So Many Ways to Begin

Eleanor was in the kitchen when he got back from her mother’s funeral, baking. The air was damp with the smell of spices and burnt sugar, the windows clouded with condensation against the dark evening outside. He stood in the doorway with his suitcase and waited for her to say hello. She had her back to him, her shoulders hunched in tense concentration, her faded brown hair tied up into a loose knot on the back of her head. She was icing a cake. There were oven trays and cooling racks spread across the worktop, grease-stained recipe books held open under mixing bowls and rolling pins, spilt flour dusted across the floor.

Hello, he said gently, not wanting to make her jump. She didn’t say anything for a moment.

How’d it go then? she asked without lifting her head or turning around.

Okay, he said, it was okay, you know. The oven timer buzzed, and as she opened the door a blast of hot wet air rushed into the room. She took out a tray of fruit slices, turned off the oven, and went back to icing the cake. He put the suitcase down and stood behind her. The creamy-white icing looked smooth enough to him, but she kept dragging the rounded knife across it, chasing tiny imperfections back and forth. He put his hand on the hard knot of her shoulder and she flinched. He kissed the back of her head. Her hair smelt of flour, and of baking spices, and of her, and he kept his face pressed lightly against it for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.

It looks like you’re done there El, he said quietly, reaching round to take the knife from her hand, putting it down on the side. It looks lovely, he said. He kept his hand on her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as it clenched into an anxious fist.

It was okay then? she asked, her head lowered.

It was okay, he told her. She turned round, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked up at him, smiling weakly.

Good, she said, I’m glad. She picked up a palette knife, and eased the fruit slices from the baking tray on to another cooling rack. I got a bit carried away, she said, waving the knife around the room to indicate the cakes and buns and biscuit tins. I wanted to keep busy. She smiled again, shaking her head. She carried the baking tray past him and put it into the sink, the hot metal hissing into the water. Did you find the way okay? she asked.

Yes, he said, it was fine. He sat at the table, stretching out his legs, squeezing the muscles on the back of his neck, stiff from the long drive. She tried to undo her apron, her sticky fingers fumbling blindly behind her for a few moments, and gave up, turning her back to him and saying could you? over her shoulder. He picked at the tight double knot, awkwardly, his own fingers thick with tiredness, easing his thumbnail into the knot and unlooping the strings. She sat down, slipping the apron off over her head and folding it into her lap, wiping her fingers clean on one corner. She looked tired. He reached over and ran his hand up and down her thigh.

Hey, he said, you okay? She closed her eyes, resting her hand on top of his.

Yes, she said, I’ll be fine. It’s just been a long day. It’s been a long few days.

They sat like that for a few minutes and he watched the lines around her eyes soften as she began to relax. Long strands of coarse hair had fallen free of the knot on the back of her head and were hanging around her face. He reached over and tucked them back, smoothing them into place. She smiled faintly, already half asleep.

Was it alright coming back? she murmured, just as he was about to slip his hand away and get something to eat.

It was fine, he told her, it took a long time but it was fine. Not too much traffic about. I stopped off at some services for a break.

You’ve eaten then? she asked, opening her eyes and rubbing at her face suddenly.

Well, a little something more wouldn’t do any harm, he said, looking over at the racks of cooling cakes.

Oh, sure, she said, smiling, be my guest. He took a plate from the cupboard and fetched himself a large rock cake, blowing at the steam that poured out as he broke it open.

What about Kate? she asked, turning round in her chair.

She’s fine, he said, I dropped her off at the station this morning. She sent me a text when she got home, she’s fine.

She was okay with it all then, was she? she said, looking up at him.

Yes, he said, she was okay with it.

Oh, good, Eleanor said.

Later, as she got into bed, she said, so, will you tell me about it? She sat up, the duvet held up to her chest, the pillows wedged behind her back and her hair pulled round to one side of her head. She looked up at him as he took his shirt off and folded it over the back of the chair.

What do you want to know? he said.

Just what it was like, she replied. Who was there, what happened.

Well they were all there I think, he said, all the family, grandchildren, a few neighbours. A few dozen altogether I think, he said. He leant against the wardrobe to take off his shoes and socks, rubbing at the cracked skin across the back of his heels.

And was Tessa there? she said. He looked up. No love, he said, no. Tessa wasn’t there. She pulled the duvet back from his side of the bed.

Come and tell me about it, she said, I want to hear. Was it a nice service?

He unbuckled his belt, slid off his trousers, and draped them over the back of the chair. He swapped his pants for a pair of pyjama trousers from underneath the pillow, and he told her about Ivy’s funeral. He told her that a lot of them, the immediate family, had met at Donald’s beforehand, and that Donald’s wife had overloaded them with sandwiches and cake, and that this was where Kate had first met them all.

I picked her up from the station, he said. She seemed very quiet but I think she coped with it well enough. People were saying she looked like her grandmother, he said, and Eleanor looked across at him with a doubtful expression.

No, she said, I wouldn’t say that. Does she? Do you think so? He smoothed his thumb across her creased eyebrows.

A little, he said, perhaps. It’s only natural, isn’t it? She thought about it, shaking her head. He told her about the service, that the minister hadn’t seemed to know Ivy at all and had just talked in general terms about a long and full life but that people hadn’t seemed to mind. He told her that it had felt very warm in the church, and she smiled and said well at least some things change then, and she started to close her eyes. He told her about the burial, about the corner of the cemetery which had trees along both sides and seemed to be well kept; that he’d spotted her Great-uncle James’s grave nearby, and her father’s of course, and that Donald had said her father’s father’s headstone was somewhere but they hadn’t been able to find it. He told her about the wake in the Crown Hotel, how good the food was and how people had kept buying him drinks.

He didn’t tell her about the question which had hung back on people’s lips when they found out who he was, or that he’d felt like apologising and explaining for her every time, even though people were too polite to mention it. It’s the travelling, he’d wanted to say; it’s such a long way, it would be too much for her. But he didn’t say anything, because people didn’t ask. There was a gap in the conversation all day, no one saying well she could at least have, or after all this time, or I suppose she didn’t feel she could; but it was a gap which was soon bridged by enquiries about work, or Kate, or how he was enjoying his stay.

She shuffled down into the bed, rearranging the pillows behind her, and turned her head on to his chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath. He leant down and kissed her hair. She spread her hand across his skin, tracing circles with each finger the way she’d always liked to do, pressing lightly against each of his ribs, his belly button, the short dotted scar above his waist.

He told her about walking around Aberdeen the evening before the funeral, and how different things were now; the massive oil tanks and pipeworks ranged along the harbour-front, the new shopping centre, the graceful blue-glass extension to the Maritime Museum, the rebuilt houses on Torry Hill where she’d grown up. You’d still recognise it though, he said gently. He told her about some of the people he’d met at the wake, what they were doing now, that they’d said to give her their love. He told her, as her eyes closed more firmly and her breathing settled into its familiar slowness, about the long drive home, past Dundee and Dunfermline and over the new Forth Bridge, past Hadrian’s Wall, through the high bleak openness of the North York Moors. He told her how nice it had been, passing through all that scenery. He told her that there’d been no traffic problems, that it had been straightforward finding his way, that everyone had seemed to be driving carefully and sensibly.

He shifted down into the bed, kissing her on the cheek, and reached across to turn out the light.

You still want to go then? she said, opening her eyes suddenly. He looked at her.

Yes, he said, you know I do.

It’s an awful long way again, she said, so soon.

I know, he said, but I want to go. It’s important, you know it’s important. I’ll be okay. He kissed the side of her face again, stroking the top of her ear with his finger.

Have you packed? she asked. Have you written a list?

He thought of all the things he’d considered taking with him, stacked in the corner of Kate’s old room: the photograph albums, the document folders, the bundles of letters and postcards and notes, the scrapbooks, the loose objects wrapped in sheets of old newspaper and filed carefully away. He went through them all in his mind, listing each item as though in a museum catalogue, picking out the few things he’d eventually decided to take.

Yes, he said, I’ve written a list. Don’t worry about it now though. We’ll talk about it in the morning. He turned the light off, and for a while he lay there listening to the quick shallow sighs of her breathing, the kick and twist of her legs as she tried to get comfortable.

Can’t it wait David? she said. Why do you have to go now?

Please, he said. Don’t. She turned away from him, pulling the cover around herself, shifting further down into the bed. It was a long time before she was still.

1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943 (#ulink_9fd7fb58-866a-5a3d-a0f5-b663fbf8335b)

He was going to start with a picture of his father. It seemed as good a way as any to begin. It was the first thing he’d thought of packing before he went off to the funeral, tucking it into a padded envelope to keep it safe. This is my father, he was going to say, holding up the small photograph for someone to see. When he was a young man, he was going to add, before I was born. Well now, someone might say, looking closely, and what are these marks here? And then he could explain, telling it the way his sister Susan always had, the words worn comfortably smooth with repeated use.

It was a story she liked to tell; it made her feel a part of something bigger than herself, tied to a time when there were bigger things to feel a part of. She’d told it again a few weeks earlier, looking at the same picture with a group of her friends after dinner one night. Someone had mentioned seeing it on the way in, and she’d led them all through to the hallway to stand around it, balancing their cups of coffee on thin white saucers while they listened and smiled and nodded, and remembered stories of their own, and went quiet at the appropriate time. Whenever he’d heard her tell the story, people had always gone quiet at the same appropriate time.

It was taken in 1943, she said, gesturing towards the photo, a small black-and-white studio portrait mounted on a greying cardboard surround, a name and number scribbled in soft illegible pencil along the bottom. Just before I was born, she said, placing herself firmly into that generation. He must have had it taken before going away on service for the second time, to the Med, I think, and sent it back from Portsmouth for my mother to put up on the mantelpiece while he was away. Pausing here, as she always did, picturing the man in the strange uniform above the hearth, watching over her and her mother while they crouched under the Morrison shelter in the back room, the ground shaking, firelight flashing past outside, or greeting them when they came home from the public shelter in the morning with the all-clear ringing out down the street, the house safe for another day and the garden strewn with rubble from next door but one. Remembering the morning her mother had tried to explain that a bomb had landed on her grandparents’ house, and that her grandparents wouldn’t be coming round for tea any more.

It was the Med, wasn’t it? she asked, glancing across at him. I can never remember. Everyone turned to look, and he shrugged, smiling apologetically.