So Many Ways to Begin

by Jon McGregor

  29 Set of clothes pegs, traditional style, w/hand-drawn faces, C.1920S-1950S

  When Eleanor was seven years old her sister Tessa told her something awful, whispering it in her ear while they sat in their bedroom one long Sunday afternoon. Tessa was already laughing to herself when I ran downstairs to find Mam, Eleanor told David, but I didn't know if that meant it was true or it wasn't true. She found her mother in the kitchen, sitting on a chair with her hands pressed against her lower back, arching her spine, a pile of freshly wrung sheets leaking murky water into a tub in front of her. Outside, more sheets were hanging on the line, swinging and snapping in the hard wind blowing up from the sea.

  Oh you've come to help, have you? Ivy said, and Eleanor looked at her blankly. Because there'll be no food on the table while these sheets are waiting to be hung. Eleanor nodded and followed her mother as she hauled the washtub out into the backyard. She fetched the basket from the scullery and took the end of the first unpegged sheet from her mother, bringing the corners together and pulling them tight, bringing the corners together again, passing the ends back to her mother and fetching the hanging end up to meet the top until there was a neatly folded square in the basket. She knew exactly what to do. She'd had plenty of practice. They folded two more in this way, and then Eleanor said Mam is it true that when you have a baby all your stomach comes out and they have to stick it back in again? Ivy looked up.

  Eh, no, she said, not quite. Feels like it mind, she said, unpegging another sheet. Eleanor looked at her, eyes wide.

  Does it? she said. She was quiet for a moment while they folded the next sheet, thinking. But is there any actual blood? she said, and her voice was quiet and disbelieving.

  Oh aye, said Ivy, there's blood all right. She passed Eleanor the end of another sheet. When I had you, she said, looking at her daughter carefully, the whole bed was covered in blood, and every towel in the house wasn't enough to mop it up off me. Her daughter stared back at her, bringing corner to corner and fetching up the hanging end, the colour fading from her face.

  Did it hurt? she whispered, and her mother laughed, a single hard snort of unamused laughter. Or she laughed long and hard, sarcastic but also genuinely entertained by her daughter's innocence. Or she didn't laugh at all, but stared and thought there's a lot I've got to teach you yet my girl.

  Did it hurt? she replied. Oh, aye. Felt like my whole body was ripping in two. Felt like my bones were cracking every time I pushed. Wasn't as young as I used to be, my body was too old to be coping with that kind of nonsense. I shouldn't really have been having a baby at all at that age. Midwife said I was lucky, said she thought she was going to lose us both with all the blood that was pouring out of me.

  Ivy watched the effect her words were having on her daughter. She wanted her to know how it was, to understand and be grateful. Or she deliberately wanted to frighten her, to find revenge for what had happened. Eleanor stared at her.

  But your stomach didn't come out at all? she asked eventually, confused. Her mother shook her head.

  No girl, she said, smiling thinly. May have felt like it, but no, my stomach didn't come out at all. Who's been telling you that? she asked, and Eleanor's eyes immediately dropped away.

  No one, she muttered.

  Aye, well, of course, no one, said Ivy, hoisting the first wet sheet into the blustery air and pegging it to the line, glancing up at the house. Drops of water fell from the sheet on to the cobbled ground, spattering up around Eleanor's ankles, winding their way between the stones to the gutter running along the backs of the yards. The wind began to blow stronger as they hung out the rest, Eleanor passing the ends up to her mother and holding out the pegs, and as they went back into the house one of the sheets was lifted and flapped suddenly into shape by a sharp gust, the sound like a whipcrack echoing off the dark stone walls.

  A letter came from the university in the summer, and where Eleanor thought that it would confirm her successful deferred application and forthcoming start date, it said instead that the course had been withdrawn due to lack of interest. She opened it while they were having breakfast, and slammed it down on to the table so hard that her wedding ring left a dented crack in the formica. David watched her, a slice of toast halfway to his mouth, reaching across the table to read the letter for himself. No, no, no, she said, her voice brisk and determined, no. That's not fair, it's not good enough. She stood up, and her voice rose with her, building to a rarely heard shout. They already accepted my application David. They said it would be okay! They can't do this! He stood, and held her, and her voice fell away again. Can they? she said.

  She telephoned the admissions office, and they said they were very sorry but they'd had no alternative. They hoped to be able to run the course the following year, they said, and she slammed down the phone with a yell of frustration. He tried to persuade her to try another university - Birmingham, or Leicester, or one of the new polytechnics - but somewhere among all that shouting she seemed to have lost her nerve. Maybe it's not a good idea, she said. Maybe it's not what I'm cut out for. He sent off for the prospectuses, but she just smiled and said thank you and put them away. Maybe next year, she said softly. I'll try again next year, eh?

  30 Girls hairbrush, wooden-handled, c. 1940s

  And then she told him about Tessa leaving home. It happened quickly, she said. One day she was there and the next she was gone. I woke up in the middle of the night and I heard people talking downstairs, shouting, Tessa and my ma and da, in the front room and the hall and the kitchen, doors slamming and all sorts. I heard Tessa coming up the stairs, stamping, and then it sounded like she fell.

  She was eight years old when it happened, ten years younger than her sister, lying in bed with the covers pulled up over her face, trying not to listen to what was going on. But she could hear her mother asking where were you? Where've you been? over and over again, and Tessa yelling nowhere, nowhere, what do you mind? in return. She could hear her father, his voice low and insistent, and she could picture him standing between the two of them, holding them apart, trying to lower Ivy's raised hands.

  She knew that there'd been talk, Talk of a man Tessa had been seen with, and how much she'd been seen with him. She didn't know what it meant to be seen with someone, but she knew that her parents didn't like it. Folk have been talking, her mother had said a few weeks earlier; I'll not have folk talking about any family of mine, you hear me?

  Eleanor lay in bed, wondering what people had been saying, wondering when the shouting was going to stop. She heard her mother say aye, well I know very well where you've been young miss, do you think I'm soft in the head or something? She heard her sister's voice saying something she couldn't quite catch, a slap, and a sudden clatter of footsteps up the stairs. She lifted the covers, peering out from beneath them, holding her breath, and dropped them again as soon as the door swung open and the light burst on. And in that short bright instant before she dropped the covers she saw her sister for the last time, looking straight at her. Something had happened to her face. The skin around her eyes was coloured a pale powdery blue, her lips a swollen cherry red. Eleanor listened to her sister's heavy breathing as she stood in the doorway, and the slow pound of her mother's footsteps following up the stairs.

  A few nights earlier, she'd heard another argument, in the hallway and on the street, waking up just in time to hear her father use a voice she'd never heard before nor would ever hear again, a voice which had seemed to come blazing from somewhere deep in the hold of his belly. Aye, you go on, he'd yelled. Away you go now son, away you go! And see if I ever catch sight of your face again I will batter it for you, you hear me?

  She heard her mother get to the top of the stairs, and her father coming up behind, and she heard everything happening at once, everyone talking over each other and stumbling into the furniture, the sound of smacks and slaps and yelps and whispers. She closed her eyes tightly and lay perfectly still, hoping that if they thought she was asleep they would none of them talk t
o her, or say it was her fault, or ask her questions about it in the morning.

  She heard her father saying now Ivy, let's just calm down a little.

  She heard her mother saying no Stewart, no. She's gone too far now.

  She heard her father saying Ivy, Ivy. She heard her mother saying quietly and calmly, that Tessa was to pack her things and leave, that she was no longer a daughter of the family and would never again be welcome in the house. She heard a soft sniffling, and the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and footsteps up and down the stairs, and people moving around and talking in the kitchen.

  And when she next opened her eyes it was morning, and the room was still and quiet and bare. The sheets had been stripped from her sister's bed, and the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe was gone. Her mother came in while she was getting dressed, and without saying anything or even looking at her, she cleared the rest of Tessa's things into a black bag and put it outside by the bins.

  I barely heard her name mentioned again, she told David. And if I did it was my ma saying something like, aye she'll not be coming back here again, or, she'll see what she gets if she shows her face around here. Things like that, she said, you know.

  David looked at her, astonished. No, he said, I don't know. I don't know at all.

  31 Nurse's fob watch, engraved RCN, 1941

  When he went to visit, Auntie Julia would usually be sitting by the window, turned towards the garden, her face as blank and unconcerned as if she were gazing out to sea. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and wait for her to notice him, wondering how long she could stay so still. Sometimes the cold afternoon light would make her skin look waxed and unreal, and he would wonder if she was there at all until he saw some slight movement in her face, the rise and fall of her breathing, a flicker in her eyes.

  Julia, he would say eventually.

  Julia. Softly, not wanting to frighten her.

  Well, come in if you're coming in, she would reply, sharply, instinctively learning to cover up for herself. No use standing there all day, my dear.

  Now she didn't even say this; he had to come into the room and lay his hands on her shoulders, crouching beside her and saying her name over and over again as if calling her back from a deep sleep.

  Hello Julia, he said, when she finally turned her face and met his eye. It's good to see you again, he said. How are you doing? She didn't say anything. Are you warm enough? he asked. It's cold out, are you warm enough in here? She looked at him. She seemed to be thinking about it.

  What's that dear? she said.

  Are you warm enough? he said again, raising his voice a little.

  You're not Laurence, are you? she said. They said Laurence was coming. Is he coming?

  I don't know, he told her; he should be, he will be soon I'm sure.

  When? she said, leaning her ear towards him, as if he'd told her and she hadn't quite heard.

  Soon, he said. Soon, I'm sure.

  But when? she insisted. They said he was coming. They said he'd be here soon, she said.

  Tomorrow, he told her, regretting it as soon as he'd spoken. Laurence is coming tomorrow.

  Oh good, she said, I am glad. Tomorrow, she repeated, reminding herself.

  But you're not Laurence, are you? she said, a few moments later.

  No, he said. No, I'm not Laurence. I'm David, he said, raising his voice, slowing his words, David. I used to call you Auntie Julia, remember, Auntie Julia? She looked at him indignantly.

  But I'm not your aunt, she said.

  No, he said, no, you're not. It was just something we used to call you. Me and Susan.

  Yes, she said, relaxing, that's right, Susan. She smiled suddenly.

  She asked him for a cigarette. He found the packet in her bedside drawer and helped her to light one. She turned her face to the window, closing her eyes with each long and slow inhalation. He waited. She seemed to have fallen asleep. Her cigarette was smouldering in the ashtray, half-smoked, the filter smeared with lipstick, smoke spiralling into the air. He reached across to stub it out, and emptied the ashtray into the bin.

  Julia, he said. She turned towards him. Julia, I'm thinking of going to Ireland, he said.

  She looked at him. What's that? she said. Ireland, he repeated. I want to see if there's anything I can find out, he said. She smiled.

  That sounds nice, she said. What time will you be back? He closed his eyes, drawing his finger and thumb along his eyebrows, pinching the tip of his nose. He couldn't help smiling a little.

  I don't know what time I'll be back Julia, he said; it's a long way to go, I might stay the night. I might stay a few nights, he added.

  He looked out of the window. A gardener was raking up fallen leaves, working his way around the five trees in the enclosed garden, leaving a trail of molehill heaps behind him. It had been a dry autumn, and the leaves were small, curled up at the edges. The man looked old, and was working very slowly, his breath condensing around his face as the last warmth ebbed out of the day.

  Angela wanted me to come over to dinner, she said. I told her it would have to wait until next week because you were coming to stay. She smiled broadly, a brief laugh breaking out of her as she turned towards him. Her smile slipped as she caught his eye. She squinted at him, and smiled again. Hello dear, she said.

  I thought I might go to Donegal, he said, leaning towards her. She was watching the gardener retrace his steps, stooping down to gather up the armfuls of leaves and put them in a wheelbarrow. I thought I might go to Donegal, he said again, when I go to Ireland, I've heard it's nice there. Do you know Donegal at all? He shuffled his seat a little closer towards hers. Do you know of any good places to visit? he said. She kept her face turned to the window. The tone of her skin was softening as the light faded, and her eyes were half closed. She didn't say anything. She seemed to be just listening to the sound of his voice.

  Eleanor doesn't think I should go, he said, persisting. She says I haven't got any idea where to start, she says I'll just upset myself. She says it's too late now, after all this time, he said. Julia smiled, and nodded, and opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again.

  The gardener scooped up the last little pile of leaves and pushed the wheelbarrow towards the archway at the far end of the garden. It was almost dark, and lights were beginning to come on in some of the other rooms. He could see the other residents sitting by their windows, gazing out at the bare-boned trees, their faces as blank as Julia's.

  I'd like to be able to tell her I'm okay, he said, that's all.

  Julia held her hands together in her lap, perfectly still. He noticed that the gardener had forgotten to take his rake, leaving it leaning against the branches of one of the trees.

  Did she never try and get back in touch? he said. Didn't she write, just to ask? He spoke softly, as if being careful not to wake her. It's difficult, he said, not even a surname. To know where to start, he said.

  She reached out towards the ashtray, looking for the cigarette, and caught his eye. For a moment he thought she looked frightened. She seemed to flinch away from him.

  Have you seen my cigarettes? she said irritably. What have you done with my cigarettes? He took the packet from her bedside drawer and helped her to light another one. She smoked it quickly and unsteadily, spilling flakes of ash on to her cardigan.

  They're digging up the road again, she said. I told them. Josephine wanted to come and stay and I said you'd be more than welcome but it's not the best time. I was terribly surprised but there wasn't all that much I could do. That man, what was his name, he told me, what did he say, that man?

  He listened to her talking, watching the small movements of her hands, shrunken versions of the expansive gestures she used to make when she spoke, her fingers twirling tiny circles in the air as she tried and failed to pull her thoughts together. She faltered back into silence, her cigarette burning down to the filter in her hand. He reached out and took it from her, squashing it into the ashtray, and sat l
ooking at her in the near darkness. He noticed, in the garden, the man coming back for his rake.

  32 University prospectuses; 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974

  Someone came to the door this afternoon but I don't know who it was, Eleanor said. They rang and rang and I didn't want to answer it. I didn't know who it might have been or why they wouldn't go away.

  Her eyes faint and distant, refusing to meet his.

  I meant to go to the shops, she said; there's some things we need; I'm sorry but I couldn't face going outside just now.

  Her once-clear voice cracked and whispering.

  I don't feel too good, that's the thing, she said. I don't feel too good at all.

  It wasn't what they'd imagined, this life. It wasn't what they'd planned. She'd been going to study geology, get her degree, get a job, maybe go back to Aberdeen and show them all what she'd achieved, show them why she'd come away and hear them say, well, it was worth it after all. The stalled applications, the funding problems, the withdrawing of the course - these weren't part of the plan. The unhappy and unfulfilling jobs which she couldn't stick at weren't part of the plan. Her increasing reluctance to leave the house unless she was with David wasn't part of the plan. She was going to get her degree, the money from his job would help her through university, she could get any job she wanted when she left, they could go anywhere, she could do anything. Sleepless nights and uneaten dinners weren't part of the plan.

  People started to tell him she wasn't well. I'm sorry David, but I'm worried about her, they would say. I don't mean to intrude but. They would say these things quickly, quietly, on the telephone, or while Eleanor was waiting outside in the car and he was struggling into his coat, or once she'd made her excuses and wandered upstairs to bed.

  I don't want to interfere but I'm worried you can't quite see it, they would say; she's not well. Putting the emphasis on the word well, as though it was some kind of euphemism.