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46 Hand-drawn family tree (incomplete), dated May 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
47 Envelopes w/Aberdeen postmarks, occasional 1984–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
48 Photographs of Kate at eight years old, with birthday cards, 1984 (#litres_trial_promo)
49 Library tickets, green card with handwritten annotations, c.1980s (#litres_trial_promo)
50 DHSS Booklet, Guide to Services for the Newly Unemployed, 1986 (#litres_trial_promo)
51 Video cassette: World’s Greatest Boxing Heroes, c.1987 (#litres_trial_promo)
52 Hand-drawn family tree, marked ‘Believed Complete’, dated 1988 (#litres_trial_promo)
53 Home videos featuring Kate Carter, 1991–1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
54 Examination results; University prospectus, 1994 (#litres_trial_promo)
55 Illustrated Book of Knots, 7th Edition, c.1947 (#litres_trial_promo)
56 Ration books, Union cards, Co-op dividend stamps, 1930s and 1940s (#litres_trial_promo)
57 Printed service sheet, ‘Ivy Elaine Campbell, 1910–2000’, 23 April 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
58 Email messages; printed copies dated March 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
59 Ferry tickets; handwritten letter; route map (from website); all June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
60 Biscuit tin, rusted, used as money box or for keepsakes, c.1944 (#litres_trial_promo)
61 Paper package of selected photographs (reprints), c.1950–2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
62 Bill for room and board, Conway’s of Letterkenny, June 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Read an exclusive extract from Jon McGregor’s new novel, Reservoir 13
By the Same Author
A Note on the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
They came in the morning, early, walking with the others along tracks and lanes and roads, across fields, down the long low hills which led to the slow pull of the river, down to the open gateways in the city walls, the hours and days of walking showing in the slow shift of their bodies, their breath steaming above them in the cold morning air as the night fell away at their backs. They came quietly, the swish of dew-wet grasses brushing against their ankles, the pat and splash of the muddy ground beneath their feet, the coughs and murmurs of rising conversation as the same fewphrases were passed back along the lines. Here we are now. Nearly there. Just to the bottom of the hill and then we’ll sit down. Cigarettes were lit, hundreds of cigarettes, thin leathery fingers expertly rolling a pinch of tobacco into a lick of paper without losing a step. Cigarettes were cadged, offered, shared, passed down to nervous young hands eager for that first acrid taste of adulthood, cupping a mouthful of it in the windshield of their open fists in imitation of fathers and uncles and older brothers, coughing as it burnt down into their untested young lungs, the spluttered-out smoke twisting upwards and mingling with their cold clouded breath as they made their way between flowering hawthorn hedges and cowslip-heavy banks, down towards the city walls. They wore suits, of a kind, all of them: woollen waistcoats and well knotted neckerchiefs, thick tweed jackets with worn elbows and cuffs, moleskin trousers with frayed seams tucked into the tops of their boots. The younger ones carried bundles of clothes, brown paper parcels fastened with string, slung across their shoulders or clasped to their chests, held tightly intheir damp nervous hands as they started to gather pace, pulled down the hill by the sight of the city, by their eagerness to be first and by the impatience of the men and the boys pressing in from behind; still foggy from sleep, still aching from the long walk the day before, but forgetting all that as they came to their journey’s end.
From the top of the hill, where others were only now beginning that last long downward traipse, the city looked quiet and still, wrapped in a pale May morning mist, weighted with the same brooding promise that cities have always held when glimpsed from a distance like this, the same magnetic pull of hopes and opportunities. But as those first men and boys came into the city, their boots beginning to stamp and echo across the cobbled ground, windows were opened and curtains pulled back, and the city began to wake. Sleepy children peered from low upstairs windows, the hushed chatter and the rumbling of feet signalling the start of the day they’d been looking forward to, calling to each other and pulling faces at the children in the houses across the street. Landlords opened the doors and shutters of their bars, sweeping the floors and standing in their doorways with brooms in their hands to watch their customers arrive. Stallholders finished preparing their pitches around the edges of the square, keeping an eye on the small group of guards by the steps of the new town hall. And from each end of the long square, from the road leading in from the bridge to the east, from the gateway under the lodge to the west, from the road winding out along the river to the south, the army of workers appeared, hurrying on with the growing excitement of arrival, calling greetings to friends not seen for the past six months, looking around for others yet to arrive, asking after health, and families, and wives. And the crowd of people in the square grew bigger, and noisier, and fathers began to lay hands on the shoulders of their youngest sons, keeping them close, wary of letting them drift away too soon, listening to the snatches of conversation echo back and forth, looking out for the farmers and foremen to start to appear, waiting for the business of the day to begin.
Mary Friel stood with her father and brothers, watching, her youngest brother Tommy clutching her hand. You okay there Tommy? she whispered down to him. He looked up at her, nodding, a look of annoyance on his young face, and pulled his hand away.
Soon, as if at some unseen signal, deals began to be made all over the square. You looking for work son? the smartly dressed men would say, glancing down. How much you after? And the older boys, the ones who knew their price, or the ones who could say they were experienced, stronger, would get more work done, tried their luck with eight, nine, ten pounds, while the younger ones, who knew no better or could ask no more, said seven or six as they’d been told. Deals were made with a terse nod and a handing over of the brown paper packages, an instruction to meet back there in the afternoon, sometimes with a shilling or two to keep the boy busy for the day, sometimes not; sometimes the father taken for drinks to smooth over the awkwardness of the scene, sometimes not.
This was the first time Mary had been to town for the hiring fair. She’d only ever watched her father setting off with her brothers before; stood in the low doorway to wave them goodbye, her sister Cathy beside her, Tommy holding on to both their hands, their mother turning away before the boys got out of sight and saying no time to be standing around all day now. She’d had an idea of what it would be like from hearing her father those evenings he came back home alone; she and Cathy lying in bed listening while he talked in a low voice to their mother by the last few turfs of the fading fire. But she hadn’t been expecting quite so many people, or so much noise, or the way her father would stare sternly straight ahead when a gentleman approached him and said your boy looking for a job?
They left the square as soon as the price had been agreed, telling Tommy to be good, to work hard and to do what the man said, and to meet them back here at the next fair day in six months’ time. They walked through the town towards the river, Mary, her father, her two older brothers who were past the age of hiring now, out to the docks to catch the boat across to England. She listened to herbrothers talking to her father as they sat waiting for the boat, talking and joking about their time as hired boys, the threshing and weeding and picking of stones, the early mornings and the endless thoughts of food. She sat slightly apart from them, looking up into the hills on the other side of the river, feeling the imprint of her young brother’s hand across the palm of her own. Other men joined them, walking over from the square, lighting up cigarettes, sitting on sacks of grain and crates of wool, talking about where they’d heard the work was that year. Following the harvests from Lancashire up to Berwick and all the way on to Fife. Waterworks round Birmingham way. Munitions in Glasgow, Manchester, Coventry, Leeds. Talking of the best ways to get there, the cheapest places to stay, the names to mention to stand a better chance of work at the end of the trip. Some of the men looked across at Mary, curiously, wondering what she might have been doing there, wondering who she was with, until their gaze was interrupted by her father’s hard glare.
They were going over the water early this year. The weather had changed sooner than usual, and the field was dug and planted, the turf cut, before fair day came. Work had been arranged for Mary, in London, and so their father had announced that they would all make the journey together. It’s a long way for a girl to go on her own, is it not? he’d said, and her mother could only agree, making up slices of cake for their journey, taking out the brown paper from its place beneath the bed.
On the boat, the four of them found a place in a quiet corner and settled themselves in, the two brothers on either side, Mary resting her head on her father’s shoulder, his heavy coat laid over them both. It smelt of damp soil and turf smoke and the cold clean air of their two days’ walking. It smelt of him and she concentrated on the smell as she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep, broken by the tip and slide of the boat, by the shouts of other men, by the hard wooden deck beneath them both.
In the morning, in Liverpool, they put her on a train down to London. They stood on the platform for a few moments to be sureshe’d got a seat, watching her put her bundle up on the luggage rack, watching her smooth out her skirt as she sat down by the window. Her brother William opened the door and jumped up on to the step, leaning in to wish her a good journey, telling her to say hello to Cousin Jenny and the rest of that shower, telling her to tear up London town, laughing as he ran his hand across the top of her hair and pulled it out of its carefully pinned place. She reached out to catch him a clip round the ear but he leant away, jumping down and slamming the door shut as she said goodbye and the guard blew the whistle with his flag raised high. Her father and her other brother had already turned away.
She spoke to no one on the journey, as she’d been told, and waited under the clock at Euston station for her cousin, who came running up to meet her a half hour after the train had arrived. Sorry I’m late, she said, out of breath and a little red in the face. The bus depot was bombed last night and I had to walk all the way. You had a good crossing?
The house was in Hampstead, close enough to the Heath to see the tops of the trees from an upstairs window, its large front door reached by a broad flight of stone steps she was never allowed to use. Her room was at the top of the house, squeezed in under the rafters at the back somewhere, overlooking wash-yards and alleyways and gutters. The room was just big enough for a bed, and for a fireplace that was never lit, and for a small chest under the bed where she kept her clothes and a biscuit tin for her wages, ready to be taken home the next summer. But the size of the room was unimportant because all she ever did was sleep in there. If you were awake you were working, she said when she told someone much later what it was like. Cleaning out fireplaces, scrubbing pots and pans and boots and steps, washing and drying and ironing the clothes, lighting the fires in the family’s rooms. On her first day off she stayed in her room, counting the bruises on her knees and shinsand the angry red chilblains on her fingers, sleeping, looking out of the small window and wondering where she would go if she dared to leave the house.
She lived in the attic and she worked in the basement, and part of her job was to get from one to the other without being observed. You want to be neither seen nor heard, Cousin Jenny had told her, standing at the wide stone basin scrubbing potatoes and carrots that first evening. And you want to not see or hear anything neither. Mary nodded, pushing her paper-white cap back where it kept falling down over her eyes. She learnt how to time her trips through the finely panelled rooms and corridors of the main house, going downstairs before the family had risen, waiting for their mealtimes before going back up, or for the evenings when they sat together in the drawing room. She learnt how to tip her head a little if she ever did meet someone, to say Sir or Ma’am before quickly walking away.
The thing was to make yourself invisible, she said, many years later, so that everyone could pretend you weren’t even there. You would do whatever piece of work you had to do and just slip away out of the room. Eyes down, ears closed, mouth shut. That was the thing to do, she said. So if you went in to light a fire one morning and your man was getting dressed, it wouldn’t matter because you were invisible, and he wouldn’t even know you were there. And if he asked you your name you’d tell him, and if he asked you to come closer you’d go, but you could pretend you hadn’t because really you didn’t hear or see him and he didn’t hear or see you. It wouldn’t matter at all. I was a pretty child though, she said. It wasn’t always easy to be so invisible. I tended to catch people’s eye, you know?
She would speak these words softly, eventually, but she would speak them.
Jenny took her out on their days off, showing her round London, walking through the parks if the weather was good, hiding in apicture house if the weather was bad, walking right up to the West End to look in through taped shop windows and watch out for boys. They talked about what they would do when they went back home, whether they would go back home at all, and they talked about marrying, about children, make-believing extravagant farmhouses to go with the size of the families they imagined into life. Sometimes they finished those days off in a pub in Kilburn or Camden or King’s Cross, and there were so many cousins and young aunts crowded into their corner of the bar that Mary could half close her eyes and think they were all squeezed into the lounge bar at Joe’s, with her parents’ house only a few minutes’ moonlit walk away. She saw people she hadn’t seen since she was young, and others she’d seen only at Christmas for the last few years, and they all asked for news of Fanad. She told them about Cathy’s wedding, and about the new priest, and about how her brother Tommy had gone off to work that year.
And how’s that other brother of yours, young William? a friend of Jenny’s asked once, a girl Mary remembered from church.
Oh he’s fine, she said, and the girl lowered her voice and said aye he’s more than fine, he’s very good indeed, the whole crowd of them shrieking in shocked laughter and Mary not knowing quite what they meant but laughing along all the same.
On days when it wasn’t as cold, another girl would have laid the fire the night before, sweeping out the ashes and piling up the kindling, and it didn’t take a second to slip into the room with a box of matches and set it going. But on colder days, when the embers had been left to smoulder halfway through the night, it was a much longer job. The grate had to be swept out, the ashes scooped into a metal bucket, the hearth wiped over with a damp cloth when it was done. Paper had to be screwed up into little twists and laid over with twigs and splints and pieces of kindling, and the first flares of flame had to be watched over for a few moments to see that theycaught, to see that it was okay to lay on the larger lumps of log and coal and close the door softly behind her. It was too much of a job to be done silently, or invisibly; the brush would bang against the side of the grate, or the bucket, the newspaper would crackle as she screwed it up, the match-head would spit as it burst into flame. She tried very hard, but it seemed impossible not to wake whoever was sleeping in the bed behind her, not to make some small disturbance that meant she would hear a voice saying her name. A man’s voice, asking for her.
They sent her to light the fire in each of the rooms by turn, but mostly she was asked to go to the father’s room, and it was here that she found it hardest to not make a sound. After a time, she went to the housekeeper and said that if it was at all possible she would very much prefer not to go into the rooms to light the fires any more, please.
She kept it hidden the whole nine months. She wore bigger clothes. She ate as little food as she could. She stopped going out with Jenny and the others, spending long evenings and days off in her room with the chest under the bed and the small window, saying she was tired, or poorly. She learnt, too late, how to make herself invisible.
Later, this would seem the strangest part of it all, that no one noticed, that no one asked, that she was able to keep it so well hidden while she carried on with her work, the cleaning and the sweeping and the scrubbing and the pressing. I suppose I was stronger then, she would say, one day, when she was finally able to talk. A girl that age, I suppose they’re built for it, aren’t they? Young and supple and all. You do what you have to do, I suppose, she would say.
She took a bus to the hospital when she could stand it no more, wrapping her saved wages in the middle of her brown paper bundle of clothes, leaving a note that said nothing on her bed and a month’s money uncollected. Her waters had already broken by the time theytook her on to the ward. When they asked, she told them her name was Bridget Kirwan and that she came from a village near Galway. It took her no more than a few hours to give birth. It was the easiest of the five, she would say, years later. I must have been tougher than I felt, though it still hurt more than enough. When the baby was born, an underweight boy, he was taken from her almost without discussion. They told her it would be the best thing, they told her it would be cruel to do anything else, and she was too shattered by pain and hunger and shock to raise a voice in disagreement.
They barely even let me say goodbye, you know? she would tell someone, eventually.
When she went home, after two weeks in a rest ward, she knew that she would never want to go away to work again. She didn’t say, of course, why she had come back across the water before her time, and she did her best to make up for the shortfall of money in the bundle she’d brought back, walking three miles each day to milk and feed and mind the cows on the landowner’s farm. And when the men came home towards the end of the year, older and fitter and better fed, swollen with talk and drink and money, she watched them carefully, waiting, choosing, and before the following year’s hiring fair she was married to Michael Carr, waving him off the way she used to watch her mother do, turning away before he was out of sight to settle into a house of her own. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished her own pots, her own plates, her own clothes and boots and low front step. She lit a fire in her own grate. She opened the door to her friends, and she waited for her husband to come home.
He brought no money with him when he returned, and she could smell on his breath that she’d chosen wrong.
I can say this now, she admitted to someone, years later, when she lived on her own and waited for her grandchildren to call; it wasa wonderful marriage for eight months of the year. And that’s a lot more than some folk can say, don’t you think? Laughing as she said it, glancing up at the photograph of him on the mantelpiece.
Her four children all had their birthdays in late September. And she wondered, each time she held a newborn child in her hands, where that lost one might have gone. She wondered it with each niece and nephew and grandchild she was given to hold, saying he’s a fine one to the mother as she looked into the baby’s clouded eyes. She wondered it as she changed and cleaned her own children’s nappies, as she fed them, as she mended their clothes and sang them to sleep and sent them off to school. She wondered it as she watched them grow into young adults, going further away to find work, bringing back money when they ducked into the house, bringing back other young men and women with whom they shyly held hands at the supper table. She watched them marry, and she watched them make homes of their own, have children of their own, move away and move back and move away again, and she never stopped wondering, waiting, hoping for some young man to contact her from England, some long-lost solemn-eyed child to come calling across the water and tell her something, anything, of where he’d been gone all this time.
Part One (#uf9f55537-8c0f-5387-8acf-f473e6d48480)
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.
