So Many Ways to Begin
So Many Ways to Begin
Jon McGregor
LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZEDavid Carter cannot help but wish for more: that his wife Eleanor would be the sparkling girl he once found so irresistible; that his job as a museum curator could live up to the promise it once held; that his daughter's arrival could have brought him closer to Eleanor. But a few careless words spoken by his mother's friend have left David restless with the knowledge that his whole life has been constructed around a lie.
So Many Ways to Begin
Jon McGregor
Copyright (#uf9f55537-8c0f-5387-8acf-f473e6d48480)
4th Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thEstate.co.uk (http://www.4thEstate.co.uk)
First published by Bloomsbury in 2006
This eBook published by 4th Estate in 2017
Copyright © 2006 by Jon McGregor
Cover image © Mat Taylor
Jon McGregor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
Source ISBN: 9780008218676
Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008218683
Version: 2016-12-07
Further praise for So Many Ways to Begin: (#ulink_9a172f84-09e6-5074-a2dc-362aac4c2c9f)
‘So Many Ways to Begin confirms his reputation … Beautifully written’
Irish Times
‘Both triumphant and almost unbearably moving’
Waterstone’s Books Quarterly
‘McGregor’s talent remains dazzlingly apparent … McGregor captures in near-poetry what it is to lose our beginnings and to recreate a past’
Scotland on Sunday
‘McGregor’s gift is in finding the extraordinary in everyday life, subtly invoking your empathy with utterly believable characters’
Eve Magazine
‘The writing is powerfully spare and unadorned … an immensely sympathetic portrait of a marriage’
Time Out
‘Beautifully poetic’
Observer
‘His work has been compared to Philip Larkin in the way that it draws on a certain monochrome Englishness but the colour and poetry of his writing brings a luminous depth to his subject’
Metro
‘I absolutely loved this book’
Mariella Frostrup
‘A tender and invigorating picture of domestic life drawn by a masterly hand’
Big Issue
‘Compelling and convincing. A deeply rewarding read’
Good Book Guide
‘A very fine, affecting work that moves gracefully towards an unforgettable conclusion’
Glasgow Herald
‘It is a heartbreaking, luminous and wonderful work … He is an accomplished author who writes with blinding insight. One of the best books of 2006’
Shropshire Star
To Alice
Contents
Cover (#u7d2471a3-914f-5650-9ece-eb6b52702df9)
Title Page (#u61ecb778-7828-58ee-a1df-2d0e2e0829fb)
Copyright
Further praise for So Many Ways to Begin (#ud9fcc8d5-48ff-5778-a5f3-614909957aa3)
Dedication (#u32ba4385-1963-5940-8a8d-097f8cde42ab)
Part One (#u087cadc5-e550-5295-bfcf-81f4b70ec3fe)
1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943 (#u32b3f283-e369-5e54-a855-aaffc23d55d7)
2 Handwritten list of household items, c.1947 (#u5d4aa166-d3b2-5a9d-a160-6fcd7bfed22c)
3 Local Map, Whitechapel district, London, annotated, c.1950 (#u9ee63ded-1525-55a0-acc8-bff0bbb3f3b2)
4 Tobacco tin, cigarettes, Christmas card, 1914 (#udadbe132-66d9-5098-9c3b-698ef9f7f20d)
5 Shoebox of assorted domestic goods, bullets, shrapnel, 1953–1960 (#ub944feec-1a1e-5ed6-ac7f-55fced59dcc9)
6 Postcard from Greenwich Maritime Museum, c.1953 (#u2691d750-21c3-55c4-a872-8a3e5eaba9a7)
7 Opening programme, Coventry Municipal Art Gallery and Museum, 1961 (#u27319f13-b147-5599-a240-bce106097fe7)
8 Two telegrams, November 1939 and April 1940 (#u12e3944f-e09e-5172-8e5d-fd86bb53b3ca)
9 Contract, wage slip, duty sheet, from Coventry Museum, 1964 (#u0c4d7b64-e35e-593b-bcaa-301b0fc6a0ef)
10 Letters, handwritten, 1966–68; Paper Napkin, 1966 (#u5103b4c0-b05b-54ca-b042-18d45a3dfa13)
11 Cigarette holder, tortoiseshell, believed 1940s (#u5bbab96d-c967-55e7-8b31-03733709d874)
12 Picture postcard, Union Street, Aberdeen, c.1966 (#u10e8ced9-7e9a-5cd6-baac-e7953377197c)
13 Pocket appointment diaries (incomplete set), dated 1935–1959 (#u0be49e49-a5c8-5f0f-a313-3f511aec42f9)
14 Pair of letters, handwritten, February 1967 (#ud0d8fe87-fb2e-5383-bac2-a0af2a0fa361)
15 Picture postcard, John Lewis shipyard, Aberdeen c.1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
16 Birth Certificate, 17 March 1945 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
17 Pair of cinema tickets, annotated ‘19th May 1967’ (#litres_trial_promo)
18 Disciplinary letter, typewritten on headed paper, January 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
19 Identity badge, Junior Curatorial Assistant, Coventry Museum, W/Photo, 1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
20 Examination results, Scottish Highers, July 1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
21 Train ticket, Aberdeen–Coventry (Single), 15 September 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
22 Book of Co-op dividend stamps, 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
23 Handwritten list of coventry addresses, August 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
24 Doorkey on a knotted loop of string; Wedding certificate, October 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
25 Lacework placemats (wedding gift), 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
26 Geologist’s rock-hammer, in original case (wedding gift, unused), c.1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
27 Model fishing boat, handmade c.1905 (#litres_trial_promo)
28 Page torn from Aberdeen Press & Journal, crumpled, August 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
29 Set of clothes pegs, traditional style, w/hand-drawn faces, c.1920s–1950s (#litres_trial_promo)
30 Girl’s hairbrush, wooden-handled, c.1940s (#litres_trial_promo)
31 Nurse’s fob watch, engraved RCN, 1941 (#litres_trial_promo)
32 University prospectuses; 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974 (#litres_trial_promo)
33 Pill bottles, prescriptions; dated variously 1973–1987 (#litres_trial_promo)
34 Small vase, handmade by unknown Warwickshire potter, 1974 (#litres_trial_promo)
35 Tobacco tin; used for storing buttons, beads, safety pins, c.1960s (#litres_trial_promo)
36 Catalogue from museum exhibition, ‘Refugees, Migrants, New Arrivals’, 1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
37 Framed photograph (w/broken glass), David and Eleanor, c.1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
38 Wine cork, dated (handwriting) August 1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
39 Hospital admissions card, 1945 (Discovered 1976) (#litres_trial_promo)
40 Scrapbook w/postcards, tickets, maps, etc., 1979 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
41 Cut fragments of surgical thread, in small transparent case, dated July 1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
42 Pocket address book, w/page torn out, c.1982 (#litres_trial_promo)
43 Small fragment of metal, unidentified, 1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
44 Pair of child’s gloves, striped, c.1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
45 Job application form, Head Curator, c.1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
46 Hand-drawn family tree (incomplete), dated May 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
47 Envelopes w/Aberdeen postmarks, occasional 1984–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
48 Photographs of Kate at eight years old, with birthday cards, 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
49 Library tickets, green card with handwritten annotations, c.1980s (#litres_trial_promo)
50 DHSS Booklet, Guide to Services for the Newly Unemployed, 1986 (#litres_trial_promo)
51 Video cassette: World’s Greatest Boxing Heroes, c.1987 (#litres_trial_promo)
52 Hand-drawn family tree, marked ‘Believed Complete’, dated 1988 (#litres_trial_promo)
53 Home videos featuring Kate Carter, 1991–1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
54 Examination results; University prospectus, 1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
55 Illustrated Book of Knots, 7th Edition, c.1947 (#litres_trial_promo)
56 Ration books, Union cards, Co-op dividend stamps, 1930s and 1940s (#litres_trial_promo)
57 Printed service sheet, ‘Ivy Elaine Campbell, 1910–2000’, 23 April 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
58 Email messages; printed copies dated March 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
59 Ferry tickets; handwritten letter; route map (from website); all June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
60 Biscuit tin, rusted, used as money box or for keepsakes, c.1944 (#litres_trial_promo)
61 Paper package of selected photographs (reprints), c.1950–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
62 Bill for room and board, Conway’s of Letterkenny, June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Read an exclusive extract from Jon McGregor’s new novel, Reservoir 13
By the Same Author
A Note on the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
They came in the morning, early, walking with the others along tracks and lanes and roads, across fields, down the long low hills which led to the slow pull of the river, down to the open gateways in the city walls, the hours and days of walking showing in the slow shift of their bodies, their breath steaming above them in the cold morning air as the night fell away at their backs. They came quietly, the swish of dew-wet grasses brushing against their ankles, the pat and splash of the muddy ground beneath their feet, the coughs and murmurs of rising conversation as the same fewphrases were passed back along the lines. Here we are now. Nearly there. Just to the bottom of the hill and then we’ll sit down. Cigarettes were lit, hundreds of cigarettes, thin leathery fingers expertly rolling a pinch of tobacco into a lick of paper without losing a step. Cigarettes were cadged, offered, shared, passed down to nervous young hands eager for that first acrid taste of adulthood, cupping a mouthful of it in the windshield of their open fists in imitation of fathers and uncles and older brothers, coughing as it burnt down into their untested young lungs, the spluttered-out smoke twisting upwards and mingling with their cold clouded breath as they made their way between flowering hawthorn hedges and cowslip-heavy banks, down towards the city walls. They wore suits, of a kind, all of them: woollen waistcoats and well knotted neckerchiefs, thick tweed jackets with worn elbows and cuffs, moleskin trousers with frayed seams tucked into the tops of their boots. The younger ones carried bundles of clothes, brown paper parcels fastened with string, slung across their shoulders or clasped to their chests, held tightly intheir damp nervous hands as they started to gather pace, pulled down the hill by the sight of the city, by their eagerness to be first and by the impatience of the men and the boys pressing in from behind; still foggy from sleep, still aching from the long walk the day before, but forgetting all that as they came to their journey’s end.
From the top of the hill, where others were only now beginning that last long downward traipse, the city looked quiet and still, wrapped in a pale May morning mist, weighted with the same brooding promise that cities have always held when glimpsed from a distance like this, the same magnetic pull of hopes and opportunities. But as those first men and boys came into the city, their boots beginning to stamp and echo across the cobbled ground, windows were opened and curtains pulled back, and the city began to wake. Sleepy children peered from low upstairs windows, the hushed chatter and the rumbling of feet signalling the start of the day they’d been looking forward to, calling to each other and pulling faces at the children in the houses across the street. Landlords opened the doors and shutters of their bars, sweeping the floors and standing in their doorways with brooms in their hands to watch their customers arrive. Stallholders finished preparing their pitches around the edges of the square, keeping an eye on the small group of guards by the steps of the new town hall. And from each end of the long square, from the road leading in from the bridge to the east, from the gateway under the lodge to the west, from the road winding out along the river to the south, the army of workers appeared, hurrying on with the growing excitement of arrival, calling greetings to friends not seen for the past six months, looking around for others yet to arrive, asking after health, and families, and wives. And the crowd of people in the square grew bigger, and noisier, and fathers began to lay hands on the shoulders of their youngest sons, keeping them close, wary of letting them drift away too soon, listening to the snatches of conversation echo back and forth, looking out for the farmers and foremen to start to appear, waiting for the business of the day to begin.
Mary Friel stood with her father and brothers, watching, her youngest brother Tommy clutching her hand. You okay there Tommy? she whispered down to him. He looked up at her, nodding, a look of annoyance on his young face, and pulled his hand away.
Soon, as if at some unseen signal, deals began to be made all over the square. You looking for work son? the smartly dressed men would say, glancing down. How much you after? And the older boys, the ones who knew their price, or the ones who could say they were experienced, stronger, would get more work done, tried their luck with eight, nine, ten pounds, while the younger ones, who knew no better or could ask no more, said seven or six as they’d been told. Deals were made with a terse nod and a handing over of the brown paper packages, an instruction to meet back there in the afternoon, sometimes with a shilling or two to keep the boy busy for the day, sometimes not; sometimes the father taken for drinks to smooth over the awkwardness of the scene, sometimes not.
This was the first time Mary had been to town for the hiring fair. She’d only ever watched her father setting off with her brothers before; stood in the low doorway to wave them goodbye, her sister Cathy beside her, Tommy holding on to both their hands, their mother turning away before the boys got out of sight and saying no time to be standing around all day now. She’d had an idea of what it would be like from hearing her father those evenings he came back home alone; she and Cathy lying in bed listening while he talked in a low voice to their mother by the last few turfs of the fading fire. But she hadn’t been expecting quite so many people, or so much noise, or the way her father would stare sternly straight ahead when a gentleman approached him and said your boy looking for a job?
They left the square as soon as the price had been agreed, telling Tommy to be good, to work hard and to do what the man said, and to meet them back here at the next fair day in six months’ time. They walked through the town towards the river, Mary, her father, her two older brothers who were past the age of hiring now, out to the docks to catch the boat across to England. She listened to herbrothers talking to her father as they sat waiting for the boat, talking and joking about their time as hired boys, the threshing and weeding and picking of stones, the early mornings and the endless thoughts of food. She sat slightly apart from them, looking up into the hills on the other side of the river, feeling the imprint of her young brother’s hand across the palm of her own. Other men joined them, walking over from the square, lighting up cigarettes, sitting on sacks of grain and crates of wool, talking about where they’d heard the work was that year. Following the harvests from Lancashire up to Berwick and all the way on to Fife. Waterworks round Birmingham way. Munitions in Glasgow, Manchester, Coventry, Leeds. Talking of the best ways to get there, the cheapest places to stay, the names to mention to stand a better chance of work at the end of the trip. Some of the men looked across at Mary, curiously, wondering what she might have been doing there, wondering who she was with, until their gaze was interrupted by her father’s hard glare.
They were going over the water early this year. The weather had changed sooner than usual, and the field was dug and planted, the turf cut, before fair day came. Work had been arranged for Mary, in London, and so their father had announced that they would all make the journey together. It’s a long way for a girl to go on her own, is it not? he’d said, and her mother could only agree, making up slices of cake for their journey, taking out the brown paper from its place beneath the bed.
On the boat, the four of them found a place in a quiet corner and settled themselves in, the two brothers on either side, Mary resting her head on her father’s shoulder, his heavy coat laid over them both. It smelt of damp soil and turf smoke and the cold clean air of their two days’ walking. It smelt of him and she concentrated on the smell as she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, broken by the tip and slide of the boat, by the shouts of other men, by the hard wooden deck beneath them both.
In the morning, in Liverpool, they put her on a train down to London. They stood on the platform for a few moments to be sureshe’d got a seat, watching her put her bundle up on the luggage rack, watching her smooth out her skirt as she sat down by the window. Her brother William opened the door and jumped up on to the step, leaning in to wish her a good journey, telling her to say hello to Cousin Jenny and the rest of that shower, telling her to tear up London town, laughing as he ran his hand across the top of her hair and pulled it out of its carefully pinned place. She reached out to catch him a clip round the ear but he leant away, jumping down and slamming the door shut as she said goodbye and the guard blew the whistle with his flag raised high. Her father and her other brother had already turned away.
She spoke to no one on the journey, as she’d been told, and waited under the clock at Euston station for her cousin, who came running up to meet her a half hour after the train had arrived. Sorry I’m late, she said, out of breath and a little red in the face. The bus depot was bombed last night and I had to walk all the way. You had a good crossing?
The house was in Hampstead, close enough to the Heath to see the tops of the trees from an upstairs window, its large front door reached by a broad flight of stone steps she was never allowed to use. Her room was at the top of the house, squeezed in under the rafters at the back somewhere, overlooking wash-yards and alleyways and gutters. The room was just big enough for a bed, and for a fireplace that was never lit, and for a small chest under the bed where she kept her clothes and a biscuit tin for her wages, ready to be taken home the next summer. But the size of the room was unimportant because all she ever did was sleep in there. If you were awake you were working, she said when she told someone much later what it was like. Cleaning out fireplaces, scrubbing pots and pans and boots and steps, washing and drying and ironing the clothes, lighting the fires in the family’s rooms. On her first day off she stayed in her room, counting the bruises on her knees and shinsand the angry red chilblains on her fingers, sleeping, looking out of the small window and wondering where she would go if she dared to leave the house.
She lived in the attic and she worked in the basement, and part of her job was to get from one to the other without being observed. You want to be neither seen nor heard, Cousin Jenny had told her, standing at the wide stone basin scrubbing potatoes and carrots that first evening. And you want to not see or hear anything neither. Mary nodded, pushing her paper-white cap back where it kept falling down over her eyes. She learnt how to time her trips through the finely panelled rooms and corridors of the main house, going downstairs before the family had risen, waiting for their mealtimes before going back up, or for the evenings when they sat together in the drawing room. She learnt how to tip her head a little if she ever did meet someone, to say Sir or Ma’am before quickly walking away.
The thing was to make yourself invisible, she said, many years later, so that everyone could pretend you weren’t even there. You would do whatever piece of work you had to do and just slip away out of the room. Eyes down, ears closed, mouth shut. That was the thing to do, she said. So if you went in to light a fire one morning and your man was getting dressed, it wouldn’t matter because you were invisible, and he wouldn’t even know you were there. And if he asked you your name you’d tell him, and if he asked you to come closer you’d go, but you could pretend you hadn’t because really you didn’t hear or see him and he didn’t hear or see you. It wouldn’t matter at all. I was a pretty child though, she said. It wasn’t always easy to be so invisible. I tended to catch people’s eye, you know?
She would speak these words softly, eventually, but she would speak them.
Jenny took her out on their days off, showing her round London, walking through the parks if the weather was good, hiding in apicture house if the weather was bad, walking right up to the West End to look in through taped shop windows and watch out for boys. They talked about what they would do when they went back home, whether they would go back home at all, and they talked about marrying, about children, make-believing extravagant farmhouses to go with the size of the families they imagined into life. Sometimes they finished those days off in a pub in Kilburn or Camden or King’s Cross, and there were so many cousins and young aunts crowded into their corner of the bar that Mary could half close her eyes and think they were all squeezed into the lounge bar at Joe’s, with her parents’ house only a few minutes’ moonlit walk away. She saw people she hadn’t seen since she was young, and others she’d seen only at Christmas for the last few years, and they all asked for news of Fanad. She told them about Cathy’s wedding, and about the new priest, and about how her brother Tommy had gone off to work that year.
And how’s that other brother of yours, young William? a friend of Jenny’s asked once, a girl Mary remembered from church.
Oh he’s fine, she said, and the girl lowered her voice and said aye he’s more than fine, he’s very good indeed, the whole crowd of them shrieking in shocked laughter and Mary not knowing quite what they meant but laughing along all the same.
On days when it wasn’t as cold, another girl would have laid the fire the night before, sweeping out the ashes and piling up the kindling, and it didn’t take a second to slip into the room with a box of matches and set it going. But on colder days, when the embers had been left to smoulder halfway through the night, it was a much longer job. The grate had to be swept out, the ashes scooped into a metal bucket, the hearth wiped over with a damp cloth when it was done. Paper had to be screwed up into little twists and laid over with twigs and splints and pieces of kindling, and the first flares of flame had to be watched over for a few moments to see that theycaught, to see that it was okay to lay on the larger lumps of log and coal and close the door softly behind her. It was too much of a job to be done silently, or invisibly; the brush would bang against the side of the grate, or the bucket, the newspaper would crackle as she screwed it up, the match-head would spit as it burst into flame. She tried very hard, but it seemed impossible not to wake whoever was sleeping in the bed behind her, not to make some small disturbance that meant she would hear a voice saying her name. A man’s voice, asking for her.
They sent her to light the fire in each of the rooms by turn, but mostly she was asked to go to the father’s room, and it was here that she found it hardest to not make a sound. After a time, she went to the housekeeper and said that if it was at all possible she would very much prefer not to go into the rooms to light the fires any more, please.
She kept it hidden the whole nine months. She wore bigger clothes. She ate as little food as she could. She stopped going out with Jenny and the others, spending long evenings and days off in her room with the chest under the bed and the small window, saying she was tired, or poorly. She learnt, too late, how to make herself invisible.
Later, this would seem the strangest part of it all, that no one noticed, that no one asked, that she was able to keep it so well hidden while she carried on with her work, the cleaning and the sweeping and the scrubbing and the pressing. I suppose I was stronger then, she would say, one day, when she was finally able to talk. A girl that age, I suppose they’re built for it, aren’t they? Young and supple and all. You do what you have to do, I suppose, she would say.
She took a bus to the hospital when she could stand it no more, wrapping her saved wages in the middle of her brown paper bundle of clothes, leaving a note that said nothing on her bed and a month’s money uncollected. Her waters had already broken by the time theytook her on to the ward. When they asked, she told them her name was Bridget Kirwan and that she came from a village near Galway. It took her no more than a few hours to give birth. It was the easiest of the five, she would say, years later. I must have been tougher than I felt, though it still hurt more than enough. When the baby was born, an underweight boy, he was taken from her almost without discussion. They told her it would be the best thing, they told her it would be cruel to do anything else, and she was too shattered by pain and hunger and shock to raise a voice in disagreement.
They barely even let me say goodbye, you know? she would tell someone, eventually.
When she went home, after two weeks in a rest ward, she knew that she would never want to go away to work again. She didn’t say, of course, why she had come back across the water before her time, and she did her best to make up for the shortfall of money in the bundle she’d brought back, walking three miles each day to milk and feed and mind the cows on the landowner’s farm. And when the men came home towards the end of the year, older and fitter and better fed, swollen with talk and drink and money, she watched them carefully, waiting, choosing, and before the following year’s hiring fair she was married to Michael Carr, waving him off the way she used to watch her mother do, turning away before he was out of sight to settle into a house of her own. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished her own pots, her own plates, her own clothes and boots and low front step. She lit a fire in her own grate. She opened the door to her friends, and she waited for her husband to come home.
He brought no money with him when he returned, and she could smell on his breath that she’d chosen wrong.
I can say this now, she admitted to someone, years later, when she lived on her own and waited for her grandchildren to call; it wasa wonderful marriage for eight months of the year. And that’s a lot more than some folk can say, don’t you think? Laughing as she said it, glancing up at the photograph of him on the mantelpiece.
Her four children all had their birthdays in late September. And she wondered, each time she held a newborn child in her hands, where that lost one might have gone. She wondered it with each niece and nephew and grandchild she was given to hold, saying he’s a fine one to the mother as she looked into the baby’s clouded eyes. She wondered it as she changed and cleaned her own children’s nappies, as she fed them, as she mended their clothes and sang them to sleep and sent them off to school. She wondered it as she watched them grow into young adults, going further away to find work, bringing back money when they ducked into the house, bringing back other young men and women with whom they shyly held hands at the supper table. She watched them marry, and she watched them make homes of their own, have children of their own, move away and move back and move away again, and she never stopped wondering, waiting, hoping for some young man to contact her from England, some long-lost solemn-eyed child to come calling across the water and tell her something, anything, of where he’d been gone all this time.
Part One (#uf9f55537-8c0f-5387-8acf-f473e6d48480)
Eleanor was in the kitchen when he got back from her mother’s funeral, baking. The air was damp with the smell of spices and burnt sugar, the windows clouded with condensation against the dark evening outside. He stood in the doorway with his suitcase and waited for her to say hello. She had her back to him, her shoulders hunched in tense concentration, her faded brown hair tied up into a loose knot on the back of her head. She was icing a cake. There were oven trays and cooling racks spread across the worktop, grease-stained recipe books held open under mixing bowls and rolling pins, spilt flour dusted across the floor.
Hello, he said gently, not wanting to make her jump. She didn’t say anything for a moment.
How’d it go then? she asked without lifting her head or turning around.
Okay, he said, it was okay, you know. The oven timer buzzed, and as she opened the door a blast of hot wet air rushed into the room. She took out a tray of fruit slices, turned off the oven, and went back to icing the cake. He put the suitcase down and stood behind her. The creamy-white icing looked smooth enough to him, but she kept dragging the rounded knife across it, chasing tiny imperfections back and forth. He put his hand on the hard knot of her shoulder and she flinched. He kissed the back of her head. Her hair smelt of flour, and of baking spices, and of her, and he kept his face pressed lightly against it for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.
It looks like you’re done there El, he said quietly, reaching round to take the knife from her hand, putting it down on the side. It looks lovely, he said. He kept his hand on her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as it clenched into an anxious fist.
It was okay then? she asked, her head lowered.
It was okay, he told her. She turned round, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked up at him, smiling weakly.
Good, she said, I’m glad. She picked up a palette knife, and eased the fruit slices from the baking tray on to another cooling rack. I got a bit carried away, she said, waving the knife around the room to indicate the cakes and buns and biscuit tins. I wanted to keep busy. She smiled again, shaking her head. She carried the baking tray past him and put it into the sink, the hot metal hissing into the water. Did you find the way okay? she asked.
Yes, he said, it was fine. He sat at the table, stretching out his legs, squeezing the muscles on the back of his neck, stiff from the long drive. She tried to undo her apron, her sticky fingers fumbling blindly behind her for a few moments, and gave up, turning her back to him and saying could you? over her shoulder. He picked at the tight double knot, awkwardly, his own fingers thick with tiredness, easing his thumbnail into the knot and unlooping the strings. She sat down, slipping the apron off over her head and folding it into her lap, wiping her fingers clean on one corner. She looked tired. He reached over and ran his hand up and down her thigh.
Hey, he said, you okay? She closed her eyes, resting her hand on top of his.
Yes, she said, I’ll be fine. It’s just been a long day. It’s been a long few days.
They sat like that for a few minutes and he watched the lines around her eyes soften as she began to relax. Long strands of coarse hair had fallen free of the knot on the back of her head and were hanging around her face. He reached over and tucked them back, smoothing them into place. She smiled faintly, already half asleep.
Was it alright coming back? she murmured, just as he was about to slip his hand away and get something to eat.
It was fine, he told her, it took a long time but it was fine. Not too much traffic about. I stopped off at some services for a break.
You’ve eaten then? she asked, opening her eyes and rubbing at her face suddenly.
Well, a little something more wouldn’t do any harm, he said, looking over at the racks of cooling cakes.
Oh, sure, she said, smiling, be my guest. He took a plate from the cupboard and fetched himself a large rock cake, blowing at the steam that poured out as he broke it open.
What about Kate? she asked, turning round in her chair.
She’s fine, he said, I dropped her off at the station this morning. She sent me a text when she got home, she’s fine.
She was okay with it all then, was she? she said, looking up at him.
Yes, he said, she was okay with it.
Oh, good, Eleanor said.
Later, as she got into bed, she said, so, will you tell me about it? She sat up, the duvet held up to her chest, the pillows wedged behind her back and her hair pulled round to one side of her head. She looked up at him as he took his shirt off and folded it over the back of the chair.
What do you want to know? he said.
Just what it was like, she replied. Who was there, what happened.
Well they were all there I think, he said, all the family, grandchildren, a few neighbours. A few dozen altogether I think, he said. He leant against the wardrobe to take off his shoes and socks, rubbing at the cracked skin across the back of his heels.
And was Tessa there? she said. He looked up. No love, he said, no. Tessa wasn’t there. She pulled the duvet back from his side of the bed.
Come and tell me about it, she said, I want to hear. Was it a nice service?
He unbuckled his belt, slid off his trousers, and draped them over the back of the chair. He swapped his pants for a pair of pyjama trousers from underneath the pillow, and he told her about Ivy’s funeral. He told her that a lot of them, the immediate family, had met at Donald’s beforehand, and that Donald’s wife had overloaded them with sandwiches and cake, and that this was where Kate had first met them all.
I picked her up from the station, he said. She seemed very quiet but I think she coped with it well enough. People were saying she looked like her grandmother, he said, and Eleanor looked across at him with a doubtful expression.
No, she said, I wouldn’t say that. Does she? Do you think so? He smoothed his thumb across her creased eyebrows.
A little, he said, perhaps. It’s only natural, isn’t it? She thought about it, shaking her head. He told her about the service, that the minister hadn’t seemed to know Ivy at all and had just talked in general terms about a long and full life but that people hadn’t seemed to mind. He told her that it had felt very warm in the church, and she smiled and said well at least some things change then, and she started to close her eyes. He told her about the burial, about the corner of the cemetery which had trees along both sides and seemed to be well kept; that he’d spotted her Great-uncle James’s grave nearby, and her father’s of course, and that Donald had said her father’s father’s headstone was somewhere but they hadn’t been able to find it. He told her about the wake in the Crown Hotel, how good the food was and how people had kept buying him drinks.
He didn’t tell her about the question which had hung back on people’s lips when they found out who he was, or that he’d felt like apologising and explaining for her every time, even though people were too polite to mention it. It’s the travelling, he’d wanted to say; it’s such a long way, it would be too much for her. But he didn’t say anything, because people didn’t ask. There was a gap in the conversation all day, no one saying well she could at least have, or after all this time, or I suppose she didn’t feel she could; but it was a gap which was soon bridged by enquiries about work, or Kate, or how he was enjoying his stay.
She shuffled down into the bed, rearranging the pillows behind her, and turned her head on to his chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath. He leant down and kissed her hair. She spread her hand across his skin, tracing circles with each finger the way she’d always liked to do, pressing lightly against each of his ribs, his belly button, the short dotted scar above his waist.
He told her about walking around Aberdeen the evening before the funeral, and how different things were now; the massive oil tanks and pipeworks ranged along the harbour-front, the new shopping centre, the graceful blue-glass extension to the Maritime Museum, the rebuilt houses on Torry Hill where she’d grown up. You’d still recognise it though, he said gently. He told her about some of the people he’d met at the wake, what they were doing now, that they’d said to give her their love. He told her, as her eyes closed more firmly and her breathing settled into its familiar slowness, about the long drive home, past Dundee and Dunfermline and over the new Forth Bridge, past Hadrian’s Wall, through the high bleak openness of the North York Moors. He told her how nice it had been, passing through all that scenery. He told her that there’d been no traffic problems, that it had been straightforward finding his way, that everyone had seemed to be driving carefully and sensibly.
He shifted down into the bed, kissing her on the cheek, and reached across to turn out the light.
You still want to go then? she said, opening her eyes suddenly. He looked at her.
Yes, he said, you know I do.
It’s an awful long way again, she said, so soon.
I know, he said, but I want to go. It’s important, you know it’s important. I’ll be okay. He kissed the side of her face again, stroking the top of her ear with his finger.
Have you packed? she asked. Have you written a list?
He thought of all the things he’d considered taking with him, stacked in the corner of Kate’s old room: the photograph albums, the document folders, the bundles of letters and postcards and notes, the scrapbooks, the loose objects wrapped in sheets of old newspaper and filed carefully away. He went through them all in his mind, listing each item as though in a museum catalogue, picking out the few things he’d eventually decided to take.
Yes, he said, I’ve written a list. Don’t worry about it now though. We’ll talk about it in the morning. He turned the light off, and for a while he lay there listening to the quick shallow sighs of her breathing, the kick and twist of her legs as she tried to get comfortable.
Can’t it wait David? she said. Why do you have to go now?
Please, he said. Don’t. She turned away from him, pulling the cover around herself, shifting further down into the bed. It was a long time before she was still.
1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943 (#ulink_9fd7fb58-866a-5a3d-a0f5-b663fbf8335b)
He was going to start with a picture of his father. It seemed as good a way as any to begin. It was the first thing he’d thought of packing before he went off to the funeral, tucking it into a padded envelope to keep it safe. This is my father, he was going to say, holding up the small photograph for someone to see. When he was a young man, he was going to add, before I was born. Well now, someone might say, looking closely, and what are these marks here? And then he could explain, telling it the way his sister Susan always had, the words worn comfortably smooth with repeated use.
It was a story she liked to tell; it made her feel a part of something bigger than herself, tied to a time when there were bigger things to feel a part of. She’d told it again a few weeks earlier, looking at the same picture with a group of her friends after dinner one night. Someone had mentioned seeing it on the way in, and she’d led them all through to the hallway to stand around it, balancing their cups of coffee on thin white saucers while they listened and smiled and nodded, and remembered stories of their own, and went quiet at the appropriate time. Whenever he’d heard her tell the story, people had always gone quiet at the same appropriate time.
It was taken in 1943, she said, gesturing towards the photo, a small black-and-white studio portrait mounted on a greying cardboard surround, a name and number scribbled in soft illegible pencil along the bottom. Just before I was born, she said, placing herself firmly into that generation. He must have had it taken before going away on service for the second time, to the Med, I think, and sent it back from Portsmouth for my mother to put up on the mantelpiece while he was away. Pausing here, as she always did, picturing the man in the strange uniform above the hearth, watching over her and her mother while they crouched under the Morrison shelter in the back room, the ground shaking, firelight flashing past outside, or greeting them when they came home from the public shelter in the morning with the all-clear ringing out down the street, the house safe for another day and the garden strewn with rubble from next door but one. Remembering the morning her mother had tried to explain that a bomb had landed on her grandparents’ house, and that her grandparents wouldn’t be coming round for tea any more.
It was the Med, wasn’t it? she asked, glancing across at him. I can never remember. Everyone turned to look, and he shrugged, smiling apologetically.
Don’t look at me, he said, I’m not a historian, and they all laughed.
Albert Carter, their father, had been twenty-seven when the picture was taken, but he looked a lot younger; fresh-faced, smiling broadly, his skin so smooth that it was hard to believe he’d ever had to shave. His hair was slicked back, with the comb-lines as straight as a slide-rule, and his smile lifted the same creases around his eyes that David could remember seeing as a boy. The uniform looked a little too big for him, hanging loose around the shoulders, and there was none of the formal regalia which might have been expected in a portrait photograph, no spit-polished brass, or epaulettes, or braiding; it was a uniform which looked purely functional, ready for the serious business of crewing a ship into battle.
Of course, Susan said, I don’t remember much about the war, I was too young. All I can remember, really, is this man arriving in the house, like the man in the picture but older and heavier, and not smiling. The others leant in towards the photograph as she spoke, looking at Albert Carter’s fixed and frozen smile. He just appeared, she said, there was no discussion, he was just suddenly lurking about the place, making the house much smaller than it had been and taking up my mother’s time. Smelling unfamiliar and damp, she said, laughing, as though she was unsure what she meant. But that’s the thing I always remember, she said. His not being there and then being there, and nobody asking my opinion. The others smiled at this, as people usually did.
David was going to tell someone this story with the picture in his hand, holding on to it for a moment before passing it over, feeling the rough and crinkled texture of the greying card, turning it over to read the soft pencilled dates and numbers on the back, running his fingers again across the scratches scored into the photograph’s dull surface. Dozens of scratches, mostly too faint to see unless the picture was turned into the light; mostly, except for three deep scars which had split and torn right through the skin of the paper, gouged across the young man’s smiling face.
Susan explained that she’d made these marks, one afternoon when her father had been home for a few months. This was the part of the story where people always went quiet, and looked at the picture more closely, or turned to her and nodded, or smiled wryly because they could guess exactly what she was going to say. She’d been told to take a nap so that her mother and father could have a lie down while the new baby, David, was sleeping. Auntie Julia, whose house they were all staying in until they could find something of their own, was out doing some shopping. Restless and bored, Susan took a small metallic comb from her father’s desk, grabbed the picture from the mantelpiece, and scoured frantically across its surface before making a tearful escape to the bedroom.
The most awful thing, she said, pointing out an ashtray on the hall table to a guest with a cigarette, is that nothing was ever said. The picture was replaced with another one, almost identical, and nobody ever mentioned it, she said.
Goodness, said a woman with a bright red scarf tied around her neck. Really? Susan nodded.
Not a word, she said. We found the damaged original in a box of his things after he died, and I insisted on keeping it. I’ve only recently put it up though, she added. The dinner guests peered closely at the picture for a few moments more, mentioning similar stories of their own before gradually moving back into the dining room.
My mother told me I used to try and drag my father out of their bed, the woman with the scarf said, laughing, and the man with the cigarette smiled at her, nodding.
Anyone want another coffee? Susan asked, as she followed them back to the table.
David stood in the hall for a moment longer, looking at the picture, tracing the scratches with his fingers, imagining the distress of the three-year-old girl which they recorded so well. He looked at the eyes, the smile, the face of the man who had brought him up so lovingly and was now gone, and he turned away.
You’ll be careful with it though? Susan said, later, when he asked if he could borrow the picture for a while. She unclipped it from its frame and handed it over to him, and he told her that yes, of course, he’d be careful. And, I mean, are you sure this is a good idea? she asked, the whole thing? and he told her that yes, thank you, it was.
2 Handwritten list of household items, c.1947 (#ulink_dea3deb9-fb1b-5fa3-ac19-4538c5a32661)
When Dorothy Carter was twenty-seven she wrote a list, sitting at the kitchen table, tapping her pen against the side of her face while she thought of everything she wanted to include. When she’d finished she pinned it to the back of the utility-room door, where it stayed until the day she finally moved out, and as David was helping to pack away her things he took it down and slipped it quickly into his pocket, thinking that someone might be interested in having a look.
He imagined her sitting at the kitchen table that first day, with unopened suitcases and boxes all over the clean hard-wearing linoleum floor, a trunk, a bundle of bedding tied up with string. Susan stamping and clattering around the hard bare rooms, testing the echo of her voice against the walls, or playing in the sand and rubble at the back of the house. Albert would have been on his way back to London already, returning the borrowed bread van in time for that night’s deliveries, having stopped on the way out to take a photo of Dorothy by the front door with the new handbag he’d bought her. He imagined her looking out through the window at the unfinished road piled high with timber and roof tiles, the other houses still skeletal, scaffolded, half-built; or standing to open and close the spotless cupboard doors.
It was so much more than we were expecting, she told David once. It was so much more than I felt we deserved.
The new house had its own front garden, and a path leading up to the door. It had an indoor toilet and a bath. There were fitted cabinets in the kitchen, and an airing cupboard, and electric lighting throughout. There was a cupboard under the stairs instead of a damp cellar. He found it difficult to imagine, when she told him all this, that these things had once been enough to seem like a miracle, to stun someone into speechless tears, but they had. Later, when he watched her saying the same things to Kate, he could see that Kate didn’t believe her at all, saying, and did you make your own entertainment in them days Nana? Glancing at him and biting back a smile, not noticing how quietly her grandmother said yes love, we did, you’re right.
She’d never been inside a new house before. She’d grown up in a tiny soft-walled cottage in the Suffolk countryside, where the only new buildings were the Nissen huts and hangars of the new airfields, where a bathroom was a kitchen for six and a half days of the week and the cooking was done on the fire, and she had no way of picturing what a new house might be like. Theirs was one of the first houses in the development to be finished, and they’d had to drive carefully through acres of Coventry’s bomb-flattened streets to reach it, waiting for them, perfect and untouched. We could still smell the paint when we went inside, she told him. She’d never seen rooms without furniture before, and the emptiness made the house feel so large that she was convinced they’d made a mistake until his father went outside and checked the number on the door.
And after he’d left with the van she sat at the table, steadying herself, trying to write the list. She was frightened, she told David once. She didn’t think they were entitled to it. All that work, for them, when there were so many people in worse off positions. She was worried for a long time that someone was going to come knocking on the front door with a clipboard, asking for forms they didn’t have, saying there’d been some kind of mistake.
She sat there, thinking through all the things that needed to be done, while his sister played in what would one day be the garden and he slept in a pushchair in the room next door. She made a list of jobs which needed doing straight away: putting sheets and blankets on the mattresses Julia had given them; laying out the clothes; cleaning the kitchen cabinets and scouring the surfaces; putting away their small stock of food; getting the rest of those boxes out of the way so some cooking could be done. And then she made a list of ‘Things We Will Need’, the list he still had now, a list which started with the immediate essentials and worked through to the fanciful and frivolous, a compendium of wishful thinking.
There was a space in the kitchen made especially for a refrigerator she told him, much later. Anything seemed possible.
By the time his father had got back from London the next evening, she’d measured the windows for curtains, and planned carpets for the floors and the stairs. She’d chosen colours and wallpapers for each of the rooms, and listed the ornaments and accessories which she’d seen in magazines and long wanted. She’d listed an electric iron, a top-loading washing machine, a vacuum cleaner, a new wireless set, an electric sewing machine. Albert laughed when he saw the list, the story went, telling her that she’d missed out the moon on a stick, but he kissed her all the same and said they’d see what they could do. They stood there for a long time, looking at it, their hands touching, until Susan came running in with a banged elbow, or David woke up crying in the next room, or the kettle came to the boil, and they both turned away.
And the list turned yellow with grease and flour and thumb-marks, and ticks appeared as each item was sweated and dreamed and saved into life. The lawn turned green with sprouting grass-seed, and rose bushes blushed into bloom all around it. A rug rolled out across their bedroom floor, and carpet stepped neatly down the stairs. Patterned nets were stretched across the front windows, and curtain material purchased, sewn, and hung. A carpet sweeper appeared for the new carpet, and settled in under the stairs with the brushes and buckets and mops, waiting to be put out of work by a new vacuum cleaner. And one bright day, six or seven years later, a gleaming white refrigerator, complete with icebox, was delivered by men in smart overalls from the newly rebuilt Owen’s department store in town. It’s not quite the moon on a stick, his father said, when he got home from work and saw the cold white cabinet humming quietly in the corner of the kitchen, but it’s not far off.
This is the sort of person his mother was, he thought whenever he looked again at the list, when he imagined her reinventing her family’s life in that way, with a new child, a new house, a new city outside waiting to be rebuilt. This was what he would tell anyone who asked, showing them the yellowed sheet of paper; my mother wanted all these things for us, and look how much of it she got. This was what he was going to say, if there was anyone who wanted to know.
3 Local map, Whitechapel district, London, annotated, c.1950 (#ulink_1358a6d9-3037-5fb4-b1f9-095397fda528)
It was his father’s idea to move to Coventry. He heard that from his mother, more than once, sitting around the kitchen table while his father read the evening paper and grumbled about some factory closure or rates increase. It was your father’s idea to move here, she’d say, to David and Susan, pretending that she thought he couldn’t hear. Or he heard it from their bedroom late at night, their tempered voices breaking through the thin walls and closed doors; this was your idea remember Albert, not mine. To which his father usually replied that they’d otherwise still be squatting in Julia’s bloody spare room and how would she like that then, eh?
Julia had been Dorothy’s closest friend at nursing college, despite being a few years older and more familiar with silver cutlery or linen tablecloths than anyone Dorothy knew. She’d been widowed early on in the war, and her young son Laurence was living with her brother in the country, so when she offered Dorothy lodgings in her house she claimed that it was as much to keep her from getting lonely as anything. You’ll be doing me a favour dear, she said, and she refused to let Dorothy even think of finding somewhere else to live once Susan was born, or David, or even when Albert came back from the war for good, and Laurence returned from the country, and there were six of them squeezed into the house and making do. It hadn’t always been easy, especially once Laurence came back and began to compete noisily for his mother’s attention. But the house was big enough, just, and Julia generous enough, that they could easily still have been living there had Albert not heard about the houses being offered in Coventry for building workers, or had Dorothy not secretly done all that she could to encourage him.
They went back to Auntie Julia’s house now and again, once a year if they could, using the postal orders she sent to pay the fares; David and Susan wearing their Sunday clothes and watching the train rattle past the newly built suburbs of Coventry, the long reaches of wasteground, the farms and woodlands and market towns which soon gave way to the smoke and noise of London. Look, that’s where I went to school, his father would say, as they walked from the underground station to Julia’s house, squeezing David’s hand to get his attention, pointing to a tall high-windowed Victorian building; and this is where I took my first job, a few moments later, as they passed a builder’s yard with a few small piles of bricks and sand and waste timber. This is where your grandparents lived, he’d add quickly, gesturing at an open scrap of wasteland between two houses; that’s where I grew up. And this is where we all used to live, his mother would say, as they rounded the last corner into Julia’s street, David and Susan both slipping out of their parents’ hands in a race to reach the house first, stretching up to reach the doorbell before Julia, who would always be looking out for them, swung open the door.
Their visits usually followed the same pattern. Julia would have lunch waiting for them – cucumber sandwiches, sliced meats, fruit pies, all laid out on the big table by the window, with Laurence hovering sullenly while he waited for permission to begin – and once they’d eaten Albert would make some excuse and slip out to see old friends in the pub, leaving the women to talk and the children to get down and play. It was a tall and narrow terraced house, with three floors and a cellar, and although the rooms were small and crammed full of Julia’s many possessions, there was plenty of space to explore. Sometimes Susan and David would play together, or with Laurence, while Julia and Dorothy did the washing up and chattered about grown-up things; playing hide and seek up and down the three flights of stairs, making handkerchief parachutes for Susan’s dolls and dropping them with a quick thud from the top landing, daring each other to creep down into the dark cellar. Sometimes they’d play apart, allocating each other a floor of the house and muttering their imaginary narratives around cars and teacups and soldiers and dolls. And sometimes they’d make so much noise, encroaching on each other’s games or flaring up over some half-imagined slight, that Auntie Julia or their mother would give them some money and some coupons to go to the sweet shop, telling them to run off some of their silliness in the park. Laurence never came to the park with them, and often ignored them altogether, barricading himself in his room to read comics or listen to the crystal radio set he’d built himself. He was five years older than David, so it almost didn’t seem strange that he would keep himself apart like that, although sometimes he heard his mother complain about it on the way home, saying well Laurence was a bit rude, a bit sulky, nothing like his mother, and didn’t Albert think Julia should be doing something about it?
Dorothy was up on her feet before he’d even opened the door, reaching for him, saying David David love, what happened? Lifting him into her arms, kissing the top of his head and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, saying oh David, it’s okay, it’s alright, what’s happened to you? And by the time she’d sat him down on a chair to have a good look at him, Julia had taken a wad of cotton wool from her useful drawer, and a bottle of antiseptic from the cupboard, and set them on the table.
She asked him again what had happened. There were some big boys, he said, in the park, and he didn’t manage to say much more through his sniffs and juddering tears. He didn’t say that they’d asked him what he was doing in their park, that they’d told him he wasn’t from round there and to get lost, that one of them had pushed him off the swing and that another had thrown stones while he was running away, that he’d tripped and fallen and they’d all laughed. He was already learning that some things were easier not to say.
This is going to hurt a little now David, his mother said, as she dabbed antiseptic on to his broken skin. He nodded, wincing, sucking the breath in between his teeth, and when she was done he said are we going home soon? and his mother said yes love, we are, we’ll go soon, but why don’t you have a lie down first, have a little rest, okay?
And while David lay in the bed in one of Julia’s spare rooms, a cool damp cloth folded across his forehead, and while Susan went up to see him, to offer him something from her thruppenny bag of sweets and say are you alright? I’m sorry I left you in the park, and while David thought about it for a moment and said that’s okay, Dorothy was wiping at tears of her own with the same handkerchief she’d offered David a few moments before, sitting down on the chair and smiling up at Julia, saying well, you can’t always be there with them, can you?
No dear, Julia said, sitting down next to her. You can’t.
It’s a good job I wasn’t there, Dorothy said, smoothing her handkerchief. I probably would have belted them.
I daresay you would have done Dotty, Julia said, shaking her head, and where do you think that would have left us? A long line of upset mothers knocking on my door I’d imagine. Dorothy smiled, wiping her eyes again and folding the handkerchief away.
But where does it come from, this? she said, looking down at her clenching and unclenching fist. I mean, Julia, you know, from the first moment I set eyes on him, I—He was such a beautiful child, wasn’t he?
They always are, said Julia, smiling.
No, but Julia, he was; I couldn’t, I couldn’t take my eyes off him; I couldn’t put him down for more than a minute. I used to watch anyone who came near him like a hawk, you know I did. Julia nodded.
I know Dot, she said. Of course I do.
I would have stepped in front of a bus for him, Dorothy said. I still would. Where does that come from? she asked again. Julia shrugged.
It’s only natural, she said.
Dorothy looked up, almost startled.
But this was different, she said, this is different. I’d never felt like that before, she said fearfully. Don’t you remember me telling you that? Julia nodded, smiling, squeezing Dorothy’s hand and then letting go as they both heard Susan stepping carefully down the stairs.
4 Tobacco tin, cigarettes, Christmas card, 1914 (#ulink_3867a2db-6035-5180-aebb-3d5dcb560c93)
He pushed open the door of the room at the end of Auntie Julia’s top landing, and stared. He’d never seen so many things in one room before. There were piles of books and magazines, dresses on hangers and dresses spread out across chairs, hats balanced on top of each other, photo albums still halfway through being filled from shoeboxes of loose snapshots, bunches of flowers hanging to dry, posters for West End productions, jewellery boxes spilling over with tangled necklaces and earrings. He edged into the room, his hands hovering over it all, not knowing where to begin. His parents kept a much tidier and more ordered house; clothes were kept in wardrobes, toys went straight back under the bed when they’d been played with, and the few photographs they had were neatly filed away into albums and rarely taken out. This was something very new. Later, once he’d been taken to the British Museum, and been patiently waited for while he tried to read every last caption, he would think of comparing this room to the collection halls of the Egyptian Pharaohs, where the many possessions they needed to accompany them to the next world were held for safekeeping, and he would shyly tell Julia this and be shocked by the volume of her laughter, by the ferocity with which she would gather him into her arms and kiss the top of his head.
Without thinking about it, he picked up a tobacco tin from the bookshelf, half hidden amongst the jewellery boxes and polished stones. It was lighter than he’d expected, and rough where the metal had rusted, and there were pictures of battleships around the edge of the lid. You can open it if you like, Julia said quietly, and although he hadn’t realised she was standing behind him, he was too absorbed to be surprised. She came into the room, swept a pile of magazines from the bed to the floor and sat down. He looked at her and he looked at the tin in his hands.
Julia’s mother had been an actress, and although Julia had never quite made it onto the stage herself, she had inherited something of that same gift for inhabiting a story; and that was what she did that day, as she told him about a long-gone Christmas. She told him about her father, a young school-teacher with round glasses and a thin moustache, spending the Christmas of 1914 in a muddy hole somewhere in France. She said that even though it was a war they’d found the time for a celebration, and that by the light of a smoky paraffin lamp and a few stubby candles they’d drunk from small mugs filled with brandy, sung carols, and worn party hats made from sheets of old newspaper. It can’t have been all that cheery, she said, what with men not there who should have been there, and all of them anyway wishing they were home with their families, but they did their best, and made jokes, and drank to the health of every last man they could think of. And then, she said, leaning in close as though it were a secret, their commanding officer gave them these: a Christmas present from the young Princess Mary herself. She reached across and helped him ease the lid off the tin. Inside, there was a Christmas card, a full pouch of tobacco, and twenty cigarettes. She smiled. He kept his, she said. He thought it would be worth hanging on to, he thought it might be worth something one day. She laughed. He could be very dull and sensible sometimes, she said. My mother was forever on at him to liven up a little. He looked at the unsmoked cigarettes and a strange excitement shook through him. It was a dangerous, thrilling feeling.
The thing in his hands felt at once indestructible and hopelessly fragile. He was terrified of dropping it, or of spoiling it in some way, of holding it out in the air for too long. It felt as though he had only to put one of the cigarettes to his lips and he would be suddenly transported to that foxhole in 1914, crowded around a mess table singing carols with his fellow soldiers. He wanted to put the lid back on, to have Julia take it out of his hands, but he couldn’t move and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
Later, Julia took him to the Imperial War Museum and showed him soldiers’ uniforms like the one her father had worn, and the type of rifle he would have used, and letters sent home from the front. She took him to the British Museum and showed him the treasures of Sutton Hoo, the Egyptian Mummies, the jewellery and weapons and costumes smuggled home from around the world. She took him to the Natural History Museum, the V&A, the Horniman, and each time he felt the same breathless excitement he’d felt when he’d first held her father’s tobacco tin, the same thrill of old stories made new.
And it was this that he had spent most of his life looking for: these physical traces of history, these objects which could weigh his hands down with their density of memory and time. Something he could hold on to and say, look, this belonged to my fathers and forefathers, this is some small piece of who they were. This is some small piece of where I began.
5 Shoebox of assorted domestic goods, bullets, shrapnel, 1953–1960 (#ulink_50636c50-cd18-5203-ac8c-986d4658d92f)
Soon after those first museum visits with Julia, he started collecting things for himself: broken crockery, an alarm clock with the face smashed in, the trailing wires of an old radio set, an empty picture frame; the cracked and rusting remains of other lives which he found on the bombsites where he wasn’t allowed to play. He brought them home, brushing the dried mud from them with an old toothbrush, looking for maker’s marks or other inscriptions, looking for something which would give these objects a story, attaching small labels with the date and the place where they were found and lining them up along his windowsill and his desk.
What are you doing? Susan asked him one afternoon, not for the first time, standing in his open doorway with her arms folded across her chest.
Nothing, he replied, turning away from her, trying to shield his latest find with his body, waiting for her to go away.
Why don’t you just collect cigarette cards like normal boys do? she said.
Why don’t you mind your own business? he said.
It is my business, I’m older than you and I’m your sister, so there, she said, picking up a dented water flask from the floor and lifting it quickly out of his reach. Where did you get this from? she asked, looking at it, reading the label which hung from its neck by a piece of white thread. Have you been on the bombsites again?
David stood up, reaching for it.
Give us it back, he said. Colin’s brother found it, he gave it to me.
Don’t believe you, Susan said. You’ll be in trouble if they find out.
Give us it back, David said again, jumping for it now, Susan lifting it higher and stepping back, turning towards the door.
Maybe I’ll keep it, she said, smiling.
It’s not yours, David said, his voice rising indignantly.
It’s not yours either, she snapped back. You don’t even know whose it is, it could be anyone’s.
Finders keepers, said David, and Susan stepped out on to the landing, smiling again.
Well, I’ve just found this so I’m keeping it, she said. David grabbed at it, Susan shrieked, and their mother yelled up at them both to stop it whatever it was they were doing. She pulled a face and gave him back the water flask, whispering for good measure that he was a smelly stinker.
If she’d asked, if she’d sat down and said that she really honestly wanted to know, he would have told her that he collected these things because he was fascinated by them, because he couldn’t take his eyes off them, because it was almost as good as having a real museum all to himself.
But she didn’t ask, and he rarely talked about it to anyone. He found it hard to explain, when anyone did ask, why he liked museums so much, why he spent so many of his weekends catching buses to museums in other towns, or gazing frustratedly at the building site which would one day become the museum Coventry was so painfully lacking. I just like looking at all the things, he would say, and imagining how old they are and finding out about them and everything; muttering as he spoke, knowing that the person asking wouldn’t understand.
He liked the smell of museums, the musty scent of things dug from the earth and buried in heavy wooden store cupboards. He liked the smell of the polish on the marbled floors, and the way his shoes squeaked as he walked across them. He liked the way that people’s voices would drift up and be lost in the hush of the high-ceilinged rooms. He liked the coldness of the glass cases when he pressed his face against them. He liked looking at the dates of the objects, and trying not to get dizzy as he added up how long ago that was. He didn’t understand why people had to ask, why they didn’t enjoy museums as much as he did, and why some of the other boys at school started to call him a swot and a teacher’s pet. It seemed perfectly natural to him, to be amazed by the physical presence of history, to be able to stand in front of an ancient object and be awed by its reach across time. A thumbprint in a piece of prehistoric pottery. The chipped edge of a Viking battle-axe, and the shattered remains of a human skull. The scribbled designs for the world’s first steam engine, spotted with candlewax and stained with jam. It seemed like some kind of miracle to him that these traces of distant lives had survived, and that he was able to stand in front of them and stare for as long as he liked.
When he ran out of display space in his room he started keeping the collection in cardboard shoeboxes under his bed, and it was from underneath his bed that he retrieved one of those same boxes some fifty years later, lifting the crinkled lid and sifting through the contents a few days before his journey, trying to remember where all these things had come from. A brooch, a set of keys, a bullet, a handful of blank-faced coins, a lumpen twist of rusted shrapnel: they could have come from any number of the sites he’d explored as a boy – the cratered fields he took as a shortcut across to school; the motor-works which still hadn’t been rebuilt; the numerous acres of cleared land which had been marked out with foundations for the housing his father would build to replace what had been there before the war. Coventry was a city of building sites when he was a child, great unmapped territories for him to explore, piecing together stories around the objects he found, guessing which buildings had once been where, or what might be coming, watching the way the city changed as all his favourite places were gradually rebuilt upon.
But the small leather shoe, in the bottom of the box, had come from his own back garden, not from a rubble-strewn bombsite. He’d dug it up with a handful of potatoes one evening after school and taken it to show his father, who was sitting on the back step with the paper. It fitted easily into his father’s broad hand, and they’d both looked at it for a moment, cradled there, plastered with mud.
Well that’s something, his father had said.
How old do you think it is Dad? David said, leaning over it with his hands on his knees. His father looked up.
I’d say it’s probably been in the ground there since ’44, he said, so it’s older than you at least. He looked over towards the potato patch, David’s spade still sticking out of the ground, the pale potatoes lying in a bunch beside the small hole he’d made. I wouldn’t tell your mother about this one though, he added. She might be upset. She might not let you hang on to it, he said. He looked at David, solemnly, and winked, and David tried to wink back. Now, you going to finish digging up the spuds? he asked, passing him the shoe and turning back to his paper.
In the summer, if the weather was fine, his father liked to sit out on the back step when he got home from work. His mother would look out for him coming down the road and have the kettle and the pot ready so that by the time he got to the house there’d be a mug of tea there waiting. Sometimes she would meet him at the door, holding a damp handkerchief up to his face to wipe the dust and dirt from his mouth before kissing him hello. He would sit on the step and spread the evening paper out across his lap, steam rising from his mug, smoke curling from his cigarette, and he didn’t like anyone speaking to him until he’d put the paper to one side and looked up again. He was always covered in dust when he got home, his face and hands coated with brick dust and powdered cement, his clothes scattered with woodshavings from the joiners working overhead, his hair threaded with thin white fibres from the panels they used in the roof and around the pipes. When he’d finished the paper, and got washed and changed before tea, he shifted back to being their at-home dad again, softer and more human seeming, but while he was sitting on that step, covered in the debris of work, waiting for his body to recover, he almost seemed to be someone else, some mythological character who built houses and schools and hospitals with his own bare and calloused hands.
At weekends, or on long evenings when the light held, he would work on the garden, swapping the dust of the building sites for the mud and soil of the ground. There were photographs, taken when they first moved into the house, in which the garden was nothing but piles of sand and builders’ rubble, a few nettles and thistles springing up from the odd patch of soggy ground. By the time he died, he’d turned it into something out of a gardener’s catalogue – a small lawn at the front, kept carefully trim and straight, bordered with rose bushes, hydrangeas, dahlias, and hollyhocks on either side of the front door. Long rows of vegetables in the back, carefully weeded, carrots and cauliflowers and brussel sprouts, potatoes and parsnips, wigwams of peas and fat runner beans.
Years later, when Dorothy first met Eleanor, she took great pleasure in showing her around the garden. This was all a wasteground when we moved in, David heard her say as she took Eleanor by the arm and led her around the borders. It took six years for the magnolia to flower but it was worth it, don’t you think? And Eleanor smiled and said that she thought it was. And as David watched them, from his place beside the back step, looking at the pale pink flowers of the clematis, which had been trained to the top of the slatwood fence, looking at the heavy handfuls of lavender and thyme growing out of the half-brick rockery in the corner, looking at the gnarled and sagging branches of the two small apple trees, it seemed as if his father had hardly gone away at all.
6 Postcard from Greenwich Maritime Museum, c.1953 (#ulink_b2643985-a288-5606-9303-74dcd7f0cd9f)
When David told Julia that he wanted to be a museum curator she didn’t nod and say that’s nice, or make a face, or ask him why; she clapped her hands and said it was a wonderful idea. You’ll have to invite me to your first exhibition, she said enthusiastically and whenever he saw her after that she would ask how his collections were coming along, what lessons he’d learnt from the museums he’d been to since she saw him last, whether he’d have any jobs going for a work-shy duffer like her once he was open and ready for business. He started telling her about the sort of museum he would run, the exhibitions he would put on, the archives he would collect. I’ll have some displays that people can pick up and hold, he said, and more people to explain what things are. And I won’t have anything in storage, he said. It’ll all be out on display and if there isn’t enough room I’ll buy a bigger museum because it’s not fair to hold on to things and not let people look at them. And I won’t have any replicas or artist’s impressions, he said.
He reminded her about the boat he’d seen in the Maritime Museum; it was sitting in a small white-washed room of its own, beached on the bare floor and propped up by a pair of painted timbers. He’d walked around it, just able to see over the gunwales and into the plain interior, a couple of bench seats the only sign of comfort. The display panel on the wall had said that this boat, all twenty undecked feet of it, may well have been sailed across the Atlantic by the Vikings. He’d read those words over again and turned back to the boat, a storm of excitement breaking over him, pressing his hands against it breathlessly, wanting to climb in and run his hands all over it, to push his face into the rough-grained wood and smell the salt tang of sweat and sea and adventure, to sit on the bench and imagine the lurch of the open ocean, the endless tack and reach towards an unrelenting horizon. He’d looked at the wood, which must have been eight or nine hundred years old, and wondered why it wasn’t roped off from the public, why it wasn’t a little more crumbling and worn, why the varnish was gleaming under the spotlights. And he’d gone back to the display board, and read the last short paragraph explaining who’d built the replica and how, and he’d wanted to kick the whole thing to pieces.
It didn’t mean anything, he told Julia later. It wasn’t real, it was made up. You can’t learn anything about history by looking at made-up things, he said, talking quickly and urgently. It’s stupid, it’s not fair. It’s a lie, he said. They’re lying. She held up a hand to steady him, smiling at his earnest scorn. It’s better than nothing though, isn’t it? she asked gently. It gives you an idea at least, wouldn’t you say?
7 Opening programme, Coventry Municipal Art Gallery and Museum, 1961 (#ulink_255e180c-bd25-5fac-b4eb-89ffc53bf62a)
It was still in good condition, kept clean and dry in a plastic wrapper, and when he slid it out to look through the pages the only marks of age were in the stilted language of the text and the starched formality of the photographs; the mayor, the director, the city treasurer, the benefactor’s wife, sitting on the platform with their hands folded into their laps, their hair waxed neatly into place, listening attentively to one another’s opening speeches, applauding.
He remembered their applause carrying out into the street, to the long crowd of people pressing and shifting back down the steps and away round the corner, five or six abreast, chatting and smoking and bending stiff legs, their hands stuffed into their pockets and their collars turned up against the last of the winter winds. One or two policemen were there, keeping order, walking up and down the line, asking people to keep out of the road and leave space for passers-by, keeping an eye out for light fingers and lost children. A pair of journalists were hanging around at the front of the queue, squiggling comments into a notebook, lifting a camera and encouraging people to smile, catching a shot where all the bleached white faces managed to look into the lens at once, a long stretch of them fading back into the dark evening; David near the front, waiting, unsmiling, half hidden by the heavy black coat of the man ahead of him.
The inky picture ended up on the front page of the Evening Telegraph, and the front page landed on the kitchen table for a while before being neatly clipped out and filed away into the box under his bed.
Didn’t it occur to you to smile? his father asked, standing and leaning over the paper, still dressed in his dust-plastered work clothes. Didn’t the photographer say cheese or something? David shrugged, embarrassed.
Wasn’t bothered, he said. Susan, who’d come through from watching television when Albert called, pulled the paper across the table and said let me see, where is he? She searched through the faces and found her brother, smiling in spite of herself, reluctantly impressed.
Fame at last, she said. You’ll have all the girls after you now. David ignored her, his face colouring, and leant over to try to read the article. Dorothy, standing at the oven to stir the gravy and check the chops and the potatoes, turned to Albert and said it’s almost ready now if you want to get changed. Albert waved his hand at her in passing acknowledgement.
Listen, he said, taking the paper back from Susan. Crowds gathered last night to be among the first visitors to another of our city’s proud buildings, the long-awaited Municipal Art Gallery and Museum. Guests were especially honoured to have in their midst the future director of the museum, one Mr David Carter Esquire, pictured here with a dirty great sulk on his face. David tried to pull the paper away, but his father whisked it up from the table and stood back, raising his voice above Susan’s laughter. The city treasurer, he continued, a tight-fisted bugger if ever we saw one, said it’s a shocking waste of money of course, but I was out-voted at the committee stage. It doesn’t say that does it? Dorothy asked, lifting her hand to her mouth as she realised her mistake. They all laughed, and she joined in, embarrassed, and they kept on laughing until Albert began to cough and splutter and double over in an attempt to haul in some breath.
You really should go to the doctor’s, Dorothy said when he’d recovered, handing him a glass of water. Albert didn’t reply.
And there was nothing now to show for this, in the archives he had kept. No medical records, no photographs of his father’s face turning a violent red as he fought for breath, no prescriptions or bottles of pills. Just the memory of that cough, the angry defiant bark of it, dry and choked, as though his lungs were full of tangled steel wool. There should have been something, at least. Something to hold up to the light, or to pin to the wall.
If he was asked, he was going to say that he remembered his father as a strong man; as someone who could balance two dozen bricks on his broad shoulders while he climbed a ladder, who could swing both him and his sister up in the air at the same time, and dig the whole vegetable patch over in the hour or two of light that was left after supper. He was going to say that he remembered his father as a busy man; as someone who always seemed to be in a hurry to be somewhere else: home from work, out to the garden, away from the supper table and out to join his friends in the pub. And he was going to say that he remembered his father as a loving man; someone who could hold his wife in his arms without shame and kiss her as if nobody else was in the room, someone who could find the time now and again to tuck his son into bed, with broad strong hands that smelt of soil and dust and cigarette smoke.
No one was much surprised when he died, and Albert was probably the least surprised of all. It had been coming on quickly for months and he seemed to have given up and started waiting for it. It feels like I’m breathing in tiny splinters of metal every time I open my mouth, he told David once. It feels like there’s a barrow-load of bricks weighing down on my chest. Dorothy found him when she got back from the shops one afternoon, his head tipped back over the arm of the sofa, a blanket wrapped around him like a shroud. She called out, and by the time David had run downstairs she was kneeling beside the sofa, holding Albert’s hand and stroking the side of his face. The shopping bags were on the floor, split open, tins and packets and loose wrapped meats spilt halfway across the room, and it was only when the doctor arrived that she pushed herself back to her feet again.
My father wasn’t one for talking much, he wanted to tell someone, and if he did it was never really about the past, about his family, or where he grew up, or what happened in the war. I know he was in the Navy and that’s about all, I don’t know where he went, or what he did when he got there, I don’t know what my mother went through at home when the bombing was going on, if she saw anyone killed or injured at all. I only know that they were apart for a long time, and they couldn’t even write, and that when they were together again there were things they didn’t feel the need to talk about; not even, I suppose, to each other. I think that’s how I got so interested in history, he would say, since there was so little of it at home. There weren’t even any photos on the wall until after my father had died.
I suppose I didn’t really know him all that well in the end, he thought he might say. Well, isn’t that the oldest story, someone might murmur in response, he thought, or, who among us ever did?
8 Two telegrams, November 1939 and April 1940 (#ulink_c1bf1cbd-5b75-5b93-9e9f-bea7b9b874ea)
They’d spent the afternoon at the Imperial War Museum. He was still uncertain about finding his way around London on his own, so Julia had gone with him, and had been very patient while he took notes and made sketches, and had gone quiet at one or two of the exhibits, stepping away a few paces and turning her back so that he knew it wasn’t a good idea to ask her what was wrong. They’d found a Christmas tobacco tin from 1916, like the one she had at home from her father, but this one was empty and she’d laughed and whispered maybe it’s worth something now, and he’d been shocked by the idea of her selling such a thing until she’d nudged him and he’d realised she was joking. It hadn’t been until they were on the bus on the way home, the street lamps already spilling splashes of light on to the rain-polished streets, that he’d asked about her own experience of the war, and about her husband; and it was only after they’d run from the bus stop to the house, and wrapped their wet heads in warm towels from the airing cupboard, and sat down in the kitchen with a steaming pot of tea and thick slices of heavy cake, that she’d begun to tell him.
The war hadn’t started when I met him, she began, but everyone knew it wouldn’t be long in coming. She hadn’t got very far with her story before she realised he didn’t know what she meant by ballroom dancing, so she insisted that she teach him there and then. She put a record on, and had him push the table back, and talked him through the steps while a waltz crackled out of the small loudspeaker. He felt a tightening knot of embarrassment in his stomach as she took his hand and placed it on her waist, and laid her hand against his, but he knew there’d be no getting out of it until he’d got it right. So he listened, and he concentrated, and he started to relax a little, and the second time the record played he only stepped on her foot twice. Well! she said, clapping her hands as the record finished again, I think we’ll make a ballroom maestro out of you yet, young man. We’ll have the debs of London queuing up for you! He didn’t know what she meant by debs, but he didn’t get a chance to ask. Once more, she announced, as the needle jerked back to the start of the record. This is the way the story begins, she said, taking his hand.
A Friday evening in early June, 1939. A hotel ballroom just off The Strand, its high domed ceiling frescoed pale sky-blue with wisps of spindrift clouds, ringing with the fading echo of the orchestra’s closing bars. A renewed rumble of chatter and a tinkle of glasses. A brief light-fingered applause for the musicians. The dancers returning to their seats, singly or in pairs, smiling and no-thank-you-ing, reaching for drinks with lowered eyes and private blushes or whispering reports to a neighbour’s ear. A rustle of loose sheaf paper at the orchestra’s music stands. The unaccompanied glide and twirl of the white-jacketed waiters refreshing tall glasses with a stoop and a bow, proffering hors d’oeuvres on broad silver trays, wordless, indifferent, impeccably polite. Seated guests rising for the next dance, taking the hand of those closest to them, or catching the eye of another nearby, or crossing the room with a smart-heeled step, a discreet straightening of the jacket, a two-fingered smoothing of the hair; determined, after much raw-humoured ribbing, to finally take the bull, as it were, by the horns.
We’d been watching each other all evening, she told him as the first few bars of the music swelled up against the sound of the rain outside and David led them correctly away to the right, towards the tall potted yucca. That’s it! she said. You’re getting it now, back two three. I’d noticed him almost as soon as he came into the room, she said. The smart cut of his uniform, you know, and an awfully manly jaw, and very clear pale eyes. I caught him looking a few times, she said, smiling. Or he caught me looking, she added; turn two three. I suppose it depends which way you look at it. She laughed.
Major William Pearson stood in front of Julia’s table and introduced himself. Neither of them were surprised that he was there, after an evening spent watching each other’s movements – checking who the other may or may not be dancing with, hazarding a smile from across the room, murmuring excuse me as they came close to colliding by the doors to the terrace – and neither of them expected her to decline his invitation to dance. But still, she went through the formalities of reluctance, and her friends carefully looked away and pretended not even to have noticed that the gentleman they’d discussed all evening had finally crossed the floor to their table, and was as smoothly good-looking close up as he was from afar. He insisted, politely, and she stood, churning with excitement, and accepted his outstretched hand. Thank you, she said. I’d be glad to.
They strode to the middle of the room, offering each other their hands and waists just as the conductor was tapping his podium. William smiled, and their dance began. Neither of them said very much at first, beyond an exchange of polite enquiries, a compliment on the other’s dancing, a remark on the weather, concentrating instead on their crisp and flowing movement around the circular stage of the room. Moving away from her table, where her friends were speaking into their hands and offering gestures of encouragement as she looked over his shoulder towards them; turning across the floor to within earshot of her mother and father, her father looking rather glazed, her mother smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder and dropping her a wink in the middle of one of her actress friends’ long anecdotes; past a table of boys she recognised from the school opposite hers, boys she’d once gossiped about and spied upon but who from the vantage point of Major William Pearson’s arms now looked far more like boys than the men they were trying so hard to be with their fuzzy moustaches and their freshly signed papers; deftly sidestepping a waiter with a tray of drinks; twirling quickly away from a raucous gaggle of tail-coated medical students; changing direction, and pausing for a brief moment, in front of his table by the corner of the stage, the officers of his party in uniforms as smart as his, raising their glasses and making comments from the sides of their mouths before roaring with laughter and slapping each other’s knees – ignore them, he said quietly, smiling a little nonetheless – and she blushed and dropped her eyes for a moment; sweeping past the orchestra which seemed to be playing for the two of them alone, as if nobody else was there, and although she’d partnered dozens of men in that same dome-ceilinged venue, and although the music was more than familiar, the dance still felt brand new for them both.
They found themselves talking a little more, confident in their dancing, asking about each other’s lives, his short career in the army, her studies at drama school and her hopes of following her mother on to the stage. He talked about the prospects of war, the slim chance of it still being avoided. They both described their favourite walks, restaurants, pastimes, and they were both surprised by how soon they were sharing these small secrets and intimacies. And as they talked, almost forgetting that they were dancing at all, quite forgetting that others were dancing around them, or that they were not passing unobserved, they found that they were holding each other a little closer, a little firmer, his hand resting lower on her waist, his chest brushing lightly against hers, their hips even pulling tightly together once or twice; and they found that their voices were dropping lower, taking on a secretive inviting tone obliging the other to lean in a little closer to hear, tilting their heads to whisper in each other’s ear, turning their faces to catch the murmuring lips against their cheeks.
I still don’t really understand how it happened, she told David, dancing past the record player. I wonder if anyone really understands how it happens, when it’s like that, so immediate. How could we possibly have known what we were doing? What did we think we knew about love, or any of that business? He didn’t know how to answer her. He wasn’t sure if she was still talking about one dance, one evening, or the first weeks and months of their being together. He didn’t really understand her questions, and he was too busy concentrating on matching their steps to the music without colliding with the furniture. But she wasn’t really asking him at all, he realised later; she was asking the photograph of Major Pearson on the wall, or the music which skipped and bumped beneath the worn-out stylus, or the rain which spattered against the windows outside.
Later, she told him how reckless she thought they’d been. He presented it as a matter of practicality, she said, almost the same day as war was declared. He said that he’d soon be leaving for France, that an opportunity had arisen for the purchase of a house, this house, which would be unsuitable for a bachelor. He said there was no benefit to our endlessly hanging around. But the truth really, David, is that we were stupidly and drunkenly in love. We didn’t quite stop to think, she said. Not that I would have had it any differently of course, she added, but one does wonder.
One does wonder was a phrase she often repeated, always pausing before correcting herself in one way or another. But he was such a handsome man David! Such a handsome and exciting man! And when you’re young nothing else very much matters, does it? Only that this handsome chap is offering you a ring and wants you to be his wife. Patience and caution weren’t really in my vocabulary in those days, she told him, smiling, and he replied, teasingly, that he didn’t think they would ever be.
And as the record started again – we danced for a very long time, she told David; it seemed to go on for ever but then it was over far too soon – Julia and William danced once more around the room, past her friends, past his colleagues, past the waiters and the medical students, and back to her parents, pausing and turning while William cocked an eyebrow at her father, inclining his head towards Julia, and her father nodded, lifting up the palm of his hand as if to say certainly, be my guest, and they turned, stepped, stepped, turned away, their waltz bringing them over to the centre of the room where William dropped quickly to one knee. The conductor raised his baton, the musicians paused and the whole room leant forward to listen. Yes of course, she said. I’d be glad to, she said. And the music resumed, and the whole room applauded, and the pace of their dancing quickened as they whirled back and forth across the floor, rushing to make the arrangements, a best man, a bridesmaid, a church and a vicar, choosing the hymns and booking the hotel room, and before she knew quite what was happening her father had taken her by the arm and danced her down the length of the room, up past a pressing throng of friends and well-wishers, up to where the vicar waited and nodded his head in time to the waltz. Will you? he intoned to Major Pearson, and Major Pearson replied I will. Will you? he asked of Julia, and Julia smiled. Of course, I will. The vicar joined them hand in hand, and they danced back down the hall, confetti showered at their feet, William’s colleagues lining up to form an archway with their bayoneted rifles, a waiter leading the shout of hip-hip-hooray as Major and Mrs Pearson danced right out through the doors and into the hotel lobby, sweeping up the thickly carpeted stairs and straight into the first available room, William lifting Julia into his arms and slipping a coin into the bellboy’s hand.
And when they emerged, sometime later, the music was still playing. So they waltzed back down the stairs into the ballroom, and it seemed as though no one had noticed their return, the whole room dancing together now, and when Julia looked around she saw faces fixed with concentration, eyes focused on distant points beyond the room, people moving with a stiff-limbed determination, lips pulled up into forced blank smiles.
David had long sat down by then, too embarrassed to dance any more, muttering that he thought he had the hang of it and he was out of breath. But Julia had barely seemed to notice him moving away, still stepping around the room with her hands held out in front of her. She was talking quickly, stumbling, not looking at David or following the music, saying and then, and then, no, that’s not right, we, and then, as if everything had happened all at once, in that one room, on that one night, and not in the space of a few hurried months.
We only had a few days, she said, before he went away. It was difficult not to think about it, she said, raising her voice against the rain, turning to a slow halt, her hands falling to her sides, her face lined with shadows. The details of her story were becoming confused, and she seemed breathless, unsteady, nodding slightly in time with the music or in agreement with her own muddled recollections. He wanted the music to stop, or Julia to say something like, well really I think that’s enough for now, let me just sit down, but she didn’t. She leant back against the writing bureau, her eyes half-closed and her hands seeming to conduct the music, and she carried on talking.
He used to send me short little notes, she said. Writing wasn’t his strong point but I loved to get them all the same. He couldn’t tell me where they were, or what they were doing, but he’d mention little details about life with the men, and I’d feel almost as though I was there with him for a minute or two. I found out later that they hadn’t got all that far at all, she said softly; they were heading back to Dunkirk when they got caught out. Shelling, she said. She stopped for a moment, tipping her head towards the record player, listening to the music and smiling slightly.
In the ballroom, the dance floor less crowded than it had been a few moments before, one of the tail-coated medical students and his partner danced alongside William and Julia, matching their movements step for step, the student looking at Julia with interest. She glanced across at him nervously, and he said excuse me, I’m sorry, may I? reaching his hand out to her stomach, slipping a stethoscope from his inside pocket and looping its end inside her dress. I thought as much, he said, nodding to his partner; three months on, and they smiled and turned and twirled away. Julia looked down at herself, startled, and up at William, his thoughts seemingly somewhere else entirely. She took a few moments to compose herself, her heels clicking time across the ballroom floor, and then she leant forward to whisper in his ear: My darling William stop Pregnant stop Surprised but happy be careful I love you stop. Quietly, almost inaudibly, he replied, with a hoarse whisper in her ear: Surprised but happy also stop Suggest Laurence if a boy stop Be careful yourself all well here stop.
And almost while he was still speaking the blue sky of the ballroom ceiling was covered over with smoke and oily clouds, and a kettle-drum roll from the orchestra sent the soldiers in the corner, the officers of William’s party, clambering under a table which offered no protection when the mortar shells came raining down through the stained-glass skylight, tumbling and exploding directly amongst them, scattering shrapnel and mess tins and glassware and limbs.
There was a moment’s startled pause in the room, a dramatic swish of cymbals, and then the waltz continued, the waiters moving in with stretchers to take the bodies away, the medical students standing around to see if there was anything much they could do, a pair of maids hanging back with sponges and buckets and mops.
And the music was slower then, quieter, and many of the guests were returning to their seats, some of them even fetching their coats and heading for home, and Julia and William were soon the only ones left dancing, with small tired steps, back two three and turn two three, and William was silent and pale-faced in her arms, not meeting her eye, barely keeping a hold of her hand or her waist, his shoes dragging rather than smartly clicking across the polished floor. William? she said, and waited in vain for a reply. The music came to an end, and there was a strange crackling hiss as the musicians put down their instruments and the conductor turned to face the two dancers with a bow. There was no applause, and William broke away from her, not hearing her thank you or acknowledging her smile, lowering his head as he shuffled towards the table by the corner of the stage where his men had once sat. Julia crossed the dance floor for the last time and rejoined her friends at their table. They silently poured her a drink, avoiding her querying gaze.
Oh, she said, as she sat down, as if something she’d not thought of before had only just crossed her mind. Oh. She wondered what the crackling hissing sound could be. A young waiter glided past with a silver tray, turning and holding it out to her, indicating with a nod that the slim white envelope was for her. Oh, she said, again.
She showed David the two telegrams later in the evening, while he sat at the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate, the rain still pounding against the window and traffic sliding wetly through the street. She had them in a brown envelope, at the back of the useful drawer where she kept string and sellotape and candles and cotton wool. The paper was blackened and cracked along the folds, and one of the corners was stained with damp. He read both of them, the one beginning Surprised but happy also, and the one beginning Regret to inform, and he slid them delicately back into the envelope.
People are very resilient you know, she said to him later, when he pressed her about it. People find all manner of ways of working things out. I wouldn’t mind but it was just so quick, she said.
She stood up from the kitchen table, put the envelope with the telegrams back into the cluttered drawer, and headed out of the room.
I don’t think I’ll have any chocolate tonight, she said. Will you be okay to sort things out down here? All that dancing, she said, I’ve worn myself out, I’m not as young as I was. She stood in the doorway a moment and something blurred and drifted in her eyes, as though she was confused, trying to remember what she was doing. He turned in his chair, his bare feet cold on the stone floor, watching her.
Auntie Julia? he said, and she turned her focus back towards him.
Yes dear? she said.
What was he like though? he asked. When you knew him at least; what was he really like?
She looked at him, her hands weakly twisting and untwisting the hem of her long cardigan. She shook her head, as if she was still surprised.
I have absolutely no idea, she said.
9 Contract, wage slip, duty sheet, from Coventry Museum, 1964 (#ulink_d55a3f85-677d-51f7-9ff0-0a410953ed62)
They gave him a small rectangular name badge when he started work at the museum, three years after that opening night; its white plastic soon yellowed from sunlight and the nicotine stain of the staffroom. David Carter, it said, Junior Curatorial Assistant. His mother insisted on him wearing it when she took his first-day-at-work photo, and said it was a pity they didn’t give him a uniform as well but she supposed it was all modern these days. He told her that it was only the attendants who wore uniforms, but she said she couldn’t see the difference. She said oh if your father could see you now he’d be so proud, and he said do you think so? Julia, when she saw the photograph, sent him a postcard of the British Museum, with Onwards and upwards! written on the back.
His first day was a disappointment. He spent the morning being shown around the galleries by the Senior Keeper, despite knowing every last inch of the place, and the afternoon sitting in the staffroom while someone tried to work out what jobs they could give him to do. He’d half expected to launch his career with a dramatic discovery in some lost corner of the basement stores, or at the very least to be given immediate responsibility for the design and layout of a groundbreaking new exhibition. But instead he spent the first few weeks doing odd jobs for the rest of the curatorial staff; looking for records in the enormous card-index boxes, taking draft documents to the secretaries’ office to be typed up, checking the mousetraps and the thermohydrographs, keeping the stores spotlessly clean, making the teas and taking away the post. By the end of his first week he had an encyclopedic knowledge not of the archival filing system but of the milk and sugar preferences of each member of staff. It’s not what I thought it would be like, he told his sister, and she told him he’d better get used to it, he was the new boy, and what did he expect without any proper qualifications?
But after a few weeks things started to improve. He was assigned to the Keeper of Social History and cast more into the apprentice role that he’d been expecting. And once the Director had convinced himself that this was a career David was serious about, there was mention of training courses, placements, personal responsibilities. He began to be allowed away on research visits, to Leeds, Liverpool, Newcastle, as far north as Edinburgh and Glasgow, even Aberdeen. But he still spent most of his time flipping through card indexes, cross-checking records, inspecting stored objects, looking for mouse droppings in the basement, and it was a few years more before the job started to involve any of the work he’d imagined doing when he’d been a twelve-year-old boy poring over hand-drawn gallery designs and displays.
Julia came to see him after a few months, once he’d settled in. He was talking to an attendant in the foyer when she came through the main door; she stopped and looked for a long moment, surprised, she admitted later, by the pounding sensation of pride she’d felt.
Excuse me young man, she said, approaching him finally, Dorothy waiting by the door, I wonder if you might be able to show me around the museum? He turned to her, looking taller than she remembered, looking suddenly much older than the boy who’d visited her so often, and said I’m sure I can manage that Auntie Julia. She took his arm and let him lead her slowly around the first gallery, stopping to look at each of the display cases, asking questions, asking some of the questions more than once. He wondered if there was something wrong with her hearing. Dorothy had been before and hung back a little, noticing at the same time how grown-up David seemed and how much Julia had suddenly aged. She watched him showing Julia the case of medieval artefacts, lumps of pottery and ironware and stonework, most of it found during the recent rebuilding of bomb-damaged sites, scraped out of the mud as new foundations were dug into the ground. She watched him showing her the prehistoric case, a few bones and brooches and artist’s impressions, telling her that he didn’t think they were very reliably dated or sourced. Julia winked, lifting a finger to her lips. I won’t tell if you don’t, she whispered. He moved on to the natural history displays, a whole rack of beetles balanced on nail-heads, a cotton-wool drawer of speckled birds’ eggs, a tray of pinned butterflies, a panoramic landscape crowded with stuffed birds. His enthusiasm dropped when he showed her these; he half turned away even as he dutifully described each panel.
I don’t even know why they call it natural history, he said. It’s not the same at all.
Well, Julia said, starting to smile, gesturing towards the birds’ glassy-eyed gazes and tensed jaws, I’d say they were history now Daniel, wouldn’t you? She turned towards the other side of the room, but he didn’t move, looking at her curiously. Dorothy started to say something, but stopped herself, meeting David’s eye, shaking her head, glancing away. He hesitated, stepping towards Julia.
Auntie Julia? he said. She stopped a few feet away.
What’s that dear? she asked.
Auntie Julia, he said, you called me Daniel. She looked at him blankly.
No I didn’t, she said. Why on earth would I do a thing like that?
You did, he said, quietly insistent. You said Daniel. She turned to Dorothy, half-smiling, as if asking her what he was talking about. Dorothy shrugged, tutted, and peered closely at a case of flint axe heads. Julia looked back at David.
Don’t be silly, she said tiredly, indignantly. I think you need to get your ears checked, don’t you? And your manners. He watched her walking back down the gallery, sitting in a chair by the door to the foyer and looking pointedly away from them both. His mother nudged him. Well done, she murmured. Good work.
But by the time they rejoined her she seemed to have forgiven him, smiling pleasantly and waving her hand at the room. Are you going to show me around? she asked. He looked at her. Are you going to show me around? she asked again.
10 Letters, handwritten, 1966–68; Paper napkin, 1966 (#ulink_5874a919-70ba-5382-9edf-91c27197bdfc)
Their first letters were short, tentative, neither of them wanting to put into words what they had both felt the first time they met, neither of them wanting to allude to what could so easily seem absurd. I’m sorry but it’s so far away, they each imagined the other replying. It would be different if we both lived in the same town. Really, I’m sorry, but I barely know you at all. Instead, they asked each other polite questions, and wrote safe remarks about their own lives, as if they were pen pals enquiring about life in another country – What’s your house like? Do you have brothers and sisters? What’s your favourite film? Today I spent the whole afternoon up on Tullos Hill just looking at the sea. But gradually the questions, and the answers, developed into something more, something which began to imply a deepening interest in each other – What do you want to do when you’re older? Will you always stay in your town? Are you going out with anyone at the moment? And, gradually, they stopped worrying about how long the letters were becoming, and how frequent, and they started signing off with love, without quite thinking what it would mean, and they started writing things like: It would be good to see you soon. I can’t wait to see you. When will you be coming up again?
He had all her letters still, of course, filed neatly away in a shoebox with everything else in Kate’s old room, the tops of the envelopes smudged with fingermarks where he had taken them out and put them away over the years. And there were phrases he could quote from memory: It’s deadly boring working in the tea room but sometimes it’s worth it for the folk you meet. There are seals on the beach near here you know, I can show you if you’re ever up again. I heard there was a job going in the museum today. Isn’t it funny to think we almost never met?
He didn’t tell his mother, or Susan, but they both noticed the letters he’d started getting, and it wasn’t long before his sister asked him who they were from. It’s no one, he told her as they were walking to the bus stop one morning, David heading for the museum, Susan for her job in a solicitor’s office. Susan was still holding the latest letter just out of his reach, studying the envelope’s girlish scrawl, and David tried to look unconcerned. It’s just someone helping me with my research, he said. She looked at him over her shoulder, grinning, making a questioning face. What? he said. I met them when I went up there to study the museum. He grabbed at the letter but she pulled away from him, laughing.
Them? she said. Them? She stopped and turned around. What’s her name? she said. David looked at her, and realised that no matter how old they both got she would always be his older sister and would always eventually get her way. He was twenty-one but he might have been twelve for the way she was holding the letter away from him, taunting him with it. He gave her a shove, snatching the letter, and he couldn’t keep himself from smiling when he said Eleanor, her name’s Eleanor alright? She’s just a friend, alright? Susan gave him a shove back.
Alright, she said, she’s just a friend. David put the letter in his pocket, keeping his hand on it, running his fingers across the ink-smudged paper. Aren’t you going to read it? she asked, as they walked on.
No, he said. Not now.
Why? she said. It’s not private, is it? I thought she was just a friend? She nudged him again and this time when he looked at her it was with a smile which admitted something he wasn’t yet willing to say.
You won’t say anything to Mum though? he said quietly, just as they got to the bus stop. She looked at him, made a zipping her lips shut gesture, and winked.
But she did tell their mother; or if she didn’t tell her then she at least said enough for her to guess. Or perhaps Dorothy simply worked it out for herself, because when he came back from his second trip to Aberdeen she said, so, tell me, you’re serious about this girl then?
What girl? he said. She smiled, shaking her head at him. She was ironing his shirt for work the next day, knowing that he wouldn’t have thought about it before he went away.
Well, she said, what’s her name? How old is she? What does she do?
He laughed, dropping his bag and holding up his hands in defeat, pulling a chair out from under the table. Her name’s Eleanor, he said, sitting down. She’s eighteen. She’s still at school but she works in the tea rooms at the museum sometimes. Dorothy rearranged his shirt on the board, turning it over so the buttons ran down one edge, pulling the seam straight as she slid the iron across the creases.
And have you met her parents yet? she asked, trying and failing to say the words as if the question didn’t mean anything much. David pulled a face.
It’s not like that Mum, he said. Not— and he caught himself, bending down to look for something suddenly important in his bag. His mother looked up, standing the iron on its rest.
Not yet? she suggested, smiling. David screwed up his eyes and shook his head.
No Mum, he said, his voice muffled by embarrassment and exasperation. It’s not— I don’t know. I like her, but, I don’t know. It seems a bit soon to be meeting her parents, he said. Dorothy picked up the iron again, pressing it down on to the shirt’s folded cuffs, resting her weight on them a moment.
I met your father’s parents almost before we started courting, she said. He took me to his house after picking me up from Auntie Julia’s and introduced me to them. It was very formal. I think he just wanted to show me off. They were very nice you know; it was so sad what happened. She put the iron back on the rest and started to fold the shirt, smoothing it out with the back of her hand. Of course, my parents didn’t get to meet him until the wedding, she said. London was a long way from Suffolk in those days. David looked up at her and stopped himself from saying I know this Mum, you’ve told me all this before. I’d only met him a week earlier, she said, at a church-hall dance. Julia made sure I went and she made sure I talked to him as well, not that I needed much encouragement. She stopped, looking down at her hands where they rested on the folded shirt, looking at the ring still on her finger there.
I miss him David, she said. I really do. Her voice faltered. He stood up and moved awkwardly towards her. They both waited.
I know, he said. She took a sharp breath, blinking quickly, and held the shirt out towards him.
Anyway, she said briskly. So. Did you meet this Eleanor at the museum, was she working there when you went up? Or did you, I mean, was it something else? He took the shirt and shook his head, smiling, as if to say that she knew too much already, that he wasn’t going to tell her anything more.
I don’t know really, he said, I just did. It just happened, he said.
He went upstairs, and as he carried the folded shirt out of the room she mouthed thank you? behind him, shaking her head and unplugging the iron from the wall.
It just happened.
He could have walked straight past. The door might not have been ajar. She might not have been struggling to work the new coffee machine, and so the sudden shriek it made might not have caught his attention the way it did. He might not have had the money to spare, or the confidence to push the door a little wider and ask if she was still serving. He might not have misunderstood the museum layout and missed an entire room of exhibits, and so he might have been rushing to catch his train and not turned and seen her there.
These things, the way they fall into place. The people we would be if these things were otherwise.
The coffee machine shrieked, he turned his head, the door was ajar. Behind the gleaming mahogany counter, partly shrouded by a jet of steam, he saw her, frowning, pulling levers, banging her hand against the side of the machine. There didn’t seem to be any customers. Sunlight was pouring into the room through tall sash windows, every surface shining, every spoon and coffee pot glinting, and as the steam cleared he caught his first sight of her face.
Or it was raining, and the room was dull and grey, and he couldn’t see her properly from the other side of the room – the details slip away, arranged and rearranged over the years.
She might have turned away at that point. He might have heard footsteps along the corridor behind him, the jangle of a janitor’s keys. The woman who usually worked in the tea room with her might have come bustling out of the kitchen instead of having left half an hour early to get to the post office on time. But none of that happened. He stayed looking at her, and caught the expression on her face: a purse of the lips, a shake of the head, a brief and secret smile. He noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the small coloured bead necklace she wore, the freckles on her nose, the high arch of her eyebrows. He noticed the open neck and the close fit of her tight white blouse. He caught his breath for a moment, and he didn’t turn away.
And there were so many ways it could have been different.
She might not have had the job in the first place. The friend of her mother’s might have mentioned it to someone else first, or her mother might not have thought it suitable. He might not have been able to get the time off work to make the long journey north. Trains could have been missed, or delayed, timetables misread. She might not have changed her scowl to a smile the way she did when she looked up and heard him ask if she was still serving.
He walked up to the counter and she said what can I get you? Looks like the coffee’s a problem, he said, so I’ll have a tea if that’s alright. And she smiled again, blushing a little, and said aye they got the stupid thing on the cheap, it never works properly, and she went out to the kitchen to use the urn instead. She came back with a pot of tea, and poured out a cup, and glanced quickly up at him before pouring out another cup for herself. He stood across from her, his satchelful of guidebooks and leaflets propped against his feet, sipping from the thin china cup with the saucer in the palm of his hand. She leant across the counter and they talked. And there it was, already, in the way her long thin fingers fiddled with a sugar cube, in the way she held his eye when she spoke, in the way he wanted to reach across and tuck a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear.
She asked how he liked Aberdeen, and he said he hadn’t had much chance to look around, he’d been in the museum all day. He asked if it was worth a return visit, and she said it was nice enough but she wasn’t planning on hanging around, she was going to get out as soon as she could. I’m going to university, she said, looking him in the eye as she said it, as though challenging him to say she wasn’t. This job’s only while I finish my Highers. Her eyes were wide and pale brown and her eyelashes were so much the same colour that they were almost invisible; he must have stared at them a little too long because she turned away and said would you like a piece of cake? They’ll only throw it out otherwise.
She asked him what he was doing there and he told her, and she was only the second person who’d ever been interested or taken him seriously when he’d said he wanted to one day open a museum of his own. Will you need a tea room? she asked, her smile softening the edges of her narrow angular face, and her boldness surprised them both into silence for a moment.
I’m going to be a geologist, she said, restarting the conversation, and he told her he’d never met a geologist before and asked her what they did. We study rocks, she said, laughing, and told him about fissures and seams and glacial deposits. It sounds like it’s boring but it’s not, she said, and he assured her that it didn’t sound boring at all. He noticed the colour of her eyes again, and then he noticed the time.
He said he had a train to catch. She asked him when he might be there again and neither of them seemed surprised by the question. He said soon, probably, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to make such a long journey for the sake of an afternoon in a museum. She said my name’s Eleanor by the way, Eleanor Campbell, and he told her his. She wrote her address on a paper napkin and he put it in his pocket, and he wrote his telephone number on another napkin and she put it in hers. He told her he’d write, and she said she’d like that, and he picked up his bag and walked away, replaying the conversation over and over again in his head.
These things, the way they happen. These things, the way they begin.
Will you write again soon? Isn’t it funny to think we almost never met?
11 Cigarette holder, tortoiseshell, believed 1940s (#ulink_c304dc22-47bd-5e68-8f1c-10d83a0a4010)
It was only when Julia started smoking again that they realised something was really wrong. Before that, her slips and slides of memory had seemed like absent-mindedness, eccentricity, nothing more. I’ve been a dizzy old bat ever since the war, she said once, looking for her keys, it’s nothing new, and his mother said which war’s that then, the Boer? and they both yelped with laughter while he and Susan rolled their eyes.
But when she started smoking, it seemed different somehow.
They were having dinner at her house – David, his mother, a woman called Alice, Alice’s husband – sitting around a large table in the bay window of the back room, listening to Julia and Dorothy talk mostly about their time working together during the war. Dorothy told the story, not for the first time, of how they’d once had to use sterilised strips of torn bedsheet when they ran out of bandages, and Julia did what Dorothy assured everyone was a note-perfect impression of the merciless ward sister inspecting the resultant dressings. Alice’s husband asked Julia why, when she was clearly in no need of the income, and could have gone to live with her brother in the country to be with her son, she’d gone into nursing at all, and Julia said that she’d just felt the need to be useful for once. One got the impression from the newspapers, she said, that there was an awful lot of nursing to be done. David sat and listened, and asked questions occasionally, and tried not to look as though he’d let the heavy red wine go to his head. Towards the end of the meal, when the puddings had been eaten and the talk had turned to coffee, just as a warm sighing quiet had settled on to the room, Julia took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up, offering them round to the rest of the table. It surprised him, because he’d never seen her smoking before, or smelt smoke around her, or seen ashtrays in the house.
Alice and her husband both took one, leaning in towards the candles to light them. David shook his head quickly as Julia held the packet out to him, and his mother just looked at her. Julia put the packet away, inhaled deeply, coughed and tapped a few flakes of ash into her pudding bowl. Dorothy watched her. When did you start smoking again Julia? she asked, sounding surprised.
Cigarettes weren’t a problem at the time. Most people seemed to smoke to some extent; pubs were always clouded with it, cinemas provided ashtrays, and people often offered a packet around at the end of a meal. He didn’t know why his mother was so worried about it. Later, she told him that they’d both given up after the war, when a surgeon had shown them some photographs of tar-blackened lungs and told them what medical opinion was only just beginning to suspect. It was something we decided together, she said. It was like a pact between us, something to do after it was all over. I don’t mind, she told him later, I’m just surprised, that’s all.
Julia looked at Dorothy blankly, as if she hadn’t heard her. Dorothy repeated herself. My dear girl, what are you talking about? Julia said. I’ve been smoking since I left school, since before I met you, you know that. The room shifted to a very different sort of quiet, a catch of breath and a stilling of hands.
Dorothy tried to laugh and said but Julia I thought we both gave it up, didn’t we? Julia frowned, took a long draw on her cigarette, and coughed again.
I think you’ve had too much to drink Dotty, she said, smiling. Should I make those coffees now? They were all looking at her, wondering what to say. David didn’t quite know what was going on, but his mother, and Alice and her husband, obviously did.
They looked at each other, and then Alice said, quite calmly, do you have an ashtray Julia? I hate to make a mess of your dishes here.
Of course, of course, said Julia, getting up from the table with a jolt, how silly of me. Now then.
And she swept around the room, her hands reaching for the ghosts of ashtrays which had long since been got rid of, on the sideboard, on the coffee table, on top of the piano, beside the record player. She went twice around the room, and then spun to a standstill by her chair, looking at them with a sudden flicker of fear in her face. She looked at the cigarette in her hand. She said, oh bugger, oh bloody bugger, and for a moment she looked like a child, shrinking in front of them. She looked at the cigarette and stubbed it out on her pudding dish. She laughed, and said well that’s me showing my age already then, eh? twirling her finger around the side of her head, her bracelets spinning and rattling against each other. No one else laughed. She sat down slowly, covering her face for a moment with her hand. She looked up at Dorothy. Oh Dotty, she said quietly, her voice cut with disappointment as well as fear, her eyes flitting to each of them, looking for some kind of reassurance.
It wasn’t long before her fears began to be realised, piece by disjointed piece. Conversations started to peter out in the middle, names were repeatedly forgotten, doctor’s appointments missed. She got lost in a department store in town, bursting into confused tears at the top of an escalator, and when the staff took her into a back room and tried to calm her down she was unable to remember her address. Dorothy began to realise that she wasn’t eating properly, or changing her clothes, or keeping the house as clean as she had once made a point of doing. They started to visit her more often, doing her shopping for her while they were there, trying to prompt her into using the bathroom and changing her clothes. They took her to the doctor’s, looking for a name for what was happening to her, looking for things they could do to make it better. I’m too young to be doolally, she said, and the doctor said he couldn’t approve of the term but unfortunately there were cases where loss of faculty could have an early onset. It seems, bluntly, that yours might be one of those cases, he said. Laurence was an officer in the army by then, and when they tried to encourage him to take leave so he could look after his mother he told them he didn’t think that would be possible. You carry on there, he wrote, in a short letter to Dorothy, I’m sure you’re doing a fine job. Julia asked about him, often, and continued writing to him for some years, and when even people’s names began to slip out of reach his was the last name she forgot.
12 Picture postcard, Union Street, Aberdeen, c.1966 (#ulink_a65fd630-f69b-5204-9217-6aa668d10167)
When he made his first journey back to Aberdeen, five or six months after they’d met, they still hadn’t used the words boyfriend, or girlfriend, or going out, and there were a few awkward first hours where they realised how little they still knew of one another – taking a moment to recognise each other at the train station, standing a little way apart, avoiding eye contact and having no idea what to say. But eventually, helped along by a couple of beers and a gin, they stood at the end of the harbour, next to the coastguard’s tower, and dared to put their hands together, and to kiss, and it was a fierce, breathless, impatient kiss which lasted so long that the coastguards banged on the window and shouted at them, laughing and cheering. They walked quickly away to the end of the harbour wall, embarrassed, laughing, looking out at the calm bright sea, looking across the harbour mouth to the lighthouse and the half-ruined gun battery on the rocky knuckle of Girdleness, and the black cormorants standing along the jetty like a funeral party, waiting for whatever the next tide might bring. She pointed out her house, anonymous amongst the rows of stone-built terraces that climbed the low hill away from the shipyards, cut off from the rest of Aberdeen by the River Dee, and she pointed out the rooftops and towers of Union Street’s grand procession, and he smudged his thumb along her narrow eyebrows and kissed her again.
They walked back along the harbour wall, through the huddled rows of fishermen’s cottages and out on to the long unexpected sweep of beach which stretched for two miles or more up to the River Don. Everyone had their deckchairs turned away from the sea to face the sun, and as they held hands along the prom they felt as though they were on a stage. They walked past the ice-cream huts and candyfloss sellers and postcard stalls, and she told him how in winter the waves would race each other up the steps and over the refreshment huts, lunging landwards with the full weight of the North Sea rushing in behind. You should come back and see it then, she added.
They didn’t go to her house that first time. They walked back into town along the harbour road, through streets piled high with fish crates and ropes and chainlinks as fat and heavy as Brunel’s, wandering through the richer part of town to Duthie Park and the old Winter Gardens, scrambling down from a small station platform on to a recently abandoned railway line, hopping along the sleepers and make-believing they could follow the tracks all the way to America. My brother Hamish has been to America lots of times, she told him, once they’d given up and turned back towards the park. He’s in the merchant navy, she said proudly. Donald’s over to see him there next year; him and Ros are thinking about emigrating.
Have you ever thought about emigrating? he asked her lightly. Or going south at least? Slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her towards him, kissing her cheeks and her eyelids and her lips.
Aye, of course I have, she said indignantly, as if the very question was an insult.
Where would you go? he asked.
I don’t know, she said, kissing him back. Anywhere, she said. Away from here.
* * *
School’s the same as ever, it’s difficult and it’s not much fun but I’m going to stick it out, I’m going to get my Highers. Sometimes I think it’s my only chance. I do spend an awful lot of time in class just thinking about you though, and I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon. I suppose really it’s my turn to come see you, but I doubt my folks would let me do that. My da’s already asking after you, he says he wants to know when he’s going to get a chance to meet you! I told him it was nothing like that, but now I’m not so sure – what do you think?
Eleanor’s house was small, as all the houses were on that side of the harbour; gloomy inside, draughty and probably difficult to heat, but well built, with granite blocks from the local quarries, and solid enough to last a couple of centuries or more. There were two bedrooms upstairs, divided by a steep and narrow stairway, a small front room, a kitchen at the back of the house, a scullery and an outside toilet. Her parents didn’t own the house, but her grandfather had lived there as well, and his father before that, so the family history felt as though it was etched into the hard grey stone.
From just outside the house it was possible to look right down the street to the harbour, to the tall crooked cranes of the shipyards, the freighters unloading at the docks, the seagulls clouding and clamouring around the fishmarket on the end of the central pier. From just outside the house it was possible to hear what people were saying in the front room, or in the hallway, or, if they were talking loudly enough, in the kitchen. If there were more than a few people in the kitchen, as there were the first time David went there with Eleanor, it was possible to stand at the front door and hear them all raising their voices to make themselves heard over each other, laughing, banging on the table to get themselves some attention.
It was dark by the time they got there, that first time, finally braving an introduction on his third visit to Aberdeen. The light from the kitchen was shining out through the pane of glass over the front door and Eleanor hesitated before going in, listening. I don’t believe it, she whispered, it sounds like they’re all here. I’m sorry, she said. Her father, Stewart, came out into the hallway and greeted them loudly, shaking David’s hand and inviting him in to meet the rest of the family. It just so happens they were all passing, he said, and from the corner of his eye David could see Eleanor shaking her head as he came into the kitchen and was introduced to her mother, Ivy, her brothers, Donald, William and John, Donald’s wife, Ros, a couple of young children, and a great-uncle James sitting in the corner by the stove. There were bottles of beer out on the table, and the remains of a meal stacked up by the sink, and he was peppered with hellos and how-are-yous before he’d managed to get his bearings. He found himself answering questions about how far he’d come and what he was doing in these parts and what it was he did for a living back home, struggling to understand their flinted accents, and struggling to be understood in return – Eh? What’s that son? Say again? – one of them still asking him to repeat himself while another was asking him something new, all turning to each other and discussing what it was he might have said once they’d given up on asking him again.
It was a small room, mostly taken up with the big wooden table they were sitting around, the wood worn to a shine by the years of scouring and cleaning, the crumbs from the meal already wiped away. There weren’t enough chairs for all of them, so the younger men, Eleanor’s brothers, were standing along the back wall, in front of the window and the kitchen sink, blocking the door to the scullery and the backyard, looking him up and down and muttering remarks to each other.
Coventry? asked one of them suddenly, while David was trying to explain to Stewart about being from London originally but having left there as a small child. Is it Coventry where they make all the cars? David nodded.
You make cars then? he was asked.
No, he told them, no, I work in a museum.
There was an awkward pause, and then another brother said museum, eh? You’re no a geologist like our Eleanor reckons she’s going to be? David shook his head, smiling, and tried to make a joke about being involved with more recent history than the formation of the earth’s surface. There was another awkward pause and then the same brother said aye right, so what do you reckon then, is it true what Ellie says about there being oil under the sea? Great-uncle James, sitting in the corner, burst into a laugh that sounded more like a cough, and even Stewart smiled and shook his head. David didn’t know what to say.
It’s not just me, Eleanor protested, everyone’s saying it. Mr Read showed me the maps and everything.
Aye, said Donald, the oldest of the brothers there, and there’s a herd of camels going by outside just now. Eleanor tutted, and pretended to smile, and nudged David towards the door.
Well, we’ve got to get to the pictures, she said. We’re meeting Ruth and folk, we’d better get going.
What’s on? John asked. Lawrence of Arabia? Everyone in the room laughed, Great-uncle James slapping his hand against his knee, and Eleanor turning and pushing David ahead of her, and as they opened the front door he heard one of the men saying make sure he gets you home in plenty of time now, and another man saying oil be waiting up, and the hard-edged laughter followed them both as they hurried away down the hill.
13 Pocket appointment diaries (incomplete set), dated 1935–1959 (#ulink_9f0016eb-87b3-5489-830b-23b027522686)
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 (#ulink_974790d9-3928-5a1d-84e4-53145109ffcf)
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!). 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! 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.
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Jon McGregor
LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZEDavid Carter cannot help but wish for more: that his wife Eleanor would be the sparkling girl he once found so irresistible; that his job as a museum curator could live up to the promise it once held; that his daughter's arrival could have brought him closer to Eleanor. But a few careless words spoken by his mother's friend have left David restless with the knowledge that his whole life has been constructed around a lie.
So Many Ways to Begin
Jon McGregor
Copyright (#uf9f55537-8c0f-5387-8acf-f473e6d48480)
4th Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.4thEstate.co.uk (http://www.4thEstate.co.uk)
First published by Bloomsbury in 2006
This eBook published by 4th Estate in 2017
Copyright © 2006 by Jon McGregor
Cover image © Mat Taylor
Jon McGregor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
Source ISBN: 9780008218676
Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008218683
Version: 2016-12-07
Further praise for So Many Ways to Begin: (#ulink_9a172f84-09e6-5074-a2dc-362aac4c2c9f)
‘So Many Ways to Begin confirms his reputation … Beautifully written’
Irish Times
‘Both triumphant and almost unbearably moving’
Waterstone’s Books Quarterly
‘McGregor’s talent remains dazzlingly apparent … McGregor captures in near-poetry what it is to lose our beginnings and to recreate a past’
Scotland on Sunday
‘McGregor’s gift is in finding the extraordinary in everyday life, subtly invoking your empathy with utterly believable characters’
Eve Magazine
‘The writing is powerfully spare and unadorned … an immensely sympathetic portrait of a marriage’
Time Out
‘Beautifully poetic’
Observer
‘His work has been compared to Philip Larkin in the way that it draws on a certain monochrome Englishness but the colour and poetry of his writing brings a luminous depth to his subject’
Metro
‘I absolutely loved this book’
Mariella Frostrup
‘A tender and invigorating picture of domestic life drawn by a masterly hand’
Big Issue
‘Compelling and convincing. A deeply rewarding read’
Good Book Guide
‘A very fine, affecting work that moves gracefully towards an unforgettable conclusion’
Glasgow Herald
‘It is a heartbreaking, luminous and wonderful work … He is an accomplished author who writes with blinding insight. One of the best books of 2006’
Shropshire Star
To Alice
Contents
Cover (#u7d2471a3-914f-5650-9ece-eb6b52702df9)
Title Page (#u61ecb778-7828-58ee-a1df-2d0e2e0829fb)
Copyright
Further praise for So Many Ways to Begin (#ud9fcc8d5-48ff-5778-a5f3-614909957aa3)
Dedication (#u32ba4385-1963-5940-8a8d-097f8cde42ab)
Part One (#u087cadc5-e550-5295-bfcf-81f4b70ec3fe)
1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943 (#u32b3f283-e369-5e54-a855-aaffc23d55d7)
2 Handwritten list of household items, c.1947 (#u5d4aa166-d3b2-5a9d-a160-6fcd7bfed22c)
3 Local Map, Whitechapel district, London, annotated, c.1950 (#u9ee63ded-1525-55a0-acc8-bff0bbb3f3b2)
4 Tobacco tin, cigarettes, Christmas card, 1914 (#udadbe132-66d9-5098-9c3b-698ef9f7f20d)
5 Shoebox of assorted domestic goods, bullets, shrapnel, 1953–1960 (#ub944feec-1a1e-5ed6-ac7f-55fced59dcc9)
6 Postcard from Greenwich Maritime Museum, c.1953 (#u2691d750-21c3-55c4-a872-8a3e5eaba9a7)
7 Opening programme, Coventry Municipal Art Gallery and Museum, 1961 (#u27319f13-b147-5599-a240-bce106097fe7)
8 Two telegrams, November 1939 and April 1940 (#u12e3944f-e09e-5172-8e5d-fd86bb53b3ca)
9 Contract, wage slip, duty sheet, from Coventry Museum, 1964 (#u0c4d7b64-e35e-593b-bcaa-301b0fc6a0ef)
10 Letters, handwritten, 1966–68; Paper Napkin, 1966 (#u5103b4c0-b05b-54ca-b042-18d45a3dfa13)
11 Cigarette holder, tortoiseshell, believed 1940s (#u5bbab96d-c967-55e7-8b31-03733709d874)
12 Picture postcard, Union Street, Aberdeen, c.1966 (#u10e8ced9-7e9a-5cd6-baac-e7953377197c)
13 Pocket appointment diaries (incomplete set), dated 1935–1959 (#u0be49e49-a5c8-5f0f-a313-3f511aec42f9)
14 Pair of letters, handwritten, February 1967 (#ud0d8fe87-fb2e-5383-bac2-a0af2a0fa361)
15 Picture postcard, John Lewis shipyard, Aberdeen c.1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
16 Birth Certificate, 17 March 1945 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)
17 Pair of cinema tickets, annotated ‘19th May 1967’ (#litres_trial_promo)
18 Disciplinary letter, typewritten on headed paper, January 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
19 Identity badge, Junior Curatorial Assistant, Coventry Museum, W/Photo, 1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
20 Examination results, Scottish Highers, July 1967 (#litres_trial_promo)
21 Train ticket, Aberdeen–Coventry (Single), 15 September 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
22 Book of Co-op dividend stamps, 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
23 Handwritten list of coventry addresses, August 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
24 Doorkey on a knotted loop of string; Wedding certificate, October 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
25 Lacework placemats (wedding gift), 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
26 Geologist’s rock-hammer, in original case (wedding gift, unused), c.1969 (#litres_trial_promo)
27 Model fishing boat, handmade c.1905 (#litres_trial_promo)
28 Page torn from Aberdeen Press & Journal, crumpled, August 1968 (#litres_trial_promo)
29 Set of clothes pegs, traditional style, w/hand-drawn faces, c.1920s–1950s (#litres_trial_promo)
30 Girl’s hairbrush, wooden-handled, c.1940s (#litres_trial_promo)
31 Nurse’s fob watch, engraved RCN, 1941 (#litres_trial_promo)
32 University prospectuses; 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974 (#litres_trial_promo)
33 Pill bottles, prescriptions; dated variously 1973–1987 (#litres_trial_promo)
34 Small vase, handmade by unknown Warwickshire potter, 1974 (#litres_trial_promo)
35 Tobacco tin; used for storing buttons, beads, safety pins, c.1960s (#litres_trial_promo)
36 Catalogue from museum exhibition, ‘Refugees, Migrants, New Arrivals’, 1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
37 Framed photograph (w/broken glass), David and Eleanor, c.1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
38 Wine cork, dated (handwriting) August 1975 (#litres_trial_promo)
39 Hospital admissions card, 1945 (Discovered 1976) (#litres_trial_promo)
40 Scrapbook w/postcards, tickets, maps, etc., 1979 (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)
41 Cut fragments of surgical thread, in small transparent case, dated July 1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
42 Pocket address book, w/page torn out, c.1982 (#litres_trial_promo)
43 Small fragment of metal, unidentified, 1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
44 Pair of child’s gloves, striped, c.1983 (#litres_trial_promo)
45 Job application form, Head Curator, c.1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
46 Hand-drawn family tree (incomplete), dated May 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
47 Envelopes w/Aberdeen postmarks, occasional 1984–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
48 Photographs of Kate at eight years old, with birthday cards, 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
49 Library tickets, green card with handwritten annotations, c.1980s (#litres_trial_promo)
50 DHSS Booklet, Guide to Services for the Newly Unemployed, 1986 (#litres_trial_promo)
51 Video cassette: World’s Greatest Boxing Heroes, c.1987 (#litres_trial_promo)
52 Hand-drawn family tree, marked ‘Believed Complete’, dated 1988 (#litres_trial_promo)
53 Home videos featuring Kate Carter, 1991–1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
54 Examination results; University prospectus, 1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
55 Illustrated Book of Knots, 7th Edition, c.1947 (#litres_trial_promo)
56 Ration books, Union cards, Co-op dividend stamps, 1930s and 1940s (#litres_trial_promo)
57 Printed service sheet, ‘Ivy Elaine Campbell, 1910–2000’, 23 April 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
58 Email messages; printed copies dated March 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
59 Ferry tickets; handwritten letter; route map (from website); all June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
60 Biscuit tin, rusted, used as money box or for keepsakes, c.1944 (#litres_trial_promo)
61 Paper package of selected photographs (reprints), c.1950–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
62 Bill for room and board, Conway’s of Letterkenny, June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Read an exclusive extract from Jon McGregor’s new novel, Reservoir 13
By the Same Author
A Note on the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
They came in the morning, early, walking with the others along tracks and lanes and roads, across fields, down the long low hills which led to the slow pull of the river, down to the open gateways in the city walls, the hours and days of walking showing in the slow shift of their bodies, their breath steaming above them in the cold morning air as the night fell away at their backs. They came quietly, the swish of dew-wet grasses brushing against their ankles, the pat and splash of the muddy ground beneath their feet, the coughs and murmurs of rising conversation as the same fewphrases were passed back along the lines. Here we are now. Nearly there. Just to the bottom of the hill and then we’ll sit down. Cigarettes were lit, hundreds of cigarettes, thin leathery fingers expertly rolling a pinch of tobacco into a lick of paper without losing a step. Cigarettes were cadged, offered, shared, passed down to nervous young hands eager for that first acrid taste of adulthood, cupping a mouthful of it in the windshield of their open fists in imitation of fathers and uncles and older brothers, coughing as it burnt down into their untested young lungs, the spluttered-out smoke twisting upwards and mingling with their cold clouded breath as they made their way between flowering hawthorn hedges and cowslip-heavy banks, down towards the city walls. They wore suits, of a kind, all of them: woollen waistcoats and well knotted neckerchiefs, thick tweed jackets with worn elbows and cuffs, moleskin trousers with frayed seams tucked into the tops of their boots. The younger ones carried bundles of clothes, brown paper parcels fastened with string, slung across their shoulders or clasped to their chests, held tightly intheir damp nervous hands as they started to gather pace, pulled down the hill by the sight of the city, by their eagerness to be first and by the impatience of the men and the boys pressing in from behind; still foggy from sleep, still aching from the long walk the day before, but forgetting all that as they came to their journey’s end.
From the top of the hill, where others were only now beginning that last long downward traipse, the city looked quiet and still, wrapped in a pale May morning mist, weighted with the same brooding promise that cities have always held when glimpsed from a distance like this, the same magnetic pull of hopes and opportunities. But as those first men and boys came into the city, their boots beginning to stamp and echo across the cobbled ground, windows were opened and curtains pulled back, and the city began to wake. Sleepy children peered from low upstairs windows, the hushed chatter and the rumbling of feet signalling the start of the day they’d been looking forward to, calling to each other and pulling faces at the children in the houses across the street. Landlords opened the doors and shutters of their bars, sweeping the floors and standing in their doorways with brooms in their hands to watch their customers arrive. Stallholders finished preparing their pitches around the edges of the square, keeping an eye on the small group of guards by the steps of the new town hall. And from each end of the long square, from the road leading in from the bridge to the east, from the gateway under the lodge to the west, from the road winding out along the river to the south, the army of workers appeared, hurrying on with the growing excitement of arrival, calling greetings to friends not seen for the past six months, looking around for others yet to arrive, asking after health, and families, and wives. And the crowd of people in the square grew bigger, and noisier, and fathers began to lay hands on the shoulders of their youngest sons, keeping them close, wary of letting them drift away too soon, listening to the snatches of conversation echo back and forth, looking out for the farmers and foremen to start to appear, waiting for the business of the day to begin.
Mary Friel stood with her father and brothers, watching, her youngest brother Tommy clutching her hand. You okay there Tommy? she whispered down to him. He looked up at her, nodding, a look of annoyance on his young face, and pulled his hand away.
Soon, as if at some unseen signal, deals began to be made all over the square. You looking for work son? the smartly dressed men would say, glancing down. How much you after? And the older boys, the ones who knew their price, or the ones who could say they were experienced, stronger, would get more work done, tried their luck with eight, nine, ten pounds, while the younger ones, who knew no better or could ask no more, said seven or six as they’d been told. Deals were made with a terse nod and a handing over of the brown paper packages, an instruction to meet back there in the afternoon, sometimes with a shilling or two to keep the boy busy for the day, sometimes not; sometimes the father taken for drinks to smooth over the awkwardness of the scene, sometimes not.
This was the first time Mary had been to town for the hiring fair. She’d only ever watched her father setting off with her brothers before; stood in the low doorway to wave them goodbye, her sister Cathy beside her, Tommy holding on to both their hands, their mother turning away before the boys got out of sight and saying no time to be standing around all day now. She’d had an idea of what it would be like from hearing her father those evenings he came back home alone; she and Cathy lying in bed listening while he talked in a low voice to their mother by the last few turfs of the fading fire. But she hadn’t been expecting quite so many people, or so much noise, or the way her father would stare sternly straight ahead when a gentleman approached him and said your boy looking for a job?
They left the square as soon as the price had been agreed, telling Tommy to be good, to work hard and to do what the man said, and to meet them back here at the next fair day in six months’ time. They walked through the town towards the river, Mary, her father, her two older brothers who were past the age of hiring now, out to the docks to catch the boat across to England. She listened to herbrothers talking to her father as they sat waiting for the boat, talking and joking about their time as hired boys, the threshing and weeding and picking of stones, the early mornings and the endless thoughts of food. She sat slightly apart from them, looking up into the hills on the other side of the river, feeling the imprint of her young brother’s hand across the palm of her own. Other men joined them, walking over from the square, lighting up cigarettes, sitting on sacks of grain and crates of wool, talking about where they’d heard the work was that year. Following the harvests from Lancashire up to Berwick and all the way on to Fife. Waterworks round Birmingham way. Munitions in Glasgow, Manchester, Coventry, Leeds. Talking of the best ways to get there, the cheapest places to stay, the names to mention to stand a better chance of work at the end of the trip. Some of the men looked across at Mary, curiously, wondering what she might have been doing there, wondering who she was with, until their gaze was interrupted by her father’s hard glare.
They were going over the water early this year. The weather had changed sooner than usual, and the field was dug and planted, the turf cut, before fair day came. Work had been arranged for Mary, in London, and so their father had announced that they would all make the journey together. It’s a long way for a girl to go on her own, is it not? he’d said, and her mother could only agree, making up slices of cake for their journey, taking out the brown paper from its place beneath the bed.
On the boat, the four of them found a place in a quiet corner and settled themselves in, the two brothers on either side, Mary resting her head on her father’s shoulder, his heavy coat laid over them both. It smelt of damp soil and turf smoke and the cold clean air of their two days’ walking. It smelt of him and she concentrated on the smell as she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, broken by the tip and slide of the boat, by the shouts of other men, by the hard wooden deck beneath them both.
In the morning, in Liverpool, they put her on a train down to London. They stood on the platform for a few moments to be sureshe’d got a seat, watching her put her bundle up on the luggage rack, watching her smooth out her skirt as she sat down by the window. Her brother William opened the door and jumped up on to the step, leaning in to wish her a good journey, telling her to say hello to Cousin Jenny and the rest of that shower, telling her to tear up London town, laughing as he ran his hand across the top of her hair and pulled it out of its carefully pinned place. She reached out to catch him a clip round the ear but he leant away, jumping down and slamming the door shut as she said goodbye and the guard blew the whistle with his flag raised high. Her father and her other brother had already turned away.
She spoke to no one on the journey, as she’d been told, and waited under the clock at Euston station for her cousin, who came running up to meet her a half hour after the train had arrived. Sorry I’m late, she said, out of breath and a little red in the face. The bus depot was bombed last night and I had to walk all the way. You had a good crossing?
The house was in Hampstead, close enough to the Heath to see the tops of the trees from an upstairs window, its large front door reached by a broad flight of stone steps she was never allowed to use. Her room was at the top of the house, squeezed in under the rafters at the back somewhere, overlooking wash-yards and alleyways and gutters. The room was just big enough for a bed, and for a fireplace that was never lit, and for a small chest under the bed where she kept her clothes and a biscuit tin for her wages, ready to be taken home the next summer. But the size of the room was unimportant because all she ever did was sleep in there. If you were awake you were working, she said when she told someone much later what it was like. Cleaning out fireplaces, scrubbing pots and pans and boots and steps, washing and drying and ironing the clothes, lighting the fires in the family’s rooms. On her first day off she stayed in her room, counting the bruises on her knees and shinsand the angry red chilblains on her fingers, sleeping, looking out of the small window and wondering where she would go if she dared to leave the house.
She lived in the attic and she worked in the basement, and part of her job was to get from one to the other without being observed. You want to be neither seen nor heard, Cousin Jenny had told her, standing at the wide stone basin scrubbing potatoes and carrots that first evening. And you want to not see or hear anything neither. Mary nodded, pushing her paper-white cap back where it kept falling down over her eyes. She learnt how to time her trips through the finely panelled rooms and corridors of the main house, going downstairs before the family had risen, waiting for their mealtimes before going back up, or for the evenings when they sat together in the drawing room. She learnt how to tip her head a little if she ever did meet someone, to say Sir or Ma’am before quickly walking away.
The thing was to make yourself invisible, she said, many years later, so that everyone could pretend you weren’t even there. You would do whatever piece of work you had to do and just slip away out of the room. Eyes down, ears closed, mouth shut. That was the thing to do, she said. So if you went in to light a fire one morning and your man was getting dressed, it wouldn’t matter because you were invisible, and he wouldn’t even know you were there. And if he asked you your name you’d tell him, and if he asked you to come closer you’d go, but you could pretend you hadn’t because really you didn’t hear or see him and he didn’t hear or see you. It wouldn’t matter at all. I was a pretty child though, she said. It wasn’t always easy to be so invisible. I tended to catch people’s eye, you know?
She would speak these words softly, eventually, but she would speak them.
Jenny took her out on their days off, showing her round London, walking through the parks if the weather was good, hiding in apicture house if the weather was bad, walking right up to the West End to look in through taped shop windows and watch out for boys. They talked about what they would do when they went back home, whether they would go back home at all, and they talked about marrying, about children, make-believing extravagant farmhouses to go with the size of the families they imagined into life. Sometimes they finished those days off in a pub in Kilburn or Camden or King’s Cross, and there were so many cousins and young aunts crowded into their corner of the bar that Mary could half close her eyes and think they were all squeezed into the lounge bar at Joe’s, with her parents’ house only a few minutes’ moonlit walk away. She saw people she hadn’t seen since she was young, and others she’d seen only at Christmas for the last few years, and they all asked for news of Fanad. She told them about Cathy’s wedding, and about the new priest, and about how her brother Tommy had gone off to work that year.
And how’s that other brother of yours, young William? a friend of Jenny’s asked once, a girl Mary remembered from church.
Oh he’s fine, she said, and the girl lowered her voice and said aye he’s more than fine, he’s very good indeed, the whole crowd of them shrieking in shocked laughter and Mary not knowing quite what they meant but laughing along all the same.
On days when it wasn’t as cold, another girl would have laid the fire the night before, sweeping out the ashes and piling up the kindling, and it didn’t take a second to slip into the room with a box of matches and set it going. But on colder days, when the embers had been left to smoulder halfway through the night, it was a much longer job. The grate had to be swept out, the ashes scooped into a metal bucket, the hearth wiped over with a damp cloth when it was done. Paper had to be screwed up into little twists and laid over with twigs and splints and pieces of kindling, and the first flares of flame had to be watched over for a few moments to see that theycaught, to see that it was okay to lay on the larger lumps of log and coal and close the door softly behind her. It was too much of a job to be done silently, or invisibly; the brush would bang against the side of the grate, or the bucket, the newspaper would crackle as she screwed it up, the match-head would spit as it burst into flame. She tried very hard, but it seemed impossible not to wake whoever was sleeping in the bed behind her, not to make some small disturbance that meant she would hear a voice saying her name. A man’s voice, asking for her.
They sent her to light the fire in each of the rooms by turn, but mostly she was asked to go to the father’s room, and it was here that she found it hardest to not make a sound. After a time, she went to the housekeeper and said that if it was at all possible she would very much prefer not to go into the rooms to light the fires any more, please.
She kept it hidden the whole nine months. She wore bigger clothes. She ate as little food as she could. She stopped going out with Jenny and the others, spending long evenings and days off in her room with the chest under the bed and the small window, saying she was tired, or poorly. She learnt, too late, how to make herself invisible.
Later, this would seem the strangest part of it all, that no one noticed, that no one asked, that she was able to keep it so well hidden while she carried on with her work, the cleaning and the sweeping and the scrubbing and the pressing. I suppose I was stronger then, she would say, one day, when she was finally able to talk. A girl that age, I suppose they’re built for it, aren’t they? Young and supple and all. You do what you have to do, I suppose, she would say.
She took a bus to the hospital when she could stand it no more, wrapping her saved wages in the middle of her brown paper bundle of clothes, leaving a note that said nothing on her bed and a month’s money uncollected. Her waters had already broken by the time theytook her on to the ward. When they asked, she told them her name was Bridget Kirwan and that she came from a village near Galway. It took her no more than a few hours to give birth. It was the easiest of the five, she would say, years later. I must have been tougher than I felt, though it still hurt more than enough. When the baby was born, an underweight boy, he was taken from her almost without discussion. They told her it would be the best thing, they told her it would be cruel to do anything else, and she was too shattered by pain and hunger and shock to raise a voice in disagreement.
They barely even let me say goodbye, you know? she would tell someone, eventually.
When she went home, after two weeks in a rest ward, she knew that she would never want to go away to work again. She didn’t say, of course, why she had come back across the water before her time, and she did her best to make up for the shortfall of money in the bundle she’d brought back, walking three miles each day to milk and feed and mind the cows on the landowner’s farm. And when the men came home towards the end of the year, older and fitter and better fed, swollen with talk and drink and money, she watched them carefully, waiting, choosing, and before the following year’s hiring fair she was married to Michael Carr, waving him off the way she used to watch her mother do, turning away before he was out of sight to settle into a house of her own. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished her own pots, her own plates, her own clothes and boots and low front step. She lit a fire in her own grate. She opened the door to her friends, and she waited for her husband to come home.
He brought no money with him when he returned, and she could smell on his breath that she’d chosen wrong.
I can say this now, she admitted to someone, years later, when she lived on her own and waited for her grandchildren to call; it wasa wonderful marriage for eight months of the year. And that’s a lot more than some folk can say, don’t you think? Laughing as she said it, glancing up at the photograph of him on the mantelpiece.
Her four children all had their birthdays in late September. And she wondered, each time she held a newborn child in her hands, where that lost one might have gone. She wondered it with each niece and nephew and grandchild she was given to hold, saying he’s a fine one to the mother as she looked into the baby’s clouded eyes. She wondered it as she changed and cleaned her own children’s nappies, as she fed them, as she mended their clothes and sang them to sleep and sent them off to school. She wondered it as she watched them grow into young adults, going further away to find work, bringing back money when they ducked into the house, bringing back other young men and women with whom they shyly held hands at the supper table. She watched them marry, and she watched them make homes of their own, have children of their own, move away and move back and move away again, and she never stopped wondering, waiting, hoping for some young man to contact her from England, some long-lost solemn-eyed child to come calling across the water and tell her something, anything, of where he’d been gone all this time.
Part One (#uf9f55537-8c0f-5387-8acf-f473e6d48480)
Eleanor was in the kitchen when he got back from her mother’s funeral, baking. The air was damp with the smell of spices and burnt sugar, the windows clouded with condensation against the dark evening outside. He stood in the doorway with his suitcase and waited for her to say hello. She had her back to him, her shoulders hunched in tense concentration, her faded brown hair tied up into a loose knot on the back of her head. She was icing a cake. There were oven trays and cooling racks spread across the worktop, grease-stained recipe books held open under mixing bowls and rolling pins, spilt flour dusted across the floor.
Hello, he said gently, not wanting to make her jump. She didn’t say anything for a moment.
How’d it go then? she asked without lifting her head or turning around.
Okay, he said, it was okay, you know. The oven timer buzzed, and as she opened the door a blast of hot wet air rushed into the room. She took out a tray of fruit slices, turned off the oven, and went back to icing the cake. He put the suitcase down and stood behind her. The creamy-white icing looked smooth enough to him, but she kept dragging the rounded knife across it, chasing tiny imperfections back and forth. He put his hand on the hard knot of her shoulder and she flinched. He kissed the back of her head. Her hair smelt of flour, and of baking spices, and of her, and he kept his face pressed lightly against it for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.
It looks like you’re done there El, he said quietly, reaching round to take the knife from her hand, putting it down on the side. It looks lovely, he said. He kept his hand on her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as it clenched into an anxious fist.
It was okay then? she asked, her head lowered.
It was okay, he told her. She turned round, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked up at him, smiling weakly.
Good, she said, I’m glad. She picked up a palette knife, and eased the fruit slices from the baking tray on to another cooling rack. I got a bit carried away, she said, waving the knife around the room to indicate the cakes and buns and biscuit tins. I wanted to keep busy. She smiled again, shaking her head. She carried the baking tray past him and put it into the sink, the hot metal hissing into the water. Did you find the way okay? she asked.
Yes, he said, it was fine. He sat at the table, stretching out his legs, squeezing the muscles on the back of his neck, stiff from the long drive. She tried to undo her apron, her sticky fingers fumbling blindly behind her for a few moments, and gave up, turning her back to him and saying could you? over her shoulder. He picked at the tight double knot, awkwardly, his own fingers thick with tiredness, easing his thumbnail into the knot and unlooping the strings. She sat down, slipping the apron off over her head and folding it into her lap, wiping her fingers clean on one corner. She looked tired. He reached over and ran his hand up and down her thigh.
Hey, he said, you okay? She closed her eyes, resting her hand on top of his.
Yes, she said, I’ll be fine. It’s just been a long day. It’s been a long few days.
They sat like that for a few minutes and he watched the lines around her eyes soften as she began to relax. Long strands of coarse hair had fallen free of the knot on the back of her head and were hanging around her face. He reached over and tucked them back, smoothing them into place. She smiled faintly, already half asleep.
Was it alright coming back? she murmured, just as he was about to slip his hand away and get something to eat.
It was fine, he told her, it took a long time but it was fine. Not too much traffic about. I stopped off at some services for a break.
You’ve eaten then? she asked, opening her eyes and rubbing at her face suddenly.
Well, a little something more wouldn’t do any harm, he said, looking over at the racks of cooling cakes.
Oh, sure, she said, smiling, be my guest. He took a plate from the cupboard and fetched himself a large rock cake, blowing at the steam that poured out as he broke it open.
What about Kate? she asked, turning round in her chair.
She’s fine, he said, I dropped her off at the station this morning. She sent me a text when she got home, she’s fine.
She was okay with it all then, was she? she said, looking up at him.
Yes, he said, she was okay with it.
Oh, good, Eleanor said.
Later, as she got into bed, she said, so, will you tell me about it? She sat up, the duvet held up to her chest, the pillows wedged behind her back and her hair pulled round to one side of her head. She looked up at him as he took his shirt off and folded it over the back of the chair.
What do you want to know? he said.
Just what it was like, she replied. Who was there, what happened.
Well they were all there I think, he said, all the family, grandchildren, a few neighbours. A few dozen altogether I think, he said. He leant against the wardrobe to take off his shoes and socks, rubbing at the cracked skin across the back of his heels.
And was Tessa there? she said. He looked up. No love, he said, no. Tessa wasn’t there. She pulled the duvet back from his side of the bed.
Come and tell me about it, she said, I want to hear. Was it a nice service?
He unbuckled his belt, slid off his trousers, and draped them over the back of the chair. He swapped his pants for a pair of pyjama trousers from underneath the pillow, and he told her about Ivy’s funeral. He told her that a lot of them, the immediate family, had met at Donald’s beforehand, and that Donald’s wife had overloaded them with sandwiches and cake, and that this was where Kate had first met them all.
I picked her up from the station, he said. She seemed very quiet but I think she coped with it well enough. People were saying she looked like her grandmother, he said, and Eleanor looked across at him with a doubtful expression.
No, she said, I wouldn’t say that. Does she? Do you think so? He smoothed his thumb across her creased eyebrows.
A little, he said, perhaps. It’s only natural, isn’t it? She thought about it, shaking her head. He told her about the service, that the minister hadn’t seemed to know Ivy at all and had just talked in general terms about a long and full life but that people hadn’t seemed to mind. He told her that it had felt very warm in the church, and she smiled and said well at least some things change then, and she started to close her eyes. He told her about the burial, about the corner of the cemetery which had trees along both sides and seemed to be well kept; that he’d spotted her Great-uncle James’s grave nearby, and her father’s of course, and that Donald had said her father’s father’s headstone was somewhere but they hadn’t been able to find it. He told her about the wake in the Crown Hotel, how good the food was and how people had kept buying him drinks.
He didn’t tell her about the question which had hung back on people’s lips when they found out who he was, or that he’d felt like apologising and explaining for her every time, even though people were too polite to mention it. It’s the travelling, he’d wanted to say; it’s such a long way, it would be too much for her. But he didn’t say anything, because people didn’t ask. There was a gap in the conversation all day, no one saying well she could at least have, or after all this time, or I suppose she didn’t feel she could; but it was a gap which was soon bridged by enquiries about work, or Kate, or how he was enjoying his stay.
She shuffled down into the bed, rearranging the pillows behind her, and turned her head on to his chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath. He leant down and kissed her hair. She spread her hand across his skin, tracing circles with each finger the way she’d always liked to do, pressing lightly against each of his ribs, his belly button, the short dotted scar above his waist.
He told her about walking around Aberdeen the evening before the funeral, and how different things were now; the massive oil tanks and pipeworks ranged along the harbour-front, the new shopping centre, the graceful blue-glass extension to the Maritime Museum, the rebuilt houses on Torry Hill where she’d grown up. You’d still recognise it though, he said gently. He told her about some of the people he’d met at the wake, what they were doing now, that they’d said to give her their love. He told her, as her eyes closed more firmly and her breathing settled into its familiar slowness, about the long drive home, past Dundee and Dunfermline and over the new Forth Bridge, past Hadrian’s Wall, through the high bleak openness of the North York Moors. He told her how nice it had been, passing through all that scenery. He told her that there’d been no traffic problems, that it had been straightforward finding his way, that everyone had seemed to be driving carefully and sensibly.
He shifted down into the bed, kissing her on the cheek, and reached across to turn out the light.
You still want to go then? she said, opening her eyes suddenly. He looked at her.
Yes, he said, you know I do.
It’s an awful long way again, she said, so soon.
I know, he said, but I want to go. It’s important, you know it’s important. I’ll be okay. He kissed the side of her face again, stroking the top of her ear with his finger.
Have you packed? she asked. Have you written a list?
He thought of all the things he’d considered taking with him, stacked in the corner of Kate’s old room: the photograph albums, the document folders, the bundles of letters and postcards and notes, the scrapbooks, the loose objects wrapped in sheets of old newspaper and filed carefully away. He went through them all in his mind, listing each item as though in a museum catalogue, picking out the few things he’d eventually decided to take.
Yes, he said, I’ve written a list. Don’t worry about it now though. We’ll talk about it in the morning. He turned the light off, and for a while he lay there listening to the quick shallow sighs of her breathing, the kick and twist of her legs as she tried to get comfortable.
Can’t it wait David? she said. Why do you have to go now?
Please, he said. Don’t. She turned away from him, pulling the cover around herself, shifting further down into the bed. It was a long time before she was still.
1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943 (#ulink_9fd7fb58-866a-5a3d-a0f5-b663fbf8335b)
He was going to start with a picture of his father. It seemed as good a way as any to begin. It was the first thing he’d thought of packing before he went off to the funeral, tucking it into a padded envelope to keep it safe. This is my father, he was going to say, holding up the small photograph for someone to see. When he was a young man, he was going to add, before I was born. Well now, someone might say, looking closely, and what are these marks here? And then he could explain, telling it the way his sister Susan always had, the words worn comfortably smooth with repeated use.
It was a story she liked to tell; it made her feel a part of something bigger than herself, tied to a time when there were bigger things to feel a part of. She’d told it again a few weeks earlier, looking at the same picture with a group of her friends after dinner one night. Someone had mentioned seeing it on the way in, and she’d led them all through to the hallway to stand around it, balancing their cups of coffee on thin white saucers while they listened and smiled and nodded, and remembered stories of their own, and went quiet at the appropriate time. Whenever he’d heard her tell the story, people had always gone quiet at the same appropriate time.
It was taken in 1943, she said, gesturing towards the photo, a small black-and-white studio portrait mounted on a greying cardboard surround, a name and number scribbled in soft illegible pencil along the bottom. Just before I was born, she said, placing herself firmly into that generation. He must have had it taken before going away on service for the second time, to the Med, I think, and sent it back from Portsmouth for my mother to put up on the mantelpiece while he was away. Pausing here, as she always did, picturing the man in the strange uniform above the hearth, watching over her and her mother while they crouched under the Morrison shelter in the back room, the ground shaking, firelight flashing past outside, or greeting them when they came home from the public shelter in the morning with the all-clear ringing out down the street, the house safe for another day and the garden strewn with rubble from next door but one. Remembering the morning her mother had tried to explain that a bomb had landed on her grandparents’ house, and that her grandparents wouldn’t be coming round for tea any more.
It was the Med, wasn’t it? she asked, glancing across at him. I can never remember. Everyone turned to look, and he shrugged, smiling apologetically.
Don’t look at me, he said, I’m not a historian, and they all laughed.
Albert Carter, their father, had been twenty-seven when the picture was taken, but he looked a lot younger; fresh-faced, smiling broadly, his skin so smooth that it was hard to believe he’d ever had to shave. His hair was slicked back, with the comb-lines as straight as a slide-rule, and his smile lifted the same creases around his eyes that David could remember seeing as a boy. The uniform looked a little too big for him, hanging loose around the shoulders, and there was none of the formal regalia which might have been expected in a portrait photograph, no spit-polished brass, or epaulettes, or braiding; it was a uniform which looked purely functional, ready for the serious business of crewing a ship into battle.
Of course, Susan said, I don’t remember much about the war, I was too young. All I can remember, really, is this man arriving in the house, like the man in the picture but older and heavier, and not smiling. The others leant in towards the photograph as she spoke, looking at Albert Carter’s fixed and frozen smile. He just appeared, she said, there was no discussion, he was just suddenly lurking about the place, making the house much smaller than it had been and taking up my mother’s time. Smelling unfamiliar and damp, she said, laughing, as though she was unsure what she meant. But that’s the thing I always remember, she said. His not being there and then being there, and nobody asking my opinion. The others smiled at this, as people usually did.
David was going to tell someone this story with the picture in his hand, holding on to it for a moment before passing it over, feeling the rough and crinkled texture of the greying card, turning it over to read the soft pencilled dates and numbers on the back, running his fingers again across the scratches scored into the photograph’s dull surface. Dozens of scratches, mostly too faint to see unless the picture was turned into the light; mostly, except for three deep scars which had split and torn right through the skin of the paper, gouged across the young man’s smiling face.
Susan explained that she’d made these marks, one afternoon when her father had been home for a few months. This was the part of the story where people always went quiet, and looked at the picture more closely, or turned to her and nodded, or smiled wryly because they could guess exactly what she was going to say. She’d been told to take a nap so that her mother and father could have a lie down while the new baby, David, was sleeping. Auntie Julia, whose house they were all staying in until they could find something of their own, was out doing some shopping. Restless and bored, Susan took a small metallic comb from her father’s desk, grabbed the picture from the mantelpiece, and scoured frantically across its surface before making a tearful escape to the bedroom.
The most awful thing, she said, pointing out an ashtray on the hall table to a guest with a cigarette, is that nothing was ever said. The picture was replaced with another one, almost identical, and nobody ever mentioned it, she said.
Goodness, said a woman with a bright red scarf tied around her neck. Really? Susan nodded.
Not a word, she said. We found the damaged original in a box of his things after he died, and I insisted on keeping it. I’ve only recently put it up though, she added. The dinner guests peered closely at the picture for a few moments more, mentioning similar stories of their own before gradually moving back into the dining room.
My mother told me I used to try and drag my father out of their bed, the woman with the scarf said, laughing, and the man with the cigarette smiled at her, nodding.
Anyone want another coffee? Susan asked, as she followed them back to the table.
David stood in the hall for a moment longer, looking at the picture, tracing the scratches with his fingers, imagining the distress of the three-year-old girl which they recorded so well. He looked at the eyes, the smile, the face of the man who had brought him up so lovingly and was now gone, and he turned away.
You’ll be careful with it though? Susan said, later, when he asked if he could borrow the picture for a while. She unclipped it from its frame and handed it over to him, and he told her that yes, of course, he’d be careful. And, I mean, are you sure this is a good idea? she asked, the whole thing? and he told her that yes, thank you, it was.
2 Handwritten list of household items, c.1947 (#ulink_dea3deb9-fb1b-5fa3-ac19-4538c5a32661)
When Dorothy Carter was twenty-seven she wrote a list, sitting at the kitchen table, tapping her pen against the side of her face while she thought of everything she wanted to include. When she’d finished she pinned it to the back of the utility-room door, where it stayed until the day she finally moved out, and as David was helping to pack away her things he took it down and slipped it quickly into his pocket, thinking that someone might be interested in having a look.
He imagined her sitting at the kitchen table that first day, with unopened suitcases and boxes all over the clean hard-wearing linoleum floor, a trunk, a bundle of bedding tied up with string. Susan stamping and clattering around the hard bare rooms, testing the echo of her voice against the walls, or playing in the sand and rubble at the back of the house. Albert would have been on his way back to London already, returning the borrowed bread van in time for that night’s deliveries, having stopped on the way out to take a photo of Dorothy by the front door with the new handbag he’d bought her. He imagined her looking out through the window at the unfinished road piled high with timber and roof tiles, the other houses still skeletal, scaffolded, half-built; or standing to open and close the spotless cupboard doors.
It was so much more than we were expecting, she told David once. It was so much more than I felt we deserved.
The new house had its own front garden, and a path leading up to the door. It had an indoor toilet and a bath. There were fitted cabinets in the kitchen, and an airing cupboard, and electric lighting throughout. There was a cupboard under the stairs instead of a damp cellar. He found it difficult to imagine, when she told him all this, that these things had once been enough to seem like a miracle, to stun someone into speechless tears, but they had. Later, when he watched her saying the same things to Kate, he could see that Kate didn’t believe her at all, saying, and did you make your own entertainment in them days Nana? Glancing at him and biting back a smile, not noticing how quietly her grandmother said yes love, we did, you’re right.
She’d never been inside a new house before. She’d grown up in a tiny soft-walled cottage in the Suffolk countryside, where the only new buildings were the Nissen huts and hangars of the new airfields, where a bathroom was a kitchen for six and a half days of the week and the cooking was done on the fire, and she had no way of picturing what a new house might be like. Theirs was one of the first houses in the development to be finished, and they’d had to drive carefully through acres of Coventry’s bomb-flattened streets to reach it, waiting for them, perfect and untouched. We could still smell the paint when we went inside, she told him. She’d never seen rooms without furniture before, and the emptiness made the house feel so large that she was convinced they’d made a mistake until his father went outside and checked the number on the door.
And after he’d left with the van she sat at the table, steadying herself, trying to write the list. She was frightened, she told David once. She didn’t think they were entitled to it. All that work, for them, when there were so many people in worse off positions. She was worried for a long time that someone was going to come knocking on the front door with a clipboard, asking for forms they didn’t have, saying there’d been some kind of mistake.
She sat there, thinking through all the things that needed to be done, while his sister played in what would one day be the garden and he slept in a pushchair in the room next door. She made a list of jobs which needed doing straight away: putting sheets and blankets on the mattresses Julia had given them; laying out the clothes; cleaning the kitchen cabinets and scouring the surfaces; putting away their small stock of food; getting the rest of those boxes out of the way so some cooking could be done. And then she made a list of ‘Things We Will Need’, the list he still had now, a list which started with the immediate essentials and worked through to the fanciful and frivolous, a compendium of wishful thinking.
There was a space in the kitchen made especially for a refrigerator she told him, much later. Anything seemed possible.
By the time his father had got back from London the next evening, she’d measured the windows for curtains, and planned carpets for the floors and the stairs. She’d chosen colours and wallpapers for each of the rooms, and listed the ornaments and accessories which she’d seen in magazines and long wanted. She’d listed an electric iron, a top-loading washing machine, a vacuum cleaner, a new wireless set, an electric sewing machine. Albert laughed when he saw the list, the story went, telling her that she’d missed out the moon on a stick, but he kissed her all the same and said they’d see what they could do. They stood there for a long time, looking at it, their hands touching, until Susan came running in with a banged elbow, or David woke up crying in the next room, or the kettle came to the boil, and they both turned away.
And the list turned yellow with grease and flour and thumb-marks, and ticks appeared as each item was sweated and dreamed and saved into life. The lawn turned green with sprouting grass-seed, and rose bushes blushed into bloom all around it. A rug rolled out across their bedroom floor, and carpet stepped neatly down the stairs. Patterned nets were stretched across the front windows, and curtain material purchased, sewn, and hung. A carpet sweeper appeared for the new carpet, and settled in under the stairs with the brushes and buckets and mops, waiting to be put out of work by a new vacuum cleaner. And one bright day, six or seven years later, a gleaming white refrigerator, complete with icebox, was delivered by men in smart overalls from the newly rebuilt Owen’s department store in town. It’s not quite the moon on a stick, his father said, when he got home from work and saw the cold white cabinet humming quietly in the corner of the kitchen, but it’s not far off.
This is the sort of person his mother was, he thought whenever he looked again at the list, when he imagined her reinventing her family’s life in that way, with a new child, a new house, a new city outside waiting to be rebuilt. This was what he would tell anyone who asked, showing them the yellowed sheet of paper; my mother wanted all these things for us, and look how much of it she got. This was what he was going to say, if there was anyone who wanted to know.
3 Local map, Whitechapel district, London, annotated, c.1950 (#ulink_1358a6d9-3037-5fb4-b1f9-095397fda528)
It was his father’s idea to move to Coventry. He heard that from his mother, more than once, sitting around the kitchen table while his father read the evening paper and grumbled about some factory closure or rates increase. It was your father’s idea to move here, she’d say, to David and Susan, pretending that she thought he couldn’t hear. Or he heard it from their bedroom late at night, their tempered voices breaking through the thin walls and closed doors; this was your idea remember Albert, not mine. To which his father usually replied that they’d otherwise still be squatting in Julia’s bloody spare room and how would she like that then, eh?
Julia had been Dorothy’s closest friend at nursing college, despite being a few years older and more familiar with silver cutlery or linen tablecloths than anyone Dorothy knew. She’d been widowed early on in the war, and her young son Laurence was living with her brother in the country, so when she offered Dorothy lodgings in her house she claimed that it was as much to keep her from getting lonely as anything. You’ll be doing me a favour dear, she said, and she refused to let Dorothy even think of finding somewhere else to live once Susan was born, or David, or even when Albert came back from the war for good, and Laurence returned from the country, and there were six of them squeezed into the house and making do. It hadn’t always been easy, especially once Laurence came back and began to compete noisily for his mother’s attention. But the house was big enough, just, and Julia generous enough, that they could easily still have been living there had Albert not heard about the houses being offered in Coventry for building workers, or had Dorothy not secretly done all that she could to encourage him.
They went back to Auntie Julia’s house now and again, once a year if they could, using the postal orders she sent to pay the fares; David and Susan wearing their Sunday clothes and watching the train rattle past the newly built suburbs of Coventry, the long reaches of wasteground, the farms and woodlands and market towns which soon gave way to the smoke and noise of London. Look, that’s where I went to school, his father would say, as they walked from the underground station to Julia’s house, squeezing David’s hand to get his attention, pointing to a tall high-windowed Victorian building; and this is where I took my first job, a few moments later, as they passed a builder’s yard with a few small piles of bricks and sand and waste timber. This is where your grandparents lived, he’d add quickly, gesturing at an open scrap of wasteland between two houses; that’s where I grew up. And this is where we all used to live, his mother would say, as they rounded the last corner into Julia’s street, David and Susan both slipping out of their parents’ hands in a race to reach the house first, stretching up to reach the doorbell before Julia, who would always be looking out for them, swung open the door.
Their visits usually followed the same pattern. Julia would have lunch waiting for them – cucumber sandwiches, sliced meats, fruit pies, all laid out on the big table by the window, with Laurence hovering sullenly while he waited for permission to begin – and once they’d eaten Albert would make some excuse and slip out to see old friends in the pub, leaving the women to talk and the children to get down and play. It was a tall and narrow terraced house, with three floors and a cellar, and although the rooms were small and crammed full of Julia’s many possessions, there was plenty of space to explore. Sometimes Susan and David would play together, or with Laurence, while Julia and Dorothy did the washing up and chattered about grown-up things; playing hide and seek up and down the three flights of stairs, making handkerchief parachutes for Susan’s dolls and dropping them with a quick thud from the top landing, daring each other to creep down into the dark cellar. Sometimes they’d play apart, allocating each other a floor of the house and muttering their imaginary narratives around cars and teacups and soldiers and dolls. And sometimes they’d make so much noise, encroaching on each other’s games or flaring up over some half-imagined slight, that Auntie Julia or their mother would give them some money and some coupons to go to the sweet shop, telling them to run off some of their silliness in the park. Laurence never came to the park with them, and often ignored them altogether, barricading himself in his room to read comics or listen to the crystal radio set he’d built himself. He was five years older than David, so it almost didn’t seem strange that he would keep himself apart like that, although sometimes he heard his mother complain about it on the way home, saying well Laurence was a bit rude, a bit sulky, nothing like his mother, and didn’t Albert think Julia should be doing something about it?
Dorothy was up on her feet before he’d even opened the door, reaching for him, saying David David love, what happened? Lifting him into her arms, kissing the top of his head and wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, saying oh David, it’s okay, it’s alright, what’s happened to you? And by the time she’d sat him down on a chair to have a good look at him, Julia had taken a wad of cotton wool from her useful drawer, and a bottle of antiseptic from the cupboard, and set them on the table.
She asked him again what had happened. There were some big boys, he said, in the park, and he didn’t manage to say much more through his sniffs and juddering tears. He didn’t say that they’d asked him what he was doing in their park, that they’d told him he wasn’t from round there and to get lost, that one of them had pushed him off the swing and that another had thrown stones while he was running away, that he’d tripped and fallen and they’d all laughed. He was already learning that some things were easier not to say.
This is going to hurt a little now David, his mother said, as she dabbed antiseptic on to his broken skin. He nodded, wincing, sucking the breath in between his teeth, and when she was done he said are we going home soon? and his mother said yes love, we are, we’ll go soon, but why don’t you have a lie down first, have a little rest, okay?
And while David lay in the bed in one of Julia’s spare rooms, a cool damp cloth folded across his forehead, and while Susan went up to see him, to offer him something from her thruppenny bag of sweets and say are you alright? I’m sorry I left you in the park, and while David thought about it for a moment and said that’s okay, Dorothy was wiping at tears of her own with the same handkerchief she’d offered David a few moments before, sitting down on the chair and smiling up at Julia, saying well, you can’t always be there with them, can you?
No dear, Julia said, sitting down next to her. You can’t.
It’s a good job I wasn’t there, Dorothy said, smoothing her handkerchief. I probably would have belted them.
I daresay you would have done Dotty, Julia said, shaking her head, and where do you think that would have left us? A long line of upset mothers knocking on my door I’d imagine. Dorothy smiled, wiping her eyes again and folding the handkerchief away.
But where does it come from, this? she said, looking down at her clenching and unclenching fist. I mean, Julia, you know, from the first moment I set eyes on him, I—He was such a beautiful child, wasn’t he?
They always are, said Julia, smiling.
No, but Julia, he was; I couldn’t, I couldn’t take my eyes off him; I couldn’t put him down for more than a minute. I used to watch anyone who came near him like a hawk, you know I did. Julia nodded.
I know Dot, she said. Of course I do.
I would have stepped in front of a bus for him, Dorothy said. I still would. Where does that come from? she asked again. Julia shrugged.
It’s only natural, she said.
Dorothy looked up, almost startled.
But this was different, she said, this is different. I’d never felt like that before, she said fearfully. Don’t you remember me telling you that? Julia nodded, smiling, squeezing Dorothy’s hand and then letting go as they both heard Susan stepping carefully down the stairs.
4 Tobacco tin, cigarettes, Christmas card, 1914 (#ulink_3867a2db-6035-5180-aebb-3d5dcb560c93)
He pushed open the door of the room at the end of Auntie Julia’s top landing, and stared. He’d never seen so many things in one room before. There were piles of books and magazines, dresses on hangers and dresses spread out across chairs, hats balanced on top of each other, photo albums still halfway through being filled from shoeboxes of loose snapshots, bunches of flowers hanging to dry, posters for West End productions, jewellery boxes spilling over with tangled necklaces and earrings. He edged into the room, his hands hovering over it all, not knowing where to begin. His parents kept a much tidier and more ordered house; clothes were kept in wardrobes, toys went straight back under the bed when they’d been played with, and the few photographs they had were neatly filed away into albums and rarely taken out. This was something very new. Later, once he’d been taken to the British Museum, and been patiently waited for while he tried to read every last caption, he would think of comparing this room to the collection halls of the Egyptian Pharaohs, where the many possessions they needed to accompany them to the next world were held for safekeeping, and he would shyly tell Julia this and be shocked by the volume of her laughter, by the ferocity with which she would gather him into her arms and kiss the top of his head.
Without thinking about it, he picked up a tobacco tin from the bookshelf, half hidden amongst the jewellery boxes and polished stones. It was lighter than he’d expected, and rough where the metal had rusted, and there were pictures of battleships around the edge of the lid. You can open it if you like, Julia said quietly, and although he hadn’t realised she was standing behind him, he was too absorbed to be surprised. She came into the room, swept a pile of magazines from the bed to the floor and sat down. He looked at her and he looked at the tin in his hands.
Julia’s mother had been an actress, and although Julia had never quite made it onto the stage herself, she had inherited something of that same gift for inhabiting a story; and that was what she did that day, as she told him about a long-gone Christmas. She told him about her father, a young school-teacher with round glasses and a thin moustache, spending the Christmas of 1914 in a muddy hole somewhere in France. She said that even though it was a war they’d found the time for a celebration, and that by the light of a smoky paraffin lamp and a few stubby candles they’d drunk from small mugs filled with brandy, sung carols, and worn party hats made from sheets of old newspaper. It can’t have been all that cheery, she said, what with men not there who should have been there, and all of them anyway wishing they were home with their families, but they did their best, and made jokes, and drank to the health of every last man they could think of. And then, she said, leaning in close as though it were a secret, their commanding officer gave them these: a Christmas present from the young Princess Mary herself. She reached across and helped him ease the lid off the tin. Inside, there was a Christmas card, a full pouch of tobacco, and twenty cigarettes. She smiled. He kept his, she said. He thought it would be worth hanging on to, he thought it might be worth something one day. She laughed. He could be very dull and sensible sometimes, she said. My mother was forever on at him to liven up a little. He looked at the unsmoked cigarettes and a strange excitement shook through him. It was a dangerous, thrilling feeling.
The thing in his hands felt at once indestructible and hopelessly fragile. He was terrified of dropping it, or of spoiling it in some way, of holding it out in the air for too long. It felt as though he had only to put one of the cigarettes to his lips and he would be suddenly transported to that foxhole in 1914, crowded around a mess table singing carols with his fellow soldiers. He wanted to put the lid back on, to have Julia take it out of his hands, but he couldn’t move and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
Later, Julia took him to the Imperial War Museum and showed him soldiers’ uniforms like the one her father had worn, and the type of rifle he would have used, and letters sent home from the front. She took him to the British Museum and showed him the treasures of Sutton Hoo, the Egyptian Mummies, the jewellery and weapons and costumes smuggled home from around the world. She took him to the Natural History Museum, the V&A, the Horniman, and each time he felt the same breathless excitement he’d felt when he’d first held her father’s tobacco tin, the same thrill of old stories made new.
And it was this that he had spent most of his life looking for: these physical traces of history, these objects which could weigh his hands down with their density of memory and time. Something he could hold on to and say, look, this belonged to my fathers and forefathers, this is some small piece of who they were. This is some small piece of where I began.
5 Shoebox of assorted domestic goods, bullets, shrapnel, 1953–1960 (#ulink_50636c50-cd18-5203-ac8c-986d4658d92f)
Soon after those first museum visits with Julia, he started collecting things for himself: broken crockery, an alarm clock with the face smashed in, the trailing wires of an old radio set, an empty picture frame; the cracked and rusting remains of other lives which he found on the bombsites where he wasn’t allowed to play. He brought them home, brushing the dried mud from them with an old toothbrush, looking for maker’s marks or other inscriptions, looking for something which would give these objects a story, attaching small labels with the date and the place where they were found and lining them up along his windowsill and his desk.
What are you doing? Susan asked him one afternoon, not for the first time, standing in his open doorway with her arms folded across her chest.
Nothing, he replied, turning away from her, trying to shield his latest find with his body, waiting for her to go away.
Why don’t you just collect cigarette cards like normal boys do? she said.
Why don’t you mind your own business? he said.
It is my business, I’m older than you and I’m your sister, so there, she said, picking up a dented water flask from the floor and lifting it quickly out of his reach. Where did you get this from? she asked, looking at it, reading the label which hung from its neck by a piece of white thread. Have you been on the bombsites again?
David stood up, reaching for it.
Give us it back, he said. Colin’s brother found it, he gave it to me.
Don’t believe you, Susan said. You’ll be in trouble if they find out.
Give us it back, David said again, jumping for it now, Susan lifting it higher and stepping back, turning towards the door.
Maybe I’ll keep it, she said, smiling.
It’s not yours, David said, his voice rising indignantly.
It’s not yours either, she snapped back. You don’t even know whose it is, it could be anyone’s.
Finders keepers, said David, and Susan stepped out on to the landing, smiling again.
Well, I’ve just found this so I’m keeping it, she said. David grabbed at it, Susan shrieked, and their mother yelled up at them both to stop it whatever it was they were doing. She pulled a face and gave him back the water flask, whispering for good measure that he was a smelly stinker.
If she’d asked, if she’d sat down and said that she really honestly wanted to know, he would have told her that he collected these things because he was fascinated by them, because he couldn’t take his eyes off them, because it was almost as good as having a real museum all to himself.
But she didn’t ask, and he rarely talked about it to anyone. He found it hard to explain, when anyone did ask, why he liked museums so much, why he spent so many of his weekends catching buses to museums in other towns, or gazing frustratedly at the building site which would one day become the museum Coventry was so painfully lacking. I just like looking at all the things, he would say, and imagining how old they are and finding out about them and everything; muttering as he spoke, knowing that the person asking wouldn’t understand.
He liked the smell of museums, the musty scent of things dug from the earth and buried in heavy wooden store cupboards. He liked the smell of the polish on the marbled floors, and the way his shoes squeaked as he walked across them. He liked the way that people’s voices would drift up and be lost in the hush of the high-ceilinged rooms. He liked the coldness of the glass cases when he pressed his face against them. He liked looking at the dates of the objects, and trying not to get dizzy as he added up how long ago that was. He didn’t understand why people had to ask, why they didn’t enjoy museums as much as he did, and why some of the other boys at school started to call him a swot and a teacher’s pet. It seemed perfectly natural to him, to be amazed by the physical presence of history, to be able to stand in front of an ancient object and be awed by its reach across time. A thumbprint in a piece of prehistoric pottery. The chipped edge of a Viking battle-axe, and the shattered remains of a human skull. The scribbled designs for the world’s first steam engine, spotted with candlewax and stained with jam. It seemed like some kind of miracle to him that these traces of distant lives had survived, and that he was able to stand in front of them and stare for as long as he liked.
When he ran out of display space in his room he started keeping the collection in cardboard shoeboxes under his bed, and it was from underneath his bed that he retrieved one of those same boxes some fifty years later, lifting the crinkled lid and sifting through the contents a few days before his journey, trying to remember where all these things had come from. A brooch, a set of keys, a bullet, a handful of blank-faced coins, a lumpen twist of rusted shrapnel: they could have come from any number of the sites he’d explored as a boy – the cratered fields he took as a shortcut across to school; the motor-works which still hadn’t been rebuilt; the numerous acres of cleared land which had been marked out with foundations for the housing his father would build to replace what had been there before the war. Coventry was a city of building sites when he was a child, great unmapped territories for him to explore, piecing together stories around the objects he found, guessing which buildings had once been where, or what might be coming, watching the way the city changed as all his favourite places were gradually rebuilt upon.
But the small leather shoe, in the bottom of the box, had come from his own back garden, not from a rubble-strewn bombsite. He’d dug it up with a handful of potatoes one evening after school and taken it to show his father, who was sitting on the back step with the paper. It fitted easily into his father’s broad hand, and they’d both looked at it for a moment, cradled there, plastered with mud.
Well that’s something, his father had said.
How old do you think it is Dad? David said, leaning over it with his hands on his knees. His father looked up.
I’d say it’s probably been in the ground there since ’44, he said, so it’s older than you at least. He looked over towards the potato patch, David’s spade still sticking out of the ground, the pale potatoes lying in a bunch beside the small hole he’d made. I wouldn’t tell your mother about this one though, he added. She might be upset. She might not let you hang on to it, he said. He looked at David, solemnly, and winked, and David tried to wink back. Now, you going to finish digging up the spuds? he asked, passing him the shoe and turning back to his paper.
In the summer, if the weather was fine, his father liked to sit out on the back step when he got home from work. His mother would look out for him coming down the road and have the kettle and the pot ready so that by the time he got to the house there’d be a mug of tea there waiting. Sometimes she would meet him at the door, holding a damp handkerchief up to his face to wipe the dust and dirt from his mouth before kissing him hello. He would sit on the step and spread the evening paper out across his lap, steam rising from his mug, smoke curling from his cigarette, and he didn’t like anyone speaking to him until he’d put the paper to one side and looked up again. He was always covered in dust when he got home, his face and hands coated with brick dust and powdered cement, his clothes scattered with woodshavings from the joiners working overhead, his hair threaded with thin white fibres from the panels they used in the roof and around the pipes. When he’d finished the paper, and got washed and changed before tea, he shifted back to being their at-home dad again, softer and more human seeming, but while he was sitting on that step, covered in the debris of work, waiting for his body to recover, he almost seemed to be someone else, some mythological character who built houses and schools and hospitals with his own bare and calloused hands.
At weekends, or on long evenings when the light held, he would work on the garden, swapping the dust of the building sites for the mud and soil of the ground. There were photographs, taken when they first moved into the house, in which the garden was nothing but piles of sand and builders’ rubble, a few nettles and thistles springing up from the odd patch of soggy ground. By the time he died, he’d turned it into something out of a gardener’s catalogue – a small lawn at the front, kept carefully trim and straight, bordered with rose bushes, hydrangeas, dahlias, and hollyhocks on either side of the front door. Long rows of vegetables in the back, carefully weeded, carrots and cauliflowers and brussel sprouts, potatoes and parsnips, wigwams of peas and fat runner beans.
Years later, when Dorothy first met Eleanor, she took great pleasure in showing her around the garden. This was all a wasteground when we moved in, David heard her say as she took Eleanor by the arm and led her around the borders. It took six years for the magnolia to flower but it was worth it, don’t you think? And Eleanor smiled and said that she thought it was. And as David watched them, from his place beside the back step, looking at the pale pink flowers of the clematis, which had been trained to the top of the slatwood fence, looking at the heavy handfuls of lavender and thyme growing out of the half-brick rockery in the corner, looking at the gnarled and sagging branches of the two small apple trees, it seemed as if his father had hardly gone away at all.
6 Postcard from Greenwich Maritime Museum, c.1953 (#ulink_b2643985-a288-5606-9303-74dcd7f0cd9f)
When David told Julia that he wanted to be a museum curator she didn’t nod and say that’s nice, or make a face, or ask him why; she clapped her hands and said it was a wonderful idea. You’ll have to invite me to your first exhibition, she said enthusiastically and whenever he saw her after that she would ask how his collections were coming along, what lessons he’d learnt from the museums he’d been to since she saw him last, whether he’d have any jobs going for a work-shy duffer like her once he was open and ready for business. He started telling her about the sort of museum he would run, the exhibitions he would put on, the archives he would collect. I’ll have some displays that people can pick up and hold, he said, and more people to explain what things are. And I won’t have anything in storage, he said. It’ll all be out on display and if there isn’t enough room I’ll buy a bigger museum because it’s not fair to hold on to things and not let people look at them. And I won’t have any replicas or artist’s impressions, he said.
He reminded her about the boat he’d seen in the Maritime Museum; it was sitting in a small white-washed room of its own, beached on the bare floor and propped up by a pair of painted timbers. He’d walked around it, just able to see over the gunwales and into the plain interior, a couple of bench seats the only sign of comfort. The display panel on the wall had said that this boat, all twenty undecked feet of it, may well have been sailed across the Atlantic by the Vikings. He’d read those words over again and turned back to the boat, a storm of excitement breaking over him, pressing his hands against it breathlessly, wanting to climb in and run his hands all over it, to push his face into the rough-grained wood and smell the salt tang of sweat and sea and adventure, to sit on the bench and imagine the lurch of the open ocean, the endless tack and reach towards an unrelenting horizon. He’d looked at the wood, which must have been eight or nine hundred years old, and wondered why it wasn’t roped off from the public, why it wasn’t a little more crumbling and worn, why the varnish was gleaming under the spotlights. And he’d gone back to the display board, and read the last short paragraph explaining who’d built the replica and how, and he’d wanted to kick the whole thing to pieces.
It didn’t mean anything, he told Julia later. It wasn’t real, it was made up. You can’t learn anything about history by looking at made-up things, he said, talking quickly and urgently. It’s stupid, it’s not fair. It’s a lie, he said. They’re lying. She held up a hand to steady him, smiling at his earnest scorn. It’s better than nothing though, isn’t it? she asked gently. It gives you an idea at least, wouldn’t you say?
7 Opening programme, Coventry Municipal Art Gallery and Museum, 1961 (#ulink_255e180c-bd25-5fac-b4eb-89ffc53bf62a)
It was still in good condition, kept clean and dry in a plastic wrapper, and when he slid it out to look through the pages the only marks of age were in the stilted language of the text and the starched formality of the photographs; the mayor, the director, the city treasurer, the benefactor’s wife, sitting on the platform with their hands folded into their laps, their hair waxed neatly into place, listening attentively to one another’s opening speeches, applauding.
He remembered their applause carrying out into the street, to the long crowd of people pressing and shifting back down the steps and away round the corner, five or six abreast, chatting and smoking and bending stiff legs, their hands stuffed into their pockets and their collars turned up against the last of the winter winds. One or two policemen were there, keeping order, walking up and down the line, asking people to keep out of the road and leave space for passers-by, keeping an eye out for light fingers and lost children. A pair of journalists were hanging around at the front of the queue, squiggling comments into a notebook, lifting a camera and encouraging people to smile, catching a shot where all the bleached white faces managed to look into the lens at once, a long stretch of them fading back into the dark evening; David near the front, waiting, unsmiling, half hidden by the heavy black coat of the man ahead of him.
The inky picture ended up on the front page of the Evening Telegraph, and the front page landed on the kitchen table for a while before being neatly clipped out and filed away into the box under his bed.
Didn’t it occur to you to smile? his father asked, standing and leaning over the paper, still dressed in his dust-plastered work clothes. Didn’t the photographer say cheese or something? David shrugged, embarrassed.
Wasn’t bothered, he said. Susan, who’d come through from watching television when Albert called, pulled the paper across the table and said let me see, where is he? She searched through the faces and found her brother, smiling in spite of herself, reluctantly impressed.
Fame at last, she said. You’ll have all the girls after you now. David ignored her, his face colouring, and leant over to try to read the article. Dorothy, standing at the oven to stir the gravy and check the chops and the potatoes, turned to Albert and said it’s almost ready now if you want to get changed. Albert waved his hand at her in passing acknowledgement.
Listen, he said, taking the paper back from Susan. Crowds gathered last night to be among the first visitors to another of our city’s proud buildings, the long-awaited Municipal Art Gallery and Museum. Guests were especially honoured to have in their midst the future director of the museum, one Mr David Carter Esquire, pictured here with a dirty great sulk on his face. David tried to pull the paper away, but his father whisked it up from the table and stood back, raising his voice above Susan’s laughter. The city treasurer, he continued, a tight-fisted bugger if ever we saw one, said it’s a shocking waste of money of course, but I was out-voted at the committee stage. It doesn’t say that does it? Dorothy asked, lifting her hand to her mouth as she realised her mistake. They all laughed, and she joined in, embarrassed, and they kept on laughing until Albert began to cough and splutter and double over in an attempt to haul in some breath.
You really should go to the doctor’s, Dorothy said when he’d recovered, handing him a glass of water. Albert didn’t reply.
And there was nothing now to show for this, in the archives he had kept. No medical records, no photographs of his father’s face turning a violent red as he fought for breath, no prescriptions or bottles of pills. Just the memory of that cough, the angry defiant bark of it, dry and choked, as though his lungs were full of tangled steel wool. There should have been something, at least. Something to hold up to the light, or to pin to the wall.
If he was asked, he was going to say that he remembered his father as a strong man; as someone who could balance two dozen bricks on his broad shoulders while he climbed a ladder, who could swing both him and his sister up in the air at the same time, and dig the whole vegetable patch over in the hour or two of light that was left after supper. He was going to say that he remembered his father as a busy man; as someone who always seemed to be in a hurry to be somewhere else: home from work, out to the garden, away from the supper table and out to join his friends in the pub. And he was going to say that he remembered his father as a loving man; someone who could hold his wife in his arms without shame and kiss her as if nobody else was in the room, someone who could find the time now and again to tuck his son into bed, with broad strong hands that smelt of soil and dust and cigarette smoke.
No one was much surprised when he died, and Albert was probably the least surprised of all. It had been coming on quickly for months and he seemed to have given up and started waiting for it. It feels like I’m breathing in tiny splinters of metal every time I open my mouth, he told David once. It feels like there’s a barrow-load of bricks weighing down on my chest. Dorothy found him when she got back from the shops one afternoon, his head tipped back over the arm of the sofa, a blanket wrapped around him like a shroud. She called out, and by the time David had run downstairs she was kneeling beside the sofa, holding Albert’s hand and stroking the side of his face. The shopping bags were on the floor, split open, tins and packets and loose wrapped meats spilt halfway across the room, and it was only when the doctor arrived that she pushed herself back to her feet again.
My father wasn’t one for talking much, he wanted to tell someone, and if he did it was never really about the past, about his family, or where he grew up, or what happened in the war. I know he was in the Navy and that’s about all, I don’t know where he went, or what he did when he got there, I don’t know what my mother went through at home when the bombing was going on, if she saw anyone killed or injured at all. I only know that they were apart for a long time, and they couldn’t even write, and that when they were together again there were things they didn’t feel the need to talk about; not even, I suppose, to each other. I think that’s how I got so interested in history, he would say, since there was so little of it at home. There weren’t even any photos on the wall until after my father had died.
I suppose I didn’t really know him all that well in the end, he thought he might say. Well, isn’t that the oldest story, someone might murmur in response, he thought, or, who among us ever did?
8 Two telegrams, November 1939 and April 1940 (#ulink_c1bf1cbd-5b75-5b93-9e9f-bea7b9b874ea)
They’d spent the afternoon at the Imperial War Museum. He was still uncertain about finding his way around London on his own, so Julia had gone with him, and had been very patient while he took notes and made sketches, and had gone quiet at one or two of the exhibits, stepping away a few paces and turning her back so that he knew it wasn’t a good idea to ask her what was wrong. They’d found a Christmas tobacco tin from 1916, like the one she had at home from her father, but this one was empty and she’d laughed and whispered maybe it’s worth something now, and he’d been shocked by the idea of her selling such a thing until she’d nudged him and he’d realised she was joking. It hadn’t been until they were on the bus on the way home, the street lamps already spilling splashes of light on to the rain-polished streets, that he’d asked about her own experience of the war, and about her husband; and it was only after they’d run from the bus stop to the house, and wrapped their wet heads in warm towels from the airing cupboard, and sat down in the kitchen with a steaming pot of tea and thick slices of heavy cake, that she’d begun to tell him.
The war hadn’t started when I met him, she began, but everyone knew it wouldn’t be long in coming. She hadn’t got very far with her story before she realised he didn’t know what she meant by ballroom dancing, so she insisted that she teach him there and then. She put a record on, and had him push the table back, and talked him through the steps while a waltz crackled out of the small loudspeaker. He felt a tightening knot of embarrassment in his stomach as she took his hand and placed it on her waist, and laid her hand against his, but he knew there’d be no getting out of it until he’d got it right. So he listened, and he concentrated, and he started to relax a little, and the second time the record played he only stepped on her foot twice. Well! she said, clapping her hands as the record finished again, I think we’ll make a ballroom maestro out of you yet, young man. We’ll have the debs of London queuing up for you! He didn’t know what she meant by debs, but he didn’t get a chance to ask. Once more, she announced, as the needle jerked back to the start of the record. This is the way the story begins, she said, taking his hand.
A Friday evening in early June, 1939. A hotel ballroom just off The Strand, its high domed ceiling frescoed pale sky-blue with wisps of spindrift clouds, ringing with the fading echo of the orchestra’s closing bars. A renewed rumble of chatter and a tinkle of glasses. A brief light-fingered applause for the musicians. The dancers returning to their seats, singly or in pairs, smiling and no-thank-you-ing, reaching for drinks with lowered eyes and private blushes or whispering reports to a neighbour’s ear. A rustle of loose sheaf paper at the orchestra’s music stands. The unaccompanied glide and twirl of the white-jacketed waiters refreshing tall glasses with a stoop and a bow, proffering hors d’oeuvres on broad silver trays, wordless, indifferent, impeccably polite. Seated guests rising for the next dance, taking the hand of those closest to them, or catching the eye of another nearby, or crossing the room with a smart-heeled step, a discreet straightening of the jacket, a two-fingered smoothing of the hair; determined, after much raw-humoured ribbing, to finally take the bull, as it were, by the horns.
We’d been watching each other all evening, she told him as the first few bars of the music swelled up against the sound of the rain outside and David led them correctly away to the right, towards the tall potted yucca. That’s it! she said. You’re getting it now, back two three. I’d noticed him almost as soon as he came into the room, she said. The smart cut of his uniform, you know, and an awfully manly jaw, and very clear pale eyes. I caught him looking a few times, she said, smiling. Or he caught me looking, she added; turn two three. I suppose it depends which way you look at it. She laughed.
Major William Pearson stood in front of Julia’s table and introduced himself. Neither of them were surprised that he was there, after an evening spent watching each other’s movements – checking who the other may or may not be dancing with, hazarding a smile from across the room, murmuring excuse me as they came close to colliding by the doors to the terrace – and neither of them expected her to decline his invitation to dance. But still, she went through the formalities of reluctance, and her friends carefully looked away and pretended not even to have noticed that the gentleman they’d discussed all evening had finally crossed the floor to their table, and was as smoothly good-looking close up as he was from afar. He insisted, politely, and she stood, churning with excitement, and accepted his outstretched hand. Thank you, she said. I’d be glad to.
They strode to the middle of the room, offering each other their hands and waists just as the conductor was tapping his podium. William smiled, and their dance began. Neither of them said very much at first, beyond an exchange of polite enquiries, a compliment on the other’s dancing, a remark on the weather, concentrating instead on their crisp and flowing movement around the circular stage of the room. Moving away from her table, where her friends were speaking into their hands and offering gestures of encouragement as she looked over his shoulder towards them; turning across the floor to within earshot of her mother and father, her father looking rather glazed, her mother smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder and dropping her a wink in the middle of one of her actress friends’ long anecdotes; past a table of boys she recognised from the school opposite hers, boys she’d once gossiped about and spied upon but who from the vantage point of Major William Pearson’s arms now looked far more like boys than the men they were trying so hard to be with their fuzzy moustaches and their freshly signed papers; deftly sidestepping a waiter with a tray of drinks; twirling quickly away from a raucous gaggle of tail-coated medical students; changing direction, and pausing for a brief moment, in front of his table by the corner of the stage, the officers of his party in uniforms as smart as his, raising their glasses and making comments from the sides of their mouths before roaring with laughter and slapping each other’s knees – ignore them, he said quietly, smiling a little nonetheless – and she blushed and dropped her eyes for a moment; sweeping past the orchestra which seemed to be playing for the two of them alone, as if nobody else was there, and although she’d partnered dozens of men in that same dome-ceilinged venue, and although the music was more than familiar, the dance still felt brand new for them both.
They found themselves talking a little more, confident in their dancing, asking about each other’s lives, his short career in the army, her studies at drama school and her hopes of following her mother on to the stage. He talked about the prospects of war, the slim chance of it still being avoided. They both described their favourite walks, restaurants, pastimes, and they were both surprised by how soon they were sharing these small secrets and intimacies. And as they talked, almost forgetting that they were dancing at all, quite forgetting that others were dancing around them, or that they were not passing unobserved, they found that they were holding each other a little closer, a little firmer, his hand resting lower on her waist, his chest brushing lightly against hers, their hips even pulling tightly together once or twice; and they found that their voices were dropping lower, taking on a secretive inviting tone obliging the other to lean in a little closer to hear, tilting their heads to whisper in each other’s ear, turning their faces to catch the murmuring lips against their cheeks.
I still don’t really understand how it happened, she told David, dancing past the record player. I wonder if anyone really understands how it happens, when it’s like that, so immediate. How could we possibly have known what we were doing? What did we think we knew about love, or any of that business? He didn’t know how to answer her. He wasn’t sure if she was still talking about one dance, one evening, or the first weeks and months of their being together. He didn’t really understand her questions, and he was too busy concentrating on matching their steps to the music without colliding with the furniture. But she wasn’t really asking him at all, he realised later; she was asking the photograph of Major Pearson on the wall, or the music which skipped and bumped beneath the worn-out stylus, or the rain which spattered against the windows outside.
Later, she told him how reckless she thought they’d been. He presented it as a matter of practicality, she said, almost the same day as war was declared. He said that he’d soon be leaving for France, that an opportunity had arisen for the purchase of a house, this house, which would be unsuitable for a bachelor. He said there was no benefit to our endlessly hanging around. But the truth really, David, is that we were stupidly and drunkenly in love. We didn’t quite stop to think, she said. Not that I would have had it any differently of course, she added, but one does wonder.
One does wonder was a phrase she often repeated, always pausing before correcting herself in one way or another. But he was such a handsome man David! Such a handsome and exciting man! And when you’re young nothing else very much matters, does it? Only that this handsome chap is offering you a ring and wants you to be his wife. Patience and caution weren’t really in my vocabulary in those days, she told him, smiling, and he replied, teasingly, that he didn’t think they would ever be.
And as the record started again – we danced for a very long time, she told David; it seemed to go on for ever but then it was over far too soon – Julia and William danced once more around the room, past her friends, past his colleagues, past the waiters and the medical students, and back to her parents, pausing and turning while William cocked an eyebrow at her father, inclining his head towards Julia, and her father nodded, lifting up the palm of his hand as if to say certainly, be my guest, and they turned, stepped, stepped, turned away, their waltz bringing them over to the centre of the room where William dropped quickly to one knee. The conductor raised his baton, the musicians paused and the whole room leant forward to listen. Yes of course, she said. I’d be glad to, she said. And the music resumed, and the whole room applauded, and the pace of their dancing quickened as they whirled back and forth across the floor, rushing to make the arrangements, a best man, a bridesmaid, a church and a vicar, choosing the hymns and booking the hotel room, and before she knew quite what was happening her father had taken her by the arm and danced her down the length of the room, up past a pressing throng of friends and well-wishers, up to where the vicar waited and nodded his head in time to the waltz. Will you? he intoned to Major Pearson, and Major Pearson replied I will. Will you? he asked of Julia, and Julia smiled. Of course, I will. The vicar joined them hand in hand, and they danced back down the hall, confetti showered at their feet, William’s colleagues lining up to form an archway with their bayoneted rifles, a waiter leading the shout of hip-hip-hooray as Major and Mrs Pearson danced right out through the doors and into the hotel lobby, sweeping up the thickly carpeted stairs and straight into the first available room, William lifting Julia into his arms and slipping a coin into the bellboy’s hand.
And when they emerged, sometime later, the music was still playing. So they waltzed back down the stairs into the ballroom, and it seemed as though no one had noticed their return, the whole room dancing together now, and when Julia looked around she saw faces fixed with concentration, eyes focused on distant points beyond the room, people moving with a stiff-limbed determination, lips pulled up into forced blank smiles.
David had long sat down by then, too embarrassed to dance any more, muttering that he thought he had the hang of it and he was out of breath. But Julia had barely seemed to notice him moving away, still stepping around the room with her hands held out in front of her. She was talking quickly, stumbling, not looking at David or following the music, saying and then, and then, no, that’s not right, we, and then, as if everything had happened all at once, in that one room, on that one night, and not in the space of a few hurried months.
We only had a few days, she said, before he went away. It was difficult not to think about it, she said, raising her voice against the rain, turning to a slow halt, her hands falling to her sides, her face lined with shadows. The details of her story were becoming confused, and she seemed breathless, unsteady, nodding slightly in time with the music or in agreement with her own muddled recollections. He wanted the music to stop, or Julia to say something like, well really I think that’s enough for now, let me just sit down, but she didn’t. She leant back against the writing bureau, her eyes half-closed and her hands seeming to conduct the music, and she carried on talking.
He used to send me short little notes, she said. Writing wasn’t his strong point but I loved to get them all the same. He couldn’t tell me where they were, or what they were doing, but he’d mention little details about life with the men, and I’d feel almost as though I was there with him for a minute or two. I found out later that they hadn’t got all that far at all, she said softly; they were heading back to Dunkirk when they got caught out. Shelling, she said. She stopped for a moment, tipping her head towards the record player, listening to the music and smiling slightly.
In the ballroom, the dance floor less crowded than it had been a few moments before, one of the tail-coated medical students and his partner danced alongside William and Julia, matching their movements step for step, the student looking at Julia with interest. She glanced across at him nervously, and he said excuse me, I’m sorry, may I? reaching his hand out to her stomach, slipping a stethoscope from his inside pocket and looping its end inside her dress. I thought as much, he said, nodding to his partner; three months on, and they smiled and turned and twirled away. Julia looked down at herself, startled, and up at William, his thoughts seemingly somewhere else entirely. She took a few moments to compose herself, her heels clicking time across the ballroom floor, and then she leant forward to whisper in his ear: My darling William stop Pregnant stop Surprised but happy be careful I love you stop. Quietly, almost inaudibly, he replied, with a hoarse whisper in her ear: Surprised but happy also stop Suggest Laurence if a boy stop Be careful yourself all well here stop.
And almost while he was still speaking the blue sky of the ballroom ceiling was covered over with smoke and oily clouds, and a kettle-drum roll from the orchestra sent the soldiers in the corner, the officers of William’s party, clambering under a table which offered no protection when the mortar shells came raining down through the stained-glass skylight, tumbling and exploding directly amongst them, scattering shrapnel and mess tins and glassware and limbs.
There was a moment’s startled pause in the room, a dramatic swish of cymbals, and then the waltz continued, the waiters moving in with stretchers to take the bodies away, the medical students standing around to see if there was anything much they could do, a pair of maids hanging back with sponges and buckets and mops.
And the music was slower then, quieter, and many of the guests were returning to their seats, some of them even fetching their coats and heading for home, and Julia and William were soon the only ones left dancing, with small tired steps, back two three and turn two three, and William was silent and pale-faced in her arms, not meeting her eye, barely keeping a hold of her hand or her waist, his shoes dragging rather than smartly clicking across the polished floor. William? she said, and waited in vain for a reply. The music came to an end, and there was a strange crackling hiss as the musicians put down their instruments and the conductor turned to face the two dancers with a bow. There was no applause, and William broke away from her, not hearing her thank you or acknowledging her smile, lowering his head as he shuffled towards the table by the corner of the stage where his men had once sat. Julia crossed the dance floor for the last time and rejoined her friends at their table. They silently poured her a drink, avoiding her querying gaze.
Oh, she said, as she sat down, as if something she’d not thought of before had only just crossed her mind. Oh. She wondered what the crackling hissing sound could be. A young waiter glided past with a silver tray, turning and holding it out to her, indicating with a nod that the slim white envelope was for her. Oh, she said, again.
She showed David the two telegrams later in the evening, while he sat at the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate, the rain still pounding against the window and traffic sliding wetly through the street. She had them in a brown envelope, at the back of the useful drawer where she kept string and sellotape and candles and cotton wool. The paper was blackened and cracked along the folds, and one of the corners was stained with damp. He read both of them, the one beginning Surprised but happy also, and the one beginning Regret to inform, and he slid them delicately back into the envelope.
People are very resilient you know, she said to him later, when he pressed her about it. People find all manner of ways of working things out. I wouldn’t mind but it was just so quick, she said.
She stood up from the kitchen table, put the envelope with the telegrams back into the cluttered drawer, and headed out of the room.
I don’t think I’ll have any chocolate tonight, she said. Will you be okay to sort things out down here? All that dancing, she said, I’ve worn myself out, I’m not as young as I was. She stood in the doorway a moment and something blurred and drifted in her eyes, as though she was confused, trying to remember what she was doing. He turned in his chair, his bare feet cold on the stone floor, watching her.
Auntie Julia? he said, and she turned her focus back towards him.
Yes dear? she said.
What was he like though? he asked. When you knew him at least; what was he really like?
She looked at him, her hands weakly twisting and untwisting the hem of her long cardigan. She shook her head, as if she was still surprised.
I have absolutely no idea, she said.
9 Contract, wage slip, duty sheet, from Coventry Museum, 1964 (#ulink_d55a3f85-677d-51f7-9ff0-0a410953ed62)
They gave him a small rectangular name badge when he started work at the museum, three years after that opening night; its white plastic soon yellowed from sunlight and the nicotine stain of the staffroom. David Carter, it said, Junior Curatorial Assistant. His mother insisted on him wearing it when she took his first-day-at-work photo, and said it was a pity they didn’t give him a uniform as well but she supposed it was all modern these days. He told her that it was only the attendants who wore uniforms, but she said she couldn’t see the difference. She said oh if your father could see you now he’d be so proud, and he said do you think so? Julia, when she saw the photograph, sent him a postcard of the British Museum, with Onwards and upwards! written on the back.
His first day was a disappointment. He spent the morning being shown around the galleries by the Senior Keeper, despite knowing every last inch of the place, and the afternoon sitting in the staffroom while someone tried to work out what jobs they could give him to do. He’d half expected to launch his career with a dramatic discovery in some lost corner of the basement stores, or at the very least to be given immediate responsibility for the design and layout of a groundbreaking new exhibition. But instead he spent the first few weeks doing odd jobs for the rest of the curatorial staff; looking for records in the enormous card-index boxes, taking draft documents to the secretaries’ office to be typed up, checking the mousetraps and the thermohydrographs, keeping the stores spotlessly clean, making the teas and taking away the post. By the end of his first week he had an encyclopedic knowledge not of the archival filing system but of the milk and sugar preferences of each member of staff. It’s not what I thought it would be like, he told his sister, and she told him he’d better get used to it, he was the new boy, and what did he expect without any proper qualifications?
But after a few weeks things started to improve. He was assigned to the Keeper of Social History and cast more into the apprentice role that he’d been expecting. And once the Director had convinced himself that this was a career David was serious about, there was mention of training courses, placements, personal responsibilities. He began to be allowed away on research visits, to Leeds, Liverpool, Newcastle, as far north as Edinburgh and Glasgow, even Aberdeen. But he still spent most of his time flipping through card indexes, cross-checking records, inspecting stored objects, looking for mouse droppings in the basement, and it was a few years more before the job started to involve any of the work he’d imagined doing when he’d been a twelve-year-old boy poring over hand-drawn gallery designs and displays.
Julia came to see him after a few months, once he’d settled in. He was talking to an attendant in the foyer when she came through the main door; she stopped and looked for a long moment, surprised, she admitted later, by the pounding sensation of pride she’d felt.
Excuse me young man, she said, approaching him finally, Dorothy waiting by the door, I wonder if you might be able to show me around the museum? He turned to her, looking taller than she remembered, looking suddenly much older than the boy who’d visited her so often, and said I’m sure I can manage that Auntie Julia. She took his arm and let him lead her slowly around the first gallery, stopping to look at each of the display cases, asking questions, asking some of the questions more than once. He wondered if there was something wrong with her hearing. Dorothy had been before and hung back a little, noticing at the same time how grown-up David seemed and how much Julia had suddenly aged. She watched him showing Julia the case of medieval artefacts, lumps of pottery and ironware and stonework, most of it found during the recent rebuilding of bomb-damaged sites, scraped out of the mud as new foundations were dug into the ground. She watched him showing her the prehistoric case, a few bones and brooches and artist’s impressions, telling her that he didn’t think they were very reliably dated or sourced. Julia winked, lifting a finger to her lips. I won’t tell if you don’t, she whispered. He moved on to the natural history displays, a whole rack of beetles balanced on nail-heads, a cotton-wool drawer of speckled birds’ eggs, a tray of pinned butterflies, a panoramic landscape crowded with stuffed birds. His enthusiasm dropped when he showed her these; he half turned away even as he dutifully described each panel.
I don’t even know why they call it natural history, he said. It’s not the same at all.
Well, Julia said, starting to smile, gesturing towards the birds’ glassy-eyed gazes and tensed jaws, I’d say they were history now Daniel, wouldn’t you? She turned towards the other side of the room, but he didn’t move, looking at her curiously. Dorothy started to say something, but stopped herself, meeting David’s eye, shaking her head, glancing away. He hesitated, stepping towards Julia.
Auntie Julia? he said. She stopped a few feet away.
What’s that dear? she asked.
Auntie Julia, he said, you called me Daniel. She looked at him blankly.
No I didn’t, she said. Why on earth would I do a thing like that?
You did, he said, quietly insistent. You said Daniel. She turned to Dorothy, half-smiling, as if asking her what he was talking about. Dorothy shrugged, tutted, and peered closely at a case of flint axe heads. Julia looked back at David.
Don’t be silly, she said tiredly, indignantly. I think you need to get your ears checked, don’t you? And your manners. He watched her walking back down the gallery, sitting in a chair by the door to the foyer and looking pointedly away from them both. His mother nudged him. Well done, she murmured. Good work.
But by the time they rejoined her she seemed to have forgiven him, smiling pleasantly and waving her hand at the room. Are you going to show me around? she asked. He looked at her. Are you going to show me around? she asked again.
10 Letters, handwritten, 1966–68; Paper napkin, 1966 (#ulink_5874a919-70ba-5382-9edf-91c27197bdfc)
Their first letters were short, tentative, neither of them wanting to put into words what they had both felt the first time they met, neither of them wanting to allude to what could so easily seem absurd. I’m sorry but it’s so far away, they each imagined the other replying. It would be different if we both lived in the same town. Really, I’m sorry, but I barely know you at all. Instead, they asked each other polite questions, and wrote safe remarks about their own lives, as if they were pen pals enquiring about life in another country – What’s your house like? Do you have brothers and sisters? What’s your favourite film? Today I spent the whole afternoon up on Tullos Hill just looking at the sea. But gradually the questions, and the answers, developed into something more, something which began to imply a deepening interest in each other – What do you want to do when you’re older? Will you always stay in your town? Are you going out with anyone at the moment? And, gradually, they stopped worrying about how long the letters were becoming, and how frequent, and they started signing off with love, without quite thinking what it would mean, and they started writing things like: It would be good to see you soon. I can’t wait to see you. When will you be coming up again?
He had all her letters still, of course, filed neatly away in a shoebox with everything else in Kate’s old room, the tops of the envelopes smudged with fingermarks where he had taken them out and put them away over the years. And there were phrases he could quote from memory: It’s deadly boring working in the tea room but sometimes it’s worth it for the folk you meet. There are seals on the beach near here you know, I can show you if you’re ever up again. I heard there was a job going in the museum today. Isn’t it funny to think we almost never met?
He didn’t tell his mother, or Susan, but they both noticed the letters he’d started getting, and it wasn’t long before his sister asked him who they were from. It’s no one, he told her as they were walking to the bus stop one morning, David heading for the museum, Susan for her job in a solicitor’s office. Susan was still holding the latest letter just out of his reach, studying the envelope’s girlish scrawl, and David tried to look unconcerned. It’s just someone helping me with my research, he said. She looked at him over her shoulder, grinning, making a questioning face. What? he said. I met them when I went up there to study the museum. He grabbed at the letter but she pulled away from him, laughing.
Them? she said. Them? She stopped and turned around. What’s her name? she said. David looked at her, and realised that no matter how old they both got she would always be his older sister and would always eventually get her way. He was twenty-one but he might have been twelve for the way she was holding the letter away from him, taunting him with it. He gave her a shove, snatching the letter, and he couldn’t keep himself from smiling when he said Eleanor, her name’s Eleanor alright? She’s just a friend, alright? Susan gave him a shove back.
Alright, she said, she’s just a friend. David put the letter in his pocket, keeping his hand on it, running his fingers across the ink-smudged paper. Aren’t you going to read it? she asked, as they walked on.
No, he said. Not now.
Why? she said. It’s not private, is it? I thought she was just a friend? She nudged him again and this time when he looked at her it was with a smile which admitted something he wasn’t yet willing to say.
You won’t say anything to Mum though? he said quietly, just as they got to the bus stop. She looked at him, made a zipping her lips shut gesture, and winked.
But she did tell their mother; or if she didn’t tell her then she at least said enough for her to guess. Or perhaps Dorothy simply worked it out for herself, because when he came back from his second trip to Aberdeen she said, so, tell me, you’re serious about this girl then?
What girl? he said. She smiled, shaking her head at him. She was ironing his shirt for work the next day, knowing that he wouldn’t have thought about it before he went away.
Well, she said, what’s her name? How old is she? What does she do?
He laughed, dropping his bag and holding up his hands in defeat, pulling a chair out from under the table. Her name’s Eleanor, he said, sitting down. She’s eighteen. She’s still at school but she works in the tea rooms at the museum sometimes. Dorothy rearranged his shirt on the board, turning it over so the buttons ran down one edge, pulling the seam straight as she slid the iron across the creases.
And have you met her parents yet? she asked, trying and failing to say the words as if the question didn’t mean anything much. David pulled a face.
It’s not like that Mum, he said. Not— and he caught himself, bending down to look for something suddenly important in his bag. His mother looked up, standing the iron on its rest.
Not yet? she suggested, smiling. David screwed up his eyes and shook his head.
No Mum, he said, his voice muffled by embarrassment and exasperation. It’s not— I don’t know. I like her, but, I don’t know. It seems a bit soon to be meeting her parents, he said. Dorothy picked up the iron again, pressing it down on to the shirt’s folded cuffs, resting her weight on them a moment.
I met your father’s parents almost before we started courting, she said. He took me to his house after picking me up from Auntie Julia’s and introduced me to them. It was very formal. I think he just wanted to show me off. They were very nice you know; it was so sad what happened. She put the iron back on the rest and started to fold the shirt, smoothing it out with the back of her hand. Of course, my parents didn’t get to meet him until the wedding, she said. London was a long way from Suffolk in those days. David looked up at her and stopped himself from saying I know this Mum, you’ve told me all this before. I’d only met him a week earlier, she said, at a church-hall dance. Julia made sure I went and she made sure I talked to him as well, not that I needed much encouragement. She stopped, looking down at her hands where they rested on the folded shirt, looking at the ring still on her finger there.
I miss him David, she said. I really do. Her voice faltered. He stood up and moved awkwardly towards her. They both waited.
I know, he said. She took a sharp breath, blinking quickly, and held the shirt out towards him.
Anyway, she said briskly. So. Did you meet this Eleanor at the museum, was she working there when you went up? Or did you, I mean, was it something else? He took the shirt and shook his head, smiling, as if to say that she knew too much already, that he wasn’t going to tell her anything more.
I don’t know really, he said, I just did. It just happened, he said.
He went upstairs, and as he carried the folded shirt out of the room she mouthed thank you? behind him, shaking her head and unplugging the iron from the wall.
It just happened.
He could have walked straight past. The door might not have been ajar. She might not have been struggling to work the new coffee machine, and so the sudden shriek it made might not have caught his attention the way it did. He might not have had the money to spare, or the confidence to push the door a little wider and ask if she was still serving. He might not have misunderstood the museum layout and missed an entire room of exhibits, and so he might have been rushing to catch his train and not turned and seen her there.
These things, the way they fall into place. The people we would be if these things were otherwise.
The coffee machine shrieked, he turned his head, the door was ajar. Behind the gleaming mahogany counter, partly shrouded by a jet of steam, he saw her, frowning, pulling levers, banging her hand against the side of the machine. There didn’t seem to be any customers. Sunlight was pouring into the room through tall sash windows, every surface shining, every spoon and coffee pot glinting, and as the steam cleared he caught his first sight of her face.
Or it was raining, and the room was dull and grey, and he couldn’t see her properly from the other side of the room – the details slip away, arranged and rearranged over the years.
She might have turned away at that point. He might have heard footsteps along the corridor behind him, the jangle of a janitor’s keys. The woman who usually worked in the tea room with her might have come bustling out of the kitchen instead of having left half an hour early to get to the post office on time. But none of that happened. He stayed looking at her, and caught the expression on her face: a purse of the lips, a shake of the head, a brief and secret smile. He noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the small coloured bead necklace she wore, the freckles on her nose, the high arch of her eyebrows. He noticed the open neck and the close fit of her tight white blouse. He caught his breath for a moment, and he didn’t turn away.
And there were so many ways it could have been different.
She might not have had the job in the first place. The friend of her mother’s might have mentioned it to someone else first, or her mother might not have thought it suitable. He might not have been able to get the time off work to make the long journey north. Trains could have been missed, or delayed, timetables misread. She might not have changed her scowl to a smile the way she did when she looked up and heard him ask if she was still serving.
He walked up to the counter and she said what can I get you? Looks like the coffee’s a problem, he said, so I’ll have a tea if that’s alright. And she smiled again, blushing a little, and said aye they got the stupid thing on the cheap, it never works properly, and she went out to the kitchen to use the urn instead. She came back with a pot of tea, and poured out a cup, and glanced quickly up at him before pouring out another cup for herself. He stood across from her, his satchelful of guidebooks and leaflets propped against his feet, sipping from the thin china cup with the saucer in the palm of his hand. She leant across the counter and they talked. And there it was, already, in the way her long thin fingers fiddled with a sugar cube, in the way she held his eye when she spoke, in the way he wanted to reach across and tuck a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear.
She asked how he liked Aberdeen, and he said he hadn’t had much chance to look around, he’d been in the museum all day. He asked if it was worth a return visit, and she said it was nice enough but she wasn’t planning on hanging around, she was going to get out as soon as she could. I’m going to university, she said, looking him in the eye as she said it, as though challenging him to say she wasn’t. This job’s only while I finish my Highers. Her eyes were wide and pale brown and her eyelashes were so much the same colour that they were almost invisible; he must have stared at them a little too long because she turned away and said would you like a piece of cake? They’ll only throw it out otherwise.
She asked him what he was doing there and he told her, and she was only the second person who’d ever been interested or taken him seriously when he’d said he wanted to one day open a museum of his own. Will you need a tea room? she asked, her smile softening the edges of her narrow angular face, and her boldness surprised them both into silence for a moment.
I’m going to be a geologist, she said, restarting the conversation, and he told her he’d never met a geologist before and asked her what they did. We study rocks, she said, laughing, and told him about fissures and seams and glacial deposits. It sounds like it’s boring but it’s not, she said, and he assured her that it didn’t sound boring at all. He noticed the colour of her eyes again, and then he noticed the time.
He said he had a train to catch. She asked him when he might be there again and neither of them seemed surprised by the question. He said soon, probably, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to make such a long journey for the sake of an afternoon in a museum. She said my name’s Eleanor by the way, Eleanor Campbell, and he told her his. She wrote her address on a paper napkin and he put it in his pocket, and he wrote his telephone number on another napkin and she put it in hers. He told her he’d write, and she said she’d like that, and he picked up his bag and walked away, replaying the conversation over and over again in his head.
These things, the way they happen. These things, the way they begin.
Will you write again soon? Isn’t it funny to think we almost never met?
11 Cigarette holder, tortoiseshell, believed 1940s (#ulink_c304dc22-47bd-5e68-8f1c-10d83a0a4010)
It was only when Julia started smoking again that they realised something was really wrong. Before that, her slips and slides of memory had seemed like absent-mindedness, eccentricity, nothing more. I’ve been a dizzy old bat ever since the war, she said once, looking for her keys, it’s nothing new, and his mother said which war’s that then, the Boer? and they both yelped with laughter while he and Susan rolled their eyes.
But when she started smoking, it seemed different somehow.
They were having dinner at her house – David, his mother, a woman called Alice, Alice’s husband – sitting around a large table in the bay window of the back room, listening to Julia and Dorothy talk mostly about their time working together during the war. Dorothy told the story, not for the first time, of how they’d once had to use sterilised strips of torn bedsheet when they ran out of bandages, and Julia did what Dorothy assured everyone was a note-perfect impression of the merciless ward sister inspecting the resultant dressings. Alice’s husband asked Julia why, when she was clearly in no need of the income, and could have gone to live with her brother in the country to be with her son, she’d gone into nursing at all, and Julia said that she’d just felt the need to be useful for once. One got the impression from the newspapers, she said, that there was an awful lot of nursing to be done. David sat and listened, and asked questions occasionally, and tried not to look as though he’d let the heavy red wine go to his head. Towards the end of the meal, when the puddings had been eaten and the talk had turned to coffee, just as a warm sighing quiet had settled on to the room, Julia took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one up, offering them round to the rest of the table. It surprised him, because he’d never seen her smoking before, or smelt smoke around her, or seen ashtrays in the house.
Alice and her husband both took one, leaning in towards the candles to light them. David shook his head quickly as Julia held the packet out to him, and his mother just looked at her. Julia put the packet away, inhaled deeply, coughed and tapped a few flakes of ash into her pudding bowl. Dorothy watched her. When did you start smoking again Julia? she asked, sounding surprised.
Cigarettes weren’t a problem at the time. Most people seemed to smoke to some extent; pubs were always clouded with it, cinemas provided ashtrays, and people often offered a packet around at the end of a meal. He didn’t know why his mother was so worried about it. Later, she told him that they’d both given up after the war, when a surgeon had shown them some photographs of tar-blackened lungs and told them what medical opinion was only just beginning to suspect. It was something we decided together, she said. It was like a pact between us, something to do after it was all over. I don’t mind, she told him later, I’m just surprised, that’s all.
Julia looked at Dorothy blankly, as if she hadn’t heard her. Dorothy repeated herself. My dear girl, what are you talking about? Julia said. I’ve been smoking since I left school, since before I met you, you know that. The room shifted to a very different sort of quiet, a catch of breath and a stilling of hands.
Dorothy tried to laugh and said but Julia I thought we both gave it up, didn’t we? Julia frowned, took a long draw on her cigarette, and coughed again.
I think you’ve had too much to drink Dotty, she said, smiling. Should I make those coffees now? They were all looking at her, wondering what to say. David didn’t quite know what was going on, but his mother, and Alice and her husband, obviously did.
They looked at each other, and then Alice said, quite calmly, do you have an ashtray Julia? I hate to make a mess of your dishes here.
Of course, of course, said Julia, getting up from the table with a jolt, how silly of me. Now then.
And she swept around the room, her hands reaching for the ghosts of ashtrays which had long since been got rid of, on the sideboard, on the coffee table, on top of the piano, beside the record player. She went twice around the room, and then spun to a standstill by her chair, looking at them with a sudden flicker of fear in her face. She looked at the cigarette in her hand. She said, oh bugger, oh bloody bugger, and for a moment she looked like a child, shrinking in front of them. She looked at the cigarette and stubbed it out on her pudding dish. She laughed, and said well that’s me showing my age already then, eh? twirling her finger around the side of her head, her bracelets spinning and rattling against each other. No one else laughed. She sat down slowly, covering her face for a moment with her hand. She looked up at Dorothy. Oh Dotty, she said quietly, her voice cut with disappointment as well as fear, her eyes flitting to each of them, looking for some kind of reassurance.
It wasn’t long before her fears began to be realised, piece by disjointed piece. Conversations started to peter out in the middle, names were repeatedly forgotten, doctor’s appointments missed. She got lost in a department store in town, bursting into confused tears at the top of an escalator, and when the staff took her into a back room and tried to calm her down she was unable to remember her address. Dorothy began to realise that she wasn’t eating properly, or changing her clothes, or keeping the house as clean as she had once made a point of doing. They started to visit her more often, doing her shopping for her while they were there, trying to prompt her into using the bathroom and changing her clothes. They took her to the doctor’s, looking for a name for what was happening to her, looking for things they could do to make it better. I’m too young to be doolally, she said, and the doctor said he couldn’t approve of the term but unfortunately there were cases where loss of faculty could have an early onset. It seems, bluntly, that yours might be one of those cases, he said. Laurence was an officer in the army by then, and when they tried to encourage him to take leave so he could look after his mother he told them he didn’t think that would be possible. You carry on there, he wrote, in a short letter to Dorothy, I’m sure you’re doing a fine job. Julia asked about him, often, and continued writing to him for some years, and when even people’s names began to slip out of reach his was the last name she forgot.
12 Picture postcard, Union Street, Aberdeen, c.1966 (#ulink_a65fd630-f69b-5204-9217-6aa668d10167)
When he made his first journey back to Aberdeen, five or six months after they’d met, they still hadn’t used the words boyfriend, or girlfriend, or going out, and there were a few awkward first hours where they realised how little they still knew of one another – taking a moment to recognise each other at the train station, standing a little way apart, avoiding eye contact and having no idea what to say. But eventually, helped along by a couple of beers and a gin, they stood at the end of the harbour, next to the coastguard’s tower, and dared to put their hands together, and to kiss, and it was a fierce, breathless, impatient kiss which lasted so long that the coastguards banged on the window and shouted at them, laughing and cheering. They walked quickly away to the end of the harbour wall, embarrassed, laughing, looking out at the calm bright sea, looking across the harbour mouth to the lighthouse and the half-ruined gun battery on the rocky knuckle of Girdleness, and the black cormorants standing along the jetty like a funeral party, waiting for whatever the next tide might bring. She pointed out her house, anonymous amongst the rows of stone-built terraces that climbed the low hill away from the shipyards, cut off from the rest of Aberdeen by the River Dee, and she pointed out the rooftops and towers of Union Street’s grand procession, and he smudged his thumb along her narrow eyebrows and kissed her again.
They walked back along the harbour wall, through the huddled rows of fishermen’s cottages and out on to the long unexpected sweep of beach which stretched for two miles or more up to the River Don. Everyone had their deckchairs turned away from the sea to face the sun, and as they held hands along the prom they felt as though they were on a stage. They walked past the ice-cream huts and candyfloss sellers and postcard stalls, and she told him how in winter the waves would race each other up the steps and over the refreshment huts, lunging landwards with the full weight of the North Sea rushing in behind. You should come back and see it then, she added.
They didn’t go to her house that first time. They walked back into town along the harbour road, through streets piled high with fish crates and ropes and chainlinks as fat and heavy as Brunel’s, wandering through the richer part of town to Duthie Park and the old Winter Gardens, scrambling down from a small station platform on to a recently abandoned railway line, hopping along the sleepers and make-believing they could follow the tracks all the way to America. My brother Hamish has been to America lots of times, she told him, once they’d given up and turned back towards the park. He’s in the merchant navy, she said proudly. Donald’s over to see him there next year; him and Ros are thinking about emigrating.
Have you ever thought about emigrating? he asked her lightly. Or going south at least? Slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her towards him, kissing her cheeks and her eyelids and her lips.
Aye, of course I have, she said indignantly, as if the very question was an insult.
Where would you go? he asked.
I don’t know, she said, kissing him back. Anywhere, she said. Away from here.
* * *
School’s the same as ever, it’s difficult and it’s not much fun but I’m going to stick it out, I’m going to get my Highers. Sometimes I think it’s my only chance. I do spend an awful lot of time in class just thinking about you though, and I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon. I suppose really it’s my turn to come see you, but I doubt my folks would let me do that. My da’s already asking after you, he says he wants to know when he’s going to get a chance to meet you! I told him it was nothing like that, but now I’m not so sure – what do you think?
Eleanor’s house was small, as all the houses were on that side of the harbour; gloomy inside, draughty and probably difficult to heat, but well built, with granite blocks from the local quarries, and solid enough to last a couple of centuries or more. There were two bedrooms upstairs, divided by a steep and narrow stairway, a small front room, a kitchen at the back of the house, a scullery and an outside toilet. Her parents didn’t own the house, but her grandfather had lived there as well, and his father before that, so the family history felt as though it was etched into the hard grey stone.
From just outside the house it was possible to look right down the street to the harbour, to the tall crooked cranes of the shipyards, the freighters unloading at the docks, the seagulls clouding and clamouring around the fishmarket on the end of the central pier. From just outside the house it was possible to hear what people were saying in the front room, or in the hallway, or, if they were talking loudly enough, in the kitchen. If there were more than a few people in the kitchen, as there were the first time David went there with Eleanor, it was possible to stand at the front door and hear them all raising their voices to make themselves heard over each other, laughing, banging on the table to get themselves some attention.
It was dark by the time they got there, that first time, finally braving an introduction on his third visit to Aberdeen. The light from the kitchen was shining out through the pane of glass over the front door and Eleanor hesitated before going in, listening. I don’t believe it, she whispered, it sounds like they’re all here. I’m sorry, she said. Her father, Stewart, came out into the hallway and greeted them loudly, shaking David’s hand and inviting him in to meet the rest of the family. It just so happens they were all passing, he said, and from the corner of his eye David could see Eleanor shaking her head as he came into the kitchen and was introduced to her mother, Ivy, her brothers, Donald, William and John, Donald’s wife, Ros, a couple of young children, and a great-uncle James sitting in the corner by the stove. There were bottles of beer out on the table, and the remains of a meal stacked up by the sink, and he was peppered with hellos and how-are-yous before he’d managed to get his bearings. He found himself answering questions about how far he’d come and what he was doing in these parts and what it was he did for a living back home, struggling to understand their flinted accents, and struggling to be understood in return – Eh? What’s that son? Say again? – one of them still asking him to repeat himself while another was asking him something new, all turning to each other and discussing what it was he might have said once they’d given up on asking him again.
It was a small room, mostly taken up with the big wooden table they were sitting around, the wood worn to a shine by the years of scouring and cleaning, the crumbs from the meal already wiped away. There weren’t enough chairs for all of them, so the younger men, Eleanor’s brothers, were standing along the back wall, in front of the window and the kitchen sink, blocking the door to the scullery and the backyard, looking him up and down and muttering remarks to each other.
Coventry? asked one of them suddenly, while David was trying to explain to Stewart about being from London originally but having left there as a small child. Is it Coventry where they make all the cars? David nodded.
You make cars then? he was asked.
No, he told them, no, I work in a museum.
There was an awkward pause, and then another brother said museum, eh? You’re no a geologist like our Eleanor reckons she’s going to be? David shook his head, smiling, and tried to make a joke about being involved with more recent history than the formation of the earth’s surface. There was another awkward pause and then the same brother said aye right, so what do you reckon then, is it true what Ellie says about there being oil under the sea? Great-uncle James, sitting in the corner, burst into a laugh that sounded more like a cough, and even Stewart smiled and shook his head. David didn’t know what to say.
It’s not just me, Eleanor protested, everyone’s saying it. Mr Read showed me the maps and everything.
Aye, said Donald, the oldest of the brothers there, and there’s a herd of camels going by outside just now. Eleanor tutted, and pretended to smile, and nudged David towards the door.
Well, we’ve got to get to the pictures, she said. We’re meeting Ruth and folk, we’d better get going.
What’s on? John asked. Lawrence of Arabia? Everyone in the room laughed, Great-uncle James slapping his hand against his knee, and Eleanor turning and pushing David ahead of her, and as they opened the front door he heard one of the men saying make sure he gets you home in plenty of time now, and another man saying oil be waiting up, and the hard-edged laughter followed them both as they hurried away down the hill.
13 Pocket appointment diaries (incomplete set), dated 1935–1959 (#ulink_9f0016eb-87b3-5489-830b-23b027522686)
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 (#ulink_974790d9-3928-5a1d-84e4-53145109ffcf)
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!). 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! 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.
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Jon McGregor
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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