”
“I’ll get a job. It’ll be fine.”
Jonathan laughed, stopping when he saw your face.
“What?” you said. “You think I can’t?”
“What kind of job?” Jonathan said.
“I don’t know.” You dismissed the question with a wave of your hand; nothing was going to spoil this news. “Something in Hadleigh—fisherman, baker, candlestickmaker, behind the bar with Martin.”
Jonathan rolled his eyes. He thought it was funny.
“Talking of Martin,” you said. “A celebration is called for, I think.” You rubbed your hands together. “A lunchtime drink?”
“You finished the whiskey last night,” I said.