The Illuminations (4 page)

‘You get used to it,’ Alice said. ‘I went through it all with his father. You just pray the same thing won’t happen to him.’

‘Did he die, Alice, your man?’

Anne got in quickly. ‘His name was Sean Campbell.’ She put her hands on the table and began smoothing them.

‘That’s right, Mum.’

‘I’m not daft,’ Anne said. ‘I know who Sean is.’

Alice pursed her lips. She felt better for not jumping down her mother’s throat. Then she lowered her voice in the manner of a considered and patient person. ‘My husband Sean was killed in Northern Ireland,’ she said. ‘He was serving with the Western Fusiliers, the same regiment that Luke is with now, and they were on patrol in Belfast, you know. And there was this place, the Divis Flats, where a bomb went off. There was a primary school just there and it was playtime but the kids weren’t out and the bomb went off and it killed Sean.’

‘Holy Mother of God,’ Maureen said.

‘That’s right.’

Anne heard what they were saying but she didn’t want to hear it and thought instead about the cafes she used to go to with Harry. Oh, the lovely places. She also thought about bombers and things from history that existed for her now as evidence of someone she used to be. When the women at the table paused she looked up. ‘Was that 1940?’

‘Sorry, Mum?’ Alice said.

‘The Sean thing.’

‘It was 1987,’ Alice said. ‘Luke was only five.’

‘Then she met
somebody else
,’ Anne said. She liked to talk about Alice as if she wasn’t there. ‘Another man.’

‘That’s not fair, Mum. I didn’t go out of the house. Not for ten years, I didn’t go out. Luke was at school.’

‘You were living in Glasgow?’ asked Maureen.

‘Glasgow, yes. We lived in Kent Road. It was a wee flat Sean and I bought when we got married.’

‘You got a pension, though,’ Anne said. She was staring at the crumbs on her plate. ‘Somebody always gets the pension.’

‘I was a widow with a small boy,’ Alice said. ‘A widow. My husband was dead and it was —’

‘Husband.’

‘Yes, Mum. My
husband
, Sean.’ She turned back to Maureen and was keen to finish the story. ‘I didn’t meet Gordon until Luke was settled at university.’

‘At Strathclyde?’

‘That’s right. Luke went to the University of Strathclyde. And the next thing we knew he had applied for army entrance and he passed the exams down south and went to Sandhurst.’

‘When was that, Alice?’

‘It was 2001. I remember he went in September 2001 because it was just after the thing in New York.’

‘It was planes,’ Anne said.

‘That’s right,’ said Maureen. ‘It was on TV.’

‘The Royal Western Fusiliers,’ Alice continued. ‘You pick the regiment you want during officer training. Sean liked being with the Scots and the Irish, boys from there or the North of England.
And so does Luke. I can tell you it’s not what I wanted for my Luke.’

‘The North Pier,’ Anne said.

They just ignored her. It was now part of the routine, to assume Anne was now and then speaking to herself.

‘Those planes went over Jane Street,’ Anne said, lost in her own thoughts. ‘That’s where I used to live in New York.’

‘Mum says she lived in New York,’ Alice said. ‘When she was a young woman. Before me.’

‘Jane Street,’ Anne said. ‘I took pictures. I took them for J. Walter Thompson. Colgate.’

‘Everything was before me,’ Alice said. At times she felt that her mother might suffocate her with the past. Yet she went silent, admiring the mix of periods, wondering if her mother’s neighbour really had any notion of the places that Anne had been to in her busy life. Sometimes Alice would just be sitting like this and she’d suddenly realise she was in pain, without really knowing where it came from.

JANE STREET

It was a rainy night when Maureen heard tapping through the wall and knew Anne must be up to something. ‘It’s all slush outside,’ she said as she opened the door to Anne’s flat. She had used the skeleton key and made a bit of a noise so as not to frighten her when she came in. ‘It’s all slush. Are you there, dear? Are you all right?’

Anne was sitting in a dining chair. The room was lit with a single lamp. She had a hammer across her knees, a pool of tacks
in her lap. ‘My mother didn’t keep well,’ Anne said, turning as Maureen came in. ‘She was an awful one for headaches.’

‘You came to live with the aunties?’

‘That’s right. I came to Glasgow to look after them. Aunt Anna. Aunt Grace. Four of them.’

‘You came from New York?’

‘When I was a young woman,’ Anne said, ‘I took nice pictures. At night you could see the lights on in every building.’

‘That must have been nice.’

‘Yes. Before I met Harry.’

‘And when exactly did Harry die, Anne?’

She took one of the tacks from her lap and tapped it into the wall in front of her, then she turned. ‘The hot summer,’ she said. ‘All the children were outside in their bikinis and what have you. Squeezy bottles filled with water. Running about in the sun soaking one another.’

‘And what happened to your photography?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘All that talent of yours?’

‘I don’t remember.’

She sat back in the chair and looked at the shadow she’d created with tacks on the living-room wall. The rabbit was on the carpet but it seemed neglected and Anne didn’t mention it.

‘I brought you some scent,’ Maureen said. ‘A wee bottle that was sitting in a drawer next door. I won’t use it.’

‘You always put on too much perfume.’

Maureen could be hurt by some of the things the old people said but she knew they didn’t mean it.

‘But I don’t wear this one,’ she said. ‘Esther brought it from France but it’s too strong for me. I used to like strong ones.’ She
took it over to Anne and unscrewed the top so Anne could have a sniff.

‘France, did you say?’

‘Aye.’

‘I don’t know about France,’ Anne said. ‘More like the kind of thing they wear in Manchester.’

The winter had given Maureen lessons in patience and they were lessons she felt she probably needed. She and Alice had a conversation on the telephone and agreed that Luke’s going off to Afghanistan had seen the beginning of a change in Anne. It was odd. All this Harry stuff and talk about Blackpool. All this about war planes, about Canada and New York and the old aunts. Anne was fading away and becoming known at the same time and Maureen was there to see it happening. It was fast at first and then slow. That morning Anne was looking at the picture of Luke on the wall of her bedroom and said, ‘These are the men I know.’

When Maureen was installing the new perfume in Anne’s bathroom she happened to notice two more suitcases and several boxes on top of the linen cupboard. They must have gone with Anne from house to house. Using the towel-rail for assistance, she stood on the toilet seat and reached up to put her hand into one of the boxes. Right at the top, Maureen found a photograph that appeared silvery in the bathroom light. It showed a kitchen sink with old taps and a pair of breakfast bowls waiting to be washed and a milk bottle filled with soapy water. The sink and its contents shone like nothing on earth and Maureen held it out in front of her, trying to imagine the young woman who could make a picture like that.

‘Good Lord, Anne,’ she said, returning to the living-room. ‘I had
no idea you kept even more of these old suitcases. They have labels on them, those beautiful old labels you used to get. It says:
Anne Quirk, 12 Jane Street, New York
. That must be you.’

‘That was me.’

Maureen’s own mother had been self-sufficient at the end and didn’t want help, but Anne was different and full of surprises, like the miracle of that photograph, thought Maureen. She helped Anne into bed. She spread the covers and leaned in to put off the lamp.

‘I need to send a cheque or a postal order,’ Anne said.

‘Everything’s all right.’ Maureen tucked her in and felt glad that she and Anne were the great pals of Lochranza Court. It was lovely to know a person who doesn’t want to judge you all the time.

‘But it needs to be sent to Blackpool,’ Anne said. ‘They have two daughters and one’s called Sheila.’

‘Who are these people, Anne? Can I help you?’

‘They’re my friends. She’s the landlady.’

She enjoyed looking at Maureen’s face, how it became lively when things were upsetting, how she always had something to say. Maybe Maureen was a shopkeeper, the way she came to her room with soup and milk. And maybe she could help her send the money to Blackpool.

Don’t forget the Scotch tape, Harry. And if I were you I would get some cotton wool. Bert phoned and said there’s an editor who wants the youth of today. That’s what they’re looking for. I was out half the night at the cafes and these pictures, Harry, you’ll like one or two, I’m sure you will. These teenagers. You wouldn’t believe them. On Saturday I’m photographing a group at the Fleetwood Marine.

Maureen stroked her hand. ‘Away to sleep,’ she said. ‘There’ll be another day tomorrow, if God spares us.’

‘Harry said he would come.’

‘Away to sleep.’

Maureen wandered back to her own flat. It must be good to know that your husband was something in the world and that he loved you. Must give you a good feeling, Harry saying your name as he flew over the fields and saying your name when he lay down beside you at night.

2M2H

Early one morning in the summer of that year a troop carrier roared past a melon stall on the road to Maiwand. Inside the vehicle the boys were ribbing each other, the boys of A Section, a pair of fire teams in the 1st Royal Western Fusiliers. It wasn’t strictly an Irish regiment but it had always attracted boys with a sense of Ireland behind them, a number of songs or a father who swore by an old decision.

The cab shook and you could taste the dust. The lads were jammed in the middle of the convoy. Captain Luke Campbell was in charge of the section and he sat in the Vector with his rifle flat across his knees. He was talking about the Afghan servicemen they were meant to be looking after during the mission. ‘The nobs can blab all they like,’ Luke said. ‘There are ANA troops I’d choose over half the Paras.’

‘Too right,’ Private Dooley said.

‘No messin’,’ Flannigan said. ‘I’d take the ragamuffins every time over the Plonkers.’

Luke screwed up his face. ‘But we’re not training the Plonkers, much as they fucken need it. We’re training the Fundies. Keep it clear in your heads: we’re the Operational Mentor Liaison Team.’

‘We’re their Sandhurst,’ Dooley said.

‘Whatever, Doosh.’

They rode along and the air got hotter. Private Lennox had
been up top for two hours with sand smacking him in the face and he was melting when he came down. They passed another stall. The boys’ tongues were hanging out for a cold drink but the boss said they couldn’t stop because every local fucker was probably a roadside bomb. ‘Best fucken army training in the world,’ he said, ‘and you crows are still unconvinced that water is better for you than cans of Fanta.’ Private Flannigan of fire team Delta saw on the gauge that it was fifty degrees inside the Vector and he clocked that Lennox had nearly passed out when he dropped down. The boys from Charlie team pulled off his armour and fanned him and pumped him full of water. Flannigan cleaned his face with a wet wipe and grinned. ‘You’re fucken burning up, our kid.’

Private Dooley removed the boy’s helmet. ‘I’ll just hop off the bus and get him a Ribena,’ he said.

‘Shut up, Dooley,’ Flannigan said. ‘It’s the South Armagh of Afghanistan out there, nothing but Terry Taliban waiting behind the wall to chop your balls off and send them back to your mammy.’

‘Bring it on, bitch,’ said Private Dooley, a big, smiling boy of eighteen with fleshy lips and a bent ear. Nothing surprised him. They all cheered and Lennox sat up. ‘He’s back!’ Dooley said.

‘You were fucken babblin’, man. The heat got to you.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Flannigan said. ‘That’s the way he always talks. A thick gypsy from Belfast, eh?’

‘Shut your face,’ Lennox said, then Flannigan reached inside his tunic and took out a Lambert & Butler, passing the cigarette to Lennox as the vehicle jolted and went on. It had been Lennox’s first tour the year before and Flannigan looked after him when they were pinned down together during a battle on the Pharmacy Road in Sangin. The boys in this section were close and they all
knew it. And the soldiers in the rest of the platoon, travelling behind, they knew it, too. The boys in A Section had their own language and said whatever they wanted.

‘What you got a thigh-holster for, man?’ asked Flannigan. He was from Liverpool and never got tired of mocking.