So Many Ways to Begin

by Jon McGregor

  He told her about how when it was very hot in the summer his father liked to spray them with the hosepipe while he was watering the rose bushes, and how his sister and her friends would creep up behind his father until he span suddenly round and sent them all scattering into the road to escape the icy shock. He told her about the summer holidays they spent at his grandparents' house in Suffolk, about vague memories of pink cottages and fields full of poppies, of being taken by his grandfather to watch the blacksmith at work, of his uncle driving them all down to the sea. She told him about racing a cart down the steep streets, and how much trouble she'd got into when she fell out one time and hurt herself.

  When neither of them had spoken for a few moments, he leant forward, resting his hand on the arm of her chair, and kissed her.

  What was that for? she said.

  He shrugged. Just because, he said. She lifted her face towards him, and he kissed her again, slowly this time, and she raised her hand to touch the side of his neck, his jaw, the faint rub of stubble around his chin. He moved his hand from the arm of the chair and up on to her shoulder. He lifted a finger to her cheek, trailing his hand down the neckline of her shirt. Their movements were slow and tentative, as if this was still the first time they had kissed. She leant away from him, opening her eyes, and he pulled his hand back. She looked at him for a moment, touching his lips with the knuckle of her thumb, then looked away.

  Just, she said, just, I want to keep talking for a while, okay?

  He said, but I thought—

  I want to hear you talking, she said. I like the sound of your voice. There's things I want to know still.

  He told her about the museum he and a friend had made in his bedroom, and about the exhibition he curated at school, and about how he tried to get his first Saturday job at the archives, and about how he would one day have a museum of his own. He'd told her these things before, but she listened again. He didn't tell her what had happened with Julia, what Julia had said, the unbelievable truth she'd revealed. It seemed an impossible thing to say out loud. She asked about his first kiss, and he told her about a girl called Rebecca. She laughed and told him about a boy called Jack.

  There was a muffled sound from somewhere, from next door, footsteps going up and down the stairs, low voices clouded by the thin walls. She looked round, bringing the tips of her fingers to her mouth, staring at the wall, her breath held tight in her chest. She looked back at him and smiled, faintly, her bottom lip dented by her two front teeth. The voices faded.

  They looked at each other, waiting uncertainly. He shivered, suddenly very cold, a draught coming in through the kitchen and the open door and skidding across the bare wooden floorboards. He rubbed his hands on his trousers to warm them up.

  You want to hear more? she asked him, turning in her seat and pulling her legs up beneath her, straightening her skirt around her knees.

  Yes, he said.

  Well then, she said. When I was seven I fell in the water by the harbour and a man had to jump in and rescue me.

  Really? he said. What happened? How long were you in the water for?

  Oh, not very long, she said, smiling, looking pleased with herself. I don't think I was in any danger; they didn't have to give me the kiss of life or any of that. But it was a big upset all the same; I near choked myself with crying until my mam told me to stop making a scene. He leant forward, fascinated.

  But how did you fall in? he asked her. Was it cold?

  I don't know really, she said. I was just standing there waiting for Ma and Da to come back from doing something and next I knew I was in the water. Aye, course it was cold, she added, rolling her eyes and crooking the arch of her eyebrow at him. Was it cold, she repeated, laughing. I remember hearing a ship's hooter out at the harbour mouth, she said, so l must have turned to look and just slipped in. This man was in something fast though - felt like he was there by the time I came back up above the water almost. And he just grabbed me by the neck and pulled me over to the side, and he said don't worry love you'll be fine, or something the likes of, and I couldn't see him, I could only feel his great big hands on my neck, and I could see all the lights from the harbour front shining off the black water, and the cranes along the jetties further off, and the ship that had blown its hooter still out by the mouth, and when he got me over to the wall there were all these faces looking down at me - my ma and da, some other people I didn't know - and they were all talking at once and reaching down towards me and it felt like they were miles away. It was only once they'd hauled me out and I was stood there with them all looking at me and someone asked if I was alright that I started crying my eyes out. She spoke quickly and breathlessly, her hands fluttering around her mouth, or sweeping her hair back behind her ears, or smoothing down the hem of her skirt.

  He watched her talking, the room suddenly bright and loud with it, and when she'd finished he said but Eleanor, what if that man hadn't been there? What if he hadn't seen you?

  Aye, she said, I know. She reached out and ran her finger along the back of his hand, a little out of breath. But he was, she said. And he did. So it's okay.

  He leant forward again and kissed her cheek, touching the corner of her jaw with two fingers as he did so, running his fingers across her face as he pulled away, nudging the tip of one finger between her lips. She kissed his finger, and he drew it back, and they both dropped their eyes, looking across the floor, looking around the darkened room, waiting.

  She looked up at him again. Do you want to go upstairs? she said.

  It was a small room. There were two beds, one along the end wall and one under the window, opposite the door. There was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe next to the door, and a small wooden chair in the corner. Opposite the bed, there was a small table with an oval mirror hanging above it, cluttered with make-up and hairbands and books, folders and files and notes for her Highers revision, an underlined timetable of exam dates pinned to the wall, a stack of seven-inch records against a record player.

  Shall I put some music on? he asked her, standing at the table and flicking through the records.

  No, she said, whispering, lifting a finger to her lips. It's late, the folk next door don't like the music this late. He looked up at the wall, startled, wondering how much they could hear. She waved her hand at the bed. Come sit down, she whispered, and as he moved back towards her he was suddenly conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the bare floorboards, the sound of his breathing. She laughed at his tiptoe steps, covering her mouth with her hand. You don't need to be that quiet, she said. It's not as if they're listening up against the wall or anything. He sat down carefully, looking at the wall again, unconvinced.

  She said, have you done this before?

  She was looking down, at her hands in her lap, twisting one of her fingers from side to side. No, he told her. He was too embarrassed to ask in return. He assumed by the way she asked that she hadn't. She looked up at him, shifting her weight towards him on the small narrow bed. They kissed, and her hand resting on his thigh felt suddenly charged with anticipation. He lifted his hand to her hip, fitting his fingers to the curve of it, easing his fingertips beneath her shirt and on to her bare warm skin. She lifted her mouth away from his, pulling back a few inches and opening her eyes. They stayed like that for another long moment, uncertain, nervous. He dipped his head and kissed the soft part of her throat where her collarbones met, the way he liked to do. He liked the way it made her tremble very slightly, the faint sighs brushing against the top of his head. He did it again, but the second time she lifted her head and moved away a little, resting her fingers on his chest. Wait, she said.

  It had been a long day. They hadn't met until late in the evening, by the clocktower, barely catching each other's eyes before turning and walking quickly to the cinema, heads down, not touching. Neither of them, when they talked about it later, could remember a single scene of the film. They'd held hands, briefly, but she'd pulled away. She'd kept looking over her shoulder, as t
hough the usher might have seen them sitting too close together, as though somebody might be standing waiting to catch them as they left. Her parents had gone away to Glasgow for two days, but it felt as if they were still lurking behind every corner.

  It wasn't until they'd got back to her house that she'd kissed him; and even while she was kissing him she'd been looking carefully over his shoulder until she was sure that no one was watching from behind any curtains. When she was sure, she'd opened the door and quickly pulled him inside, leaving him standing in the hallway until she'd rushed around the house and tugged all the curtains tightly closed. And finally, then, she'd come to him, and slipped her hands inside his jacket, around his waist, and kissed him slowly, and said hello.

  Hey, she said. It's getting late.

  She leant towards him, kneeling up on the bed, putting her hands on the blanket either side of him and dropping her head to kiss his upturned face.

  Her weight, resting on his, her hand sliding inside his shirt and across his chest, his hands tugging at the buttons of her shirt.

  She sat up, kneeling astride him, and undid the rest of her buttons, letting her shirt hang loose and watching his gaze fall to her chest. She slipped the shirt from her shoulders with a wriggle, pulled her arms loose, and dropped it on to the floor. Now you, she said, smiling, and he took his shirt off, undoing the top few buttons and dragging it over his head. He felt cold for a moment, awkward.

  Her flat hand on his chest, polishing his skin. His fingers compassing around the curve of her breasts, his thumb pressed flat against each of her nipples. The way she closed her eyes, the sounds she made.

  She lowered herself again, kissing his throat, his breastbone, his nipples, his shoulders, and as she did so he felt the weight of her breasts pressing against his skin. He had to bite both his lips to keep from calling out. And as she rolled away from him, on to her back, and drew him towards her to kiss and stroke her bare chest in turn, they were both thinking of the same thing, of the only other time they'd been exposed to each other in this way, that long hot afternoon at the start of the summer when they'd walked up past the brow of the hill, and looked down at the flat grey sea, and somehow dared each other into unbuttoning and removing their tops. Then, they hadn't kissed each other the way they were now, too embarrassed perhaps, too afraid of some stray walker or farmer appearing suddenly, and so they'd only looked, and laughed, and blushed slightly, and turned away from each other to get quickly dressed again.

  Take your trousers off, she said.

  And the rest, she said.

  She looked for a moment, tilting her head to the side, curious. She stood up and pulled her skirt and her tights and her knickers to the floor, stepping gracefully from the gathered heap like a magician's assistant. The sight of her made him want to applaud. His whole body was straining and taut, arching towards her.

  There was so much skin to touch, and so much skin to touch it with. They stood there, shivering a little, pressing their hands together, their chests, their legs. He held on to her hips for balance and brushed his mouth across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She did the same, and then, delicately, cautiously, knelt down to kiss the very tip of his erection. She looked up at him and laughed quickly, and he turned his face away, smiling, embarrassed.

  She lay on the bed, waiting, looking up at the ceiling. He couldn't get into the packet. He was worried about ripping the thing itself as he tore it open. When he'd eventually got it on, and knelt between her legs, she looked down and smiled briefly behind her hand. Sorry, she said. It looks funny though, in its wee mackintosh like that. Sorry.

  He couldn't get it to go in. He wasn't sure about the angle, or the position. She waited for a moment, not looking at him, and then reached down to try and help. It didn't seem right at all. It was uncomfortable, for both of them. She said, you should probably - I think you need to - you know. He didn't know what she meant, but when he looked down he saw that she was pushing him away a little and rubbing at herself, and then he thought he understood.

  She made little gasps and sucking sounds, winces, like the noises he'd once heard her make when she got her hair caught up in the zip of her coat and was trying to untangle it. Are you okay? he asked. Is it; does it? She nodded, quickly, it's okay, she whispered, it's okay. She laid her arms across his back and clung tightly to him. His face was pressed against the pillow beside her head, his arms squashed either side of her. He felt fragile, overbalanced. He held his breath.

  She shifted uncomfortably beneath him, and the movement made him spill over into sudden regretful delight.

  Don't stop, she whispered, it's okay. He mumbled something, his face still pressed into the pillow. No, he said, I've finished.

  Oh, she said. He lifted his weight away from her. Oh, she said again.

  They lay on their sides, looking at each other for a long time, wondering about what they'd just done. The room seemed suddenly very quiet and still. She smiled, and he brushed his finger against her lips, resting a knuckle in the squeeze of her teeth. She moved her leg very slightly, bringing her knee up towards his hip. He let his arm slip from her shoulder to the small of her waist.

  He said - he whispered - bloody hell, Eleanor.

  She smiled, pulling the covers up across them both, her eyes dimming and closing. He looked at their clothes, spread out across the room like stepping stones. He asked her if she was okay, if she was glad they'd done that, and she kissed him and stroked the side of his face, her eyes closed, her breathing slowing and deepening.

  He said - he whispered - bloody hell. I feel like I hardly know you. She opened her eyes.

  You do too, she murmured, you know me well enough.

  No, but really I mean, he said, bringing his leg up towards hers, running his hand down her thigh, there must be plenty that I don't know at all. She pressed a finger to his lips, smiled, and closed her eyes. She opened them again after five minutes or ten minutes or an hour, and looked at him.

  Are you awake? she whispered. He looked back at her.

  Just about, he said. She shifted a little closer to him.

  Would you tell me something? she said. Would you tell me something nice so I can get to sleep?

  18 Disciplinary letter, typewritten on headed paper, January 1968

  Your failure to fulfil the obligations of your position, or to meet the reasonable requests of your superiors, has been noted.

  There were weeks when the only time he spoke to his mother was to ask her again what she knew. There must be something else, he would say. A second name, a date of birth. Tell me something, please. Why didn't you tell me before? he would ask again. And his mother would insist that there was nothing else, that there was no more she was hiding from him, that she knew she'd done wrong but could he please stop all of this, it was breaking her heart. He would always leave the room when she said that, slamming the door behind him.

  It was like a hunger, an insatiable hunger, this need to know. There were weeks, months, when he could think of nothing else, could hear nothing else besides the slow refined sigh of Julia's voice, saying the words over and over again. Of course we never saw the poor girl again. You'll have to keep the little darling. Did I say something wrong? Of course we never saw the poor girl. The words repeating like a stuck record in a locked room, haunting him, so that he could get to sleep only by drinking too much and leaving the radio on, loud. You'll have to keep the little darling. We never saw the little darling. You'll have to keep the poor girl. And of course she disappeared off the face of the earth. Did I say something wrong?

  He thought about leaving home, about cutting himself off and starting again, about never speaking to his mother again, but he was too numb to do anything about moving out, and his mother was the only person he could ask for answers, and so he stayed, seething with hurt and anger and betrayal and loss, wishing he'd never found out.

  And even when he was at work he struggled to concentrate, his thoughts blurred by the many questions he wanted answe
ring: why he'd never been told; why he'd never suspected; whether Susan was lying when she said she'd never known; what he could do now to find the answers he was looking for, to find the people he'd never known he'd lost. One of the curators would ask him to repair a broken display cabinet, to rewrite an outdated label, to take a parcel to the post office, and within moments of being asked he would forget, sitting down on a gallery chair, or in the staffroom, or in the pub, knocked off his feet again by the memory of Julia's words. His colleagues started to comment, joking about his forgetfulness, his empty stare, his vacant tone of voice. The Director called him into the office to discuss his attitude towards work.

  The poor girl hadn't even left you with a name, so we chose David, after that actor, what was his name? And of course, she disappeared off the face of the earth. What was his name?

  Your difficulties with punctuality, and with timekeeping in general, have become of increasing concern.

  He was surprised, when he asked, that it had taken him so long to think of it. What did Dad say when he found out? he said, and as soon as he'd said it he knew what the answer would be. His mother was in the back garden when he asked her, kneeling over the border, pulling out weed seedlings and heaping them into a small basket. How did you tell him? he asked, something cold and fearful turning over in his stomach. She straightened up, pulling her gloves off before answering him. She seemed uncertain what to say.

  David, she said, and she looked up at him.

  Did you even? he asked quietly. She put the gloves back on and pulled more weeds out of the dry soil, working her way around the thickly spiked stem of a rose bush.

  I thought it was best, she said. He'd been home at the right time, she said. She pulled a bulb out by mistake and pushed it quickly back in, packing the soil in around it. Her voice was stretched and thin. The dates fitted, she said. I didn't think he needed to know. David turned away before she'd finished speaking. I thought he'd find it easier, not knowing, he heard her say, her voice falling away into the earth.