So Many Ways to Begin

by Jon McGregor

  He said that he would, and he carried the cups and saucers across to the sink, rinsing them under the tap and balancing them on the draining rack, glancing up at the clock.

  41 Cut fragments of surgical thread, in small transparent case, dated July 1983

  It wasn't until he'd been out of hospital for three or four months that Kate saw his scar for the first time. She was fascinated. She knelt beside him and peered down at it, at the two faint dotted lines either side of the ridged pinch of flesh, the scarred surface puckering away into healthy skin. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching her face, the concentration in her eyes, the pursed lips and lowered eyebrows which meant she was working hard inside her young head to process this new information. She reached out to touch it and Eleanor caught her hand with a sharp uh-uh and a shake of the head. Wash your hands first, she said, still holding on to Kate's wrist. Kate looked at her hands. They were covered in soil and grass from where she'd been digging in the far corner of the garden with the bucket and spade Dorothy had given her; looking for museum things she'd said. She stood up and went into the house, looking worriedly at David as she went.

  Eleanor smiled at him and shuffled across the ground to kiss his neck and his ear. He broke off a handful of grass and threw it at her as she turned away. She broke off a handful herself, and was just about to throw it back at him, laughing at his cowering face, when they heard the gurgle and splash of water down the outside drain and saw Kate reappear at the back door, holding up her wet hands.

  Good girl, Eleanor said, and Kate hurried over to kneel beside David's stomach again. She looked at the scar, and up at him, and back at the scar again. She seemed to be waiting for his permission. He watched her. Be careful, Eleanor said, moving round to sit beside her. He felt like a patient again, lying in bed watching doctors and students make comments about his body, taking it in turns to pinch and prod at his flesh.

  Kate's small finger brushed against the damaged skin, pulling away suddenly, reaching back. She traced the line of the scar, and the two dotted lines where the stitches had been, and the pinched line of the scar again. She looked round at Eleanor.

  It's like on my elbow, she said, sounding surprised.

  Well, said Eleanor, it's similar, isn't it? Kate lifted her arm and ran her finger along the faded scar she'd got from falling on to a piece of glass in the street a year before. She ran her finger along his scar again, and along hers, and smiled up at him, the seriousness gone from her face.

  It's like my elbow, she said, as if she thought he hadn't heard her speaking to her mother a moment before.

  Yes, he said, it is.

  Does it hurt? she asked.

  No, he said, not any more. She looked at it again, thinking about something.

  Have I got a pendix? she asked.

  Appendix, Eleanor said, correcting her. Kate looked up at her mother, frowning.

  I said a pendix, she said; have I got one too? She looked down at herself, prodding her stomach. Eleanor smiled.

  No, it's an appendix, she said again, and you have got one, don't worry.

  Have you got one? Kate asked, looking up.

  Yes I have, said Eleanor.

  But Daddy hasn't? she asked.

  No, Eleanor said quietly, not any more. She looked at David, her eyes narrowing very slightly. Kate looked at his scar once more, satisfying herself that she understood, then stood up and went back to her archaeological exploration in the corner of the garden, plunging her hands into the warm soil to look for Roman pottery, Bronze Age coins, snail shells. David lay down again, the late afternoon sun on his face, and closed his eyes, his own hand reaching automatically for that stiff pinched reminder of a few months before.

  He must have woken a few times before he managed to speak, struggling in and out of consciousness, because he didn't remember being surprised to see Eleanor sitting there when he finally opened his eyes.

  Hello, he said, and his mouth felt swollen and stuffed with rags and he didn't think she could have heard him. Hello, he said again, the word cracking in half across his dry lips. She looked up at him suddenly, leaning forward and smiling, her eyes wet and blinking quickly. She looked very tired. You alright there love? he said, trying to lick some softness back into his mouth and his words. You been here long? She pulled her chair closer to the bed, reaching for his hand.

  A wee while, she said, smiling again and tilting her head to line it up with his. He smiled back and immediately felt a swirl of nausea in his empty stomach.

  What time is it? he asked, and closed his eyes.

  When he woke again, there was no one there. He could feel a sharp thudding pain in his stomach somewhere. There were metal rails along the sides of the bed, and he tried to remember where he'd seen that before. There was the brown plastic chair that Eleanor had been sitting in, but there was no sign of her. The room was darker than it had been. He could hear a hushed voice somewhere and he couldn't tell if it was coming from a radio or from someone talking, or if they might be talking to him.

  David? She was standing right next to the bed this time, trailing the tips of her fingers across his forehead, brushing his damp hair away from his face. He looked up at her.

  Hello again, he said. She smiled, and it was a smile of such open pleasure and warmth that he didn't quite know how to respond.

  How're you feeling there? she said.

  Sore, he told her, and sick, and a bit dizzy. She ran her hand down the side of his face, and he turned to kiss her palm. She looked round, and leant over to kiss his forehead, his cheek, the end of his nose.

  Bloody hell David, she whispered, you had me worried there for a while. She reached down for his hand, held it, pulled the brown plastic chair closer to the bed and sat down, tugging his hand into her lap. Look at the bloody state of you, she whispered.

  There was a vase of flowers on the locker next to the bed, and a card. From your Mum, she said, when she saw him looking at them. She'll be back down later.

  Is Kate with her? he asked.

  Oh, yes, she said, I was there with them both last night. I think your Mum likes the idea of having her to stay; I think it's an adventure for them both.

  Have you told her? he asked.

  Kate? she said. I've told her that you had to have an operation; I said they had to fix your tummy but you're alright now and you'll be home soon and right as rain. I told her it was your appendix, she added softly. She squeezed his hand, and traced the outline of his fingers with her thumb. She seemed okay with that, she said. Oh, look at you, she said again, running her eyes across the dark swollen bruises on the side of his face, his thick and broken lips, the mottled stains across his ribs.

  Someone at the other end of the ward was watching television. He couldn't see the screen, but he could see a slight flickering glow on the man's face, and hear the rustle of studio applause. He was an old man, his hair cut fuzz-close to his head, his mouth hanging slightly open. He was wearing blue-and-white striped pyjamas, and a thin grey cardigan, sitting up in bed with a pile of pillows behind him. Through the window at the end of the room, David could see the top branches of two trees, shifting together and apart in a light breeze, the dark green leaves billowing and swooping towards each other. The sky was white with sliding clouds.

  I brought you some grapes she said, trying to smile, do you want some? He reached out to the bowl on the bedside locker, tugging feebly at a grape. As it broke off the stalk he dropped it deliberately to the floor, letting his hand fall weakly to the side of the bed.

  I don't think I've got the strength, he said.

  You're unbelievable you are, she said, biting back a smile and standing closer to the top end of the bed. You're supposed to be sick and exhausted. She plucked a handful of grapes off the stalk, her hips tilting ever so slightly towards him, and fed the grapes into his mouth, poking each one into the reluctant press of his lips, withdrawing it with a teasingly raised eyebrow, slipping it back in, running the broken edge against the licked bi
te of his teeth. You should be careful of your blood pressure there old man, she murmured.

  I'm being as careful as I can, he replied, but you're not helping much. He reached his hand up and curled it around the lean of her waist.

  She stood away from the bed suddenly, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with her hand, catching her breath, looking around to see if anyone had been watching. She shook her head at him. You'd better be home soon, she said.

  I'll see what I can do, he told her. I think they're going to want my bed back before too long. She sat down, looking at him and smiling as though she were the keeper of some great secret.

  A nurse came and took his temperature, asked how he was feeling, and changed the bedding. There was some blood mapped out across one of the sheets where he must have caught a stitch as he turned over in his sleep. A man came round with a trolley, selling sweets and newspapers, books of crossword puzzles. People came round with food which tasted like it had been warm for a long time, and slid it in front of him on wheeled tables. After a couple of days he was able to sit up in bed, and then to get out of bed, and then to walk the short distance to the toilet. A doctor came, dragging the curtains closed around the bed, and listened to his breathing through a stethoscope, and looked into his eyes with a bright light, and tugged painfully at the ends of the blood-encrusted stitches. Time you were off I think, Mr Carter, he said vaguely, looking around as if he'd forgotten something. I think we've done all we can, he added, and slipped away again.

  A police officer came, and sat by the bed with a notebook, and asked him what had happened. He told him, more or less, and the police officer wrote it down, watching David, asking questions, asking for a better description. David said it was unclear, that things had been quick, and confused. I'm not sure I'd recognise the man if I saw him again, he said. It's difficult to be certain, he said. I didn't even get a look at his face really, it was over so quickly, he said.

  He lay back in a hot bath, steam rising from the still surface of the water and filling the darkened room, clouding the mirror and the window, curling and spreading across the ceiling. The two candles at the end of the bath burnt steady and still, their light streaming up the shining tiles behind them. Eleanor knelt on the floor beside him with a handful of cotton wool.

  Kate was still at his mother's. Eleanor had said she wanted her to stay there a few more days, that she didn't want her to see him like this. She'd said it would frighten her. The house felt strange without her, empty and awkward, her toys still spread across her bedroom floor, her school satchel hanging by the door. But when he'd spoken to her on the phone she hadn't seemed unsettled by what was going on at all. Are you looking after Granny? he asked her. Are you cooking her dinner and making her bed? No! she said, giggling once she realised he was joking. Are you reading her a bedtime story? he asked. No Dad, she said. You're just being silly now, she said, and asked to speak to Eleanor. He missed her being in the house incredibly. They both did.

  Sit up, Eleanor said quietly. She leant over, dipping a piece of cotton wool in the water, squeezing it out between her fingers. She pressed it on to the dried blood around the stitches, the grainy crust softening and dissolving and trickling down on to his skin. The cotton wool soaked red and brown, and she reached over to drop it into the bin. She dipped a fresh piece into the water and repeated the process, looking up at him now and again to see if it was hurting, carefully dabbing and wiping away the blood until there were only the pressed pink edges of the wound, the shining black stitches knotting it together, the red dotted punctures where the thread wove in and out of his skin. Stand up, she said, and he did, and the water streamed off him with a sudden plunging rush, the candlelight flapping for a moment in the shaken air. She held a towel up against him, drying his hair, his face, his chest and arms and back, pressing it carefully against his belly. When she pulled it away, it was marked with a small kiss of fresh blood. She soaked a pad of cotton wool in iodine and held it towards him. This is going to sting, she murmured, pressing it against the wound. It was cold, and he jerked back instinctively, but she kept it pressed against him as the initial jolt became a duller throbbing pain. He sucked air through his teeth, and smiled as she looked up at him. She dropped the cotton wool into the bin. There, she said, sitting back on her heels as if admiring her handiwork, how's that now?

  He looked down at the scar, pink and hot from the bath, wreathed in the steam still rising from the water. I think that'll do, he said. Thanks, he said. They looked at each other for a moment, and she held back the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Water had run down her arms and soaked the ends of her shirt sleeves. As he stood there, looking down at her, he felt the familiar flush and pulse of an erection beginning to swell. She watched it for a moment, the shift and stretch of the skin, the darkening of the veins. She stood up, shaking her head.

  You're a disgrace, she said, laughing, passing him the towel as she left the room.

  42 Pocket address book, w/page torn out, c.1982

  It was nobody's fault, he told himself later. It was just something that happened, something they'd both drifted towards without thinking it through. They spent so much time together at work, that was part of it. And they had a lot to talk about, things they could share, that was a part of it as well. They both had good reasons to stay at work late, not to go home, to find themselves yet again the only two left in the building.

  We must stop meeting like this, she said to him once, laughing, as they both left the building after a long evening spent assembling new display panels. He laughed too, and said, right, well, see you tomorrow, and nodded a surprised hello to Chris, who was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps; and the next time they worked late she said, I didn't mean that you know, we shouldn't stop meeting like this at all.

  She touched him, more than once, brief nudges and shoves which were never supposed to mean any more than oh stop it now, or go on then, or, occasionally, are you okay? No more than friendly, playful gestures. But he felt the soft pressure of those touches for hours afterwards, like pale bruises, and he started to want to feel them again.

  It was nobody's fault. It was just something that happened.

  She asked him how Eleanor was, still, and these conversations seemed to restore the innocence to the time they spent together. They made it okay; they were having the conversations good friends would have. He could say it was good for a long time after Kate was born but now she's started at school I think Eleanor doesn't know what to do with herself, I think she's just exhausted, and Anna could say oh David I'm sure she'll be better soon, as any friend would do. It was only talking, what they were doing. He could even say well I'm sleeping on the sofa now you know, just for the moment, she says she can't sleep when I'm there, she seems to flinch whenever I go near her, she's so withdrawn, and Anna could say oh it must be hard for you David, and this could be okay as well.

  It was nothing. There was nothing going on. He told himself this, many times. He asked himself what she would see in him anyway, and there was nothing he could think of, and this proved to him that there was nothing going on at all.

  But she told him once, outright. She said, I like you David, you know that, don't you? She said you're so, I don't know, dependable, reliable, no, that sounds wrong, solid, I mean like strong in your own way, oh listen to me, sorry, I don't even know what I'm trying to say. Saying all this while he stood looking at her, motionless, astonished, his breath caught in a fist-like knot in his throat. And she tried again: I like it when you're around, that's all, okay? Laying her hands on his shoulders when she said this, looking straight into his eyes, and only moving away when they both heard footsteps out in the corridor.

  He was putting dinner on the table one Friday night when Eleanor said someone phoned for you today, I forgot to tell you. She gazed down at her plate as she spoke, her hands flat on the table in front of her. She was still wearing her dressing gown, and her hair was hanging down around the sides of her face. Kate
looked up at him, holding her knife and fork in her small fists, waiting to be told she could start. He sat down, the oven gloves still flung over his shoulder, and nodded at her.

  Oh? he said, to Eleanor, only half interested, watching Kate scoop her peas into a crater of mashed potato.

  Her name was Anna. She wanted to speak to you but I told her you weren't in, Eleanor said. Her voice wasn't quiet, but it sounded distant somehow, as if she was calling from another room and not sitting next to him at all.

  Oh, right, he said. Something about work probably. I'll speak to her on Monday, I'm sure it can wait. He looked over at Kate, who was sticking two halves of fish finger together with a mashed potato cement, her mouth full, watching her mother curiously.

  Did you have a good day at school? he asked. She thought about it for a moment.

  Yes! she said. But Robin got in trouble, for breaking my pencil, because he did it when I was on the sand table, she said.

  Did Mrs Ellson give you a new one? he asked. She nodded.

  He glanced across at Eleanor again. She was eating very slowly, pushing small forkfuls of food around her plate as if checking to see that they were safe. But she was eating. He wanted to push her hair away from her face and be able to look her in the eye. He wanted to be able to ask how her day had been.

  Kate put down her knife and fork and asked if she could go and play. He told her she could. Eleanor looked up.

  Who's Anna? she said. He tried to explain.

  Anna from work, he said, you know. The Assistant Curator, she does transport, young woman, dark hair. She started in '73 but she'd been doing placements before that, remember? You met her at the Christmas party the year before last, Anna Richards, you know. Speaking lightly, cutting his fish fingers into small squares as he spoke, heaping his peas up on to his fork, Speaking as though it wasn't at all important and he couldn't quite remember.