Read So Many Ways to Begin Online
Authors: Jon McGregor
30
Girls hairbrush, wooden-handled, c. 1940s
And then she told him about Tessa leaving home. It happened quickly, she said. One day she was there and the next she was gone. I woke up in the middle of the night and I heard people talking downstairs, shouting, Tessa and my ma and da, in the front room and the hall and the kitchen, doors slamming and all sorts. I heard Tessa coming up the stairs, stamping, and then it sounded like she fell.
She was eight years old when it happened, ten years younger than her sister, lying in bed with the covers pulled up over her face, trying not to listen to what was going on. But she could hear her mother asking where were you? Where've you been? over and over again, and Tessa yelling nowhere, nowhere, what do you mind? in return. She could hear her father, his voice low and insistent, and she could picture him standing between the two of them, holding them apart, trying to lower Ivy's raised hands.
She knew that there'd been talk, Talk of a man Tessa had been seen with, and how much she'd been seen with him. She didn't know what it meant to be seen with someone, but she knew that her parents didn't like it. Folk have been talking, her mother had said a few weeks earlier; I'll not have folk talking about any family of mine, you hear me?
Eleanor lay in bed, wondering what people had been saying, wondering when the shouting was going to stop. She heard her mother say aye, well I know very well where you've been young miss, do you think I'm soft in the head or something? She heard her sister's voice saying something she couldn't quite catch, a slap, and a sudden clatter of footsteps up the stairs. She lifted the covers, peering out from beneath them, holding her breath, and dropped them again as soon as the door swung open and the light burst on. And in that short bright instant before she dropped the covers she saw her sister for the last time, looking straight at her. Something had happened to her face. The skin around her eyes was coloured a pale powdery blue, her lips a swollen cherry red. Eleanor listened to her sister's heavy breathing as she stood in the doorway, and the slow pound of her mother's footsteps following up the stairs.
A few nights earlier, she'd heard another argument, in the hallway and on the street, waking up just in time to hear her father use a voice she'd never heard before nor would ever hear again, a voice which had seemed to come blazing from somewhere deep in the hold of his belly. Aye, you go on, he'd yelled. Away you go now son, away you go! And see if I ever catch sight of your face again I will batter it for you, you hear me?
She heard her mother get to the top of the stairs, and her father coming up behind, and she heard everything happening at once, everyone talking over each other and stumbling into the furniture, the sound of smacks and slaps and yelps and whispers. She closed her eyes tightly and lay perfectly still, hoping that if they thought she was asleep they would none of them talk to her, or say it was her fault, or ask her questions about it in the morning.
She heard her father saying now Ivy, let's just calm down a little.
She heard her mother saying no Stewart, no. She's gone too far now.
She heard her father saying Ivy, Ivy. She heard her mother saying quietly and calmly, that Tessa was to pack her things and leave, that she was no longer a daughter of the family and would never again be welcome in the house. She heard a soft sniffling, and the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and footsteps up and down the stairs, and people moving around and talking in the kitchen.
And when she next opened her eyes it was morning, and the room was still and quiet and bare. The sheets had been stripped from her sister's bed, and the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe was gone. Her mother came in while she was getting dressed, and without saying anything or even looking at her, she cleared the rest of Tessa's things into a black bag and put it outside by the bins.
I barely heard her name mentioned again, she told David. And if I did it was my ma saying something like, aye she'll not be coming back here again, or, she'll see what she gets if she shows her face around here. Things like that, she said, you know.
David looked at her, astonished. No, he said, I don't know. I don't know at all.
31
Nurse's fob watch, engraved RCN, 1941
When he went to visit, Auntie Julia would usually be sitting by the window, turned towards the garden, her face as blank and unconcerned as if she were gazing out to sea. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and wait for her to notice him, wondering how long she could stay so still. Sometimes the cold afternoon light would make her skin look waxed and unreal, and he would wonder if she was there at all until he saw some slight movement in her face, the rise and fall of her breathing, a flicker in her eyes.
Julia, he would say eventually.
Julia. Softly, not wanting to frighten her.
Well, come in if you're coming in, she would reply, sharply, instinctively learning to cover up for herself. No use standing there all day, my dear.
Now she didn't even say this; he had to come into the room and lay his hands on her shoulders, crouching beside her and saying her name over and over again as if calling her back from a deep sleep.
Hello Julia, he said, when she finally turned her face and met his eye. It's good to see you again, he said. How are you doing? She didn't say anything. Are you warm enough? he asked. It's cold out, are you warm enough in here? She looked at him. She seemed to be thinking about it.
What's that dear? she said.
Are you warm enough? he said again, raising his voice a little.
You're not Laurence, are you? she said. They said Laurence was coming. Is he coming?
I don't know, he told her; he should be, he will be soon I'm sure.
When? she said, leaning her ear towards him, as if he'd told her and she hadn't quite heard.
Soon, he said. Soon, I'm sure.
But when? she insisted. They said he was coming. They said he'd be here soon, she said.
Tomorrow, he told her, regretting it as soon as he'd spoken. Laurence is coming tomorrow.
Oh good, she said, I am glad. Tomorrow, she repeated, reminding herself.
But you're not Laurence, are you? she said, a few moments later.
No, he said. No, I'm not Laurence. I'm David, he said, raising his voice, slowing his words, David. I used to call you Auntie Julia, remember, Auntie Julia? She looked at him indignantly.
But I'm not your aunt, she said.
No, he said, no, you're not. It was just something we used to call you. Me and Susan.
Yes, she said, relaxing, that's right, Susan. She smiled suddenly.
She asked him for a cigarette. He found the packet in her bedside drawer and helped her to light one. She turned her face to the window, closing her eyes with each long and slow inhalation. He waited. She seemed to have fallen asleep. Her cigarette was smouldering in the ashtray, half-smoked, the filter smeared with lipstick, smoke spiralling into the air. He reached across to stub it out, and emptied the ashtray into the bin.
Julia, he said. She turned towards him. Julia, I'm thinking of going to Ireland, he said.
She looked at him. What's that? she said. Ireland, he repeated. I want to see if there's anything I can find out, he said. She smiled.
That sounds nice, she said. What time will you be back? He closed his eyes, drawing his finger and thumb along his eyebrows, pinching the tip of his nose. He couldn't help smiling a little.
I don't know what time I'll be back Julia, he said; it's a long way to go, I might stay the night. I might stay a few nights, he added.
He looked out of the window. A gardener was raking up fallen leaves, working his way around the five trees in the enclosed garden, leaving a trail of molehill heaps behind him. It had been a dry autumn, and the leaves were small, curled up at the edges. The man looked old, and was working very slowly, his breath condensing around his face as the last warmth ebbed out of the day.
Angela wanted me to come over to dinner, she said. I told her it would have to wait until next week because you were coming to stay. She smiled broadly, a brief laugh breaking out of her as she turned towards him. Her smile slipped as she caught his eye. She squinted at him, and smiled again. Hello dear, she said.
I thought I might go to Donegal, he said, leaning towards her. She was watching the gardener retrace his steps, stooping down to gather up the armfuls of leaves and put them in a wheelbarrow. I thought I might go to Donegal, he said again, when I go to Ireland, I've heard it's nice there. Do you know Donegal at all? He shuffled his seat a little closer towards hers. Do you know of any good places to visit? he said. She kept her face turned to the window. The tone of her skin was softening as the light faded, and her eyes were half closed. She didn't say anything. She seemed to be just listening to the sound of his voice.
Eleanor doesn't think I should go, he said, persisting. She says I haven't got any idea where to start, she says I'll just upset myself. She says it's too late now, after all this time, he said. Julia smiled, and nodded, and opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again.
The gardener scooped up the last little pile of leaves and pushed the wheelbarrow towards the archway at the far end of the garden. It was almost dark, and lights were beginning to come on in some of the other rooms. He could see the other residents sitting by their windows, gazing out at the bare-boned trees, their faces as blank as Julia's.
I'd like to be able to tell her I'm okay, he said, that's all.
Julia held her hands together in her lap, perfectly still. He noticed that the gardener had forgotten to take his rake, leaving it leaning against the branches of one of the trees.
Did she never try and get back in touch? he said. Didn't she write, just to ask? He spoke softly, as if being careful not to wake her. It's difficult, he said, not even a surname. To know where to start, he said.
She reached out towards the ashtray, looking for the cigarette, and caught his eye. For a moment he thought she looked frightened. She seemed to flinch away from him.
Have you seen my cigarettes? she said irritably. What have you done with my cigarettes? He took the packet from her bedside drawer and helped her to light another one. She smoked it quickly and unsteadily, spilling flakes of ash on to her cardigan.
They're digging up the road again, she said. I told them. Josephine wanted to come and stay and I said you'd be more than welcome but it's not the best time. I was terribly surprised but there wasn't all that much I could do. That man, what was his name, he told me, what did he say, that man?
He listened to her talking, watching the small movements of her hands, shrunken versions of the expansive gestures she used to make when she spoke, her fingers twirling tiny circles in the air as she tried and failed to pull her thoughts together. She faltered back into silence, her cigarette burning down to the filter in her hand. He reached out and took it from her, squashing it into the ashtray, and sat looking at her in the near darkness. He noticed, in the garden, the man coming back for his rake.
32
University prospectuses; 1969,
1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974
Someone came to the door this afternoon but I don't know who it was, Eleanor said. They rang and rang and I didn't want to answer it. I didn't know who it might have been or why they wouldn't go away.
Her eyes faint and distant, refusing to meet his.
I meant to go to the shops, she said; there's some things we need; I'm sorry but I couldn't face going outside just now.
Her once-clear voice cracked and whispering.
I don't feel too good, that's the thing, she said. I don't feel too good at all.
It wasn't what they'd imagined, this life. It wasn't what they'd planned. She'd been going to study geology, get her degree, get a job, maybe go back to Aberdeen and show them all what she'd achieved, show them why she'd come away and hear them say, well, it was worth it after all. The stalled applications, the funding problems, the withdrawing of the course - these weren't part of the plan. The unhappy and unfulfilling jobs which she couldn't stick at weren't part of the plan. Her increasing reluctance to leave the house unless she was with David wasn't part of the plan. She was going to get her degree, the money from his job would help her through university, she could get any job she wanted when she left, they could go anywhere, she could do anything. Sleepless nights and uneaten dinners weren't part of the plan.
People started to tell him she wasn't well. I'm sorry David, but I'm worried about her, they would say. I don't mean to intrude but. They would say these things quickly, quietly, on the telephone, or while Eleanor was waiting outside in the car and he was struggling into his coat, or once she'd made her excuses and wandered upstairs to bed.
I don't want to interfere but I'm worried you can't quite see it, they would say; she's not well. Putting the emphasis on the word
well,
as though it was some kind of euphemism.
She needs help, they would say, with the word
help
said in the same way.
But it came and went, whatever it was, and each time it went he convinced himself that this time it had gone for good, that it had just been a difficult time of adjustment she'd been going through; that being in a new town would of course be bewildering as well as exciting; that of course she couldn't make new friends straight away. It's okay, he told people, when they said these things - Susan, or his mother, his friend Danny, Anna at work - she'll be okay. She's just feeling a bit down. She's tired. She'll be fine again in a while. It was only when she lost her job at the chemist's shop that he realised something was more seriously wrong; when they telephoned him at work and told him they were sorry but his wife didn't seem to be feeling well and would he be able to come and take her home?
She'd only started the job a week earlier. She'd mentioned it to him when he got home from work, casually, turning away to put the kettle on and saying so they gave me that job, as if she was embarrassed about it, as if it was nothing, really. But when he took hold of her waist and swung her round, when he said El that's fantastic, that's great, she couldn't help smiling and dipping her head in excitement, saying aye I know I know, taking his hands and jumping up and down. It wasn't the job itself she was excited about, she admitted to him later, but the fact that she'd found it and claimed it for herself. I feel like a real grown-up now she'd said, showing him the smart white coat they'd given her to wear, telling him how the interview had gone, telling him proudly what her duties would entail and saying that when she was on a morning shift they could walk into work together, couldn't they?
The chemist's was one of a row of temporary shops which had been hurriedly put up on Broadgate after the war. A large area of land behind the neat arched frontages was still derelict, weeds and shrubs growing up from the bomb-cratered ground. You must take your wife to see the doctor, the manager of the shop told him when he went to take her home. There are things they can do. She's waiting outside, he added, at the back. We didn't know what to do, he said.
Eleanor was crouching on the rough ground a few yards from the back door, smoking. She was staring at the back of the library buildings opposite, her face set into a hard blank mask. Her skin was pale, and each time she lifted the cigarette to her mouth her arm shook weakly. Eleanor, he said. She didn't react. Eleanor, he said again.
Do you want to go home now Eleanor? he said. He put his hand on her knee, gently, and she started but she didn't pull away. She let the cigarette fall to the ground from her fingers, the smoke scattering across the dirt in the light afternoon breeze. They heard a bus revving up on the corner, someone shouting. Her eyes were red and sore, as if she'd been rubbing them.
Come on then, he said, let's go home now.
I can't go home, she said urgently, her voice no more than a whisper. He crouched beside her, lifting his hand to her shoulder, moving her hair away from her face with one finger. She stiffened beneath his touch, but she didn't move away.
Come on, he said. We'll go back now, okay? I'll run you a hot bath and make you some dinner. We'll see if we can work this out, eh? And I won't burn the dinner this time, he said, smiling, I promise. She tried to smile in reply but managed only a sort of pale grimace, wiping quickly at the tears spilling from her eyes.
I can't go yet, she said. I'm not off until six. I have to go back into the shop. Her voice was strained and taut.
No you don't, he told her, it's okay, you can come home early today. Mr Jenkins said it would be alright. He stood up and held out his hand to help her. She looked straight past him, out across the craters and ditches and weeds, looking past the ruins of the old cathedral to the sheer glass soar of the new, its scaffold spire breaking into the sky. He leant down, putting his hands under her arms, and lifted her gently to her feet. Her body was soft and limp, unresisting, like a sleepy child's. Come on then, he said, let's go home now.
I can't go home, she said again, almost too quietly for him to hear. He walked with her through the shop, nodding to Mr Jenkins as they passed. When they got back to the house he helped her to undress and get into bed, and sat there for a time while he waited for her to fall asleep. She stared at the wall, wide-eyed, flinching when he tried to stroke her hair or her shoulders, eventually asking him in a small quiet voice to please just leave her on her own now thank you.
Maybe he wouldn't tell them this part of the story, when it came to it. It wasn't what they'd planned. It wasn't supposed to be a part of the way things were. He could say we had our ups and downs, you know. He could say, it was difficult for a while but then it was fine.