The Swimming Pool Season Read Free

torso. His face is wide and his blue eyes generous and kind. His hair is wild, curly and grey.
    â€œNo. Not Leni. It’s not her writing. But it’s postmarked Oxford.”
    â€œOh? Who, I wonder?”
    â€œAddressed to you.”
    The mist has cleared. On the flagstone terrace, expertly laid by Larry, the sun is falling on straggly geraniums in plastic urns painted to look like stone. Old Mallélou has admired the lightness of these pots. His own existence is hedged with weightier things.
    â€œI’m off then, Miriam,” says Larry. He wears shorts and a sweat shirt. His sturdy, short legs beneath these move him rather jerkily to the hook where he hangs his car keys.
    â€œOff where, Larry?”
    â€œPérigueux. It’s time I looked up those pool suppliers.”
    â€œI thought we were going to wait till the spring now.”
    â€œI don’t want to wait. I want to get on with it.”
    Miriam goes to the fridge and takes out a carton of orange juice. The orange juice in France tastes of sugar and chemicals. Miriam mourns her Unigate delivery.
    â€œWell. What time will you be back?”
    â€œOh, not sure. Car needs a spin. I’ll go via Harve’s and see if he wants anything. You’ll be working, won’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œRemind me, when I get back, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
    â€œTalk to me now.”
    â€œNo, no. It’s not that important. Just a thought I’ve had about the car.”
    â€œThe car? You’re not thinking of changing it in are you?”
    â€œWe should trade it in this year. But I don’t think there’s any question. Next year perhaps, after the pool’s in.”
    â€œSo what about the car?”
    â€œNothing, Miriam.” Larry is agitated now, wanting to leave. The Périgueux road goes past a waterfall. Perfect spot, this, he always thinks, for a car commercial, and imagines himself in a spanking new Datsun Cherry or a VW Scirocco. “It’s just a little scheme which, like all my schemes, will come to nothing.”
    â€œWhat are you upset about, Larry?”
    â€œUpset?”
    â€œYes. You seem upset.”
    â€œI’m not upset, Miriam. I’m just keen to press on.”
    â€œYou’ll get a beer and a sandwich or something for lunch?”
    â€œYes. Don’t worry about me.”
    Miriam smiles. “Larry, you’ve still got that tea towel over your shoulder.” Larry doesn’t smile. He seems fussed with rage. He snatches the towel off and leaves without another word.
    In the lane, his passage to his Granada is temporarily blocked by Gervaise’s cows slipping and swaying past his house on their way back to the fields. Mallélou with his stick and Larry with his car keys exchange a silent greeting.
    Miriam sits down at the heavy wooden table – bought in Eye, Suffolk, for six pounds – and opens the letter. It is, after all from Leni Ackerman, but written in black biro by someone else.
    25 Rothersmere Road
    Oxford
    Dearest Miriam ,
    Kind Gary – you remember my lodger, Gary? – is going to help me with this letter because at the moment my silly hands refuse to do anything practical, like holding a pen .
    I’m not writing to worry you, but I have been ill. Dr. Wordsworth talks about a “respiratory infection” but the old rascal means pneumonia and I was in hospital for a while. Now I’m home and a nurse comes. She gets paid with that BUPA thing I’ve kept on since your father’s death. I think they rake it in, those private insurance schemes, but now I’m grateful for it and my nurse is called Bryony which I like as a name, don’t you?
    I hope I shall be up soon and back at my desk. And perhaps at Christmas you might afford the trip over. I do miss you, Miriam darling, and have thought of you so much in this recent time. I hope those plans you had for a new exhibition are