Read So Many Ways to Begin Online
Authors: Jon McGregor
So Many Ways to Begin (29 page)
56
Ration books, Union cards, Co-op
dividend stamps, 1930s and 1940s
Well and you know our mother's not very well at all. Not at all. Donald's voice was calm and measured as it came down the phone line, and David waited for him to go on. Aye, Donald said. The doctors have told us not to expect her back out of the hospital. They've said it'll probably be months at the most, he said.
David wondered what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to feel. I'm sorry, he said. He'd assumed it would be something like this, when the card from Donald had been forwarded on to him from the museum -
Please
telephone as soon as is convenient,
it said simply - but he was still unprepared. I'm sorry, he said again.
We thought you'd want to know, Donald said, Ros and me, and the others. He coughed. We thought Eleanor would want to know, he said. He coughed again. Excuse me, he said.
He asked Eleanor if she wanted to go there, if she wanted to see her mother, and she couldn't bring herself to answer him straight away. But what did Donald say? she asked, and he told her again. Her mother was ill, she didn't have long left, they were welcome to go up and visit if they wished.
What do you think he means by welcome? she said.
It was more than five years since Kate had left home, and their lives had finally settled back into some kind of routine, some kind of direction. Eleanor was working part-time at the city council, and David had found a temporary post at the archives office. They had time to eat breakfast together, and two days a week they would catch the same bus into work, kissing each other briefly goodbye amongst the push and hurry of the nine o'clock crowds. They took it in turns to cook dinner, experimenting with new recipes they got from the friends they ate out with once or twice a week. Susan came to stay, regularly, sleeping in the room which had always been Kate's but which they'd started learning to call the spare room. And most weekends they went to his mother's, to keep her company and to do the jobs around the house she'd started struggling to do. They were almost busy, as David joked to Eleanor one worn-out evening, and they were happy, in the ordinary ways which had evaded them for so long.
A week after that first brief conversation with Donald, they met each other from work and walked home. It was cold enough for gloves and scarves, and Eleanor reached into David's pocket for extra warmth as they walked through the centre of town. They'd been talking about Ivy's illness for days, and about whether they should go up to Aberdeen. They'd argued about it, and they'd both said things they regretted, and in the end he'd said that he'd leave it to her to make up her mind; he didn't want to talk about it any more. She turned to him now, squeezing his hand, her voice low and determined. So, she said, I've decided. About my mother. I don't want to go. He looked at her. I can't, she said. It's too late now.
David had never known much about Ivy, besides the bare facts which Donald had outlined for him when he was working on the family tree, besides what little Eleanor had said. But as he spoke to Donald over those last few months, following the progress of Ivy's swift decline, he found out a little more.
He learnt that her own mother had died while she was still a very young child, and that no one had ever known Ivy mention her in company. I couldn't even promise you her name right, Donald said; it's Lizzie I think but I could be wrong - it's been known, he said wryly, before asking after Eleanor and telling David to phone again in a week for more news.
He learnt that she'd picked up most of the household's income for the first six or seven years of her marriage, taking in laundry and finding cleaning jobs in the big houses while Stewart spent his days lined up outside the shipyards waiting for rumours of work to drift in on the tide, and that she'd done all this work whilst carrying the first three of her six children. I think she was exhausted even by the time John came along, Donald said. Her sister told me that, he added, not long ago.
The phone often went unanswered when David called, and when he managed to speak to Donald he'd usually either just come back from the hospital or was getting ready to go. His voice was tired, his words strung between breathy pauses, but he never seemed reluctant to talk. He seemed keen to tell David these things, and David only had to add oh really is that right? for Donald to carry on.
She was sometimes very hard on Eleanor, he said, another time. I understand that. But she was still a good mother, you understand? No one ever went hungry in our house. And for those days, believe you me, that's saying something.
For a time, David kept these conversations a secret from Eleanor, assuming they would upset her or even that she would resent him for them. But one evening she came back from a friend's house unexpectedly early, and as she walked through to the kitchen he could see that she'd already guessed who he was speaking to. She stopped in the doorway, watching him.
Oh but she's always been able to hold a grudge, Donald was saying, I'll grant you that. She's had her fair share of those, he said, laughing in that strange rueful way he had, while Eleanor stepped closer and held David's gaze.
Is that right? he asked, awkwardly.
Oh aye, said Donald. There's a neighbour down the way here she's not spoken to for nearly twenty years, on account of an argument the two of them once had in the pub. He paused. And you know Da told me once that she didn't speak to him for a fortnight after Eleanor left with you. David looked at Eleanor, reaching out his hand and holding hers, squeezing it.
Well, he said. It must have been very difficult for them. Donald didn't say anything for a moment.
Well, aye, he said. It's a long time ago now though, he added. Eleanor was standing close enough to David to hear Donald's voice; not to hear his words perhaps, but to hear the buzz and crackle of it coming down the line.
Sorry Donald, I should be going now, David said. I've got some things to sort out for the morning.
Right you are, Donald said quickly. Sorry, I didn't mean anything just then, when I said—
Oh, no, no, David said, that's fine, not at all. I'll speak to you soon.
You don't mind do you? he asked Eleanor, after he'd hung up. She shook her head.
How're things? she asked.
She's not very well at all, he said. She nodded.
And Donald? she asked.
He learnt that Ivy had been ill before, that this was a recurrence of the same condition she'd had when Stewart had died. He learnt that Donald and Rosalind were spending most of their time at the hospital now, that Hamish and his wife were there as well, as was Hamish's daughter Cathy. He learnt that Donald had been feeling at something of a loose end since he retired. He learnt that Ivy had never really got over having to move out of the old house when it was demolished as part of the council's rebuilding programme. He learnt, more than once, that Donald thought it was funny the way things turned out.
And once Eleanor had found out, she didn't seem to mind him having these conversations at all. Sometimes she asked him, afterwards, what they'd been talking about, and asked him questions which he asked Donald the next time they spoke. Sometimes she asked how her mother was doing, although the answer was always the same; not well, getting worse. One evening, while Donald was telling him about Ivy's habit of still using a top-loader, even when all four sons had offered to buy her a modern washing machine - she's stubborn, he said, no one can deny that - Eleanor came into the room asking David if he wanted a cup of tea, not realising until it was too late that he was on the phone. Donald caught himself mid-sentence.
Eh, is that Eleanor there? he asked. Eleanor had her hand over her mouth.
It is, David said. There was a pause.
Sounds like she's lost her accent a wee bit, Donald said.
Well, I suppose she has, yes, David said. Eleanor's eyes widened at the thought of Donald saying something about her.
Mind, said Donald, it's been a while.
It has, David agreed, realising now what Donald wanted to ask. There was another long pause.
Eh, is she still there, or has she gone to put that kettle on now? Donald said.
No, no, David said, she's still here. Eleanor wiped her mouth and looked around her, and then she moved closer towards him, closer towards the voice on the phone. Would you like to speak to her? he asked. Donald said nothing for a moment, and there was only the sound of him breathing in and out.
Aye, he said. If I could. David held the phone out to Eleanor, raising his eyebrows. She looked at it a moment, wiping a hand across her mouth again, and took it from him.
Hello? she said. Hello Donald. How are you?
57
Printed service sheet, Ivy Elaine Campbell,
1909-2000'
,
23 April 2000
Before the service, having tea and cake at Donald and Rosalind's house, Donald showed Kate a photograph of her grandfather. That's your Granda Stewart, he said, holding it up to her. That photo was taken eighty-nine years ago, he added, as proudly as if he'd taken it himself. So don't you be getting sticky fingers on it now, he said, and everyone in the room laughed.
Oh, no, I won't, Kate smiled, perching on the arm of the sofa with a cup of tea in one hand and the photo in the other, holding it carefully by the edges.
See that wee boat there? Donald asked. They say he carried that boat around with him everywhere, after his father died. The other conversations in the room dropped away, and people turned to look.
His father made it for him, before he was lost, said Hamish.
Is that so? asked Donald, looking over at his brother, well, I never knew that. Kate looked at the photo again - Stewart holding a small model fishing boat, his brother and three sisters beside him, his mother standing behind them with a hand resting lightly on his head. She must have recognised the boat, and David was impressed that she was careful not to say anything.
I suppose you don't know too much about the family history though do you hen? said Donald, tucking the photo back into the envelope with the others.
Not really, said Kate, Mum doesn't really - you know; and she trailed off to take a sip of tea, and Donald's weather-beaten face coloured a little. The crowded room was heavy and still for a moment, until Donald's wife got to her feet and started saying you'll be wanting another one then to each of the guests in turn, filling their cups from a huge pot on the table, cutting second slices of dense brandy-fumed fruitcake, and Kate stood and said no, not for me thanks, I think I'll just, and Donald directed her to the left of the top of the stairs.
As soon as she was out of the room, John's wife turned to David and said oh but she's the spit of her grandmother, is she not?
I suppose she is, he said, smiling.
Oh aye, said Hugh, as a murmur of agreement ran around the room, it's uncanny, isn't it? And even though of all those there Ivy's brother Gordon was the only one old enough to remember her as a young woman, they could still see something in Kate that reminded them of her. The way she lifted her head when she smiled. The shape of her eyes. Something about the way she had held herself when she first stepped into the room and said hello. Some faint echo, sounding on down the bloodline.
There was talk of arrangements, of where to park and who couldn't make it and who would be taking the cords. There were more trips to the toilet and a few more pieces of cake. And then when everyone was in the room Donald looked at his watch and said right well I think that's us away then, and they all stood and filed out of the small front room, ladies first, after you, placing empty cups and crumb-laden plates on to the kitchen table as they passed into the passageway and out through the front door to the street, all sober and dark and tight-collared. The women in rarely worn hats and M&S dresses, carrying weighty handbags and helping each other down the front step and along to the cars. The men straightening their shoulders and their ties as they stepped out into the crisp afternoon light, blinking a little, clearing their heads from the warmth of the house and readying themselves for what was to come. Everyone moving with a well-rehearsed confidence, as though it was every day they put on these clothes and drove to the cemetery to bury their mother, or sister, or aunt. Slipping into their seats in the four shining cars, scooping the hems of their dresses neatly beneath them or straightening the lines of their heavy jackets. Keeping their thoughts to themselves as they drove smoothly through the bungalowed streets and along the coast road towards the town, round past the industrial estates and through the familiar terraced streets of their childhoods.
Was that the same boat Mum's got at home? Kate murmured to him as they got out of the car at the cemetery, the one in that photo? He looked at her and nodded, holding her gaze for a moment so she could see that it wasn't something to be talked about just then.
In the evening, once people had started to go home from the wake, Donald took a large brown envelope from Rosalind's handbag and pulled out some more photographs. I thought you'd be interested in seeing some of these, he said, your line of work being what it is. He spread them out across the table. We found them in a chest of drawers in Ivy's room. David leant across and glanced at the pictures, damp-spotted black-and- white snapshots of weddings, birthdays, day-trips.
There's some other bits and pieces we found as well, Rosalind said, squeezing the edges of the envelope and tipping out a pile of ration books, union cards, Co-op stamps, pamphlets. Hamish, sitting on the other side of the table, reached forward suddenly, frowning, and picked out a grease-stained
Illustrated Book of Knots.
That'll be mine for starters, he said. Where'd you find that?
David looked at a pale studio picture of Ivy and Stewart holding up a young baby, the baby dressed in a long gown and white bonnet, the edges of the picture a little out of focus, none of them smiling. He held it up, questioningly.
We're not sure but we think that's Eleanor, said Donald. Doesn't look much like I remember her, but we can't think it's anyone else.
It's been a long time since I've seen this though, Hamish announced, thumbing through the book of knots, pushing his thick-lensed spectacles up his nose, launching into the story of the grand send-off the family had given him when he'd first joined the merchant navy.
David half-listened, looking through the pictures, holding up a large print of a young couple on their wedding day, two sets of parents next to them, brothers and sisters fanning out on either side. Rosalind leant towards him.
Aye, that's us, she whispered, smiling shyly, glancing over at Hamish to be sure he couldn't hear her interruption. Seems like a fine long time ago now though, eh?
There were that many folk there, Hamish continued, oblivious. David pointed to a girl in the picture who looked about fifteen, with long hair and a blank expression.
Eleanor? he mouthed. Donald and Rosalind looked at each other.
Eh, no, that's her sister, Donald said quietly. Tessa.
She's in America now of course, Rosalind added. Has been for years. She stopped herself. You didn't know that though, did you? she said, her voice dropping away.
No, David said. I wasn't sure you were still in touch.
We get Christmas cards, Donald said, no more.
Are you folks listening at that end? Hamish asked, knocking the table, and the three of them turned back to face him.
Of course we are, said Rosalind.
You carry on there, Donald agreed. David finished the whisky Donald had put in front of him and listened to the rest of Hamish's story, looking around the emptying room, wondering where Kate had gone.