by Jon McGregor
Perhaps it was like that, he would think, sometimes, or perhaps it wasn't like that at all. Perhaps she went to Ireland, but never made it as far as home, kept away by fear, or by warnings of how she would be received. Perhaps she went to Dublin, an exile in her own country, finding a place to stay through someone who knew someone, finding work, making friends, pushing what went before to the back of her mind. Perhaps she married, had children, gave them names and raised them. Three children, four children, five children. Brothers and sisters born and bred in Dublin, and her northwestern inheritance didn't pass on to them but faded from view. Or perhaps she had no children, no more children, perhaps she didn't marry and she lived out her life further south, Waterford, Cork, nestling into some small village community and busying herself with work and the intricate weave of a new social life, and she grew old and built herself a new history to talk of in the village shop or at the club, fond talk of do you remember when with no need to think of what went before. Or she became a nun, clothed herself in righteousness and hid herself away in the cloisters and the rituals of religious life, praying and meditating and good-deeding her way out of the skin of the young girl she was when she first joined. Or she didn't go back to Ireland at all. She went as far as Liverpool, and put her savings together with a few weeks' work in a hotel kitchen, and bought herself a ticket to the New World, following in the wake of so many who had gone before, walking the gangplank aboard the White Star liner without a backward glance, keeping away from the deck until the ship was well clear of land so as not to have no one to wave to. Or she went back to London, losing herself in the crowds, walking out every day in the hope that she would bump into Julia, or Dorothy, or David; lingering by the hospital gates, waiting, hiding without hiding, never able to actually step inside. Or she went to Leeds, or to Birmingham, or to Coventry and she got a job in the Hotel Leofric and served David his very first under-aged pint. Or she died young, killed in various road accidents, explosions, struck down by illness and disease, drowned on her way to America, sodden with cheap drink in a one-room flat on the Kilburn High Road. Or she did go home, eventually, a few long years smoothing over the rough calluses of shame and gossip, a family's love and longing for a lost daughter overcoming any talk of sin and curse and letting down, a father brimming with tears as he brings himself to look her in the eyes and say, well, come inside, welcome home, it's been too long.
It was the not knowing, he would say to someone, much much later. The not knowing was the hardest thing.
part two
He woke early, stiff and tired from the previous day's long drive but restless with preparations for the journey to come. He left Eleanor sleeping, her fists clenched against her face, and slipped into Kate's old room, looking out the two albums and the scrapbook he planned to take, glancing at all the other scrapbooks and albums and shoeboxes and wondering if he should maybe take a few things more. He went over the route in his mind, uncertain even now that he was doing the right thing, sitting down on Kate's old bed, smoothing the pillow and the duvet, looking at her old postcards still Blutacked to the back of the door.
He heard Eleanor getting up and moving around downstairs, and then she appeared in the doorway with two coffees, squinting slightly, her face puffed with sleep. She put one down on the windowsill, glancing at the pile of boxes and folders he'd been going through. She looked at him, the faint lines on her face softening as she smiled, and said you're a case though, aren't you David? He looked at her, sharply, and stood up.
What? he said.
Well, she said, waving her hand vaguely, all this stuff. I mean, it's a bit much, isn't it? He looked down at the floor, and then at the window, holding his hands tensely by his sides. He didn't say anything.
He said, Eleanor, couldn't you just for once take something I'm doing a bit seriously? I mean, couldn't you do me that favour, just once? He said, it's not as if I'm taking it all with me. I was just looking; what's wrong with that? He gripped the edge of the windowsill, and realised he was shouting. He said, I'm sorry but— She moved towards him and put a hand on his shoulder, and she felt him tense against her touch.
She said, I'm sorry I didn't mean anything. Her voice was flatter, the teasing note of a moment before drawn out of it by his reaction. She said, I am taking it seriously, it's just— It seems like you're rushing into this a bit.
He looked at her, disbelievingly, shaking his head.
She said again, I am taking it seriously.
He lowered his head and said well it doesn't feel like it. She sighed, loudly, and pulled away from him, moving towards the door.
I'm sorry love, he said, rubbing his forehead with the knuckles of his fist, I'm just tired. It was a long drive. She held on to the door frame, and closed her eyes.
It was the first argument they'd had for months. The last time had been when her brother Donald contacted them to say that her mother was very ill and would Eleanor consider going up there at all, and David had tried to insist that she should. She'd shouted at him then, and told him that he must be stupid if he still didn't get it after all these years, and he'd shouted back that maybe he was stupid, for marrying her in the first place. There was nothing like that being said this time at least. But there was something of that same bristling tension; in their voices, in the tight grip of their hands on the windowsill and the door frame, in the way their eyes dared one another to go further. Later, over breakfast, they would agree that they were getting too old for that kind of thing, that it wasn't worth getting so wound up about it all, and the sharpness of their words would be forgotten. But for a moment, as they stood there facing each other, trying to think what to say, it felt as though they were newly married all over again.
Perhaps you shouldn't go today then, she said quickly, if you're really so tired, if it was such a long drive. Perhaps you should leave it. He raised his hands, shaking them in the air.
But I've bought the ticket now, he said, almost shouting again. It's all been arranged. They'll be expecting me, he said, his voice suddenly trailing away and his hands falling to his sides. And something like resignation or defeat must have shown on his face, because when he looked at her he could see that she regretted what she'd said. Maybe I shouldn't go at all, he said. She let go of the door frame and stepped back towards him, touching a hand to his arm.
Oh no, she said. I didn't mean that, I didn't mean that. I'm just saying, she said, you said you were tired. He turned away from her, looking out at the small back garden. She said, I'll put some toast on. She left the room and went downstairs to the kitchen. The steam rose from his coffee mug, settling to a steady twisted stream as the stillness seeped back into the room. He glanced at the clock.
They were in the middle of breakfast, still catching breath from their brief argument, when the phone rang. It was his sister Susan, wanting to know how things had gone at the funeral. I'm not interrupting anything, am I? she asked.
No, David said, reaching across to the table for his toast, you're fine.
Only it seemed like a good time to call, she added. How had it been at the service, she asked, and afterwards - were people friendly enough, how did Kate take it all, had Eleanor changed her mind at the last minute? No, he said, she hadn't. She asked him how Kate was in general, if she was still living in London, if she'd had any luck finding a proper job yet.
She's still in London, he told her, and she's working. She seems happy enough for the time being, he said, and Susan must have heard the slight edge in his voice because she said oh no, no I'm sure she is, I was just wondering. He heard the splash of something being poured into a glass, juice perhaps, and pictured her sitting at her breakfast table in the bay window, with toast and yoghurt and folded white napkins, looking out at the long stretch of garden between her house and the road. She asked him what he had planned for the day, and he said well I'm just getting things ready and then I'm heading off, on my trip.
Oh? Susan said, sounding surprised. You're still doing that? So soon?
<
br /> Yes Susan, he said tautly. So soon. How much longer did you want me to leave it?
I didn't mean that, she said. You know I didn't mean that. I was just thinking about Eleanor, if she'll be okay while you're gone. He held his breath for a moment.
Yes, he said, well, I don't know about that. You'll have to ask her that yourself. He held the phone out towards Eleanor, saying it's my sister, she wants to talk to you, ignoring the faint sound of Susan telling him not to be silly. Eleanor looked at him suspiciously and took the phone.
Hello? she said.
David looked at the clock, put his breakfast dishes in the sink, and gestured to Eleanor that he was going upstairs. She watched him go, and he heard her say well it's difficult to explain Susan, it's mixed, you know? He washed, and dressed, and folded some clean clothes into his suitcase, standing by the window for a moment to look down at his car parked outside. When he went back downstairs, putting the kettle on to boil, Eleanor was saying oh is he, is that right now? I thought he wasn't going to. He spooned coffee and sugar into a flask. Eleanor said yes, he's still here, you want to speak to him again? He looked up, shaking his head, and saw Eleanor holding the phone out towards him. He reached out for it, and she put her hand across the mouthpiece.
Maybe I should come with you after all, she said.
He stared at her, trying to catch her eye, mouthing a confused what? while Susan asked him how their mother was coping with the new bungalow. Eleanor shrugged, smiling a little, as if it had just been a passing thought. David? said Susan. Are you there? He turned away and said sorry, yes, she's fine. I saw her last week and she seems to be settling in fine.
He looked at Eleanor, standing on the other side of the table, her hands resting on the back of the chair, waiting. He remembered the first night they spent together, and not being quite able to believe the sheer unadorned fact of her skin against his, and he thought how strange it was that after all that time she still slept beside him in their bed, with her hand spread out across his chest and her face turned in to his shoulder. They were both so much older now. Their bodies had crumpled and softened and worn, and no matter how many creams she kept by the bed the skin on her face had become as creased and lined as his. Her hair was shot through with threads of silver and grey. But her eyebrow still arched exquisitely when she didn't believe what someone was saying, and her lips still folded together when she was concentrating or frowning or confused. She still tucked loose wisps of hair behind her ear with a single long delicate finger. Sometimes, it was an effort to keep from kissing her while she slept.
Susan was saying of course I'll never be able to keep up with this garden, and he said no, well, oh. He said, Susan, look, sorry, I'm going to have to go now, I need to get on with things, it's been good talking to you, and as he put the phone down Eleanor jolted slightly and turned back into the room, wrapping the rest of the cakes she'd baked the day before in tin foil and stacking them into a bag.
He said what do you mean maybe you should come with me? She filled the flask, put it into the bag beside the cakes, and looked around the room to see what was missing.
Well, I just thought, she said. It's a long way, you might need someone to keep you company.
But I don't mind the journey, he said, I'm fine with that. I've done it before, he reminded her.
She took some fruit from a bowl on the side and tucked it into the bag, saying but that was a long time ago; things will have changed since then. He sat down, he looked at the ceiling, and he laughed.
I didn't realise it was me we had to worry about with long journeys, he said. I thought that was your department.
But I'm getting better David, she said. I am. Maybe it would do the both of us some good, she added quietly. He looked down at his hands on the table, turning them over, peering at his fingerprints and tracing the lines worn into his palms. He didn't know what to say.
He said, you really want to come then? and when he looked up at her she nodded. He sat back in his chair suddenly, the chair creaking with his weight. He said, bloody hell Eleanor, I really wasn't expecting this. He said, have you got any travel tablets? She smiled.
Are you still going over to your Mum's first? she asked. He nodded.
There's a few more photos I wanted to pick up, he said. And I should see how she's doing.
So have a think about it while you're there, she said. I'll get dressed and packed and we'll talk about it when you come back, she said. He looked at his watch, and he rubbed his face.
He said, but, I don't know El, this was something, I was planning— He stopped, and tried again. He said, I imagined doing this on my own. She moved towards him and put an arm across his shoulder. She leant forwards and kissed the top of his head, his hair thin enough now that he could feel her lips against his scalp.
She said, with her face still so close to his skull that he could feel the breath in her words, you've been doing this on your own for too long now, don't you think?
17 Pair of cinema tickets, annotated '19th May 1967"
Tell me something.
I don't know, anything.
Tell me something about when you were a boy.
Anything. The first thing that comes into your head.
But he said nothing, and there was only the quietness of two people breathing, the scratch and shift of a skirt being straightened, a trouser leg awkwardly tugged.
Are you not going to say something?
I'm thinking, he said.
Her eyes, when she looked at him, kept flicking from one small point of focus to another, the way they would if they were looking at a waterfall, or a fire, or the view from a moving train. It felt as though she was looking for something, something new, or something familiar but forgotten. The skin around her eyes stretched and folded into tiny creases with the movement. As she blinked, an eyelash caught and fell on to her cheek. He looked at it. He wanted to reach out and dab it away.
What do you want to know? he asked.
Anything, she answered quickly. Just, I just want to hear your voice a while. He looked at the eyelash on her cheek and she reached a finger up to rub it away. Gone? she said.
Gone, he told her, smiling. There were footsteps somewhere, someone coughing, men's voices, and they both turned their faces towards the noise until it had passed.
How about, she said, were you ever in the hospital? Her voice was quiet and tense, as if she was afraid of being overheard. He thought about it for a moment, trying to think of something to say. She closed her eyes, and he noticed for the first time that she had faint bobbles of skin on her eyelids, like tiny colourless freckles, and he wondered why he'd never noticed them before. She opened her eyes and looked back at him, and almost without meaning to they leant slightly closer together.
He told her about when he was eight years old and Susan had left him in the park near Julia's house, and the boys had thrown stones and chased him until he fell.
Did it hurt awful bad? she said.
I've still got a very small scar, he said. It bled all the way back to Julia's house and they had to put a bandage on it. As he said this, they were both looking down at his knee, as if they could see through his trousers to the tiny pink stitch of a scar which was hidden there. He rubbed at it with the palm of his hand.
The room was very quiet again. She looked down at the floor, put her hands on the edge of the chair, crossed and uncrossed her feet. His shoes squeaked as he rubbed them together. He looked around the room, at their jackets folded together on the back of the chair by the door, at the clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece, her parents' wedding photo on one side, photos of her and her four brothers on the other. She looked up at him and smiled. This feels a little strange, don't you think? she said.
She told him that her earliest memory was of being lifted on to her father's shoulders, having to hold on tightly as his long steps bounced her up the hill leading out of their side of town and on until they could turn round and look out over the city and the sea. She tu
rned and pointed as she said this, as if the high open moorland was just in the next room. He told her that he was ten years old before he saw the sea.
I couldn't believe how cold and grey it was when I finally got there, he said, or how huge.
Aye, she said, but I'll bet you it's even colder up here, and she laughed.
Their voices were soft and low, pressed close together, and when one of them spoke, murmuring, their words seemed to curl towards each other like a twist of smoke from a candle flame. Tell me something else, she said.
