Read So Many Ways to Begin Online
Authors: Jon McGregor
13
Pocket appointment diaries
(incomplete set), dated 1935-1959
The first time they persuaded Laurence to visit Julia in the nursing home, she was smoking again, sitting by the window with her back partly turned to the door. They stood behind him in the doorway, and he looked back into the corridor as if he thought they might have the wrong room. They nodded, and he stepped forward. Hello, Mother? he said tentatively. She didn't seem to hear him. He took a half-step closer. Mother? he said again, and she still didn't move, the cigarette held out on the arm of her chair, a steady plume of smoke trailing towards the ceiling. Dorothy interrupted impatiently, pushing past Laurence and putting a hand across Julia's shoulder as she spoke, leaning over to look her in the eye.
Hello there Julia love, she said, it's Dorothy. We've brought Laurence to come and see you at last, and she said the at last so quietly that only Laurence could hear. Julia turned round, looking at David first, curiously, and then at Laurence, some level of understanding that wasn't quite recognition passing across her face.
Hello darling, she said, smiling abruptly. Hello, how good of you to come and see me. Have you got a kiss for poor Julia? Laurence stood in front of her for a moment, looming over her, gripping the fingers of one hand with the other, running his thumb back and forth across his palm. Julia looked up and turned her cheek towards him. He bent down to her so slowly and hesitantly that he almost lost his balance and had to grab on to the back of her chair, and as his lips touched her face he held them there, closing his eyes and seeming to hold his breath before lifting away and stepping back slightly. David looked at his mother, and past her to the window, and at Laurence. The room felt suddenly very full.
Laurence sat down on the edge of Julia's bed, his hands in his lap, looking at her. He reached up and smoothed his hair back across his head with the heel of his hand. He said, look, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come and see you, I've been posted abroad an awful lot, you know. She ignored him, as she'd learnt to do when there was something she didn't understand, gazing steadily at the room as if he hadn't spoken at all. He tried again. So, how are they looking after you in here? Is the food good? Have you met many people? His voice was loud and slow and he leant towards her slightly as he spoke. She looked at him, and at Dorothy.
I don't think you need to shout dear, she said dryly, we can all hear you. She squashed her cigarette into the ashtray.
Laurence had signed up for officer training when he did his National Service and had been in the army ever since. He'd never married, and there were no children that anyone knew about, and from the few letters he wrote to his mother it seemed as though the army had become his entire life, talking about
my boys,
and
the old man,
as if they were his family now. David only once heard Julia say she minded these long and repeated absences, or how seldom he ever wrote to say how he was, and even then it was with an insistence that she was just being silly, that he was a grown man and what did she have to complain about? I mean, she said, he's only following in his father's footsteps, isn't he?
He was stationed in Germany when they moved her into the home. He'd had to be sent the admissions papers to sign, and the financial documents, but he'd refused to discuss the situation with them. Dorothy had written, and even spoken to him by telephone on one occasion, but he'd only ever said that he trusted her judgement. I'm out of the picture here, he'd said, you're the one on the ground. I don't think she's looking after herself properly any more, Dorothy had told him, I don't think she's able to. Right, absolutely, he said, if you think so. We're trying our best, she told him, but we can't be down there every weekend. No, of course, he said, whatever you think's best Dorothy. You're the expert, he said, leaving her to talk to Julia about what was going to happen, to arrange a place for her, to make sure that the house was cleaned occasionally. And when they'd met him outside the home that morning, running a few minutes late, he'd seemed reluctant to go inside at all, standing away from the door and tracing lines in the gravel with the toe of his shoe. Ah, hello there, he said, seeming surprised to see them. This is it then, I've got the right place? I wasn't sure what to expect, he said.
They sat quietly for a while, the four of them, drinking the tea Dorothy had sent David to fetch, looking out into the garden. Julia asked for her cigarettes, and Laurence sprang up to find them for her, holding one out of the pack and lighting it when she put it to her lips. He looked pleased with himself, relieved to be able to do something for her at last. She smoked, and they waited for her to say something. She said, I hear they're building a new school at the end of the road there, where the theatre used to be, that'll be nice. Laurence looked at Dorothy, questioningly, and she discreetly shook her head. She said, I had a letter from Kathleen. Kathleen wrote and said she was coming to stay. I hope she does. I'm sure she will. She will, wouldn't you say? she said, turning to Dorothy, lifting her head to blow a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. She said, David, how's that girlfriend of yours, what's her name, the Scottish one, how's she? He looked at her, and at his-mother, and his mother smiled and turned her face away.
She's not my girlfriend Auntie Julia, he said, embarrassed, trying to remember when he'd said anything to his mother. Not really, he said.
Oh, Julia said, smiling, my mistake, sorry, and she winked at Laurence, making him roar with sudden delighted laughter.
They left him alone with her for a couple of hours, walking out around the streets, down through the park to Julia's old house and back along the canal.
You know she's not going to get any better, his mother said, and David nodded, and they didn't say anything more about it.
14
Pair of letters, handwritten, February 1967
That's so sad what you told me about your Auntie Julia. I told
my friend Ruth about it and she said her Gran went like that
too, but she was much older which makes it almost not so bad. I
hope it's not upsetting your mam too badly. It's funny saying
that when I've never met her, but you've told me so much about
her that I feel like I know her somehow. Sometimes I feel like I
know her better than my own mam.
There's something strange about my mam at the moment
though (more strange then normal I mean
1
.). I think she's upset
about something, or worried, but Da won't tell me what's wrong.
She's barely speaking to either of us, or going out the house, and I
think I maybe heard her crying last night. She was like this
sometimes when I was a wee girl, she used to blame me for it
then. She said I'd tired her out completely and she needed a rest.
I'm sure she'll be better soon but it's funny seeing her like it again
- it seems like such a long time since it happened before. I wonder
if she thinks it's my fault again, I don't see how she can when I'm
hardly ever in the house. Me and Ruth stayed out until almost
eleven o'clock last night
1
. We weren't doing anything, just sitting
in town and talking and walking about, but it was great to be out
like that. I almost caught it when I got home, and Da said I was
lucky Mam was away in bed already and not to do it again.
Ruth was looking at boys all evening but I told her I had no need.
She's like a wind-up toy that's all wound down, my mam, I
mean. She moves all slow and shuffly, like she's no sure what
she's doing. I hope she's not like it long this time - it gives me the
creeps. I'd rather she was shouting at me, you know? I think my
da is maybe taking her to the doctor's tomorrow.
Anyway I'm sorry, you didn't need to know all this. I'm just
blabbering what's on my mind. How about you? What have you
been doing this week? How's the museum? Have you been on
any more research trips? Is Mr Newbold still giving you grief
about taking time off? Write to me soon, won't you. Tell me some
more things about - oh I don't know, anything. I want to know
everything, David
!
.
Everything's a bit of a tall order, Ellie-Na. Do you want to know
what I had for breakfast this morning? (Fried egg and toast.) Or
how many cups of tea I made at work? (Not sure, something like
twenty-eight, but I usually lose count after lunch.) Or how many
files I had to look through before I found the lost index card for a
thirteenth-century dish that's been on display since the museum
opened? (No idea, but it felt like half the files in the whole office.)
If I told you everything, Ella-Nor, I'd spend my whole life writing
letters, and there'd be nothing left to tell
!
.
Sorry, that's a bit pedantic of me, I know. What should I tell
you? My Auntie Julia's not getting any better but she seems to
have stopped getting worse for the time being. Mum went down
to see her again this weekend and left me and Susan on our own
in the house. If you think eleven o'clock's late you should see
what time Susan got home
1
. I think she might be seeing someone
she met at work but she's being very mysterious about it. I
promised not to tell Mum ifshe paid my bus fare for a week, and
she said that was bribery but she still agreed. On Sunday me
and Danny took the train up to Birmingham -1 wanted to go to
an exhibition at the Gas Hall and he wanted to see a jazz group
in a pub, so we did half of each. He was asking me about you
again . . .
15
Picture postcard, John Lewis shipyard,
Aberdeen c.1967
Eleanor's parents didn't approve. Or perhaps it wasn't as dramatic as not approving, nor as genuine; perhaps they simply didn't consider David a serious proposition. She wrote about it in her letters: he's from so far away, she told him they said, it's just not practical. He's older than you. He's not got a proper trade. He's English. She spiked these quotations with exclamation marks, as if to deflate their power, and underlined the words she most objected to: practical, proper, serious. She joked about it, sometimes, but he knew that she resented the way they felt able to interfere in her life, to set such narrow limits for her. Is that English boy still writing to you? her mother would ask, when his letters dropped on to their hallway floor and Eleanor hurried from the breakfast table to retrieve them. You should tell him to find himself a local girl, she would add scornfully.
But beneath their disapproval and scorn lay a simple fear that Eleanor's father eventually voiced one afternoon while he and David were sitting together in the kitchen. He looked at David across the table, two mugs of tea between them, and he said so when you taking her away then son? He was sitting back in his chair, but his gaze was fixed and intent, his thick eyebrows hunched darkly over his eyes. David stalled.
I beg your pardon Mr Campbell? he said, leaning forward as if he hadn't quite caught the question. Stewart Campbell didn't even blink.
You heard, he said.
Eleanor and her mother Ivy were out on the front step, talking to one of the neighbours, the neighbour doing most of the talking, Eleanor laughing occasionally, her mother keeping up a steady supply of ayes and reallys and oh-no-I-knows.
Stewart's hands were resting on the table, his fists clenched, the knuckles white. I asked when you're planning on taking Eleanor away from here, he said, laying a slow emphasis on each word. His self-contained ferocity took David by surprise. There was no shouting, no banging on the table, but for a few moments it felt as though one wrong word would bring Stewart vaulting across the table towards him. And even though he was in his late sixties by then, and often short of breath, it was obvious what a lifetime of working in the shipyards had done for the steel-rope hardness of his body. Shaking his hand had been evidence enough.
Mr Campbell, David said, trying to look him in the eye, I haven't, we haven't, really thought about that.
Stewart looked back at him, saying nothing, waiting for him to continue.
I mean, Eleanor's got her life here, David said. Her friends, her job, it wouldn't make any sense to, you know.
Aye and you'd know about that, would you? Stewart asked quickly, his voice picking up volume. You'd know all about her life here then? You want to tell me about it, do you? He leant forwards as he said it, gripping the edge of the table now, peering in at David's face as if looking for something. David could still hear Eleanor laughing outside, the sound coming through the open door. He wondered if the back door was open behind him.
But almost as quickly as Stewart's temper had flared, it softened again. He sat back, held out his palms, laid them in his lap. His face lost its pointed glare. Let me tell you something, he said, his voice calm again, distant. Let me tell you. It's not long ago, not long ago at all, that Eleanor was sitting here with her legs halfway to the floor and her chin resting on the edge of the table. David nodded and rubbed the sweat from his palms under the table. They were all that small once, Stewart said, and then before you know it they're banging their heads on the ceiling and popping out the door and that's them gone. Doesn't take long, he said. Hamish was gone before Eleanor was even born, and Eleanor will be gone soon enough.
He looked at David again, his eyes clear. But it's fine, he said. Your children grow into adults, and they leave, and they make a life of their own. It's the way the world turns, he said. He closed his eyes for a moment and eased out a loud slow breath. He lowered his head, rolled it from side to side, and looked up. But there's leaving and there's leaving, he said. You understand me? David nodded, and he knew from the look in Stewart's eyes that he hadn't meant to say all these things, and that when Eleanor asked him later what they'd been talking about he should say oh nothing much, he was just telling me about when you were small.
Ivy came back into the room, asking David if he wanted another mug of tea before he was on his way, and stopped for a moment, looking at him, looking at Stewart. Years later, David thought about the two of them in that kitchen and imagined them there when they were much younger, the children asleep in bed, both of them exhausted from a long day's work, sitting and talking while all around them wet sheets, hung from lines strung across the ceiling, steamed and dripped and swayed like storm-sodden sails; other people's laundry putting food on the table. And he imagined them sitting at that same table much later, the house empty around them, unspoken regrets and recriminations swept out of sight like crumbs from the table, silence blanketing the room, the two of them avoiding each other's eyes.
No, thank you very much, he said, standing up. That's enough tea for me, thank you Mrs Campbell. He smiled. I'll be on my way now, thank you. He glanced at Stewart briefly. Ivy stepped aside to let him pass, and he walked down the hallway and out into the sunshine, where Eleanor was waiting for him.
And as his visits became more frequent, their letters to each other became less guarded, their thoughts less veiled. They began to make half-serious suggestions about one day living not so far apart. They said that they missed each other, and thought about each other as they were going to sleep. They told each other more, much more, about their lives and their families and their secrets. And after he'd been there half a dozen times, and after they'd written maybe a hundred letters and postcards between them, she wrote this at the end of a short note she sent, almost as an afterthought, almost as if she thought he might not notice:
You could come
up again the weekend after next. My parents are away to
Glasgow and Donald and Ros will be gone as well. You could
come and stay at the house. If you'd like that.
He remembered thinking, on balance, that he probably would.