So Many Ways to Begin

by Jon McGregor

  They stopped outside a pair of shops and a garage. There was a man sitting on a bench outside one of the shops, a black dog curled up by his feet. There was a long burgundy car poking out of the garage workshop, the bonnet open, two men leaning over the engine together. The driver turned to him.

  Are you getting off then? he asked. David looked at him, and back out of the window.

  Is this Kilrean? he asked.

  It is, the man said, pointing at the door to clear up any confusion.

  Kilrean, Ballybofey, Raphoe, Kilross; he stayed a night in each, walking around the area, calling into a shop or a bar, ready for conversation but not sure how to begin. Once or twice, with a couple of beers inside him, he said something to a barman like, I'm looking for a woman, Mary, Mary Friel, she was in London during the war, you don't know of anyone do you? And the barman would say something like, I don't know if I can help you there, or that's a long shot isn't it, or we're all looking for a woman, son. And David would smile, and shrug, and say yes, it's a long shot, not to worry; until one evening in Kilross an older man sitting beside him said, Friel was that you said? You want to head up to Fanad if it's Friels you're after.

  He phoned Eleanor each evening, a stack of small coins ready beside the phone, and told her what he'd done that day, where he was, who he'd seen or met or spoken to briefly. He turned each coin over in his hand as he spoke, looking at the dates and designs embossed on them, the harps and salmons and bulls. I know it seems strange but it feels like it's worth it, he said. I know she might not even be here but at least I'm getting a look at the place. It's some thing, he said uncertainly. I love you too, he said each evening. Tell Kate I'll be home soon, tell her I love her, tell her to be good. He always paused a moment before putting the phone down, listening to the click and buzz of the broken connection.

  He looked out for museums, but there didn't seem to be all that many around. He found one in Letterkenny, and spent the afternoon in there, reading the mainly handwritten display boards above the few artefacts. He read about burial chambers and dolmens, the fragments of shields and beakers and belt buckles found beneath the stacked slabs of rock. He read about farming in the Middle Ages, and expressions of religious faith, and the dominance of the oral culture. He read about the coming of the English and the Scots, the battles against the landlords, the potato blight, the starvation and desperate emigrations, the villages left abandoned and burnt. He read about the uprisings, and partition, and then there were photographs to look at and his interest in the stories faded as he studied the blurred faces looking out at him from those white-washed walls. He didn't know what he was looking for; some familiarity in a glance, a nose, a jawline or a posture which might catch him by surprise, something he could recognise. Something which would make someone stop and say well now, would you look at that. He's got your eyes. He's got your smile. He's got the same tiny curl of skin at the corner of his mouth. That's the spit of you. He wanted a photo he could rip off the wall, and show to someone, and have them say something like this. It would be a start. It would be something to go on.

  He remembered when Kate had been born, how people had said these things to him then. Look, she's got your eyes, don't you think? There, that smile, that's pure David Carter, look at that. It had shocked him, hearing people say this, the force of the joy which had erupted inside him, a joy which came from the knowledge, at last, of someone connected to him. Someone in the world who was truly the flesh of his flesh. The only one. There were evenings, holding Kate in his arms, or watching her sleep, when he was frightened by the strength of the feeling surging through him. It was something so much more than love. It was something which made him crumple at the sound of her breathing coming down the telephone line. It was something, he was sure, he would be capable of tearing flesh from bone to defend.

  He asked the woman at the front desk of the museum where Fanad was, explaining, when she asked where he wanted to go exactly, that he was looking for someone called Friel. She smiled. Well you're heading in the right direction then, she said. You'll be researching your family tree? she asked, looking up at him through gold-rimmed glasses. He hesitated, and said that he was. She looked in her desk and found him a leaflet - Ancestor Research, A Visitor's Guide - and told him not to say that she'd said but the best place to start would be with Father Dwyer at the church in Kerrykeel. He'll have records, she said. But don't tell him I sent you, she said again, tapping the side of her nose. He promised he wouldn't.

  There were no buses until the next day, so he spent the evening in a bar, reading a newspaper and listening to other people's conversations. He phoned Eleanor, but she was busy putting Kate to bed so they just told each other they were fine and said goodnight.

  He phoned Anna, and in the middle of talking about the way small museums seemed so reluctant to keep anything in storage, crowding out their displays in a way which was muddled and off-putting but also perhaps more honest, she said I've been thinking about you a lot, have you been thinking about me?

  The church in Kerrykeel was set back from the road, low and dark behind a row of trees. There was a pub opposite, single-storeyed, its windows curtained off against the outside, and a shop that looked as though it had been closed all day. He ducked under the arch in the thick boundary wall and followed a path round to the side of the building. A door was half-open, and he could see, on a doormat just inside, a man easing a pair of mud-clodded boots from his feet, his hand jammed against the door frame for support. The man looked up and saw David before he could turn away.

  Can I help you there at all? he asked. David hesitated. He'd had difficulty deciding what to ask, how much he should say. The man straightened up and looked at him.

  Father Dwyer? David said. The man nodded patiently. Ah, David said, well, I was wondering if it would be possible to have a look at some parish records. I'm doing some research, he said. I mean, if it's not too much trouble. Father Dwyer pulled the door open wider and stood to one side, his thick socks half hanging off the ends of his feet.

  I'm sure I can spare a few moments from my busy schedule, he said. What is it you're after exactly?

  As he was showing David into the sitting room, once David had tried to explain what he wanted, he said, well, we can have a look but my guess is I'm not going to be much help. He went into another room, and came back with three dark-green record books, heavily bound, the page edges thumb-darkened and worn. Can I get you a cup of tea? he asked.

  David nodded. Please, he said, that'd be great. It's been a long day.

  He looked at the record books while he listened to the tea being made. He wasn't sure whether to pick them up and start leafing through or if he was expected to wait. He felt nervous sitting beside them, as if Father Dwyer might take them away again, as if this was the only chance he had to thrust them into his bag and sneak off. He reached a hand out to touch the top one, and drew it back again quickly.

  Father Dwyer came back into the room with a tea tray, clearing a space on his cluttered coffee table. Excuse the state of the place, he said. He sat down opposite David. Go ahead, he said, take a look. It's all there: births, christenings, weddings, funerals, the whole lot. Well, everything they tell us about, he added, laughing briefly, leaning forward to pour out the tea. David picked up the first book and rested it on his lap, heaving it open to the first page.

  Mary Friel, died 1920 (born 1872), the very first entry said in a flowing hand, the glossy ink matted by the years. He glanced down the page and found Michael Friel, John Friel and Dermot Friel; Bridget Friel, Margaret Friel, Nora Friel There was a Mary Friel, born 1927, two lots of Mary Friel, born 1928, and five lots of Mary Friel, born 1929. He looked up at the priest, who shrugged, raising his hands and lowering them again. It's not an unusual name around here, he said. Not an unusual name at all. You'll be tracing your family tree?

  In a way, David said, turning the pages and running his finger down endless columns of Frieb, and Dohertys, and Carrs. Another three Mary Frieb, born
in 1930, and four in 1931. Father Dwyer looked at him seriously for a moment.

  I get a lot of people tracing family trees, he said. Americans mostly, more so than folk who ended up in England or Scotland. More likely to have lost touch, I suppose, he said, nudging a teacup towards David's side of the table. David kept turning the pages. Mary Friel, died 1932 (born 1925). Mary Friel, married Sean Sweeney, 1933.

  But if it was something else, Father Dwyer said, lowering his voice very slightly. If it wasn't the family tree exactly. David looked up. If it was something else, Father Dwyer said again, then I'd say a little caution was needed. He coughed suddenly, bringing his hand to his mouth, sitting forward in his chair. Excuse me, he said. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket and swallowed a few times before continuing.

  People can cause upsets, he said, looking down into his tea as he stirred it, when they go about the place asking questions. People can get ideas. Things can be dug up which didn't need to be. David looked up at him, his hands resting on the roughly textured pages of the record book. They heard footsteps outside, loud and brisk on the stone path, and something rattling through the letter box.

  Excuse me, Father Dwyer said, putting his tea down and crossing the room to the hallway. David heard him picking something up from the mat and opening the door for a moment. The smell of cool damp air swung into the room before the door closed again.

  Do you mind me asking how old you are? Father Dwyer said as he came back into the room. He was holding a thin white envelope, turning it over in his hands as if he could read the letter without going to the trouble of opening it.

  Thirty-four, David said. Father Dwyer took the letter through to another room, closed a window there, and came back to his cup of tea.

  Thirty-four years, he said, looking at David steadily. That's a long time now, isn't it? David closed the book, and put it back with the others. He drank his tea. He looked around the room, blinking quickly, looking at the pictures on the wall, religious paintings mostly - a crucifixion scene, a bearded man holding a baby in a temple, Rembrandt's darkly clouded image of a father resting his hands on the bowed shoulders of his son.

  Sometimes people prefer to forget, Father Dwyer said.

  David finished his tea, and put his empty cup back on the tray, and wondered what he could say now. He felt as though the words would fall apart if he tried to speak them, would spill wetly into the air.

  You're not the only one, Father Dwyer said gently. You know that at least, don't you?

  part three

  He left Eleanor at home, to pack a suitcase or to decide that she didn't want to make the long journey with him after all, and drove round to see his mother, looking for a few more photographs to take with him. She was standing outside when he pulled into the small cul-de-sac of sheltered bungalows, waiting for him, watering the potted flowers they'd bought her as a moving-in present.

  No Eleanor then? she said as he got out of the car, barely looking up.

  No, he said, she's busy sorting a few things out.

  Pity, she said, putting down the watering can and tilting her cheek towards him to be kissed, it's been a little while. Her skin was dry against his lips, and her body felt thin and fragile as he put an arm around her.

  They're looking nice, he said, nodding down at the flowers. She looked at them, sceptically.

  Well, she said, as good as can be expected with the light they're getting there. She turned away, leaning on the walking stick which had been propped up by the drainpipe, and eased her way back into the house. He tried to take her elbow, to support her weight, but she shrugged free of his grip and headed into the kitchen. He stood in the small entranceway for a moment, watching her stiffened movements, slower versions of the ones he'd grown up with, watching as she filled the kettle, plugged it in, opened the cupboard, took out the teabags. The bones of her hand looked as though they had shrunk, leaving the skin loose around them. There was a brown spot on the back of her wrist which he hadn't noticed before. She put a plate of biscuits on the table, and a pair of cups and saucers, and sat down. As the kettle came to the boil, David filled the pot, brought it to the table, and sat down beside her. She turned the handle towards him and waited for him to pour.

  So, he said. How are things, Mum? How are you finding it? She smiled slightly, looking past him towards the window, looking over at the other bungalows with their ramped entrances and grab handles beside the door, their groups of potted flowers and thin strips of lawn.

  Oh, it's all very nice, she said. I've got no complaints. It's warm, and dry, and clean. It does me okay.

  It had taken them a long time to persuade Dorothy to move. They'd reminded her, more than once, that the doctor had said the stairs were doing her hips no good, and she'd told them she could get one of those stair-lift things, what did they call them? They're ever so expensive, Susan had said, and Dorothy had looked at her, narrowing her eyes, saying are they now Susan, is that right?

  They'd asked her what would happen if she slipped in the bath one night and had no way of calling for help. They'd told her the house was too big for her to keep clean any longer, and she'd said well, I know that, what do you think I keep asking you lot round for? But she'd agreed in the end, grudgingly, saying she supposed it was better than going into a home like Julia had done, saying she'd go along with it if only to stop them all harping on.

  The night before she finally moved out, they cooked her a dinner and kept her company until late in the evening, sitting around the same kitchen table she'd been putting food on for more than fifty years. David and Susan, with the help of Susan's son Mark, spent the day emptying most of the house, taking some things to the bungalow and the rest to charity shops and auction yards, or to their own garages and lofts. Dorothy kept out of the way, saying she was sure they knew what they were doing, talking to Eleanor in the garden or on the way to and from the shops, and in the evening they laid the table as they would for Sunday lunch, with warmed dishes for the vegetables, white sauce in a jug, separate serving spoons, napkins in rings. Eleanor suggested candles, and they found some left in the cupboard under the stairs, and put them on the table in half-sized wine bottles with the labels scrubbed off. They poured drinks for everyone, and drank a toast to Albert, to the house, to new beginnings.

  When his mother had poured out a second cup of tea for them both, he said listen, is there anything you want me to do, while I'm here?

  Well you're not leaving yet are you? she asked.

  Not straight away, he said, but I can't be too long. We should try and get going before lunchtime. He put his hands on the table, as if he were about to get up, and she looked at him.

  We? she said. Is Eleanor coming with you now? He nodded, and Dorothy smiled.

  Oh, I am pleased, she said. I never did think it was a good idea to go on your own. He shrugged, looking around the room.

  Is there anything you want me to do though? he said again. She watched him for a moment and shook her head.

  There's not an awful lot to be done, she said.

  No hoovering or anything? he asked.

  Now then, she said, watch yourself. I'm not an invalid yet. But you can wash these things when we're done, she added, glancing at the cups and saucers on the table. He nodded.

  He said, almost as an afterthought, oh and Mum, I was still hoping to borrow those photos, you remember? She looked at him. Do you mind if I have a look for them? he said. I was hoping to take them with me. He said the words quickly, quietly, picking crumbs from the lace tablecloth as he spoke.

  Oh, she said. Well. Of course. She nodded towards a stack of cardboard boxes behind the door. I think they're still packed in there.

  Can I look? he asked again. She waved her hand towards them, nodding, in a gesture which might have meant be my guest if she hadn't also turned her face away and lifted her cup of tea unsteadily to her lips.

  The albums were still packed where she'd put them when she moved out of the house, wedged in betwe
en recipe books and old gardening magazines. He stood in the corner of the room to look through them, knowing already which pictures he wanted, removing them quickly and laying them to one side on the worktop; his and Susan's first days at school, Albert and Dorothy moving into the house, a summer holiday with his grandparents, small square snapshots with rounded edges and faded colours. His mother carried on looking out of the window, fiddling with the sleeves of her cardigan, rolling the cuffs back and straightening them again. Each time he peeled back the plastic cover of an album page it made a sound like tearing paper and she glanced at him anxiously.

  You will be careful with those, won't you? she said. He nodded, still flicking quickly through the heavy pages, squeezing each album back into the box when he was done.

  Look, Mum, he said when he'd slipped the chosen pictures into a clear plastic binder, are you sure you don't mind?

  When they'd had dinner together that evening, the night before Dorothy had moved into the bungalow, some awkward things had been said. She'd drunk too much wine, and had let her anxiety about what he was doing spill out, saying I'm not going to stand in your way but you shouldn't think I'm happy about all this, saying isn't it a bit late now, really? Saying oh this is all Julia's fault. But now, with only a cup of tea passing her lips, and with the sharp summer light filling the small and tidy room, she had nothing left to say.

  Really, I don't mind, she said eventually. You go and get on with it. She stood up suddenly, looking around the room as if she wasn't sure where she'd put something, as if she wasn't sure what it was she was looking for, and sat down again. Say hello to Eleanor for me, won't you? she said, her voice sounding tired and faint. Tell her I said to look out for you.