by Jon McGregor
What are you doing? she asked. Eleanor looked up from trying to thread the needle, her daughter's coat laid out across her lap, the two gloves nestling together on the arm of the sofa.
I'm going to sew these gloves to your coat, she said. So you don't lose them. Kate thought about this for a moment, and turned away.
Okay, she said, as though giving permission. She went back to the farm, her grandmother watching her fondly and asking where she was going to put the sheep. In here! Kate announced, dunking the two plastic sheep into a felt duck-pond, picking up a horse and galloping it around the farm in circles, neighing loudly, knocking over dry stone walls and stumbling into a tractor, saying ow the horse has broke his leg he has to go to hospital and have stitches, her voice loud and shrill and excited. Dorothy glanced across at Eleanor, ready to shush her granddaughter, but Eleanor was still concentrating on threading the needle and didn't say anything. David came back inside from putting out the rubbish.
The aerial's come loose, he said, I'll have to go up on the roof and fix it. Or get someone round. No one replied, so he went back into the kitchen to make a start on the washing up, standing in the doorway a moment while he waited for the water to run hot, watching his wife and his daughter and his mother sitting together in his home on a quiet Sunday afternoon. He had discovered, with surprise, that this was one of the deepest pleasures in his life, to cook dinner for these three people, to eat with them, and to settle into a long afternoon of being in their presence. He liked to sit at the end of the sofa with his eyes closed, so that they would think he was asleep, so that he could be there without being there, listening to their lazy talk, Kate's babbling chatter, his mother's commentary on the afternoon's films. And he liked to listen to them before dinner, through the doorway, Eleanor telling Dorothy about their week, Dorothy telling Eleanor about hers, Kate interrupting to ask questions and tell them both about something that had happened at school, their conversation sharpened by hunger as he kept busy in the kitchen - checking the roast in the oven, lifting it out to spoon more juices over its back, sliding a knife between the bones to see if it was cooked, draining the vegetables over the sink with a rush of steaming water knowing that his mother would be listening, would be thinking that she'd taught him something at least.
Eleanor finally managed to thread the needle, and reached for the long hanging end of the thread, twisting it round her finger to make a knot. As she did so, the needle spilt out of her fingers and down between the cushions somewhere. She slammed her hand on to the arm of the sofa in frustration, knocking the gloves to the floor and saying a loud shit! before catching herself. David turned the tap off and stepped forward, wanting to help. Kate looked up, startled, with a hand over her mouth, saying Mummy said a naughty word, naughty word, Mummy said a naughty word, saying it almost as a song to herself, crouching back down amongst the pieces of her farm. Dorothy looked across at Eleanor, trying not to smile, and stood up.
Shall we go up and play with Sindy now? she asked Kate, reaching for her hand. Kate looked at her, and stood up as well.
Okay, she said, without seeming to think about it, and the two of them went away up the stairs.
You okay? David asked, moving towards Eleanor. She smiled, shaking her head, wiping her eyes with the tips of her fingers.
I'm fine, she said. It's just, sewing's not really my strong point, you know?
It went down the side there, he said, pointing to where he'd seen the needle fall. Stand up a minute. She stood up, and he lifted the cushion away, peering in at the fluff and the crumbs, picking out a pen, some scraps of paper, three halfpenny coins, and the needle.
It's like an archaeological dig in there, he said, smiling, handing her the needle as she sat down again; there you go.
Thanks, she said. Anyway, how about you soldier, you okay? She looked up at him, reaching out and pulling him a little closer by the hem of his shirt, lifting the thick cotton and gazing at the small dotted scar, still raised and raw. How does it feel? she asked.
It's okay, he told her. It doesn't hurt really. Just sometimes when I stand up too quickly, or bend over. She pulled him closer, and kissed the faintly bruised skin around the scar.
I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on you, aren't I? she said, trying to re-thread the needle. Do a bit more looking after you. He sat on the arm of the sofa, not sure what she meant. I'm going to have to pay more attention, she said, glancing up at him; wouldn't you say?
They could hear, upstairs, his mother talking softly as Kate's feet pounded across the floor and she acted out Sindy's catwalking at the top of her voice. He glanced upwards.
David? she said, lowering the needle and thread into her lap. David, what happened? I mean, what really happened? He kept his eyes on the ceiling.
You know what happened, he said, his voice low and steady. She noticed him gripping the edge of the sofa-arm, trying to keep his balance. I've told you what happened, he said. I don't remember all that much about it, he said.
But why would someone do that? she asked. It doesn't make sense. For no reason?
He could have told her then, he thought later, he should have told her then. Things would have been better that way, maybe.
I don't know Eleanor, he said quietly. It was just some drunk. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. She held his gaze, winding and unwinding the thread around her finger.
She said, I just want to understand David, I just want to know why it happened. I want to know what it is you're not telling me. She turned away, squinting at the needle, easing the thread through its narrow eye.
He said, what do you mean? He said, there's nothing I'm not telling you. It was just some drunk. It was an accident almost. Don't worry about it now, he said. He leant forward and kissed the hair on the top of her head, and she told him he was in her light. He sat back again, moving his shadow away from her face and her hands, watching as she picked up a length of wool and one of Kate's small neat gloves.
She said, it just doesn't make sense David, and he said, I know, I know.
He went outside to look at the aerial again. It was swinging in the light breeze, angling towards the roof, looking like it would take a tile off in a strong wind. He wondered who he could borrow a ladder from. He wondered if he would ever tell Eleanor what had really happened with Chris, what had almost happened with Anna. He wondered how she would react if he did. He walked to the end of the garden to put the lid back on the dustbin, and went inside to finish the washing up, watching Eleanor's sewing as he put away the last of the plates and the pans.
How's it going now? he asked her. Fine, she said, nearly done. She knotted the last stitch, snapped the loose thread across her hand, and held the coat up for him to see. The two gloves hung down from the cuffs, turning slow circles in the air, and he pictured them swinging back and forth as Kate ran towards him in the park, kicking up leaves, stumbling over divots and molehills, laughing.
There, she said, try that. David tugged at one of the gloves to test it, and it pulled away in his hand, dangling a long strand of red wool with a tail of broken stitches beneath it. He looked at her in anticipation, but she just shrugged, smiling as she pulled at the other glove and it snapped away in turn.
This is definitely not my strong point, David, she said, breaking into a laugh, and he agreed that, no, she was right, it probably wasn't.
45 Job application form, Head Curator, c.1984
He was going through the filing cabinet in his office when he heard someone come into the room and quietly close the door. He'd been looking through the records of old exhibitions, looking for the acquisitions list from a watchmaking display he'd put together in 1978, but when he heard Anna gently coughing and shuffling her feet he slid the drawer shut and turned around. Hello, she said quietly, not quite looking at him. He nodded.
He'd been trying to avoid her since he'd started back at work, spending as much time as possible in his office, being careful whenever he'd needed to venture into the corridors and galleries.
When they had come across each other, in the staff-room, or in a meeting, they'd spoken as briefly and as distantly as possible, avoiding each other's eyes, their voices thick with self-control. Talking to her made him feel uncomfortable in a different way from before; talking to her now made him want to look over his shoulder and see if anyone was there.
Hello, he said, still holding a folder from the filing cabinet. It was clutched against his chest, as if he thought she was going to try and take it from him.
I haven't seen much of you since you came back, she said, stepping forward from the door.
No, he said. No, I suppose not. I've been catching up on some paperwork. It builds up, doesn't it? He tried to smile. He noticed that she'd cut her hair much shorter, pinning it back into a tight knot on the back of her head. He noticed that she kept opening and closing her hands, smoothing them down the sides of her skirt.
How's Eleanor? she said. And Kate? How are they both doing? She smiled, and tilted her head to one side, and he already wanted to tell her to leave.
They're fine, he said. They're both doing fine. She waited for him to say something more, and he realised he should ask how Chris was. He said nothing, and he felt his breath catch at the top of his lungs, felt his arms starting to shiver against his chest. They're fine, he said again.
Anna stepped closer to the desk. I wanted to say sorry, she said, so quietly that for a moment he wasn't quite sure what he'd heard. It wasn't supposed to happen, she said, not like that. He almost smiled, wondering how it had been supposed to happen.
He said, have you heard back from Manchester about those loan requests?
She said, you're doing the right thing you know. There was a knock at the door. He looked at her. She moved closer, until there was only the corner of the desk between them.
He said, they should have got back to us by now. It's been six weeks, hasn't it?
Not telling anyone I mean, she said, resting one hand on the desk. I mean, no one needs to know do they? There was a second knock at the door, and Christine from decorative arts came in, hesitating slightly as she saw David and Anna move a step back from each other.
Sorry, she said. Sorry, but David, there's a problem with this delivery, from the V&A, you remember? Could you come and have a look at the paperwork before the driver leaves?
I'll be right there, he said, holding up a finger to say just give us one moment. Anna looked down at the floor, and they both waited for Christine to go. He wanted to tell Anna that it wasn't for her to say whether or not he told anyone what had happened. He wanted to ask her who she thought she was to come into his office and say these things. He looked at her, his tongue fat and dry in his mouth, and he said, sorry Christine, could you excuse us, I'll be with you in just a minute. Christine looked at them both, stepped back, and closed the door. He waited for her footsteps, and heard nothing. Anna looked up and smiled.
You know Malcolm's leaving at the end of next year, don't you? she said. He shrugged, and nodded, and turned away to put the folder he was still holding back into the filing cabinet, trying and failing to hide his surprise. Malcolm Newbold was the Head Curator and had been there since the museum first opened. I thought I might go for the job, she said, but I'm not sure about it. He kept his back to her, thumbing through the files, wanting her to leave. He felt her moving closer, and wondered if that was her breath he could feel on the back of his neck.
Do you think I should? she asked. I mean, do you think there'd be any point? The uncertainty in her voice surprised him. He turned round, not understanding why she even needed to ask, why she needed to ask him. She was sucking her lip, anxiously, fiddling with the hair on the back of her head. He wanted to reassure her, despite everything, to touch a hand to her arm and say that of course she should apply, she was perfectly capable, she should know that.
He said, I don't know Anna. That's for you to say.
How about you? she asked. Will you apply?
I don't know, he said again. He moved past her, their sleeves touching as he did so, and opened the door. Christine was still waiting. Sorry about that, he said, and followed her down towards the delivery doors. At the end of the corridor he glanced over his shoulder and saw Anna standing behind his desk, sliding his papers and pencil pots into slightly different positions, adjusting the angle of the lamp and, just as he turned the corner, reaching for his chair.
46 Hand-drawn family tree (incomplete), dated May 1984
Kate knelt up on her chair, stretching out across the table for the big pack of felt-tip pens. And anyway, she said, Mrs Dunn said Lisa's picture was too messy to go in the class-book, I heard her saying it to Lisa, she said Lisa would have to do it again. Kate's friends both sniggered, ducking their heads as if they were still in the classroom and were trying to hide something, or as if they thought Kate's dad might hear.
Yeah and plus as well, said Becky, sitting across from Kate and chewing the end of a pencil, I heard her say she was going to send it to Tony Hart. The three girls laughed again, and Rachel stuck her tongue into her lower lip, making a sound like a der-brain.
Be funny if she did, they'd probably put Lisa Jones age five on it because they wouldn't believe she was eight, she said, and they all sank into their seats with laughter.
They worked quietly for a moment, passing the pencils and rulers and rubbers and felt-tips backwards and forwards across the table.
Have you done all the people on yours yet? Rachel asked, looking across the table at Becky's work.
Nearly, Becky said. Have you?
Nearly, Rachel said, picking her pencil up again and crossing something out. She paused. Kate, have you decided who you're inviting to your birthday yet? she said. Kate didn't look up.
Nearly, she said.
David stood in the kitchen, next to the open back door, listening. He knew he shouldn't, that Kate would see it as some kind of betrayal, would shriek indignantly if she saw him standing there, but he couldn't help it. It was the same impulse which made him close his eyes and pretend to be asleep when she came into the room, or wait just around the corner when he collected her from school, or crouch beside her bed and watch her as she slept; the need to know more about her, to gain some admittance into the ever-enlarging secret territories of her life, to be granted a glimmer of understanding of this confident child his baby girl had become.
Does your dad draw family trees all the time? he heard Becky say.
No, Kate said airily, only sometimes because most of the time he finds old stuff in the ground or at jumble sales, I think, and he collects it for the museum and he makes expeditions of it.
Exhibitions, said Rachel quickly.
That's what I said, Kate replied.
Didn't.
Did.
Didn't.
Did.
David smiled. He liked the thought of his making acquisitions at jumble sales; he wondered what misunderstanding that had grown out of, what else there was about his job that she couldn't really grasp. He'd taken her down to the museum a few days earlier, and shown her some old family trees they had in the archives, to help her understand what her teacher was asking them to do; he'd got out the long rolls of darkened paper, cracked and smudged with age, and when he'd said that the family tree she was drawing would one day look like that, faded and almost illegible, she'd only gazed at him blankly, disbelievingly, not yet old enough to share his sense of the long hurried march of time. It was only the second time she'd even been to the museum; she didn't like history, she said. She was going to be a fashion designer, she said, so why did she need to know about history?
But she'd come to him when she needed help with the class project they'd been set, asking him what was a family tree and how do you know what to write on it and what is a maiden name, and her friends had been keen to come round and share in his expertise; had in fact squabbled, from what he could tell, for the privilege. He'd sat round the table with them, asking if they had their lists of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and
cousins and grandparents, and the dates of when these people had been born and maybe married and maybe died, and he'd drawn an example of how a family tree might look, with the carefully ruled straight lines, the generations, the branches, the blank spaces where there was any uncertainty. He tried to explain that it didn't actually have to look like a real tree, that it was just a way people had of describing it, but they were determined to use the felt-tips so he didn't argue and instead left them to it, telling them he was going out to the garden to make the most of the first decent Sunday afternoon they'd had all year.
Who's got the green pen? asked Becky.
David opened the back door, hesitating, trying to make himself go outside.
Kate's using it, Rachel murmured, still colouring in the trunk of her tree with a brown felt-tip. She's had it for ages, she added, and Kate sighed and tutted and muttered that it was her pen anyway. Becky sat back in her chair, waiting, looking across at the other girls' work.
You haven't got all the dates on yours, she said, leaning towards Kate. How come?
My mum didn't know all of them when I asked her, Kate said, not looking up, it's all my nana' s brothers and sisters and she said she couldn't remember all of them, there was too many.
Why don't you ask your nana? Becky asked.
We never see her, Kate said. Rachel looked up from her work, first at Kate, and then at Becky, and then at Kate again.
You never see your nana? Why not? she said.
She lives in Scotland, Kate said. It's too far away.
It's not, said Rachel, we went on holiday in Scotland last year so it's not too far. Kate didn't say anything for a moment.
But anyway we don't see her, she said quietly.
Why don't you phone her up and ask her then? asked Becky.
Mum won't let me, Kate said.
Oh, Becky said. The three of them were silent again, concentrating on their drawings, Becky tracing over her pencilled branches with a biro while she waited for the green felt-tip, the scrape and scribble of the other girls' pens the only sound for a moment.
