So Many Ways to Begin

~ ~ ~

He woke early, stiff and tired from the previous day's long drive but restless with preparations for the journey to come. He left Eleanor sleeping, her fists clenched against her face, and slipped into Kate's old room, looking out the two albums and the scrapbook he planned to take, glancing at all the other scrapbooks and albums and shoeboxes and wondering if he should maybe take a few things more. He went over the route in his mind, uncertain even now that he was doing the right thing, sitting down on Kate's old bed, smoothing the pillow and the duvet, looking at her old postcards still Blutacked to the back of the door.

He heard Eleanor getting up and moving around downstairs, and then she appeared in the doorway with two coffees, squinting slightly, her face puffed with sleep. She put one down on the windowsill, glancing at the pile of boxes and folders he'd been going through. She looked at him, the faint lines on her face softening as she smiled, and said you're a case though, aren't you David? He looked at her, sharply, and stood up.

What? he said.

Well, she said, waving her hand vaguely, all this stuff. I mean, it's a bit much, isn't it? He looked down at the floor, and then at the window, holding his hands tensely by his sides. He didn't say anything.

He said, Eleanor, couldn't you just for once take something I'm doing a bit seriously? I mean, couldn't you do me that favour, just once? He said, it's not as if I'm taking it all with me. I was just looking; what's wrong with that? He gripped the edge of the windowsill, and realised he was shouting. He said, I'm sorry but— She moved towards him and put a hand on his shoulder, and she felt him tense against her touch.

She said, I'm sorry I didn't mean anything. Her voice was flatter, the teasing note of a moment before drawn out of it by his reaction. She said, I am taking it seriously, it's just— It seems like you're rushing into this a bit.

He looked at her, disbelievingly, shaking his head.

She said again, I am taking it seriously.

He lowered his head and said well it doesn't feel like it. She sighed, loudly, and pulled away from him, moving towards the door.

I'm sorry love, he said, rubbing his forehead with the knuckles of his fist, I'm just tired. It was a long drive. She held on to the door frame, and closed her eyes.

It was the first argument they'd had for months. The last time had been when her brother Donald contacted them to say that her mother was very ill and would Eleanor consider going up there at all, and David had tried to insist that she should. She'd shouted at him then, and told him that he must be stupid if he still didn't get it after all these years, and he'd shouted back that maybe he was stupid, for marrying her in the first place. There was nothing like that being said this time at least. But there was something of that same bristling tension; in their voices, in the tight grip of their hands on the windowsill and the door frame, in the way their eyes dared one another to go further. Later, over breakfast, they would agree that they were getting too old for that kind of thing, that it wasn't worth getting so wound up about it all, and the sharpness of their words would be forgotten. But for a moment, as they stood there facing each other, trying to think what to say, it felt as though they were newly married all over again.

Perhaps you shouldn't go today then, she said quickly, if you're really so tired, if it was such a long drive. Perhaps you should leave it. He raised his hands, shaking them in the air.

But I've bought the ticket now, he said, almost shouting again. It's all been arranged. They'll be expecting me, he said, his voice suddenly trailing away and his hands falling to his sides. And something like resignation or defeat must have shown on his face, because when he looked at her he could see that she regretted what she'd said. Maybe I shouldn't go at all, he said. She let go of the door frame and stepped back towards him, touching a hand to his arm.

Oh no, she said. I didn't mean that, I didn't mean that. I'm just saying, she said, you said you were tired. He turned away from her, looking out at the small back garden. She said, I'll put some toast on. She left the room and went downstairs to the kitchen. The steam rose from his coffee mug, settling to a steady twisted stream as the stillness seeped back into the room. He glanced at the clock.

They were in the middle of breakfast, still catching breath from their brief argument, when the phone rang. It was his sister Susan, wanting to know how things had gone at the funeral. I'm not interrupting anything, am I? she asked.

No, David said, reaching across to the table for his toast, you're fine.

Only it seemed like a good time to call, she added. How had it been at the service, she asked, and afterwards — were people friendly enough, how did Kate take it all, had Eleanor changed her mind at the last minute? No, he said, she hadn't. She asked him how Kate was in general, if she was still living in London, if she'd had any luck finding a proper job yet.

She's still in London, he told her, and she's working. She seems happy enough for the time being, he said, and Susan must have heard the slight edge in his voice because she said oh no, no I'm sure she is, I was just wondering. He heard the splash of something being poured into a glass, juice perhaps, and pictured her sitting at her breakfast table in the bay window, with toast and yoghurt and folded white napkins, looking out at the long stretch of garden between her house and the road. She asked him what he had planned for the day, and he said well I'm just getting things ready and then I'm heading off, on my trip.

Oh? Susan said, sounding surprised. You're still doing that? So soon?

Yes Susan, he said tautly. So soon. How much longer did you want me to leave it?

I didn't mean that, she said. You know I didn't mean that. I was just thinking about Eleanor, if she'll be okay while you're gone. He held his breath for a moment.

Yes, he said, well, I don't know about that. You'll have to ask her that yourself. He held the phone out towards Eleanor, saying it's my sister, she wants to talk to you, ignoring the faint sound of Susan telling him not to be silly. Eleanor looked at him suspiciously and took the phone.

Hello? she said.

David looked at the clock, put his breakfast dishes in the sink, and gestured to Eleanor that he was going upstairs. She watched him go, and he heard her say well it's difficult to explain Susan, it's mixed, you know? He washed, and dressed, and folded some clean clothes into his suitcase, standing by the window for a moment to look down at his car parked outside. When he went back downstairs, putting the kettle on to boil, Eleanor was saying oh is he, is that right now? I thought he wasn't going to. He spooned coffee and sugar into a flask. Eleanor said yes, he's still here, you want to speak to him again? He looked up, shaking his head, and saw Eleanor holding the phone out towards him. He reached out for it, and she put her hand across the mouthpiece.

Maybe I should come with you after all, she said.

He stared at her, trying to catch her eye, mouthing a confused what? while Susan asked him how their mother was coping with the new bungalow. Eleanor shrugged, smiling a little, as if it had just been a passing thought. David? said Susan. Are you there? He turned away and said sorry, yes, she's fine. I saw her last week and she seems to be settling in fine.

He looked at Eleanor, standing on the other side of the table, her hands resting on the back of the chair, waiting. He remembered the first night they spent together, and not being quite able to believe the sheer unadorned fact of her skin against his, and he thought how strange it was that after all that time she still slept beside him in their bed, with her hand spread out across his chest and her face turned in to his shoulder. They were both so much older now. Their bodies had crumpled and softened and worn, and no matter how many creams she kept by the bed the skin on her face had become as creased and lined as his. Her hair was shot through with threads of silver and grey. But her eyebrow still arched exquisitely when she didn't believe what someone was saying, and her lips still folded together when she was concentrating or frowning or confused. She still tucked loose wisps of hair behind her ear with a single long delicate finger. Sometimes, it was an effort to keep from kissing her while she slept.

Susan was saying of course I'll never be able to keep up with this garden, and he said no, well, oh. He said, Susan, look, sorry, I'm going to have to go now, I need to get on with things, it's been good talking to you, and as he put the phone down Eleanor jolted slightly and turned back into the room, wrapping the rest of the cakes she'd baked the day before in tin foil and stacking them into a bag.

He said what do you mean maybe you should come with me? She filled the flask, put it into the bag beside the cakes, and looked around the room to see what was missing.

Well, I just thought, she said. It's a long way, you might need someone to keep you company.

But I don't mind the journey, he said, I'm fine with that. I've done it before, he reminded her.

She took some fruit from a bowl on the side and tucked it into the bag, saying but that was a long time ago; things will have changed since then. He sat down, he looked at the ceiling, and he laughed.

I didn't realise it was me we had to worry about with long journeys, he said. I thought that was your department.

But I'm getting better David, she said. I am. Maybe it would do the both of us some good, she added quietly. He looked down at his hands on the table, turning them over, peering at his fingerprints and tracing the lines worn into his palms. He didn't know what to say.

He said, you really want to come then? and when he looked up at her she nodded. He sat back in his chair suddenly, the chair creaking with his weight. He said, bloody hell Eleanor, I really wasn't expecting this. He said, have you got any travel tablets? She smiled.

Are you still going over to your Mum's first? she asked. He nodded.

There's a few more photos I wanted to pick up, he said. And I should see how she's doing.

So have a think about it while you're there, she said. I'll get dressed and packed and we'll talk about it when you come back, she said. He looked at his watch, and he rubbed his face.

He said, but, I don't know El, this was something, I was planning— He stopped, and tried again. He said, I imagined doing this on my own. She moved towards him and put an arm across his shoulder. She leant forwards and kissed the top of his head, his hair thin enough now that he could feel her lips against his scalp.

She said, with her face still so close to his skull that he could feel the breath in her words, you've been doing this on your own for too long now, don't you think?

17 Pair of cinema tickets, annotated '19th May 1967"

Tell me something.

I don't know, anything.

Tell me something about when you were a boy.

Anything. The first thing that comes into your head.

But he said nothing, and there was only the quietness of two people breathing, the scratch and shift of a skirt being straightened, a trouser leg awkwardly tugged.

Are you not going to say something?

I'm thinking, he said.

Her eyes, when she looked at him, kept flicking from one small point of focus to another, the way they would if they were looking at a waterfall, or a fire, or the view from a moving train. It felt as though she was looking for something, something new, or something familiar but forgotten. The skin around her eyes stretched and folded into tiny creases with the movement. As she blinked, an eyelash caught and fell on to her cheek. He looked at it. He wanted to reach out and dab it away.

What do you want to know? he asked.

Anything, she answered quickly. Just, I just want to hear your voice a while. He looked at the eyelash on her cheek and she reached a finger up to rub it away. Gone? she said.

Gone, he told her, smiling. There were footsteps somewhere, someone coughing, men's voices, and they both turned their faces towards the noise until it had passed.

How about, she said, were you ever in the hospital? Her voice was quiet and tense, as if she was afraid of being overheard. He thought about it for a moment, trying to think of something to say. She closed her eyes, and he noticed for the first time that she had faint bobbles of skin on her eyelids, like tiny colourless freckles, and he wondered why he'd never noticed them before. She opened her eyes and looked back at him, and almost without meaning to they leant slightly closer together.

He told her about when he was eight years old and Susan had left him in the park near Julia's house, and the boys had thrown stones and chased him until he fell.

Did it hurt awful bad? she said.

I've still got a very small scar, he said. It bled all the way back to Julia's house and they had to put a bandage on it. As he said this, they were both looking down at his knee, as if they could see through his trousers to the tiny pink stitch of a scar which was hidden there. He rubbed at it with the palm of his hand.

The room was very quiet again. She looked down at the floor, put her hands on the edge of the chair, crossed and uncrossed her feet. His shoes squeaked as he rubbed them together. He looked around the room, at their jackets folded together on the back of the chair by the door, at the clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece, her parents' wedding photo on one side, photos of her and her four brothers on the other. She looked up at him and smiled. This feels a little strange, don't you think? she said.

She told him that her earliest memory was of being lifted on to her father's shoulders, having to hold on tightly as his long steps bounced her up the hill leading out of their side of town and on until they could turn round and look out over the city and the sea. She turned and pointed as she said this, as if the high open moorland was just in the next room. He told her that he was ten years old before he saw the sea.

I couldn't believe how cold and grey it was when I finally got there, he said, or how huge.

Aye, she said, but I'll bet you it's even colder up here, and she laughed.

Their voices were soft and low, pressed close together, and when one of them spoke, murmuring, their words seemed to curl towards each other like a twist of smoke from a candle flame. Tell me something else, she said.

He told her about how when it was very hot in the summer his father liked to spray them with the hosepipe while he was watering the rose bushes, and how his sister and her friends would creep up behind his father until he span suddenly round and sent them all scattering into the road to escape the icy shock. He told her about the summer holidays they spent at his grandparents' house in Suffolk, about vague memories of pink cottages and fields full of poppies, of being taken by his grandfather to watch the blacksmith at work, of his uncle driving them all down to the sea. She told him about racing a cart down the steep streets, and how much trouble she'd got into when she fell out one time and hurt herself.

When neither of them had spoken for a few moments, he leant forward, resting his hand on the arm of her chair, and kissed her.

What was that for? she said.

He shrugged. Just because, he said. She lifted her face towards him, and he kissed her again, slowly this time, and she raised her hand to touch the side of his neck, his jaw, the faint rub of stubble around his chin. He moved his hand from the arm of the chair and up on to her shoulder. He lifted a finger to her cheek, trailing his hand down the neckline of her shirt. Their movements were slow and tentative, as if this was still the first time they had kissed. She leant away from him, opening her eyes, and he pulled his hand back. She looked at him for a moment, touching his lips with the knuckle of her thumb, then looked away.

Just, she said, just, I want to keep talking for a while, okay?

He said, but I thought—

I want to hear you talking, she said. I like the sound of your voice. There's things I want to know still.

He told her about the museum he and a friend had made in his bedroom, and about the exhibition he curated at school, and about how he tried to get his first Saturday job at the archives, and about how he would one day have a museum of his own. He'd told her these things before, but she listened again. He didn't tell her what had happened with Julia, what Julia had said, the unbelievable truth she'd revealed. It seemed an impossible thing to say out loud. She asked about his first kiss, and he told her about a girl called Rebecca. She laughed and told him about a boy called Jack.

There was a muffled sound from somewhere, from next door, footsteps going up and down the stairs, low voices clouded by the thin walls. She looked round, bringing the tips of her fingers to her mouth, staring at the wall, her breath held tight in her chest. She looked back at him and smiled, faintly, her bottom lip dented by her two front teeth. The voices faded.

They looked at each other, waiting uncertainly. He shivered, suddenly very cold, a draught coming in through the kitchen and the open door and skidding across the bare wooden floorboards. He rubbed his hands on his trousers to warm them up.

You want to hear more? she asked him, turning in her seat and pulling her legs up beneath her, straightening her skirt around her knees.

Yes, he said.

Well then, she said. When I was seven I fell in the water by the harbour and a man had to jump in and rescue me.

Really? he said. What happened? How long were you in the water for?

Oh, not very long, she said, smiling, looking pleased with herself. I don't think I was in any danger; they didn't have to give me the kiss of life or any of that. But it was a big upset all the same; I near choked myself with crying until my mam told me to stop making a scene. He leant forward, fascinated.

But how did you fall in? he asked her. Was it cold?

I don't know really, she said. I was just standing there waiting for Ma and Da to come back from doing something and next I knew I was in the water. Aye, course it was cold, she added, rolling her eyes and crooking the arch of her eyebrow at him. Was it cold, she repeated, laughing. I remember hearing a ship's hooter out at the harbour mouth, she said, so l must have turned to look and just slipped in. This man was in something fast though — felt like he was there by the time I came back up above the water almost. And he just grabbed me by the neck and pulled me over to the side, and he said don't worry love you'll be fine, or something the likes of, and I couldn't see him, I could only feel his great big hands on my neck, and I could see all the lights from the harbour front shining off the black water, and the cranes along the jetties further off, and the ship that had blown its hooter still out by the mouth, and when he got me over to the wall there were all these faces looking down at me — my ma and da, some other people I didn't know — and they were all talking at once and reaching down towards me and it felt like they were miles away. It was only once they'd hauled me out and I was stood there with them all looking at me and someone asked if I was alright that I started crying my eyes out. She spoke quickly and breathlessly, her hands fluttering around her mouth, or sweeping her hair back behind her ears, or smoothing down the hem of her skirt.

He watched her talking, the room suddenly bright and loud with it, and when she'd finished he said but Eleanor, what if that man hadn't been there? What if he hadn't seen you?

Aye, she said, I know. She reached out and ran her finger along the back of his hand, a little out of breath. But he was, she said. And he did. So it's okay.

He leant forward again and kissed her cheek, touching the corner of her jaw with two fingers as he did so, running his fingers across her face as he pulled away, nudging the tip of one finger between her lips. She kissed his finger, and he drew it back, and they both dropped their eyes, looking across the floor, looking around the darkened room, waiting.

She looked up at him again. Do you want to go upstairs? she said.

It was a small room. There were two beds, one along the end wall and one under the window, opposite the door. There was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe next to the door, and a small wooden chair in the corner. Opposite the bed, there was a small table with an oval mirror hanging above it, cluttered with make-up and hairbands and books, folders and files and notes for her Highers revision, an underlined timetable of exam dates pinned to the wall, a stack of seven-inch records against a record player.

Shall I put some music on? he asked her, standing at the table and flicking through the records.

No, she said, whispering, lifting a finger to her lips. It's late, the folk next door don't like the music this late. He looked up at the wall, startled, wondering how much they could hear. She waved her hand at the bed. Come sit down, she whispered, and as he moved back towards her he was suddenly conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the bare floorboards, the sound of his breathing. She laughed at his tiptoe steps, covering her mouth with her hand. You don't need to be that quiet, she said. It's not as if they're listening up against the wall or anything. He sat down carefully, looking at the wall again, unconvinced.

She said, have you done this before?

She was looking down, at her hands in her lap, twisting one of her fingers from side to side. No, he told her. He was too embarrassed to ask in return. He assumed by the way she asked that she hadn't. She looked up at him, shifting her weight towards him on the small narrow bed. They kissed, and her hand resting on his thigh felt suddenly charged with anticipation. He lifted his hand to her hip, fitting his fingers to the curve of it, easing his fingertips beneath her shirt and on to her bare warm skin. She lifted her mouth away from his, pulling back a few inches and opening her eyes. They stayed like that for another long moment, uncertain, nervous. He dipped his head and kissed the soft part of her throat where her collarbones met, the way he liked to do. He liked the way it made her tremble very slightly, the faint sighs brushing against the top of his head. He did it again, but the second time she lifted her head and moved away a little, resting her fingers on his chest. Wait, she said.

It had been a long day. They hadn't met until late in the evening, by the clocktower, barely catching each other's eyes before turning and walking quickly to the cinema, heads down, not touching. Neither of them, when they talked about it later, could remember a single scene of the film. They'd held hands, briefly, but she'd pulled away. She'd kept looking over her shoulder, as though the usher might have seen them sitting too close together, as though somebody might be standing waiting to catch them as they left. Her parents had gone away to Glasgow for two days, but it felt as if they were still lurking behind every corner.

It wasn't until they'd got back to her house that she'd kissed him; and even while she was kissing him she'd been looking carefully over his shoulder until she was sure that no one was watching from behind any curtains. When she was sure, she'd opened the door and quickly pulled him inside, leaving him standing in the hallway until she'd rushed around the house and tugged all the curtains tightly closed. And finally, then, she'd come to him, and slipped her hands inside his jacket, around his waist, and kissed him slowly, and said hello.

Hey, she said. It's getting late.

She leant towards him, kneeling up on the bed, putting her hands on the blanket either side of him and dropping her head to kiss his upturned face.

Her weight, resting on his, her hand sliding inside his shirt and across his chest, his hands tugging at the buttons of her shirt.

She sat up, kneeling astride him, and undid the rest of her buttons, letting her shirt hang loose and watching his gaze fall to her chest. She slipped the shirt from her shoulders with a wriggle, pulled her arms loose, and dropped it on to the floor. Now you, she said, smiling, and he took his shirt off, undoing the top few buttons and dragging it over his head. He felt cold for a moment, awkward.

Her flat hand on his chest, polishing his skin. His fingers compassing around the curve of her breasts, his thumb pressed flat against each of her nipples. The way she closed her eyes, the sounds she made.

She lowered herself again, kissing his throat, his breastbone, his nipples, his shoulders, and as she did so he felt the weight of her breasts pressing against his skin. He had to bite both his lips to keep from calling out. And as she rolled away from him, on to her back, and drew him towards her to kiss and stroke her bare chest in turn, they were both thinking of the same thing, of the only other time they'd been exposed to each other in this way, that long hot afternoon at the start of the summer when they'd walked up past the brow of the hill, and looked down at the flat grey sea, and somehow dared each other into unbuttoning and removing their tops. Then, they hadn't kissed each other the way they were now, too embarrassed perhaps, too afraid of some stray walker or farmer appearing suddenly, and so they'd only looked, and laughed, and blushed slightly, and turned away from each other to get quickly dressed again.

Take your trousers off, she said.

And the rest, she said.

She looked for a moment, tilting her head to the side, curious. She stood up and pulled her skirt and her tights and her knickers to the floor, stepping gracefully from the gathered heap like a magician's assistant. The sight of her made him want to applaud. His whole body was straining and taut, arching towards her.

There was so much skin to touch, and so much skin to touch it with. They stood there, shivering a little, pressing their hands together, their chests, their legs. He held on to her hips for balance and brushed his mouth across her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. She did the same, and then, delicately, cautiously, knelt down to kiss the very tip of his erection. She looked up at him and laughed quickly, and he turned his face away, smiling, embarrassed.

She lay on the bed, waiting, looking up at the ceiling. He couldn't get into the packet. He was worried about ripping the thing itself as he tore it open. When he'd eventually got it on, and knelt between her legs, she looked down and smiled briefly behind her hand. Sorry, she said. It looks funny though, in its wee mackintosh like that. Sorry.

He couldn't get it to go in. He wasn't sure about the angle, or the position. She waited for a moment, not looking at him, and then reached down to try and help. It didn't seem right at all. It was uncomfortable, for both of them. She said, you should probably — I think you need to — you know. He didn't know what she meant, but when he looked down he saw that she was pushing him away a little and rubbing at herself, and then he thought he understood.

She made little gasps and sucking sounds, winces, like the noises he'd once heard her make when she got her hair caught up in the zip of her coat and was trying to untangle it. Are you okay? he asked. Is it; does it? She nodded, quickly, it's okay, she whispered, it's okay. She laid her arms across his back and clung tightly to him. His face was pressed against the pillow beside her head, his arms squashed either side of her. He felt fragile, overbalanced. He held his breath.

She shifted uncomfortably beneath him, and the movement made him spill over into sudden regretful delight.

Don't stop, she whispered, it's okay. He mumbled something, his face still pressed into the pillow. No, he said, I've finished.

Oh, she said. He lifted his weight away from her. Oh, she said again.

They lay on their sides, looking at each other for a long time, wondering about what they'd just done. The room seemed suddenly very quiet and still. She smiled, and he brushed his finger against her lips, resting a knuckle in the squeeze of her teeth. She moved her leg very slightly, bringing her knee up towards his hip. He let his arm slip from her shoulder to the small of her waist.

He said — he whispered — bloody hell, Eleanor.

She smiled, pulling the covers up across them both, her eyes dimming and closing. He looked at their clothes, spread out across the room like stepping stones. He asked her if she was okay, if she was glad they'd done that, and she kissed him and stroked the side of his face, her eyes closed, her breathing slowing and deepening.

He said — he whispered — bloody hell. I feel like I hardly know you. She opened her eyes.

You do too, she murmured, you know me well enough.

No, but really I mean, he said, bringing his leg up towards hers, running his hand down her thigh, there must be plenty that I don't know at all. She pressed a finger to his lips, smiled, and closed her eyes. She opened them again after five minutes or ten minutes or an hour, and looked at him.

Are you awake? she whispered. He looked back at her.

Just about, he said. She shifted a little closer to him.

Would you tell me something? she said. Would you tell me something nice so I can get to sleep?

18 Disciplinary letter, typewritten on headed paper, January 1968

Your failure to fulfil the obligations of your position, or to meet the reasonable requests of your superiors, has been noted.

There were weeks when the only time he spoke to his mother was to ask her again what she knew. There must be something else, he would say. A second name, a date of birth. Tell me something, please. Why didn't you tell me before? he would ask again. And his mother would insist that there was nothing else, that there was no more she was hiding from him, that she knew she'd done wrong but could he please stop all of this, it was breaking her heart. He would always leave the room when she said that, slamming the door behind him.

It was like a hunger, an insatiable hunger, this need to know. There were weeks, months, when he could think of nothing else, could hear nothing else besides the slow refined sigh of Julia's voice, saying the words over and over again. Of course we never saw the poor girl again. You'll have to keep the little darling. Did I say something wrong? Of course we never saw the poor girl. The words repeating like a stuck record in a locked room, haunting him, so that he could get to sleep only by drinking too much and leaving the radio on, loud. You'll have to keep the little darling. We never saw the little darling. You'll have to keep the poor girl. And of course she disappeared off the face of the earth. Did I say something wrong?

He thought about leaving home, about cutting himself off and starting again, about never speaking to his mother again, but he was too numb to do anything about moving out, and his mother was the only person he could ask for answers, and so he stayed, seething with hurt and anger and betrayal and loss, wishing he'd never found out.

And even when he was at work he struggled to concentrate, his thoughts blurred by the many questions he wanted answering: why he'd never been told; why he'd never suspected; whether Susan was lying when she said she'd never known; what he could do now to find the answers he was looking for, to find the people he'd never known he'd lost. One of the curators would ask him to repair a broken display cabinet, to rewrite an outdated label, to take a parcel to the post office, and within moments of being asked he would forget, sitting down on a gallery chair, or in the staffroom, or in the pub, knocked off his feet again by the memory of Julia's words. His colleagues started to comment, joking about his forgetfulness, his empty stare, his vacant tone of voice. The Director called him into the office to discuss his attitude towards work.

The poor girl hadn't even left you with a name, so we chose David, after that actor, what was his name? And of course, she disappeared off the face of the earth. What was his name?

Your difficulties with punctuality, and with timekeeping in general, have become of increasing concern.

He was surprised, when he asked, that it had taken him so long to think of it. What did Dad say when he found out? he said, and as soon as he'd said it he knew what the answer would be. His mother was in the back garden when he asked her, kneeling over the border, pulling out weed seedlings and heaping them into a small basket. How did you tell him? he asked, something cold and fearful turning over in his stomach. She straightened up, pulling her gloves off before answering him. She seemed uncertain what to say.

David, she said, and she looked up at him.

Did you even? he asked quietly. She put the gloves back on and pulled more weeds out of the dry soil, working her way around the thickly spiked stem of a rose bush.

I thought it was best, she said. He'd been home at the right time, she said. She pulled a bulb out by mistake and pushed it quickly back in, packing the soil in around it. Her voice was stretched and thin. The dates fitted, she said. I didn't think he needed to know. David turned away before she'd finished speaking. I thought he'd find it easier, not knowing, he heard her say, her voice falling away into the earth.

Sometimes, it was light outside before he was able to sleep. He would sit on the edge of the bed, reading, listening to the radio, his hands shaking. Or he would stand by the window, looking out at the lamplit blur of the night sky, hearing the occasional shouts and sirens drift faintly across the city. Or he would slip out of the house and walk through the shadowed streets, thinking, unable to think, trying to pound some sleep into his tired body. His colleagues got used to him rushing through the front door half an hour or an hour late, toast crumbs around his mouth, his shirt tucked in and his tie knotted as he ran from home. I'm sorry, I slept through the alarm, he would say, and Maureen on the front desk would usually reply that he didn't look as if he'd slept at all, beckoning him over to straighten his collar and tell him to wipe his mouth before the seniors saw him. They started to joke about it in the staffroom, marking up a graph of his arrival times on the noticeboard, and he had no answer when Malcolm asked him what was on his mind so much these days, and he could only smile and pretend to look embarrassed when Anna said odds on it's a woman and they all laughed. It was easier to let them think like that. He wouldn't have known where to begin if he'd wanted to tell them what it really was.

Your misuse of museum time and resources has also been noted, with particular regret.

He went to the archive office at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, where Julia and his mother had worked, and under the pretence of a research project he searched through the lists of patients in the maternity wing at the relevant time. But he found nothing. He contacted trades unions, and Irish emigrant workers' associations, and even tracked down a domestic service museum in Bath, looking for more archives he could search through, looking for a box of files which would reveal a line of detail on a Mary who had stopped work suddenly in 1945. But he found nothing. Domestic employment tended to be rather informal, he was told. The names weren't always recorded, or even known. He went to Somerset House and found that the entry for his own birth matched the birth certificate he had, listing his mother and father as Dorothy Carter and Albert Carter, and when he got home he asked furiously how such a lie had been incorporated into official history. But his mother could tell him nothing. He wrote letters, on headed museum paper, to museums and social centres across Donegal and the north of Ireland, asking for artefacts and recollections connected with domestic service in England during the war, and although he accumulated a large boxful of photographs and transcribed interviews he found no answers there. He discovered that history's secrets are not always easily found, that all the archives in the world weren't enough when he didn't even know who or what he was looking for, or where he should be looking.

These matters have all been discussed with you, formally and informally, on previous occasions. This letter therefore serves as a written warning that if an immediate improvement in your standard of work is not forthcoming, disciplinary proceedings will commence with a view to terminating your employment. As a valued member of staff we would very much hope that this does not become necessary.

He sometimes wondered what would have happened if he had lost his job then. He tried to construct an alternative story from the scraps of what would have remained, wondering if he would have gone to see Eleanor again, wondering if he would have found another job in a museum or whether that would have been the end of it, wondering whether he would have read and re-read Eleanor's letters with bitter regret instead of excitement and then fond recollection. He wondered what other story he would have ended up with, carried on the backseat of his car to show someone who at long last wanted to know.

But it was impossible to say, he knew. There was no clear parallel life into which he would have fallen had his job been taken away from him, just as there hadn't been a celibate loneliness waiting for him in the event of his failing to notice Eleanor in the tea room that day. Just as he hadn't been irrevocably formed, or broken, the moment Julia had said you can leave him with me, I'll look after him until you get back. It was more complicated than that. Lives were changed and moved by much smaller cues, chance meetings, overheard conversations, the trips and stumbles which constantly alter and readjust the course of things, history made by a million fractional moments too numerous to calibrate or observe or record. The real story, he knew, was more complicated than anything he could gather together in a pair of photo albums and a scrapbook and drive across the country to lay out on a table somewhere. The whole story would take a lifetime to tell. But what he had would be a start, he thought, a way to begin. What he had would be enough to at least say, here, these are a few of the things which have happened to me, while you weren't there. This is a small part of how it's been. You don't need to guess any longer, you don't need to imagine or wonder or dream. This is a small part of the truth.

19 Identity badge, Junior Curatorial Assistant, Coventry Museum, w/photo, 1967

He came out of work one evening, almost a year after Julia had first let everything slip, and saw his mother, waiting for him. He stopped, hesitating, looking back through the foyer towards the stairs to his office, wondering if there was some work he could catch up on. He carried on down the steps, saying goodbye to two of his colleagues and catching Dorothy's eye as she turned round. She smiled at him, and he nodded, glancing away up the street.

Hello love, she said. I just got off the train and I thought I'd see if you were around, you don't mind, do you? Who are those two? I don't think I've met them before. She was talking quickly, her hands fidgeting at her waist, and she leant in towards him as he told her that that was Paul from Conservation and a girl called Anna who was doing her second work placement from university. He didn't look at her as he spoke. Well, they both seem nice, she said, her hands still pulling at each other. Is work going okay then? He shrugged and started walking, and she walked with him, saying oh, well, as long as work's going okay, her voice trailing out as she waited for him to pick up the thread and tell her something more, some new project he'd been working on, a disagreement he'd had with another curator, something funny a visitor had said, any small part of his day he might want to share with her. But he said nothing.

They turned the corner towards the two cathedrals, Dorothy having to break into a half-run occasionally to keep up with his long strides. She said, I just got back from seeing Julia. She said, she's not doing too badly, all things considered. He didn't reply. She said, the nurses there are doing a very good job with her; it can't be easy.

They walked past the old cathedral, and David glanced up at the ruined north wall, the unroofed sky a burnished August blue through the arched hole where the windows had once been. He'd seen archive photos of the fire, the great billowing folds of flame reaching up through the sky to light the bombers' path, and he'd read the accounts of the churchwardens who'd put themselves on fire duty, chasing across the lead roof with buckets of sand, booting fizzing incendiaries into the road until they'd had to retreat down long ladders and watch the whole city burn. She said, I went over and cleaned her house afterwards. It doesn't look like Laurence has been there for a long time. We'll have to think about doing something with all her things sooner or later, I mean, there's a whole lot of it in there. We'll have to talk to someone about it, she said. She touched his arm, and he jerked it away. Oh, she said. Sorry love. He didn't say anything.

They walked past the looming walls of the new cathedral, with its tall narrow windows letting the light squeeze in, with the skeletal steel spire that crowds had gathered to watch being lowered into place by helicopter, and she said, well anyway, we'll have to talk to Laurence about it, when the time comes. She said, I don't suppose he'll be much use though. David didn't say anything. They stood across the road from the bus station, waiting for the traffic to clear so they could cross. She said, when are you going down there next? She said, I'm sure she'll be very pleased to see you again you know. A heavy lorry clattered past, loaded with rubble and soil from a building site, and they both stepped back.

She said, David, don't be like this, please. She was out of breath from trying to keep up with him. She said, David, please, I can't.

They crossed the road, and as they walked round past the bus station she said, I thought I might have a go at getting the garden tidied up this weekend. It's been getting a bit out of hand again. She said, of course it was your father who was the expert, and they both flinched a little at her use of the no longer comfortable word. She glanced at him, and continued, saying, but I imagine he'd have a thing or two to say if he saw the garden now, don't you think? He looked at her, not quite meeting her eye, and made a gesture with his head which was almost a nod. She sighed impatiently, and said, yes, well, it's up to you whether you want to give us a hand or not. Give me a hand I mean, she said, correcting herself.

She said, David, are you even listening to me? They crossed the route of the new ring road, following the fenced footpath between a maze of trenches and banks and towering concrete stilts. She said, this isn't going to make things any easier you know. She said, I mean, I know you're upset, but I don't see how this is going to help David. He didn't say anything. She held his arm, and said, David, and again he pulled it away.

They walked through the streets beyond the city centre, past flat-fronted terraces which opened straight out on to the street, past bay-windowed semis by the park, past a row of houses which had once been watchmakers' workshops, the attic windows built tall and broad to let the light flood in on their intricate work. They crossed the road by a parade of shops and started walking up the long hill which led towards their house.

She stopped for a moment to get her breath back, and when he didn't wait for her she scurried after him, turning to try and meet his eye, saying, David, how long are you going to keep this up? He didn't say anything. She said, what do you want me to do? She said, David, I've said I'm sorry; I've said it over and over again; what else do you expect me to do? It's not fair David, she said, it's just not fair. And if it hadn't been for people walking nearby she would have been shouting, the force of it already trembling in her voice.

Do you think I never worried about this? she said, a moment later. He was silent, and she said again what she'd already said so many times: I was going to tell you; I wanted to tell you. I was waiting for the right moment and I never found it and then it only got harder, I couldn't think of a way to begin. I'd have had to tell your father as well, and I thought you'd both be better off not knowing. She reached into the sleeve of her jacket for a tissue, and David still didn't speak.

They walked past the school Albert had been working on before he died, built to take the pressure off the overcrowded grammar Susan and David had both attended, where temporary classrooms had hidden the bomb-craters in the playground and lunch breaks had had to be taken in shifts. They turned the corner into their estate, past a small strip of woodland, and left again into their street.

She said, in desperation, David, I never lied to you. If you'd ever asked me I would have told you the truth, but you always seemed happy with the way you thought things were; it didn't seem fair to upset things for you. I wouldn't have lied to you, ever, she said. You believe that at least, don't you?

He stopped abruptly and looked at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since he'd seen her at the bottom of the museum steps. He peered at her for a moment, closely, as if watching to see what else she had to say, and when he saw that she was starting to cry he allowed a smile to open out across his otherwise impassive face before turning away. She watched him go. She called his name, quietly in case the neighbours heard. She followed him to the door. She said, oh if your father was here you wouldn't, and he turned, waiting for her to finish her sentence, but she said nothing more. He stood in the opened doorway, blocking her path, and saw Susan walking up the street towards them.

He said, almost in a whisper, you've got no idea, have you? He stood aside to let her into the house, and as she squeezed past him the phone started to ring. He left it a moment, watching her disappear upstairs, and when he picked it up he was almost breathless with the adrenalin pulsing through him. He said hello and Eleanor said guess what? Guess what? Oh David, you'll never guess what.

20 Examination results, Scottish Highers, July 1967

A single sheet of paper, slightly larger than letter-size, an expensive-looking rough-grained texture with a circular watermark just visible about halfway down the page. The name of the examinations board at the top, an address, a reference number. An official seal at the bottom, lipstick red and frilled at the edges. A ruled table with columns for subject, paper, date, and grade. The thick black type that can change a life. The paper held delicately, at arm's length, as though creasing it or tearing it would invalidate what it said. As though the ink were still wet and could be smudged or removed.

She hadn't got any sleep the night before it came, she told him. He imagined her sitting up all night, drinking cocoa and trying not to think about it. Sitting in the kitchen, sitting in the front room, in her father's chair, standing out in the backyard, looking down at the lights in the harbour, softened and wavering in the warm night air.

She didn't want to open it when it came, she said. She heard the letter box go and she sat in the kitchen and she didn't move. The envelope landed with a tap and a skid across the smooth stone floor, and it was a minute before she stalked out of the kitchen with a butter-knife at the ready to slit open the envelope. The brown paper broke into two rows of jagged teeth. She slid out the letter and unfolded the clean white sheet.

She didn't know what she was expecting. For months she'd been going over it in her head, going backwards and forwards, convincing herself she'd passed, convincing herself she'd failed. She didn't know what was going to happen. She didn't know what she wanted to happen. It was new territory; her staying on at school at all had been new territory for the whole family. Her mother had left school at fourteen to work at Williamson's, learning to gut and split and fillet the heavy flat fish with vicious speed, salting and carrying them into the field and spreading them out like great white sheets in the sun to dry. Her father had left school at eleven to help his father's friend in the shipyard at the bottom of the hill; there was a photo of him from soon after he'd started there, half-hidden in a group of hard-looking men all bristling with moustaches and hammers and tongs, his small eyes shut tight against the blaze of the flashgun, his cap a few sizes too big for him still. So they didn't understand, either of them, what Eleanor had been doing at school those last few years, why she'd carried on fussing with books and things when she could have been bringing money into the house.

She unfolded the sheet of clean white paper, and read the words in thick black type. Chemistry, B. English, C. Geography, B. Mathematics, C. Physics, B. She read the words over and over, holding the paper up to the light, a pale gasp of excitement breaking out from her pursed lips. The first in the family to stop on at school, and now the first in the family, the first in the street, to go on to university. She refolded the paper and put it back into the jagged-toothed envelope. She propped it up on the kitchen table, leaning it against the empty cocoa mug, staring at it, checking her name and address on the front. She didn't know what to do straight away, who to tell, whether to have a drink and celebrate, whether to start packing her bags there and then.

All the different ways there were of leaving home, and the one she'd chosen had finally settled within reach. Her first brother, away with the merchant navy before she was even born. Her second and third brothers married. Her sister, gone with a story that no one ever spoke of. And now her, with a place waiting at Edinburgh University, ready to slip out of the house for good.

She heard footsteps on the wooden stairs and her mother came into the room, standing just inside the doorway, looking at her. What's that you've got there? she asked, her voice a little slow with sleep.

Eh? It's just a letter from the school, Eleanor said, leaning over it slightly. Is Da awake? she asked. Is he up yet?

No, he's still sleeping for now, her mother said, walking across to the kettle and filling it with water. What's the letter for? she asked. Eleanor turned round in her chair.

It's the results, she told her. Ivy put the kettle on top of the stove.

Oh aye? she said. I didn't know you were expecting those. There was a creaking from upstairs, the sound of someone getting out of bed, footsteps across the floor. So what does it say? Ivy asked. Eleanor listened for the steps to come downstairs. She glanced up at the ceiling, and at her mother, and at the empty doorway. Well? her mother said. Eleanor handed over the piece of paper in its thin brown envelope.

It's good, she said quietly, pre-emptively, watching her mother's eyes scan over the words. Or she didn't say anything, and looked the other way.

Ivy read the sheet of paper, nodded, and made an mmhmm sound in the back of her throat. Oh aye, she said. Stewart came into the room and looked at them both expectantly. Ivy handed him the sheet of paper and went back upstairs. Will you make that pot of tea? she said, as she left the room. Eleanor watched her go, unsure whether to be shocked or not, waiting to see if she would come back and say anything more. Her father looked at the results and let out a long low whistle, breaking into a shuffling jig around the kitchen table, pulling Eleanor into a tight and startling embrace, rushing to get dressed and knock on the neighbours' doors, launching a day of toasts and hugs and hearty thumps on the back — and never you mind what your mother thinks, he whispered to her at one point, wonderfully — a day in which the letter would take pride of place on the front-room mantelpiece, repeatedly taken down and unfolded and passed around from hand to careful hand.

And by six o'clock, when the front room was crowded full, the men still in their workclothes and the women quickly changed out of their aprons and headscarves into something a little smarter, their glasses full to the brim, and the conversations falling round to work and weather and sport, she managed to slip out of the house to the telephone box, dialling the number she still had scribbled on a paper napkin from work.

It was the first time she'd actually phoned him. After all their letters, and after all the times they'd spent together, it was still somehow unexpected. Her voice sounded strange and thin, coming all that way down the line while he stood in the entrance hall of the house, twisting the cable in his hand and glaring at his sister who had come down from upstairs to look at him accusingly.

That's bloody brilliant Eleanor, he said when she told him the news, and his excitement was as much from her phoning at all as from what she had to say. Her voice, breaking into his neat house like that, made him feel as though he were passing some kind of test. I knew you'd do it, he said.

Oh, she said, and then she was quiet for a moment. I've been waiting for someone to say that all day, she said.

She told him everything that had happened, how she'd waited a few moments to open the letter, how she'd hoped her father would see it first, how she hadn't really been surprised by her mother's reaction, and as her money started to run out, she said quickly, so you'll be coming up to see me again soon, aye? I'll see if I can't arrange for my folks to go away again, she said slyly. And he grinned and said you do that as the line went dead.

He sat on the bottom of the stairs for a minute, holding the warm receiver in his hand, looking out through the still open front door. His mother had gone outside with a pair of shears and her gardening gloves, and was busily cutting the hedge. She hacked at it with loose, stabbing gestures, letting the cut branches fall around her, stopping now and again to wipe the backs of her wrists across her eyes, glancing at him through the doorway once or twice. He put the phone down and went upstairs.

21 Train ticket, Aberdeen-Coventry (single), 15 September 1968

Eleanor took a model wooden boat from her bottom drawer, wrapped it in an old piece of newspaper, folded it into a navy-blue sweater, and tucked it down into a corner of the suitcase. She pressed folded skirts and blouses around it, a pair of shoes stuffed with balled-up socks and stockings, a handful of knickers, a pair of blue jeans, a dress still wrapped in the dry-cleaner's bag. She packed her field notes and sketches, her textbooks, her washbag, a packet of tissues, a hairbrush which had once belonged to her sister. She packed a magazine, a pillowcase, an envelope full of photographs and a thick bundle of letters, and when she pressed the lid down and forced the catch closed there was still plenty left that she wanted to squeeze in. Her father appeared in the doorway.

You all done there then petal? he asked, his head angling towards her and his thick eyebrows crinkling upwards. She looked at him a moment and tried a smile.

Aye, I think so, she said, as much as this case can manage anyhow, and she pushed on the lid to make sure the catches weren't going to burst open and spring her possessions back out into the room. She stood by the window, looking out down the street, towards the harbour. Stewart sat down on the chair in the corner of the room.

What time's he here? he asked.

About five, she said, looking at her watch.

Not be long now then, he said, folding his arms.

No, she said, not long.

Stewart must have sat in that room before, watching a son or a daughter pack up and leave, and now he was having to watch the last of his children go through the same routine; looking around for something forgotten, stroking the hair on the back of the head, not being able to look him in the eye. It was no easier now, surely, than the first time must have been.

You're not going for long then? he said. Just for a week or so?

No, she said, not long.

And you're sure you don't want to wait for your mother to come home first? She'll be awful surprised. Eleanor shook her head.

The train will go before she comes back, she said. She won't be back from work until six.

No, he said, I know. He narrowed his eyes, briefly, and she turned away, embarrassed, looking out of the window again.

It's not five yet, is it? he asked.

No, she said; I just wanted to be sure. He stood, slowly, lifting himself to his unsteady feet by pushing on the wooden arms of the chair, and picked up the suitcase.

Well, he said, puffing a little, let's at least get you all downstairs and ready for the young man. You sure you've got everything in here? he asked again, moving awkwardly towards the door and the top of the stairs. Eleanor tried to take the case from him.

I'll be alright with that Da, she said, let me take it. He put it down and turned to her, breathing heavily, and said now Eleanor, you're not out that front door yet. She didn't say anything. She looked at the floor and nodded, or she looked straight at him and tried to say all the things she was feeling, or she turned to the window again. He picked up the case and went downstairs, one heavy step at a time, clutching on to the handrail, stopping twice to get his wind, and by the time he got to the bottom his breath was pinched and loud. Eleanor stood in her room, trying not to listen, looking at the two neatly made beds, the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the chair in the corner, the window.

He was sitting in his armchair in the corner when she got downstairs, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief, the suitcase squatting in the middle of the room. She stood in the doorway. The street outside was quiet, the children and their families away to the beach, and the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the softening wheeze of her father's breath. They heard hurried footsteps outside, and a knock at the door, and they looked at each other.

That'll be David then, she said, and he nodded.

He was standing in the entranceway at home when she told him what had happened, just as he'd been standing there when she'd told him about her exam results a year earlier, fiddling with the address book and pens on the phone shelf, the last of the evening's light falling through the glass panels of the front door. It took him a while to understand what she was saying, her words not making sense even once he'd told her to slow down and start again.

But she can't do that, he said. It's not up to her; she can't just not let you go. Eleanor sighed impatiently, and it was years before he realised just how wrong he'd been. He heard her dropping more coins into the slot, and she said so what am I going to do?

She'd come in from supper, she told him, a bit later than usual because she'd been round the shops with Heather after work. There's something we need to discuss, her mother had said, as she sat down at the table, and straight away she'd heard something in that voice, in those words, something she was more than used to. She'd turned to her father, but he'd looked down at his empty plate and said only, are you not going to wash your hands before you come to the table now? She got up from her chair, washed and dried her hands at the sink, and sat down again, and as she did so her mother took a large white envelope from her lap and slid a stapled bundle of papers from it. A letter came for you from Edinburgh, from the university, she said.

It's not the first time she's done that David, Eleanor told him. I wasn't surprised about that part of it at all.

It's a list of all the things you'll be wanting when you start down there, her mother said. It's an awful long list. There's a couple dozen books and some of them are costing near ten bob each. Eleanor caught her father glancing up at her, and she could see already what was happening. You'll need a set of bedlinen for your room, her mother said, and a whole lot of stationery. And you know what else? It says here you'll be needing formal wear on occasion. On occasion!

She said all this, she told him, with a voice put on, a voice Eleanor described as her airs and graces voice.

So tell me, her mother went on, since you're the bright spark of the family now, where were you planning on finding formal evening wear, and bedlinen, and all those books? How were you thinking we were going to pay for it all? Because I don't think a year's worth of serving teas has quite covered it, has it now? She leant towards Eleanor, lowering her voice. Or had you not given it any thought, eh? she said.

The food was ready on the table. A large brown casserole dish on a mat in front of Stewart, steam piping out of the small hole in the lid. Butter melting over the hot salted potatoes in their bowl. Half a loaf of bread ready to be cut on the board, and no one touching a thing. Eleanor looked back at her mother, and perhaps allowed herself a smile as she saw a way around all these objections. Or perhaps she didn't dare smile. Perhaps she sat lower in her chair, dropping her gaze from the cold stillness of her mother's eyes.

There's a grant will pay for that, she said, quietly, or proudly, or defiantly. They give you a grant for all your expenses.

I thought that would be enough David, she said, her voice stumbling and rushing down the phone line towards him. I thought she'd maybe smile or say that's okay then at least, she said.

But instead there was her mother's hand cracking down on to the table, a flinch from both Eleanor and her father, her mother's voice cutting sharply into the room, saying this family has never taken charity and it's not about to start off now.

It's not charity, replied Eleanor, and David imagined that there were already tears in her eyes as she realised how soon the conversation would be over. It's a grant, she said. Everyone gets one, she said.

She'd worked a year for this, saving her wages from the tea room and working spare shifts at the social club so that her mother wouldn't have this excuse, couldn't say these things, and it seemed impossible that it would all come to nothing now, that the plans she'd made so carefully were not going to work out. She'd studied the prospectus so many times it was falling apart; she had a room booked in the halls of residence, and a suitcase ready to pack, and textbooks already bought. She'd been waiting a year for this, she'd been waiting her whole life for this.

It's a grant, she said again, hopelessly. Everyone gets one.

A couple of times before, waiting together at the station for his train, he'd said why don't you come with me, only half as a joke, and both times she'd been cross and said he wasn't to say that, it wasn't funny, it wasn't fair. But that August evening, with Eleanor waiting on the end of a 400-mile phone line, with the sunlight pouring through the frosted glass, with all the bearings he'd always taken for granted so recently pulled away, he saw with absolute clarity that it could be as easy as saying the words. That things can sometimes happen just because you ask them to.

What am I going to do? she asked him again.

He walked from the train station to her house in a slight daze, uncertain of what was going to happen, or whether he was even doing the right thing. The harbour quays seemed quieter than usual, the road less busy. A trawler headed towards the mouth, the low sputter of its engine floating back across the water. From somewhere on the north side came the sound of hammer on sheet steel, ringing through the afternoon. The still dry air was salted with the smell of fish and diesel and rusting iron. He got to the bridge, and crossed over the Dee into Torry, stopping a moment to wipe the sweat from his face, his hands, the back of his neck.

He walked up the hill, quickening his pace as he got closer, anxious to get it over with. There were very few people around, and his footsteps sounded out loudly along the narrow street. The front-room window of her house was open when he got there, and as he knocked on the door he heard her voice through the net curtain saying that'll be David then, and her father muttering something in brief reply.

He didn't go inside. He waited by the door, listening to their low voices, listening to her footsteps clattering quickly up and down the stairs, and then she wras there, ready, with him. Stewart met his eyes just once, as the three of them stood there shuffling their feet.

David, he said, nodding.

Afternoon Mr Campbell, he replied, as though they were bumping into one another in the street, as though it wouldn't be long before they saw each other again. He picked up Eleanor's suitcase. He said, well. He turned away, while Eleanor said goodbye to her father, and then he walked with her back down the hill.

22 Book of Co-op dividend stamps, 1968

Stewart took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the sweat on his forehead, to keep it from trickling into his eyes. He stood, with one hand on the door frame, one foot on the front step, watching the pair of them until they'd rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill, waiting to see if one or other of them might turn around, just once. Or he went back inside as soon as they'd said their goodbyes, closing the door sharply behind him, breathless with rage and regret. Or he waited a moment, went inside to put the kettle on, and came back out to see whether they might not, after all, still be there.

Later, with a cup of tea poured out but not yet drunk, sitting in his armchair by the window, he heard the front door open and Ivy come in, talking to Donald. They stood in the doorway, Donald holding two baskets of shopping from the Co-operative, Ivy out of breath from the long walk up the hill. She smiled. Enough in the pot for us, is there? she asked.

Aye, but it'll be stewed by now, he replied quietly. He nodded hello to Donald. Ivy looked at him and stepped into the room.

What's got you? she asked.

You're home early, Stewart said.

The job was done, so they let us go before time, she said. She studied his face. What are you not telling me? What's got you? she asked again. Stewart said nothing, looking away into the empty fireplace. Has something happened? she said. There been an accident?

No, he said. No accident.

What then? she insisted. Eh?

Stewart took a deep breath, and waited. Donald turned away, saying something about putting the shopping down in the kitchen and making a fresh pot.

Our Eleanor's away to the train station, Stewart said, pinching at the loose skin on the back of his knuckles.

Where's she going? asked Ivy sharply. Was she with that English boy?

Aye, he said. The two of them are away to the train station with a suitcase of Eleanor's things. She'll not be back for a time, he added.

Aye right, you're no mistaken there, are you? Ivy snapped sarcastically. She's no just away to the beach?

Stewart didn't reply.

Did you not try and stop them Stewart? Did you not try and keep them at least while I got back? Or did you just wave them off goodbye, eh? She came towards him as she said all this, her voice rising and breaking, and he looked away from her and he didn't say a word.

Aye and what happens now Stewart? Where are they going to? How are they going to get by? What did she say Stewart, what did she say? And by now she was shouting, until her voice collapsed and she sat suddenly down on the small sofa across from the fire.

In the kitchen, Donald was standing by the window, his hands gripping the edge of the stone sink, his head bowed, listening.

Ivy looked at her husband. She said, is she in trouble?

Stewart pulled at the skin on the back of his hand again. He twisted his finger until it clicked, painfully, in its joint. I don't know, he said.

Oh, aye, she said, her voice hardening again, I'll warrant she is. I never trusted that pair. She stood up again, peering out of the window, checking that no neighbours had seen or heard what she'd said. Stewart looked up at her, running his hands along the seams of his trousers, not knowing what more to say. In the kitchen, Donald poured out the tea and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Ivy took out a handkerchief and rubbed a smear of finger-grease from the window. She said, well, she's an adult now; she can do as she pleases. She turned away from the window, and as she left the room she said aye and she always was a handful anyway.

Stewart watched her go. He remembered when Hamish had left home, and the room had been full of people wishing him well on his way, chairs squeezed in around the walls and barely any space to move. He looked at it now, and the small house felt suddenly huge. He had the feeling that if he called out to Ivy she would be too far away to hear him. He imagined he could hear floorboards creaking, and joists settling against brickwork, as though the house were subsiding after a storm. He imagined he could hear the echo of footsteps, fading away. Children's voices whispering into the distance.

He stood, and walked slowly through to the kitchen.

He said, Ivy, don't be too hard on the girl now, eh? He said, you've been doing that for too long.

23 Handwritten list of Coventry addresses, August 1968

No one ever said it out loud, but he knew that people thought he was rushing into things, acting carelessly, stupidly even. His friends, when he told them, all paused for a moment too long before offering their congratulations, as if they were checking that they'd heard him right, wondering who this girl Eleanor was even. His colleagues at work, when he gave out the invitations, read them and said oh, you're really going ahead with this then? And his mother, trying so hard not to say the wrong thing, not to make things between them any worse than they already were, still managed to say too much when she said but David, I'm just worried. I just want what's best for you.

And the front door slammed, again, and she noticed that the paint was starting to flake away around the edges of the frame.

Susan, being Susan and having a better idea than Dorothy of what not to say, asked him about it more disinterestedly: meeting him for a drink after work and saying so anyway, when did you ask her to marry you? How long did it take her to say yes? When is she coming down? Nodding and smiling when he said not long; saying oh I'm only joking when he refused to tell her whether he'd gone down on one knee. She waited a moment, reaching into her pocket for a packet of cigarettes muttering don't tell Mum as she lit one, and then she said so tell me about her anyway David. I mean you haven't said much. What's she like?

There were so many things he could have said.

He could have described the way she looked; she's shorter than me but not by much, she's got quite long hair, it's a kind of faded brown but it goes blonde in the sun and it falls across her face when she's daydreaming, she doesn't smile all that often but when she does the whole shape of her face changes, it gets rounder and softer, and her eyes are the colour of honey and her skin, her skin's so smooth it's like it's been polished by the cold north wind, and her body, I mean, her skinny hips her slip of a waist her pebble-round shoulders her smooth small breasts I mean I can't keep my hands to myself when I'm with her she's so warm and alive and she's just so I mean when she undresses I just want to applaud and do you know what I mean?

But he didn't say this. He took out a photo and showed it to Susan, and she smiled and said oh, well, she's pretty isn't she? and he took it back and said I know.

He could have described the way he felt when he was with her; she's the only girl I know who laughs at my jokes, and the sound of her laughing is my favourite sound in the world, we do so much talking when we're together, we talk about so many things and it's exciting to find out about her and have her find out about me, it's great to have someone so interested in who I am, and she loves making plans, she makes plans for us, we make plans, what we'll do in the future, where we'll go, she makes anything and everything seem possible and she wants to do it all with me, she wants me to be a part of her life and that's all I've ever wanted, does that make sense to you at all?

But instead he shrugged and said, I don't know, we just get on well together. And Susan said well, that's good. That's the main thing.

He could have said I've never felt like this about anyone before.

He could have said and you know what? She doesn't keep any secrets from me.

To which Susan could have replied how do you know that? You can't know that.

But he didn't say these things, and she didn't reply.

Instead, he talked briefly about Eleanor leaving school with good exam results, about her saving up for a year to go to university and her family now not allowing her to. He said that she was going to study geology at the new university, once they were settled in. He mentioned the flat he'd found, and the social club he'd booked for the reception, and Susan said it sounded like he'd got it all worked out, she was impressed.

And you're sure you're doing the right thing? she asked. He laughed.

No, I'm not sure, he said. But I can't imagine doing anything else.

24 Doorkey on a knotted loop of string; Wedding certificate, October 1968

It rained the day they moved into their first home together, a second-floor flat on a main road about half an hour's walk from the museum. It was early evening by the time she unlocked the door and they burst in, rainwater streaming from their hair and down the collars of their damp clothes.

You said the weather was finer in England, she said, laughing accusingly, wiping her face with her hands.

I lied, he said, holding up his hands in surrender, letting her come for him.

It had rained all day. It was raining when he left home in the morning, a thin drizzle which seeped through his new suit and clung to his skin, and it was raining when he stood on the steps of the registry office to wait for her, the rain thickening and the woman behind the front desk coming outside to hand him an umbrella, saying he wanted to be careful he didn't catch a cold. It was raining when Eleanor arrived, ten minutes late, in a car his friend Danny had borrowed from his uncle and strung with white ribbon, and she had to lift the skirts of her dress a little as she came up the steps towards him, smiling and avoiding his eyes, sheltered from the rain by a folded newspaper Danny held over her head. It was raining when they repeated their vows, raising their voices over the noise of the rain rattling impatiently against the wired-glass skylights, the dozen of them in that small office-like room glancing up at the heavy sky, and it was raining as they drove to the reception.

Everyone was waiting for them when they arrived, David's family and his colleagues from the museum and his friends from school, and some of them rushed out with umbrellas to gather the two of them safely in, and some of them stood in the doorway and laughed, and everyone raised the first glass of many as David stood on a chair to welcome them all, and thank them for coming, and ask them to tuck into the food which had been provided. And the afternoon went by as fast as the rain flashing past the window — people shaking his hand and offering advice, or tipping a cheek towards him for a kiss and beaming congratulations, and his mother crying, of course, partly from happiness and partly from his father not being there to see it, and his grandparents, all the way up from Suffolk for the first time, saying they couldn't believe how much he'd grown and they couldn't believe he was marrying already and how happy they were for him, and Eleanor sitting quietly for a while when Susan said something about welcome to the family, but she couldn't sit for long because someone drifted by to talk to her and squeeze her hand and fill her glass. And the speeches came and went, and the music got louder, and the tables, littered with half-eaten sausage rolls and cucumber sandwiches and emptied-out bowls of cheese and onion crisps, were pulled to one side so the two of them could be pushed across the carpet to dance.

I kept wanting to stop and take pictures, they told each other later. I wanted to write things down so I wouldn't forget them. I just wanted to stand still and watch and not have anyone say anything to me for a moment because I was worried it was all passing me by.

The photos they ended up with, mostly taken outside the registry office and stuck into a slim red album, didn't seem quite enough. He wanted more. He kept the cards people gave them, with their messages of love and good luck and best wishes, but they had nothing in them about the day itself, and he wanted more. I'll just have to keep telling you about it, she said, smiling, when he said these things to her, so you don't forget.

There was more dancing, and more speech-making. There was a table loaded with gifts, a cake, balloons being burst by excited children, singing. There was his mother crying again, there were people catching him for a quick hello and well done before someone else interrupted, there were people saying they knew it was early but they were sorry they had to be off, and then it seemed like no time at all before they were calling out their sudden goodbyes and running back through the rain to the car. And his family and his friends all crowded together in the entrance to wave and cheer them both on their way, and the children threw rice and confetti over the car, and the rice falling against the window sounded like yet more rain. Danny drove them the short distance to the flat, and as they got out of the car the rain seemed to fling itself down with one final flurry of temper, soaking them through in the brief time it took to run from the car, up the steps, and in through their new front door.

The flat seemed lighter and larger than he'd remembered. She whirled around in excitement, the lace-edged skirts of her white dress lifting and billowing out around her pale legs for a moment before she stopped and looked at him, proudly, and said what do you think?

He hardly recognised it. She'd obviously been busy during the few rushed weeks between coming down from Aberdeen and their wedding day. When the landlady had shown him around the flat he'd worried that it might be too cramped, or too gloomy, and he'd worried about what Eleanor might think. But she'd said it was fine when she'd first seen it, and then she'd banished him, insisting that she stayed there and he lived at his mother's until they were married, not letting him see what she was doing to the place.

She'd cleaned the windows and thrown away the filthy net curtains; she'd scrubbed and polished every possible inch of floor and wall and surface; she'd arranged the furniture so that there was room to move around. There were new sheets on the bed, and clean covers on the settee. There was a vase of flowers in the bedroom, and the lounge, and even the kitchen. There were large framed pictures of butterflies on the wall. It felt like a different flat entirely, and for the first time he understood what it was going to mean to share his life with somebody.

It's not bad, is it? he said. You've done a smashing job, he said, and there was something almost child-like about the look of proud pleasure which swept across her face. She turned and rushed suddenly around the room, closing the curtains, locking the door, taking out her earrings and putting them in a small bowl on the mantelpiece over the gas fire, turning back to him with a smile.

Hey, she said, hooking a finger into the waist of his trousers and pulling him towards her. Can you help me out of this dress now?

Their nakedness felt strange all over again. He felt inadequate, set against her. His body seemed shapeless, awkward, where hers was poised and flowing, delicate, ready to knock him into silence at the first sight of her. It didn't take long for them to grow more comfortable with each other — to insist on the abandonment of towels, sheets, needless underwear; to allow each other the long slow looks they needed to grow used to the bareness of their skin — but that first morning they dressed quickly, turning away from each other, barely speaking. They walked out into the cold-edged sunshine, their steps a little clumsy together, dazed by the rush of the day before, dazed by the rush of the weeks and months since they'd first made their plans. They went to a cafe for breakfast, walked through the Memorial Park, and, because they couldn't really think what else to do, went back to the flat again. She quickened her pace as they got closer, and broke into a run, taking the steps two at a time and racing him to the front door.

They only lived in the flat for six months; it was a time which would later come to seem unreal, a time which was almost entirely spent preparing for the future. They talked a lot, sitting in the darkened lounge with bottles of wine, or lying together in bed, or walking round and round the park; asking each other questions about their lives before they met, getting to know each other, telling secrets and sharing ambitions and making plans. They asked each other, more than once, if they thought they had done the right thing, and each time they said yes, of course, what else could they have done? It was a cold winter, and they spent a lot of time apart, working or looking for work, or visiting Julia, or looking for a new place to live. The one gas fire didn't work very well, and there was a crack halfway up the bath which meant it could only be filled about six inches deep. They were short of money. They had their first arguments. But it was their home, their first home together, and Eleanor wore the front-door key on a long loop of string around her neck as though it were a talisman, and always raced him home so she could be the one to unlock the door.

Once, he was reading a magazine in the lounge when he heard the bathroom door open. He looked up and saw her walk silently into the kitchen, pour herself a glass of water, drink it, and walk back past him to the bedroom. She didn't look at him. She seemed not to notice he was there. Her skin was flushed red from the hot bathwater, her hair brushed back away from her face and hanging in straight stretched lines to her shoulders, water beading down her back. She was naked, except for the long loop of string with the key dangling from it hanging between her breasts and swinging against her stomach as her wet feet padded across the bare linoleum floor.

25 Lacework placemats (wedding gift), 1968

It took him much longer than he'd expected to tell her what Julia had said, and the longer he didn't tell her, the more difficult it became. He didn't tell her when they spent that first night together in Aberdeen, or when he wrote, or when he went to see her again. He didn't tell her while they were talking and deciding if what they were planning to do was the right thing, while he was trying to persuade her that it was. He didn't take the opportunity when they made the long journey south together, her small suitcase on the seat beside them, her home country sliding away past the window. He kept it to himself until they were married, and he kept it to himself the six months they lived in the flat, and finally he spat it out in the middle of an argument they had soon after moving into their new house, when she said he knew nothing about her parents, that he didn't understand what she'd been through as a child, her voice loud and trembling, and he banged his hand against the table and said that at least she knew who her parents were.

She flinched violently at the sound of his hand on the table. She stared at him. What are you talking about? she said. His eyes were shut tightly, and his hand pressed flat against the table, the skin whitening under his fingernails. He didn't say anything.

David, what are you talking about? she said again, putting down her knife and fork, reaching her hand out across the table, leaning towards him.

I don't know El, he said, opening his eyes. It's a bit complicated. She waited. They sat like that for a minute or two, their dinners going cold on their plates, while outside it got dark and the lights started to come on in the houses behind.

David? she said eventually.

He told her what he knew, what Julia had said so casually and mistakenly, how his mother had tried to explain, how he couldn't get it to make sense in his head. His hands were shaking when he'd finished talking, and he looked down at them in his lap, intrigued, as though he wasn't quite sure that they belonged to him. He looked up at her, smiling, embarrassed. Jesus, El, I'm in a bit of a state. I'm sorry, he said.

He wanted her to stand up, to rush round the table and hold on to him. But she didn't. She just sat and looked at him, and when she spoke she sounded confused, frightened.

She asked him all the questions he'd been asking; about whether his father and his sister had known, who else knew, how it had managed to be kept secret for so long, what it said on his birth certificate, what he knew about this girl Mary from Ireland, what he was going to do now, how long he'd known about it, how long had he known?

She tilted her head sharply towards him when he told her how long it had been, disbelievingly, as if she hadn't quite heard him right. Why didn't you tell me? she asked, and he looked down into his lap, shaking his head. How did you manage not to tell me? she said.

It's complicated, was all he could say. I don't know. I didn't know where to begin. The words sounded familiar even as he said them; they were the answers his mother had given him to the questions which had haunted their conversations since he'd first found out. How did you manage not to tell me. What were you thinking. How could you bear not to tell me.

They did the washing up together, scraping the uneaten food into the bin, standing in close silence while he stacked the pans and filled the bowl with hot water and she waited with a clean tea towel. She touched his arm. You okay? she said. He nodded, not looking at her. She slid her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his chest for a moment. I don't know what to say, she told him. I don't know how to make it better for you. He put the plates in the bowl.

There's nothing to say really, he said. It can't be changed. I'm just sorry I didn't say anything before.

No, no, it's okay, she said, don't worry, it's okay. She took her arms back from around his waist. I just wish there was something I could do, she said awkwardly. To make it easier, she said.

You could start by drying these, he told her, rinsing the plates and balancing them in the drying rack. She smiled, and didn't say anything else, and they did the rest of the dishes in silence.

Later, years later, she told him she'd been frightened. She told him that she had the sensation of his not being who she thought he was, of his slipping uncertainly away from her. It made me really panic though, she said; it felt like anything might happen. It made me feel a bit lost. It made me wonder if I'd even made a mistake, if I'd have to go back home after all or where I could go. But she didn't say these things at the time. She kept them to herself. She finished the drying up, and put everything away, and sat with him for the rest of the evening watching television, resting her head against his shoulder, slipping her hand inside his shirt and running her fingers backwards and forwards across his skin. You okay? she murmured, after a while, and he nodded.

I just can't stop thinking about it, he said. I don't know what to do about it. She kissed his cheek, and stroked his head, and kissed his cheek again.

It's okay, she said. It'll be okay. He nodded. He didn't seem convinced,

26 Geologist's rock-hammer, in original case (wedding gift, unused), c.1969

They had plans when they first got married, when he asked her to come to Coventry, to leave her home and be with him, so many plans. She was going to apply for a place at the new university in Warwick, and study for her geology degree there while he worked at the museum; she could go on and do further study, or get a job with an engineering firm, or a surveying company, or she could find a job abroad somewhere, in mining or drilling or research; there were museums all over the world where he could find work. You'll be able to do anything, he told her, and this was all she'd ever wanted to hear, and she fell in love with him saying those words. He would get a promotion by the time she finished her degree, they decided, maybe two, and he could begin to plan the new museum of his own that he'd always had in mind, and each evening they'd come back and sit together in their own home, telling each other about their days.

She would start by studying at the new university — and maybe once she'd got the degree she would take it home to show her family, to say look this is why I came away, it was worth it, was it not? Don't you think so? — and after that she'd be able to do anything. I'll be the first ever Campbell with a degree, she told him excitedly, more than once; won't that be something? She could even find a job, later maybe, with one of the oil companies that had begun to move into Aberdeen, they could live up there for a time, and things would be okay with her family again, once she'd proved herself like that, proved that all that schooling was worth it after all, and even her mother would have to say well now, Eleanor, perhaps I was wrong. Won't that be something? Eleanor said, laughing at the thought of it, standing in their kitchen with a tea towel clenched in her fist as she did an impression of her mother trying to say sorry — her face pinched and sour, her eyes lowered, the laughter cracking out of her again as she mimicked her mother's muttering voice. Won't that be something David? she said again, clapping her hands.

But it was too late to apply when she first got to Coventry. She went to talk to someone about it, about applying for the following year, and they said there was an issue with the funding, that she'd have to contact her local authority, that special rules applied for Scottish students. David didn't understand her explanation when she got back, and when he phoned them about it they weren't at all helpful. She tried to apply, but she did something wrong and the funding was refused. She went to the admissions office again, insisting that there must be a way for her to do the course, and they said there was, but unfortunately she'd have to wait until the following year.

His mother arranged a job for her, assembling component boards at the GEC factory, and after her upset about university she was glad to have something to get her teeth into. It'll be interesting to do something different for a while, she said. It'll make a change from studying books or breaking rocks or pouring teas. The new plan then was that she would work there until she could start the degree course the following year and they could save some money from her wages for books and materials. And for formal evening wear and bedlinen, he said, smiling, and she smiled back, shaking her head, tutting fondly. It'll be a good way of meeting people, his mother said; you'll want to make plenty of new friends if you're planning on settling here. But she didn't make any friends. She said it was too noisy to talk to people, or it was too busy, or that people just weren't all that friendly. She said she couldn't get the hang of the work, it was too fiddly, they wanted her to work too fast, the woman in charge of the line kept shouting at her when she got things wrong. He came home in the evenings sometimes to find her face red with furious tears, telling him she couldn't do it, she wasn't cut out for it, she didn't want to do it any more. She started not getting up in the mornings, saying she was ill, and when they sent a letter saying her services would no longer be required she said she was glad. She said she just wanted to stay at home for the time being. She could get back to doing some studying, she said; she didn't want to lose touch. Maybe she could make herself useful doing some decorating, she said, because that flowered wallpaper in the back room was really getting too much and wouldn't it be nice to have their home just as they wanted it? Just the way they 'd planned it, wouldn't that be nice?

Susan found her a job, not long afterwards, working in the canteen at the council offices, and although she said it was strange to be pouring teas again she seemed to get on well with the other people working there. It'll do for now, she said, when he asked how her first week had gone; at least until I get things sorted out with the university. They went out a few evenings each week — to the cinema, to a restaurant, for a drink after work — and they started to tackle the decorating in the rooms upstairs. They went to his mother's for Sunday lunch now and again, or had her round to theirs. He took her to visit Julia, and even though Julia was too ill to say very much, Eleanor said how glad she was to have gone. They spent long evenings talking, watching television, pulling off each other's clothes as they scrambled up the stairs. They had people round for dinner, and talked about work, politics, sport, the weather, the news. Things weren't quite as they'd expected, not yet, but they had all the time in the world for things to fall into place.

27 Model fishing boat, handmade c. 1905

Her father gave her the boat when she was no more than four or five years old. She could remember running from the kitchen to the front room one cold autumn evening, she said, the backs of her legs bright red and stinging, bruises rising blotchily beneath the skin on her arms, and her da looking down at her from his chair.

I can't remember what I'd done wrong, she said. Probably I didn't even know at the time; probably it was nothing more than my ma being in a short temper.

She stood and looked at her father, her small grubby fingers wiping her cheeks, wanting to turn around but not wanting to go back. She could hear her sister listening to music upstairs, and she could hear her mother turning the squeaking handle on the mangle in the kitchen, muttering and sighing as she crammed the wet clothes into it and choked out the water. She locked her arms around his leg and pressed her face against his hand.

That's my girl, he said, picking her up and setting her on his lap. You okay now? he asked. She thought for a moment, and nodded fiercely. Good girl, he said, smoothing down her short fair hair with his hand. Her mother had cut it again, roughly, and the sides were uneven and coarse, her fringe a slanted line across her forehead. The sun's got your hair again, hasn't it girl? he said, tracing the lines of blonde brought out of the mousey-brown by the sun. That'll be the Viking coming out of you, he said, smiling.

She'd liked the feel of his touch, she told David, the rough loose skin on his hand, the warmth of it. She'd liked it when he pinched her cheek and when he wiped her tears away with a stroke of his broad flat thumb.

Now then, he said. There's no need for all that crying, is there? Eleanor shook her head, shamefully. Would you like to see something special then, something your da's been saving for you? he said. She looked at him, not daring to nod, and he pulled a shabby cardboard box from the cupboard beside him, opening it up and peeling back the layers of crinkled yellow newspaper inside, lifting out the small model fishing boat and cradling it in his hands, feeling the scrapes and scratches which still pockmarked the hull, feeling like it could have been yesterday he was sailing this boat across the soap-sudded scullery floor while his mother scrubbed pans and sang high above him, remembering launching it off the edge of the worn back step, flipping it upside down and sending men and fish and ropes and sandwiches down into the endless ocean. He held the boat out towards her, straightening the unsteady mast and wiping it down with his handkerchief. It's an old fishing boat petal, he said. Your Granda used to go to sea on one like this. Look, see, there's the net for all the fishes, eh? He unfurled a knotted string net from the stern and draped it out across his thigh, sailing the boat across imaginary waves to his daughter, the net trailing across his oil-stained trousers, the blunt-pointed bow bucking and yawing into her outstretched hands. Do you think you can look after that for me then Eleanor? he asked. Will you keep it safe now? She looked up at him, holding the old wooden boat protectively against her chest, her eyes wide and clear, nodding solemnly. They heard the back door open, and her mother letting out a loud and weary sigh. Go on and play with that now, he whispered, gently pushing her forwards, and she slipped away to her room to sail the boat across the grey waters of a fraying rug, to cast weatherbeaten men into the hold and tip them back out into the sea.

Later, she heard her mother come up the stairs and, with a quick-thinking wisdom beyond her years, she sheltered the boat beneath the harbour of her over-hanging bedsheets before the door had even swung open. And there'll be no supper for you either my girl, so get yourself away into bed now, her mother said calmly. Eleanor undressed and got into bed without saying a word, and her mother closed the bedroom door. It was five o'clock, and she was already hungry. She closed her eyes against the daylight still flooding into the room. She listened to her father's voice, rumbling below the floorboards, and to her mother's brief muttering response. She stretched a hand out under the bed, finding and running her fingers over the gnarled and knotted wood of the model boat as she waited for sleep to come.

Sometimes, if he woke in the middle of the night and found himself alone in their bed, he would go downstairs and find Eleanor sitting on the sofa there, wide-eyed and unable to sleep, holding the model boat in her lap once more and stroking the grain of the wood. Go back to bed, she'd say, not looking at him, I'm fine. I can't sleep, that's all; it's nothing, I just can't sleep. He'd sit next to her, fetch her a glass of water, ask her if she wanted to talk, smooth her hair away from her face. You've got to work in the morning, she'd say. I'm fine, go back to bed. He'd ask her to come back to bed with him, to talk if she needed to talk, to lie down and close her eyes and come back to bed with him.

I'm fine, she'd say, leave me be. Go back to bed yourself.

28 Page torn from Aberdeen Press & Journal, crumpled, August 1968

Sometimes, if she was prompted, Eleanor would tell other people besides David about her life before she came to Coventry; Susan perhaps, or Susan's husband John, or one of David's colleagues from work, if the wine had been around the table a few times and she felt for once that no harm could come from it. You never tell us about Aberdeen, Susan would say, somewhere in the lull between main course and pudding; what's it like?

Aberdeen? she'd say. There's not all that much to tell. It was a bit colder than it is down here, there were fewer jobs about — what did you want to know?

Well, Susan would persist, I don't know. I mean, what did your parents do, and your brothers and sisters, what was your house like, that kind of thing.

And Eleanor would tell them about the small house in which all eight of them had lived, making a joke out of the bed-sharing and the outside toilet, the tin bath hanging on the wall, the belting for getting soot on the laundry that hung around the fireplace, making it all sound distant and unreal. She told them about her father's job in the shipyard, and her brothers leaving the house one by one to work in the merchant navy, the shipyard, the railways, the joiner's shop at the far end of town; and she told them about her own first job at the museum tea rooms. We didn't have much for entertainment, she told them once, mainly I had my head stuck in a book and just about the only place I could find quiet enough for reading was in the lav so long as it was warm enough. That got me in trouble as well, she said, laughing, filling her glass again, bawling out an imitation of one of her brothers — Mam! Ellie's been in there for hours, will ye tell her? — and lowering her head for a moment as she ran out of steam.

People laughed when Eleanor told these stories. Not at the stories themselves, but at the delight she took in turning these things into bleak caricatures, at the unexpected contrast with her usually quiet and self-contained self. Sometimes, David thought, people laughed more from an awkward embarrassment — especially when she joked about being sent to bed without supper for cursing, or being smacked in the teeth for losing a schoolbook — than because they were amused. She'd usually had too much to drink when she said these things, and by the time everyone had gone home she would tip over into regret. Did I say too much David? she would ask, as he helped her up the stairs. Did I embarrass myself any? Did I say too much?

Was that true? he asked her, once. What you said last night? He was standing halfway up a stepladder as he said this, a paintbrush balanced wetly on the lip of a tin. They were decorating their back room, finally, the furniture stacked under a sheet in the middle of the room, wallpaper shreds scattered across the floor. Eleanor was rubbing down the wall on the other side of the room, her hair tied back from her face with an elastic band and the sleeves of an old work-shirt rolled up to the elbow.

Hmm? she said, above the rough shush of the sandpaper. Was what true?

You know, he said, about being smacked, in the teeth you said. The words felt odd even as he said them.

Oh, that, she said, aye, of course. She seemed distracted, surprised that he'd even had to ask.

I mean, literally in the mouth? he said. She laughed a little, picking at a stray scrap of wallpaper still stuck to the bare grey plaster.

Yes David, she said. Right in the mouth. Why?

Well, he said. It just seems a bit much, that's all. She didn't say anything, and he lifted the brush to press another wet slick of pale yellow paint against the wall. They both worked in silence for a few minutes, Eleanor taking a damp cloth to wipe the dust from the wall, David dipping the brush in and out of the pot.

It didn't just happen once then? he said. She looked at him blankly.

What? she asked.

Being hit like that, he said, and again she seemed surprised that he was asking.

Well no, she said, I suppose not. It didn't happen all the time, and I suppose getting hit in the mouth was unusual. But I can't really remember. Why?

David climbed down, moved the ladder further along the wall, and climbed up again. Because it bothers me Eleanor, he said. It's not normal, it's not right. Why didn't you ever tell someone about it? She laughed tightly, as if she thought he was being naive, and she took the cloth into the kitchen to rinse it out.

Oh, come on, she said. Tell who? She came back into the room and began wiping along the top of the skirting board. Anyway, she said, changing the subject, what did you think about John last night?

John? he said. Oh, right. He seemed okay I thought. I mean, Susan seems very happy with him, doesn't she?

Aye but he doesn't say much, does he? she said. He barely said a word all evening.

David laughed.

That's because he couldn't get a word in edgeways, he said, the way you were going all night. He laughed again, and Eleanor was silent. He finished painting what he could reach from the ladder, and climbed down, and it was only when he turned round and saw how flushed her face was that he realised how much he'd upset her.

Oh El, he said. I didn't mean it. He moved towards her and she pulled away very slightly. I was only joking, he said.

I ruined the evening, didn't I? she said, whispering, staring straight ahead.

Of course not, he said. Don't be silly.

I did, she said. I ruined the evening. She put her hands over her face, as if she was ashamed even to be looked at. He sighed and put the pot and the brush down on to a sheet of newspaper.

Eleanor, he said, I was only joking. Everyone had a lovely evening. He took hold of her wrists and gently lifted her hands away from her face.

Really? she said.

Really, he said, licking his thumb and wiping a smear of plaster dust from her forehead; I promise. She wrinkled her nose and looked up at him, and the flush of embarrassment ebbed out of her face. She smiled.

I'm sorry, she said. It just worries me, what people think, especially your family and everyone. He kissed her forehead, then her nose.

They all think the world of you, he said. And so do I. He let go of her wrists, kissed her lips, and started to unbutton the worn-out shirt she was wearing, uncovering her small neat breasts. So do I, he murmured again, stooping to kiss each dark nipple, unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, slipping his hands behind her back. Eleanor stepped away, covering herself and fiddling with the buttons.

David, she said, quietly. Not now. I'm not— she said, and stopped. We've hardly started in here, she said. Give me a brush. David passed her another brush, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, surprised and a little embarrassed at himself. He moved the ladder, and went back to the painting without saying anything more.

Later, sharing a bag of chips while they waited for the first coat to dry, she said, I'm sorry about before. I just wasn't feeling like it; I wras a bit preoccupied.

It's fine, he said, pretending to have forgotten. Don't worry about it.

And the next day, when all the painting was done, the brushes washed and the spattered newspaper thrown away, the furniture shifted back into place and the pictures rehung on the wall, when they were looking around the room and each wondering if they'd ever really like the colour, she turned to him and said well, I think we're all done here now, aren't we? She swept the loose strands of hair away from her face and unbuttoned her shirt. He noticed that she still had yellow paint under her fingernails, and across one of her knuckles, and he noticed that she was shrugging her shirt to the floor.

Afterwards, lying across their bed together, he said now tell me something. She turned her face towards him, questioningly. Tell me what it was like, at home, when you were growing up. I want to know more, he said.

So she told him about watching her mother clean the kitchen floor when she was a child barely old enough to speak; hiding under the table, watching soap bubbles balloon and burst into the cold sunlight as her mother's wooden-soled shoes slid like skates across the wet flagstoned floor. The hot soapy water slopping towards her, and her mother hoisting the chairs from the floor and slamming them up on to the table as she caught glaring sight of her daughter.

She told him about her mother not talking to her for days at a time, not talking to anyone, stopping in bed with a mystery illness that nobody ever discussed.

She told him about having to make her brothers' beds each morning, slipping out of her own to straighten the mess left from the morning's rush into work, gathering the tight-rolled balls of yesterday's socks and heaping them into the wash-bag, untangling the sheets and blankets from their heap at the bottom of the bed.

She told him about her mother cutting her hair, insisting on keeping it short so that it wouldn't be any trouble, never taking any time over it so that she always came out looking hacked and shorn and the other children would tease her. I didn't dare say anything though, or ask to get it done in a shop, she said, Mam would have walloped me. It was only when she was older, fourteen, fifteen, that she resisted and persuaded her mother to let her be, and her hair began to grow long and straight and fine. I couldn't keep my hands off it for a long time, she said, smiling, playing with it even as she spoke; it seemed like such a new part of me.

She told him that once, when it had reached down to her shoulders, her brother's wife Rosalind had brushed it for her, telling her how she could keep it nice, showing her different ways of wearing it, running the brush and her fingers through it over and over again. It was the first time anyone had touched me like that, she said.

29 Set of clothes pegs, traditional style, w/hand-drawn faces, C.1920S-1950S

When Eleanor was seven years old her sister Tessa told her something awful, whispering it in her ear while they sat in their bedroom one long Sunday afternoon. Tessa was already laughing to herself when I ran downstairs to find Mam, Eleanor told David, but I didn't know if that meant it was true or it wasn't true. She found her mother in the kitchen, sitting on a chair with her hands pressed against her lower back, arching her spine, a pile of freshly wrung sheets leaking murky water into a tub in front of her. Outside, more sheets were hanging on the line, swinging and snapping in the hard wind blowing up from the sea.

Oh you've come to help, have you? Ivy said, and Eleanor looked at her blankly. Because there'll be no food on the table while these sheets are waiting to be hung. Eleanor nodded and followed her mother as she hauled the washtub out into the backyard. She fetched the basket from the scullery and took the end of the first unpegged sheet from her mother, bringing the corners together and pulling them tight, bringing the corners together again, passing the ends back to her mother and fetching the hanging end up to meet the top until there was a neatly folded square in the basket. She knew exactly what to do. She'd had plenty of practice. They folded two more in this way, and then Eleanor said Mam is it true that when you have a baby all your stomach comes out and they have to stick it back in again? Ivy looked up.

Eh, no, she said, not quite. Feels like it mind, she said, unpegging another sheet. Eleanor looked at her, eyes wide.

Does it? she said. She was quiet for a moment while they folded the next sheet, thinking. But is there any actual blood? she said, and her voice was quiet and disbelieving.

Oh aye, said Ivy, there's blood all right. She passed Eleanor the end of another sheet. When I had you, she said, looking at her daughter carefully, the whole bed was covered in blood, and every towel in the house wasn't enough to mop it up off me. Her daughter stared back at her, bringing corner to corner and fetching up the hanging end, the colour fading from her face.

Did it hurt? she whispered, and her mother laughed, a single hard snort of unamused laughter. Or she laughed long and hard, sarcastic but also genuinely entertained by her daughter's innocence. Or she didn't laugh at all, but stared and thought there's a lot I've got to teach you yet my girl.

Did it hurt? she replied. Oh, aye. Felt like my whole body was ripping in two. Felt like my bones were cracking every time I pushed. Wasn't as young as I used to be, my body was too old to be coping with that kind of nonsense. I shouldn't really have been having a baby at all at that age. Midwife said I was lucky, said she thought she was going to lose us both with all the blood that was pouring out of me.

Ivy watched the effect her words were having on her daughter. She wanted her to know how it was, to understand and be grateful. Or she deliberately wanted to frighten her, to find revenge for what had happened. Eleanor stared at her.

But your stomach didn't come out at all? she asked eventually, confused. Her mother shook her head.

No girl, she said, smiling thinly. May have felt like it, but no, my stomach didn't come out at all. Who's been telling you that? she asked, and Eleanor's eyes immediately dropped away.

No one, she muttered.

Aye, well, of course, no one, said Ivy, hoisting the first wet sheet into the blustery air and pegging it to the line, glancing up at the house. Drops of water fell from the sheet on to the cobbled ground, spattering up around Eleanor's ankles, winding their way between the stones to the gutter running along the backs of the yards. The wind began to blow stronger as they hung out the rest, Eleanor passing the ends up to her mother and holding out the pegs, and as they went back into the house one of the sheets was lifted and flapped suddenly into shape by a sharp gust, the sound like a whipcrack echoing off the dark stone walls.

A letter came from the university in the summer, and where Eleanor thought that it would confirm her successful deferred application and forthcoming start date, it said instead that the course had been withdrawn due to lack of interest. She opened it while they were having breakfast, and slammed it down on to the table so hard that her wedding ring left a dented crack in the formica. David watched her, a slice of toast halfway to his mouth, reaching across the table to read the letter for himself. No, no, no, she said, her voice brisk and determined, no. That's not fair, it's not good enough. She stood up, and her voice rose with her, building to a rarely heard shout. They already accepted my application David. They said it would be okay! They can't do this! He stood, and held her, and her voice fell away again. Can they? she said.

She telephoned the admissions office, and they said they were very sorry but they'd had no alternative. They hoped to be able to run the course the following year, they said, and she slammed down the phone with a yell of frustration. He tried to persuade her to try another university — Birmingham, or Leicester, or one of the new polytechnics — but somewhere among all that shouting she seemed to have lost her nerve. Maybe it's not a good idea, she said. Maybe it's not what I'm cut out for. He sent off for the prospectuses, but she just smiled and said thank you and put them away. Maybe next year, she said softly. I'll try again next year, eh?

30 Girls hairbrush, wooden-handled, c. 1940s

And then she told him about Tessa leaving home. It happened quickly, she said. One day she was there and the next she was gone. I woke up in the middle of the night and I heard people talking downstairs, shouting, Tessa and my ma and da, in the front room and the hall and the kitchen, doors slamming and all sorts. I heard Tessa coming up the stairs, stamping, and then it sounded like she fell.

She was eight years old when it happened, ten years younger than her sister, lying in bed with the covers pulled up over her face, trying not to listen to what was going on. But she could hear her mother asking where were you? Where've you been? over and over again, and Tessa yelling nowhere, nowhere, what do you mind? in return. She could hear her father, his voice low and insistent, and she could picture him standing between the two of them, holding them apart, trying to lower Ivy's raised hands.

She knew that there'd been talk, Talk of a man Tessa had been seen with, and how much she'd been seen with him. She didn't know what it meant to be seen with someone, but she knew that her parents didn't like it. Folk have been talking, her mother had said a few weeks earlier; I'll not have folk talking about any family of mine, you hear me?

Eleanor lay in bed, wondering what people had been saying, wondering when the shouting was going to stop. She heard her mother say aye, well I know very well where you've been young miss, do you think I'm soft in the head or something? She heard her sister's voice saying something she couldn't quite catch, a slap, and a sudden clatter of footsteps up the stairs. She lifted the covers, peering out from beneath them, holding her breath, and dropped them again as soon as the door swung open and the light burst on. And in that short bright instant before she dropped the covers she saw her sister for the last time, looking straight at her. Something had happened to her face. The skin around her eyes was coloured a pale powdery blue, her lips a swollen cherry red. Eleanor listened to her sister's heavy breathing as she stood in the doorway, and the slow pound of her mother's footsteps following up the stairs.

A few nights earlier, she'd heard another argument, in the hallway and on the street, waking up just in time to hear her father use a voice she'd never heard before nor would ever hear again, a voice which had seemed to come blazing from somewhere deep in the hold of his belly. Aye, you go on, he'd yelled. Away you go now son, away you go! And see if I ever catch sight of your face again I will batter it for you, you hear me?

She heard her mother get to the top of the stairs, and her father coming up behind, and she heard everything happening at once, everyone talking over each other and stumbling into the furniture, the sound of smacks and slaps and yelps and whispers. She closed her eyes tightly and lay perfectly still, hoping that if they thought she was asleep they would none of them talk to her, or say it was her fault, or ask her questions about it in the morning.

She heard her father saying now Ivy, let's just calm down a little.

She heard her mother saying no Stewart, no. She's gone too far now.

She heard her father saying Ivy, Ivy. She heard her mother saying quietly and calmly, that Tessa was to pack her things and leave, that she was no longer a daughter of the family and would never again be welcome in the house. She heard a soft sniffling, and the sound of drawers being opened and closed, and footsteps up and down the stairs, and people moving around and talking in the kitchen.

And when she next opened her eyes it was morning, and the room was still and quiet and bare. The sheets had been stripped from her sister's bed, and the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe was gone. Her mother came in while she was getting dressed, and without saying anything or even looking at her, she cleared the rest of Tessa's things into a black bag and put it outside by the bins.

I barely heard her name mentioned again, she told David. And if I did it was my ma saying something like, aye she'll not be coming back here again, or, she'll see what she gets if she shows her face around here. Things like that, she said, you know.

David looked at her, astonished. No, he said, I don't know. I don't know at all.

31 Nurse's fob watch, engraved RCN, 1941

When he went to visit, Auntie Julia would usually be sitting by the window, turned towards the garden, her face as blank and unconcerned as if she were gazing out to sea. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and wait for her to notice him, wondering how long she could stay so still. Sometimes the cold afternoon light would make her skin look waxed and unreal, and he would wonder if she was there at all until he saw some slight movement in her face, the rise and fall of her breathing, a flicker in her eyes.

Julia, he would say eventually.

Julia. Softly, not wanting to frighten her.

Well, come in if you're coming in, she would reply, sharply, instinctively learning to cover up for herself. No use standing there all day, my dear.

Now she didn't even say this; he had to come into the room and lay his hands on her shoulders, crouching beside her and saying her name over and over again as if calling her back from a deep sleep.

Hello Julia, he said, when she finally turned her face and met his eye. It's good to see you again, he said. How are you doing? She didn't say anything. Are you warm enough? he asked. It's cold out, are you warm enough in here? She looked at him. She seemed to be thinking about it.

What's that dear? she said.

Are you warm enough? he said again, raising his voice a little.

You're not Laurence, are you? she said. They said Laurence was coming. Is he coming?

I don't know, he told her; he should be, he will be soon I'm sure.

When? she said, leaning her ear towards him, as if he'd told her and she hadn't quite heard.

Soon, he said. Soon, I'm sure.

But when? she insisted. They said he was coming. They said he'd be here soon, she said.

Tomorrow, he told her, regretting it as soon as he'd spoken. Laurence is coming tomorrow.

Oh good, she said, I am glad. Tomorrow, she repeated, reminding herself.

But you're not Laurence, are you? she said, a few moments later.

No, he said. No, I'm not Laurence. I'm David, he said, raising his voice, slowing his words, David. I used to call you Auntie Julia, remember, Auntie Julia? She looked at him indignantly.

But I'm not your aunt, she said.

No, he said, no, you're not. It was just something we used to call you. Me and Susan.

Yes, she said, relaxing, that's right, Susan. She smiled suddenly.

She asked him for a cigarette. He found the packet in her bedside drawer and helped her to light one. She turned her face to the window, closing her eyes with each long and slow inhalation. He waited. She seemed to have fallen asleep. Her cigarette was smouldering in the ashtray, half-smoked, the filter smeared with lipstick, smoke spiralling into the air. He reached across to stub it out, and emptied the ashtray into the bin.

Julia, he said. She turned towards him. Julia, I'm thinking of going to Ireland, he said.

She looked at him. What's that? she said. Ireland, he repeated. I want to see if there's anything I can find out, he said. She smiled.

That sounds nice, she said. What time will you be back? He closed his eyes, drawing his finger and thumb along his eyebrows, pinching the tip of his nose. He couldn't help smiling a little.

I don't know what time I'll be back Julia, he said; it's a long way to go, I might stay the night. I might stay a few nights, he added.

He looked out of the window. A gardener was raking up fallen leaves, working his way around the five trees in the enclosed garden, leaving a trail of molehill heaps behind him. It had been a dry autumn, and the leaves were small, curled up at the edges. The man looked old, and was working very slowly, his breath condensing around his face as the last warmth ebbed out of the day.

Angela wanted me to come over to dinner, she said. I told her it would have to wait until next week because you were coming to stay. She smiled broadly, a brief laugh breaking out of her as she turned towards him. Her smile slipped as she caught his eye. She squinted at him, and smiled again. Hello dear, she said.

I thought I might go to Donegal, he said, leaning towards her. She was watching the gardener retrace his steps, stooping down to gather up the armfuls of leaves and put them in a wheelbarrow. I thought I might go to Donegal, he said again, when I go to Ireland, I've heard it's nice there. Do you know Donegal at all? He shuffled his seat a little closer towards hers. Do you know of any good places to visit? he said. She kept her face turned to the window. The tone of her skin was softening as the light faded, and her eyes were half closed. She didn't say anything. She seemed to be just listening to the sound of his voice.

Eleanor doesn't think I should go, he said, persisting. She says I haven't got any idea where to start, she says I'll just upset myself. She says it's too late now, after all this time, he said. Julia smiled, and nodded, and opened her mouth to say something, and closed it again.

The gardener scooped up the last little pile of leaves and pushed the wheelbarrow towards the archway at the far end of the garden. It was almost dark, and lights were beginning to come on in some of the other rooms. He could see the other residents sitting by their windows, gazing out at the bare-boned trees, their faces as blank as Julia's.

I'd like to be able to tell her I'm okay, he said, that's all.

Julia held her hands together in her lap, perfectly still. He noticed that the gardener had forgotten to take his rake, leaving it leaning against the branches of one of the trees.

Did she never try and get back in touch? he said. Didn't she write, just to ask? He spoke softly, as if being careful not to wake her. It's difficult, he said, not even a surname. To know where to start, he said.

She reached out towards the ashtray, looking for the cigarette, and caught his eye. For a moment he thought she looked frightened. She seemed to flinch away from him.

Have you seen my cigarettes? she said irritably. What have you done with my cigarettes? He took the packet from her bedside drawer and helped her to light another one. She smoked it quickly and unsteadily, spilling flakes of ash on to her cardigan.

They're digging up the road again, she said. I told them. Josephine wanted to come and stay and I said you'd be more than welcome but it's not the best time. I was terribly surprised but there wasn't all that much I could do. That man, what was his name, he told me, what did he say, that man?

He listened to her talking, watching the small movements of her hands, shrunken versions of the expansive gestures she used to make when she spoke, her fingers twirling tiny circles in the air as she tried and failed to pull her thoughts together. She faltered back into silence, her cigarette burning down to the filter in her hand. He reached out and took it from her, squashing it into the ashtray, and sat looking at her in the near darkness. He noticed, in the garden, the man coming back for his rake.

32 University prospectuses; 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1974

Someone came to the door this afternoon but I don't know who it was, Eleanor said. They rang and rang and I didn't want to answer it. I didn't know who it might have been or why they wouldn't go away.

Her eyes faint and distant, refusing to meet his.

I meant to go to the shops, she said; there's some things we need; I'm sorry but I couldn't face going outside just now.

Her once-clear voice cracked and whispering.

I don't feel too good, that's the thing, she said. I don't feel too good at all.

It wasn't what they'd imagined, this life. It wasn't what they'd planned. She'd been going to study geology, get her degree, get a job, maybe go back to Aberdeen and show them all what she'd achieved, show them why she'd come away and hear them say, well, it was worth it after all. The stalled applications, the funding problems, the withdrawing of the course — these weren't part of the plan. The unhappy and unfulfilling jobs which she couldn't stick at weren't part of the plan. Her increasing reluctance to leave the house unless she was with David wasn't part of the plan. She was going to get her degree, the money from his job would help her through university, she could get any job she wanted when she left, they could go anywhere, she could do anything. Sleepless nights and uneaten dinners weren't part of the plan.

People started to tell him she wasn't well. I'm sorry David, but I'm worried about her, they would say. I don't mean to intrude but. They would say these things quickly, quietly, on the telephone, or while Eleanor was waiting outside in the car and he was struggling into his coat, or once she'd made her excuses and wandered upstairs to bed.

I don't want to interfere but I'm worried you can't quite see it, they would say; she's not well. Putting the emphasis on the word well, as though it was some kind of euphemism.

She needs help, they would say, with the word help said in the same way.

But it came and went, whatever it was, and each time it went he convinced himself that this time it had gone for good, that it had just been a difficult time of adjustment she'd been going through; that being in a new town would of course be bewildering as well as exciting; that of course she couldn't make new friends straight away. It's okay, he told people, when they said these things — Susan, or his mother, his friend Danny, Anna at work — she'll be okay. She's just feeling a bit down. She's tired. She'll be fine again in a while. It was only when she lost her job at the chemist's shop that he realised something was more seriously wrong; when they telephoned him at work and told him they were sorry but his wife didn't seem to be feeling well and would he be able to come and take her home?

She'd only started the job a week earlier. She'd mentioned it to him when he got home from work, casually, turning away to put the kettle on and saying so they gave me that job, as if she was embarrassed about it, as if it was nothing, really. But when he took hold of her waist and swung her round, when he said El that's fantastic, that's great, she couldn't help smiling and dipping her head in excitement, saying aye I know I know, taking his hands and jumping up and down. It wasn't the job itself she was excited about, she admitted to him later, but the fact that she'd found it and claimed it for herself. I feel like a real grown-up now she'd said, showing him the smart white coat they'd given her to wear, telling him how the interview had gone, telling him proudly what her duties would entail and saying that when she was on a morning shift they could walk into work together, couldn't they?

The chemist's was one of a row of temporary shops which had been hurriedly put up on Broadgate after the war. A large area of land behind the neat arched frontages was still derelict, weeds and shrubs growing up from the bomb-cratered ground. You must take your wife to see the doctor, the manager of the shop told him when he went to take her home. There are things they can do. She's waiting outside, he added, at the back. We didn't know what to do, he said.

Eleanor was crouching on the rough ground a few yards from the back door, smoking. She was staring at the back of the library buildings opposite, her face set into a hard blank mask. Her skin was pale, and each time she lifted the cigarette to her mouth her arm shook weakly. Eleanor, he said. She didn't react. Eleanor, he said again.

Do you want to go home now Eleanor? he said. He put his hand on her knee, gently, and she started but she didn't pull away. She let the cigarette fall to the ground from her fingers, the smoke scattering across the dirt in the light afternoon breeze. They heard a bus revving up on the corner, someone shouting. Her eyes were red and sore, as if she'd been rubbing them.

Come on then, he said, let's go home now.

I can't go home, she said urgently, her voice no more than a whisper. He crouched beside her, lifting his hand to her shoulder, moving her hair away from her face with one finger. She stiffened beneath his touch, but she didn't move away.

Come on, he said. We'll go back now, okay? I'll run you a hot bath and make you some dinner. We'll see if we can work this out, eh? And I won't burn the dinner this time, he said, smiling, I promise. She tried to smile in reply but managed only a sort of pale grimace, wiping quickly at the tears spilling from her eyes.

I can't go yet, she said. I'm not off until six. I have to go back into the shop. Her voice was strained and taut.

No you don't, he told her, it's okay, you can come home early today. Mr Jenkins said it would be alright. He stood up and held out his hand to help her. She looked straight past him, out across the craters and ditches and weeds, looking past the ruins of the old cathedral to the sheer glass soar of the new, its scaffold spire breaking into the sky. He leant down, putting his hands under her arms, and lifted her gently to her feet. Her body was soft and limp, unresisting, like a sleepy child's. Come on then, he said, let's go home now.

I can't go home, she said again, almost too quietly for him to hear. He walked with her through the shop, nodding to Mr Jenkins as they passed. When they got back to the house he helped her to undress and get into bed, and sat there for a time while he waited for her to fall asleep. She stared at the wall, wide-eyed, flinching when he tried to stroke her hair or her shoulders, eventually asking him in a small quiet voice to please just leave her on her own now thank you.

Maybe he wouldn't tell them this part of the story, when it came to it. It wasn't what they'd planned. It wasn't supposed to be a part of the way things were. He could say we had our ups and downs, you know. He could say, it was difficult for a while but then it was fine.

33 Pill bottles, prescriptions; dated variously 1973–1987

There were some things which should have been kept hidden from view. Pill bottles. Prescriptions. Days spent in downcast silence, days spent refusing to leave the house. These were things which shouldn't have been discussed. But it was difficult to lie, always, when someone said and how's your wife, what's her name again, Eleanor? Haven't seen her for a while, is she okay? It was difficult to always shrug and say oh, she's fine, you know, not working at the moment but she's fine.

He was having lunch with a colleague at work when he found himself saying she's not so good actually Anna, she's not very well at all. He hadn't expected to say it, and he regretted it almost as soon as he had. Anna put the remains of her sandwich down and looked up at him, leaning a little closer.

Oh, she said, lowering her voice, what's wrong? He was embarrassed, immediately, and he wished he hadn't said anything.

No, he said, no, it's nothing really, I mean, it's nothing serious. She's just been feeling a bit under the weather lately, you know. She pushed her plate to one side and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.

David, she said, reaching across the table and touching his arm, it's more than that, isn't it?

No, he said, really, thanks. I shouldn't have said anything, sorry. He moved his arm away. She stood up.

Oh, she said, okay. Well, if there is anything. I mean, if you need to talk about something. He nodded, looking down at the table, looking at her crumpled napkin smeared with lipstick and food.

Thanks, he said. I will.

It's hard to explain, Eleanor insisted, when he asked. She said, you know if you're on the phone and something distracts you, like someone outside the phone box or something on the TV and suddenly you can't concentrate? I mean you're listening but you just you can't quite hear what they're saying on the other end of the line. I mean, you can hear the words but you can't put them in order, you can't make them make sense, you know? It's like that. It's like there's always something distracting me but I don't know what it is, she said. It's like I just feel distant from everything and I don't know how to get back.

He tried so many things to make her better. He tried taking her for walks, day trips, dinners out. He bought her flowers, presents, bottles of wine. None of it did any good, but he couldn't help trying.

She said it's not you, it's me. She said, I'm sorry there's nothing you can do. She pushed him away. She wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her face in her lap.

What do you want me to do? he asked.

Nothing, she said, her voice muffled against her skin and her hair. I want left alone, please; there's not anything you can do.

She said, I don't know what it is David. But don't worry, I'll be fine. Smiling as she said it, looking up at him, the ends of her cardigan sleeves unpicked and frayed, a wet tissue clenched in her fist.

These were things which shouldn't have been discussed, no matter how often someone said, are you sure? or, is every thing really okay? or, you shouldn't keep these things bottled up you know. But he sat with Anna on the bus and he told her about it.

She seems to change so completely when she's like that, he said; I hardly recognise her. She's always been so fearless and now she's terrified of even leaving the house. Speaking quietly, so that no one else would hear. So that Anna had to lean closer to listen to what he was saying. I want to fix things for her but it just seems to upset her when I try, he said. It feels like it's my fault but I don't know what I've done.

Anna had a way of looking at him while he said these things, then, and later, her head tilting slightly to one side, her eyes widening, her front teeth biting sympathetically into her bottom lip. It was a way of looking which made him feel better about the things he was saying, even as it made him feel guilty for saying them to her.

I'm sure it's not you, she said.

The pill bottles were bigger than any he'd seen as a child; translucent brown, as big as a fist, three months' supply at once to save the trouble of too many trips to the surgery. The pills were small and colourless, stamped with illegible codes and offering no clue as to what was inside them or what function they might perform.

The prescriptions were always identical: a date, Eleanor's name and the name of the drug, the doctor's signature, all written in the same frenzied scrawl which suggested the sheet had been torn from the pad even as the prescription was being written. Which perhaps it had, the words inscribed as she went in through the consulting-room door, the doctor standing and saying hello Mrs Carter and what can we do for you today, nodding and mmmhmming as he handed over the illegible paper, saying perhaps you should try and get more sleep, more exercise, find a new hobby, saying he'd see her again in three months' time.

Each day she came down for breakfast the first thing she would do was reach for the pills, shaking one out into the palm of her hand, a blank puzzled look in her eyes, while he stood at the sink and poured her a glass of water. She would swallow it with a hard gulp and a wince and only then think about starting the day, eating something perhaps, having a hot drink, even getting dressed, as the colourless pills sank down inside her, turning over, breaking open, spilling their powdery cargo into her stunned bloodstream. Each time he would want to stop her, his hands fat and useless by his sides; each pill felt like a failure on his part, like something he hadn't done for her, another mark of his inability to help. But he would watch, to be certain she'd taken them, and then he would pick up his briefcase and head out for work, kissing her lightly on the cheek or the top of the head, saying goodbye and take care and I'll be back soon while she gazed flatly at the window or the wall.

Sometimes she would still be in bed when he was ready to leave and he didn't have the time, or the energy, to persuade her out from under those heavy covers, into a dressing gown and down the steep stairs. He would bring the pills up to her instead, and ask her to please at least sit up. Sometimes she would only stare emptily back at him, and he would have to prod a tablet into her mouth with his thumb, holding the glass of water up to her lips. He would open the curtains, slam the door, and call out his pointless goodbyes from the bottom of the stairs.

Sometimes when he came home he would find that she hadn't eaten all day, and couldn't be persuaded to eat any tea, and he would look on helplessly as she poked at the food on the plate and said that she really couldn't eat a thing.

Sometimes she would stay up all night, unable to sleep, watching television or reading in the spare room or staring out of the window with tears pouring down her face in the dark.

This isn't me though David, she said to him once, despairingly. This isn't what I'm like. She waved a hand around the bedroom, at the heaped bedclothes, the empty mugs, the drawn curtains. I thought I was tougher than this, she said, I really did.

But mostly she denied there was even a problem. It's nothing, she'd say, when he asked. I'm okay, really, I'm fine. I just need some rest. Or she'd say it's not you, there's nothing you can do. I just want to be left alone a while.

But there were things he could do, and he did them. He took her to the doctor's. He made sure she swallowed the pills. He cooked her meals, usually badly, often burning the sausages or letting the vegetables boil dry, but he cooked them and served them and encouraged her to eat when all she seemed to want to put in her mouth were the bitten ends of her fingernails. He opened the curtains when she tried to leave them closed, walked with her to the end of the street, the park, the shops, trying to help her push back the boundaries of the world that had closed in around her like a clenched fist. He asked her what she was afraid of when she went outside. You never used to be worried, he said. You know this area now, what could happen to you out there?

Anything could happen, she said, her eyes wide and unblinking, looking up at him as if it was important that he understood. Anything could happen out there.

And he found himself talking to Anna about it more and more often, feeling even as he did so that there was something underhand or deceitful about telling her these things, but unable to keep himself from saying the words. She was alright for a while but she's back on the prescription now.

I'm sure she'd feel better if she got out of the house more. Standing in the doorway of her office, always on the way to somewhere else, just stopping for a quick hello. Or noticing that they both happened to be working later than everyone else, and popping his head round the door to see if she was okay, to see if she wanted a hand with anything, to see if she was alright for getting home. Walking around the building together, checking the lights and the windows and saying she's always got an excuse for not going out; that's the thing Anna, there's always some reason. I don't know if it's me, or something to do with her family. I don't know what she's scared of.

Maybe you just have to be patient, Anna said, looking out at the cars passing along the street outside. I mean, it's an illness, isn't it? Maybe you just have to wait for her to get better. And it can't be easy either, she added, turning to him, losing touch with your family and everything like that. Maybe it's just caught up with her and it's taking some getting used to. He smiled tiredly.

No, he said, I know, of course. It's just sometimes, I wish. He unlocked the main front door. Sorry, he said. I should get back. Are you catching the bus?

No, she said, I've got some work to finish off here.

Right then, he said. See you tomorrow.

Yes, she said. See you tomorrow. She locked the door behind him and they looked at each other through the glass for a short moment before he turned and walked away.

34 Small vase, handmade by unknown Warwickshire potter, 1974

The vase was still on their kitchen windowsill now, empty. And each time he looked at it he was reminded of the day he'd bought it, when they'd gone out walking and talked about things that were usually left unspoken, and had seemed to bridge the gap which had grown between them; when they'd walked from the clapboard bus shelter across fields waiting to be cut, the ripened stalks crackling against their legs, over stiles and gates and narrow streams, through a small patch of woodland which opened out into the next village, Eleanor picking flowers along the way; when he'd noticed the small narrow-necked vase with the cracked blue glaze in the window of a potter's gallery by the village green, and bought it for her while they waited for the next bus home; when, back at home, he'd watched her peel off its veils of white tissue paper and set it on the kitchen windowsill, the delicate and still warm flowers rising out from its mouth towards the light.

It was late August. He'd persuaded her out of the house, out of Coventry, out to the open country between Warwick and Stratford, to walk and sit and breathe fresh clean air together. The air was thick with drowsy warmth and distant traffic, the huzz and hover of blur-winged insects, the sentry song of a lofted lark. He looked at Eleanor walking beside him, and although he knew they'd only be here for a few hours, it felt like an achievement to have got out of town at all. They'd already seen dragonflies, and butterflies, and even the flash of a kingfisher hurtling along the stream, and he'd noticed Eleanor's hands unclenching, her shoulders losing some of their anxious hunch. An unfamiliar contentment washed through him as they walked together, quietly, slowly.

He said it reminds me of when we first met, don't you think? All those walks we used to go on, down along the coast and places. She smiled and nodded, and for a moment he had to stop walking, caught out by how long ago that suddenly seemed, how much older they both already were. He stopped her, put his hands against her hips, her shoulders, her cheeks, tilting her face towards him, looking at her. She laughed, embarrassedly, as if to say what, what are you doing? He studied her. There were no lines on her skin, no wisps of grey hair, but she was no longer the girl she'd been when they met. She'd put on weight over the last year or so, and her body felt different against his touch. There was a tiredness in her face, a weatheredness, as he realised there must now be in his own, and although he thought she was as beautiful as he had always done, it shocked him to realise how much time had passed since they'd first met, how the months had become years and the years had slid ungraspably away.

She looked at him, wondering what he was thinking. He kissed her face, and lowered his hands.

He said, I should tell you something; I've been meaning to tell you for a while. He said, I've been speaking to your brother a little, to Donald, on the phone. She jolted, as if she'd brushed her hand against a stinging nettle, and she said oh? Yes? What have you told him?

Just, how things are, he said. That we're well. That you were working but you're not at the moment, bits and pieces. He asked me to say hello, he added. He wanted you to know that everyone's okay, that any time you wanted to get in touch you'd be welcome. He told me your dad's been ill but he's okay now.

They walked on, reaching a stile between two fields, and she turned to him as she climbed over it.

You didn't tell him where we were at all? she asked.

Well, no, David said, only that we were living in Coventry.

You didn't give them our address though? Our phone number? David shook his head.

I didn't think you'd want me to, he said.

I don't, she said. Promise me you won't, will you? He nodded.

Of course, he said. She jumped down from the stile, stumbling as she landed, and stood looking out across the rise of the field, over towards a strip of woodland with a church tower rising behind it. She brushed dry mud and grass from her hands and made a noise that sounded like the beginning of a laugh.

You don't mind that I rang him then? he asked.

No, she said, I don't suppose so. But I don't want to speak to them myself. Not yet.

He climbed over the stile and jumped down beside her, and almost without meaning to he carried the conversation further.

He said, but when do you think you will? When do you think you'll want to see them again?

She said, don't ask me that. Come on David, don't say things like that.

He said, don't you think you should at least write and tell them you're okay?

And she said, utterly unexpectedly, I have done.

A letter when she first got to Coventry, a photograph of their wedding, a Christmas card once or twice. The envelopes addressed only to her father, the messages brief and uninformative: I am well; I hope you all are well; take care. She told him this, and he wondered if there would ever be a time when they knew everything there was to know about each other.

And it was after this, walking away from the stile and up over the hill to the woods, once the echo of her confession had faded, that something slipped inside him. Perhaps because they were suddenly talking about these things, perhaps because she was answering him so calmly and firmly, in a way that made it seem fine to be talking that way at all, perhaps because he felt some kind of safety in being out of sight in the field there, with a barely clouded sky overhead and the slow groan of a tractor three hedgerows away; something slipped and he felt a rush of tears rising to the surface like bubbles of air bursting through him as he turned to her and said:

Eleanor I can't stand it she's out there somewhere and I don't know where she is or who she is or why she did it and I need to know Eleanor I so so so want to know what am I going to do why can't I know I need—

And she turned to him, immediately, and he was still speaking as he bowed his head into her embrace, and her whole body shook with the force of his shuddering tears. She didn't need to ask him what he meant, and there was nothing more she could say than I know David, I know, I'm sorry, I know.

It was the first time he'd said these things so clearly, and it was years before he said them again.

After a few minutes he lifted his head, wiped his face and said nothing more. She slipped her arm around his and they walked on, leaning together into the rise of the hill, climbing up to the small patch of woodland and out into the village. They found a bus stop at the edge of the village green, and he noticed the shop window of the potter's gallery and wandered over to have a look, and bought the vase. They went home, and although it was years before they went out to the countryside again, she did at least seem to be better for a time; leaving the house, talking about university again, letting the pills gather dust in the bathroom cabinet. He dared to hope that that might be the end of it, that they could go back to the way things were always meant to have been; so when she went back on to the medication after Christmas, dulled and shaken by a higher dosage, he began to feel that things might never really change, that this was the life he'd stumbled into, that he was trapped by something he could neither understand nor control.

35 Tobacco tin; used for storing buttons, beads, safety pins, c 1960s

She was fourteen, she told him, sitting on the quayside with two of her friends, laughing and talking about boys, enjoying the long evening and glad to be out of the house. She heard her mother's voice behind her, and was pulled to her feet. Spun around to face those hard, narrowed eyes.

Let me smell your breath child.

The words spoken low and calm, the gaze intent and steady, the grip on the arm already bringing a soft smudge of bruising to the skin. Eleanor's friends looking carefully in the other direction, edging away, brushing down the backs of their skirts with their hands. The cigarette floating away between driftwood and dead fish and polystyrene scraps, rising and falling on the swell, the paper unfurling and spilling burnt tobacco down into the dark water. Ivy leant closer into her daughter's pale face.

Breathe, she said. Eleanor looked at her. She exhaled as weakly as she could but Ivy must still have smelt the damp sour stink of cigarette smoke. She stood back and slapped Eleanor hard around the side of the face. Her friends jerked their shoulders at the sound and moved a few steps further away. Eleanor's face coloured suddenly and her eyes started to shine.

I'm sorry Mam, she whispered. I'm sorry. Ivy pulled her closer.

Don't give me sorry, she said, it's too late for sorry child. You'll get what's due and keep quiet, aye? Standing close to each other, intimately close, blind to anyone else, their world reduced for the moment to this self-enclosed space of anger and resentment and shame.

Eleanor tried to say something, sorry perhaps, or I won't do it again, or they made me, or any of the other weak responses she knew wouldn't be enough. But her words crumpled under the weight of Ivy's glare, and all that came out was something like a whimper.

What's that? said Ivy. You say something? There was no reply, and perhaps it was only then that something snapped inside Ivy, the sight of her louring daughter, the embarrassment of people turning to watch, the knowledge that people would be talking later in the day. Or perhaps it didn't take anything to snap for Ivy to pull her daughter suddenly by the arm, to swing her round and point her in the direction of the steep road home. Get going girl, she spat into her ear, pushing the back of her head, get going quick or you'll see what I don't do. Eleanor walked quickly across the quayside, her head bowed and her shoulders turned protectively in, keeping her eyes to the ground. Or she walked tall, daring any of the onlookers to meet her eye, even turning to wave to her friends. Or she ran, her eyes a blur of tears. Before Ivy followed her, she turned to Eleanor's two friends and called out to them: I'll be talking to your mothers too, Ruth, Heather, don't think I won't. They watched her silently, and she turned and followed her daughter home.

The walk back to their house was a steep one. The pavement was stepped in places, and there were handrails bolted to some of the houses, to be caught hold of on icy days. The first time David went to see her parents he'd had to stop twice on the way to catch his breath, and Eleanor had laughed at him, saying he was nothing but a soft southern sass.

I never said a word more, she told him, safe in their bed with the lights out and the covers pulled up around them, I could just hear her steps and her breathing at the back of me. I thought she might have calmed down once we got to the top, or that she might be too worn out to do anything much. But she had this way of winding herself up, you know? David looked at her eyes in the half-dark under the covers; they were calm and clear, almost puzzled, as though she was considering something that had happened to someone else, as though she was still surprised by it all.

The door closed behind them, and Eleanor turned to face her mother's fury in the unlit hall. There were open-handed slaps at first, to the arms and legs, to the face, each slap held high in the air like a question — as if to say do you want this one too my girl? — and although Eleanor held out her hands to block them, Ivy was always quick enough to find a way through. There was nothing frantic about it. There was no loss of control. Each blow was considered, aimed, carefully delivered. And there was no sound from either of them; just Ivy's laboured breathing and the occasional wince or whimper escaping through Eleanor's tightly gritted teeth. The slaps closed up into tightly clenched fists, thudding into her ribs and the side of her head. Eleanor cowered under the punches, wrapping her arms around her head and crouching against the wall as Ivy whispered why don't you stand up, child, stand up now, eh? Or Eleanor refused to buckle, looking her mother in the eye, flinching with each thud of a fist but not falling down this time; Ivy realising with a sudden shock that her daughter was now an inch or two taller than her.

Didn't you ever try to push her away, or hit her back? David asked, stroking the side of her face.

It didn't occur to me, Eleanor said. I was used to it. I knew she'd stop eventually. I didn't want to make it worse, she said.

Ivy paused a moment, lifting her daughter's face to look her in the eye. Is that enough for you child? she asked. Will you be lying to me again? Eleanor didn't speak. Did you hear me there? said Ivy, raising her voice. I asked you a question. Eleanor looked at her, her mouth firmly shut, and Ivy, infuriated, lunged forward, shoving her fists against Eleanor's shoulders, knocking Eleanor off balance and against the front-room door, the door banging open and Eleanor stumbling backwards to the ground. Stewart was standing there, staring at Ivy, his fists trembling by his side.

God's sake Ivy, he said tensely. Do you not think that's enough now? The two of them looked at each other. Eleanor struggled to her feet, pushing past Ivy and up the stairs to her room.

You'll not be eating tonight, Ivy called out after her.

Later, she told him, after her parents had gone to bed, she stood in the washroom and eased out of her clothes, hanging them up on the back of the door and looking at her pale marked body in the mirror. She splashed herself with water, flinching against the cold, and worked a bar of soap into a lather across her skin. She ran her hands carefully across her body, working around the bruises and the swollen cuts, rinsing off the soap with cupped palmfuls of cold water which splashed down her chest and her belly and her legs and on to the dirty towel on the floor; taking her time, as though soap and water might wipe away the bruises and the hurt and the fear of it happening again one day soon.

And the next time she saw Ruth and Heather, nothing was said. They didn't ask if she was okay, or offer sympathy, or make any reference to what had happened at the harbour or to what they assumed had happened afterwards. There were things which didn't need to be said, or which had been said before. Instead, she told him, they took a packet of cigarettes each across to the golf course, and sat on a bench together, and smoked their way relentlessly through the evening until Eleanor was sick into the bushes, the girls laughing and applauding as she wiped her mouth and pretended to light up once more. It was funny, she said. We laughed about it for hours. It felt like some kind of triumph, you know?

36 Catalogue from museum exhibition, 'Refugees, Migrants, New Arrivals', 1975

The exhibition had been Anna's idea, but the senior staff gave it to David to take charge of, allocating him a budget and a month away from usual duties, telling him this was his opportunity to live up to what they had thought was his earlier promise. The Director made it clear that he wasn't entirely in favour of the form of social history the project would entail; but, as he conceded, it was becoming increasingly fashionable in certain circles and would do the image of the museum some good at a challenging financial time.

It wasn't difficult to find material. He did a series of presentations at social and religious centres — the Irish on Stoney Stanton Road, the Ukrainian on Broad Street, the Polish on Whitefriars, a mosque, a synagogue, the Sikh temple which had taken over the old Bamba Nightclub explaining the nature of the project, inviting participation, and his office quickly filled with boxes of loaned material, photographs, interview tapes, lists of people still to visit. This project is about the journeys you or your parents made to come to Coventry, he told them, the ways you remember those journeys, and the ways you remember the places you or your parents came from. He wasn't surprised by the number of responses he had to these presentations. He'd learnt, working at the museum, how many people wanted someone to tell their family's story to, how often the children of people who died would bring their parents' possessions to the museum to be archived or put on display, assuming that because these objects had belonged to someone who was no longer alive they would naturally take on a historical importance, assuming that the words museum and mausoleum were somehow the same.

He wasn't surprised by the interviewees' eagerness to loan him their few treasured keepsakes — the watches, the framed photographs, the religious artefacts — trusting him to keep their last attachments to a lost home safe, pushing them gladly into his arms. But what he hadn't quite been expecting was just how readily people held these things to hand, arranged together in the alcoves of their front rooms, or across a chest of drawers in a bedroom, or filling a glass-fronted cabinet in a kitchen, like miniature museums of their own. He interviewed, and was offered material by, people from all across Europe, from India and Pakistan and Bangladesh, from Vietnam, from Africa and the Caribbean. He interviewed people from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, from Sunderland and Southport and Somerset, people who had at some point come to Coventry in search of work and ended up staying. And he found himself hoping that when people contacted him from the Irish Club one of them might start by saying so I left home when I was a young woman, heading for London, looking for domestic work. I came over on the night boat. I had to leave London just before the war ended, on account of a sort of disagreement with my employers. He wondered how that would feel, to hear the beginnings of that particular story, to be able to hear it out to the end.

They based the exhibition around a map of the world, with Coventry at the centre illustrated by an image of the three spires, and with red threads reaching out to each of the countries the interviewees had travelled from. At the end of each thread they placed a photograph of the interviewee, or of one of the objects which had been loaned for the exhibition. It took Anna and him three evenings just to put the map together, staying behind while the rest of the staff went home, passing each other scissors and paste and Letraset, talking and disagreeing about which images to use. It took them another two weeks to finish the rest of the display material, putting it together down in the conservation room, spreading the work across the wide wooden desks while they selected the best extracts from the transcribed interviews, the most relevant artefacts, the clearest images.

Sometimes, when they had finished for the evening, packing the uncompleted work away, they would stay there for a while, leaning against the table, talking about things other than work. Anna told him about her wedding anniversary, and he asked what her husband was like, what he did for a living. Chris had gone straight to a job at the car-works when they'd left school, she told him, working on the same line as his father, getting used to working long hours for good money until they closed the factory after a round of strikes. It was the worst time really, she told him, it was only a year after we'd got married and we didn't know what we were going to do. She asked him again about Eleanor, and he said well, she's better in a way, you know, with the medication, but she's still not right, and she said oh that's awful, that's so sad, how do you cope? Once she said do you ever regret it? Getting married, I mean. Saying sorry sorry as soon as she'd said it, looking away from him, picking up her bag. Saying sorry only sometimes I wonder.

She was younger than him but he only ever noticed when she said things like that, when she seemed to be asking his advice, talking to him like an older brother. There were only six or seven years between them, and even that didn't seem as much as it once had. She had dark hair, tightly curled, cut to her collarbone. She had a small flat nose, and dark eyes, and she held her hand to her mouth when she spoke, as if she was afraid of letting her teeth show. She was tall. She was slimmer than Eleanor had lately become. They talked. That was all. They worked together, and while they were working they talked.

But one evening she touched him, for the second time, and he didn't pull away or say anything to stop her. It came from nowhere, a lull in the conversation, her hand drifting to the back of his head with her eyes fixed firmly on his, her fingers trailing down through his hair to the expectant skin on the back of his neck. She said sorry, as if it had been an accident, and for some reason he said sorry too and they said no more about it, and he tried to forget the feel of her long fingers, the delicate scratch of her fingernails across his traced and tingling scalp.

They'd finished all the displays, and were going over the layout plans, disagreeing over the need for additional text and trying to work out where to put the model steam engine a Russian man had been very keen to loan. They were both leaning over the desk, the papers and designs spread across it, the glare from the desk lamp getting harsher as the evening quickly darkened outside. He was saying I'm not sure about all this Anna, maybe we should look at it again tomorrow, and then there were her fingers, trailing down to the back of his neck.

And all that happened next was he looked at his watch and stood away from the desk, turning on the main overhead light and saying I think we'll take another look in the morning. That far corner looks like it will be too cramped, visitors will be squeezing past each other. And all she did was shrug, smiling, starting to tidy away the papers from the desk. Okay, she said with her back to him. See you tomorrow, she said. He walked away, and when he got halfway down the corridor and turned back to look through the open door she wasn't looking at him. She was marking something on the floorplan, running her fingers up and down the back of her head, through the dark tangle of her hair.

It was a popular exhibition, one of the most popular of the year. Coventry's population had been growing rapidly for years, tripling even between the turn of the century and the war, so there was no shortage of people who had a story of arrival, or who had grown up hearing their parents' stories, or who could in some way relate to the themes of being a stranger in a new town, making a new life, holding on to the few fragile reminders of home. Even Anna's husband Chris turned out to have a story, muttering it so matter of factly to David in the pub one evening that David had to ask him to repeat himself to be sure he'd heard it right.

My dad came here the long way round, Chris told him, dangling his empty pint glass between his finger and thumb, watching it swing. He went east to get away from the Germans, and ended up on a boat to England, ended up in the air force loading bombs to send back at them. He watched Anna walking back from the toilets, squeezing past a group of men by the bar, resting her hand on someone's shoulder by way of an excuse me. His eyes narrowed slightly before he turned back to David.

My mum came west a few years later, he said, to get away from the Russians. She met my dad in the Ukrainian club up in Leeds, and they moved down here when he heard about jobs going on the cars. Turned out they were only born twenty miles apart, he said as Anna sat down, saying it like a well-worn punchline, sitting back on his stool and turning to look at the bar.

Your parents? Anna asked, and he nodded.

We could have interviewed them if you'd mentioned it, David said to Anna, and she shook her head.

I don't think they would have wanted to take part, she said. Chris stood up, taking their empty glasses.

They don't like immigrants, generally, he said, turning towards the bar.

He was a broad-shouldered man, and people moved naturally aside to let him pass, as if they'd felt his approach without looking. As he got to the bar Anna said, murmuring, he's working again now you know, for the parks; it'll probably only be until the end of the summer but it's something at least. David nodded.

That's good, he said. That's something.

She looked at Chris, who was laughing briefly at something the barman was saying. It's not as bad as it was, she told him now. My money's enough for us both really. David watched him heading back across the room towards them, the three drinks held awkwardly out in front of him. He noticed Anna moving the back of her thumb across her wedding ring, rubbing it clean, the same way she'd been doing a few nights earlier when she'd told him about their anniversary. Five years though, she'd said, tutting and sighing fondly, seems hard to believe sometimes, and he hadn't known whether she meant hard to believe how quickly the time had passed or hard to believe they'd got married at all.

Where's your missus tonight anyway? asked Chris as he sat down, the three glasses knocking against each other and slopping beer out on to the table.

She's staying in, David said. She's, I mean, she's a bit under the weather at the moment.

Really? said Chris. Nothing serious is it?

Well, said David, no. Nothing serious. He noticed Anna looking at him, looking like she wanted to say something, an edge of worry in her eyes.

She not made it to the exhibition yet then? Chris asked, and David shook his head no. Pity, Chris said, it's a good bit of work. He moved his hand across Anna's thigh, grasping it, leaning in towards her. It's a smart idea she had there, I reckon, he said, and David nodded in agreement, Anna smiling with surprise, turning suddenly and kissing her husband on the cheek.

David sat back a little, not wanting to intrude, a familiar resentment turning over in his stomach. He wanted to be able to sit in the pub with Eleanor beside him, having a drink with their friends and talking about the small things. He wanted not to have to explain her absence every time, and almost always to have to lie about it. He wanted at least to know how long this was going to go on for, or to know that there was something he could do about it. He wanted their life together to be the way they'd told each other it would be when they first got married, instead of the empty helpless waiting his life had become. He wanted — and he felt a rush of shame as he realised this — he wanted her to make more of an effort to get better. He couldn't be expected to wait for ever, he thought, trying to silence the words even as they formed in his head. He pushed his glass away with half the pint still undrunk.

I'm sorry, he said. I'm going to have to get going.

Anna and Chris looked round.

Say hello to her for us, won't you? Anna said, reaching her hand out across the table. Give her our best wishes and everything, she said. Chris muttered something along the same lines, and David said that he would, looking back at Anna, looking at the tilt of her head, the reach of her arm across the table, her fingers arching a little. Looking at her bottom lip, caught by the concerned bite of her teeth.

I'll do that, he said. I'll say hello for you.

37 Framed photograph (wAoroken glass), David and Eleanor, c.1975

It was the birdsong he remembered, mostly. High up in the branches somewhere, hidden by the pale and folded first leaves of spring, a bird had started singing, the notes tumbling down into the yard. The air was wet, and clean, and still. The brick walls were streaked with rainwater, the stone paving slabs by the back door gleaming darkly. The bushes under the window were spilling fat beads of rain to the ground, nodding gently as each drop swelled and broke free. Everything felt as though it had been smoothed and shined by the rain, and the birdsong chittered against the hard surfaces like scattering pieces of polished glass. It was a slow, languid sound, barely even a song at all, more of a hesitant trickle down the notes of the scale, but there was something compelling about it, something demanding and insistent. Something about the way the sound was carried through the wet air. Something clear and bright and pure, moving in through the open kitchen window and raising tiny braille bumps on their skin, so that they could only stand and listen, and not dare to move, and not dare to breathe. Their bodies touched and pressed against each other. He could feel her warmth, the pulse of blood against her skin. The brittle words and stamped feet of a few moments before were forgotten. She closed her eyes, and the corners of her mouth lifted gently into a smile. The song stopped. There was silence for a moment, broken only by a few drops of water spattering on to the stone, and just as they were about to move, to turn away and say something, or not say anything, the song began again.

She shifted beside him, her shoulders dropping as she eased out a held sigh. She looked up into the tree, trying to spot whatever bird was up there. He leant forward and tilted his head beside hers, and as he did so the sound stopped abruptly. The light in the small yard faded, and there was a rapid smatter of raindrops which soon accelerated into the same heavy downpour of a few minutes before. Water splashed in off the window ledge, clattering lightly against the glass.

She backed away, startled, looking at him for a moment without quite meeting his eye, and edged out of the room. He watched her go. He reached out and swung the window closed, fastening the catch and wiping his wet arm on the side of his trousers, and he heard, from upstairs, the bedroom door closing gently, the slow rasp of curtains being pulled closed.

It was the first time, the only time, that he'd ever come close to hitting her.

He'd told her to pull herself together, and she'd said she'd be alright if he left her alone.

He'd come back from work and found her in bed again, sitting up against a heap of cushions and pillows with the sheets hauled up to her chest, staring blankly at the wall. The curtains were closed, and the room smelt as though it could do with the windows being flung wide open.

For heaven's sake Eleanor, he said, have you seen yourself? She looked confused, and it seemed to take her a few moments to work out where his voice was coming from. What are you doing? he said. You can't just sit here like this. He opened the curtains. He made her get out of bed and come downstairs. He put the kettle on, talked to her, tried to snap her out of it. She'd obviously been in bed all day; her hair was tangled and her breath smelt sour, and when he helped her down the stairs she felt hot and clammy and slow. He told her that she needed to look after herself. It was the wrong thing to say.

She came through into the kitchen, looking at him curiously. What did you say? she asked, very quietly and slowly.

I'm just saying Eleanor, you need to pull yourself together, he said.

She told him it was his fault that she was in this hopeless ugly town. She said that if it wasn't for him she'd still be in Scotland, with her friends, with people who understood her. She said she wished he'd never suggested coming away here.

He told her that she didn't know what she was saying, that she wasn't making sense, that her head needed looking at. These were the worst things they could think of to say to each other, and they chose their words deliberately.

They stood there, glaring, and he felt suddenly that it wasn't even Eleanor standing in front of him, that it was somehow- someone else altogether. Outside, it started to rain.

When he lifted his hand, and when he felt his hand closing into a hard angry knot, she didn't flinch or turn away. She looked at him, her eyes tracking the arc of his. fist. She watched it hanging there, and her body seemed to slacken in front of him, waiting.

The sudden pounding of the rain made him catch a breath, his fist trembling weakly in the air, and he brought his arm down behind his back. Her expression didn't change. She turned away and looked out through the open window into the yard and, as suddenly as it had begun, the heavy rainfall came to a stop. A bird started singing.

38 Wine cork, dated (handwriting) August 1975

And then there were the good days. Sitting in the back room with the window wide open, holding on to each other after a hot and spoilt day, untightening their tensions with a bottle of wine. The air drifting in from outside, thick and heavy, hungry for rain. Children shouting, the sound carrying all the way from the park.

Eleanor leant forward to pour herself another glass of wine, reaching back to rest a hand on his knee. I was scared though, she said quietly, I really didn't know where he'd gone. He sat forward, looking over at the photograph of her father, listening to her story of being lost on the heath one summer. He stroked his hand up and down her back, finishing his glass of wine and passing it to her. He lifted the hem of her T-shirt and tucked his hand beneath it, pressing it flat against her skin.

So where was he hiding? he asked.

Out on the moor, her father on the top of the rise, his taut outline silhouetted against the raw blue sky. She watched him put a hand to his chest, catching his breath, and then she crouched down to peer into the heather, looking at a crack in the hard grey rock, wondering how deep it went, trying to squeeze her hand into the gap. She stayed there for a few moments, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the undergrowth's shade, and then she stood up. Hold up now! she called, brushing the dirt from her knees and her hands.

Her father's silhouette had disappeared. Everything seemed suddenly very quiet. The faint huzz of the insects, the occasional pop of a gorse pod in the midday heat, the distant crashes from the shipyard in the town below. But no voices. No sign of life besides her own anxious breathing.

She ran to the top of the rise and looked but he wasn't anywhere. Maybe he'd sat down somewhere for a rest and she just couldn't see him, she thought. Maybe he'd fallen asleep and that's why he couldn't hear her shouting. Or maybe this was him vanished for ever, like Bill's dad did that time, or Annie's. Or like Grandad Hamish who got lost at sea. She wondered if she'd be okay to find her way home. She wondered if her mother would be cross with her for losing him. She walked on, swinging her arms stiffly, turning her head from left to right, scanning the hot landscape for any signs of life. All she saw were butterflies, pure white ones and red-brown ones, lifting and falling and tumbling across the heather. All she heard were the insects, her breathing, her feet kicking the dry sand along the track.

She remembered when the teacher told the class about Bill's dad. Bill sat scowling, like it didn't matter to him, like it was no bother and if anyone wanted to say otherwise they'd have him to deal with. His dad had been missing two weeks when they found him on the tideline down at Cammachmore, and they wouldn't let Bill look at him. But he said that didn't bother him, what difference did it make, and whenever she saw him he was always scowling like that, for weeks and weeks and weeks.

She hadn't got very far when she stopped and called out again. Her small voice fell flat amongst the heather and the bracken. She stood and turned and looked all around her, clenching her fists and trying hard not to be very close to tears. Maybe if she went back now and told someone, they could fetch up a whole lot of men to look for him. They could spread right out across the heather, like when the beaters sent the birds up for the guns. He might be lying somewhere with a turned ankle, and she'd never find him on her own, not even if she kept looking until it was dark. It'd be too late then, maybe.

She heard something behind her and before she could turn around there was a pair of thick strong arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her into the air, the sky sprawling dizzily away, his laughter gasping into the back of her neck. She tried to pull away but he was holding too tightly. That was a good one, eh Ellie? he said. Had you wondering there, didn't I? She didn't say anything. He let go of her and she moved away, sitting with her back to him and her arms wrapped around her knees. His hat was lying on the track a few feet away, where it must have fallen when he leapt up to grab hold of her. She felt like rushing over and stamping on it, or picking it up and running with it all the way to the sea, throwing it in and watching it fill with water and sink beneath the surface. But she didn't. She just glared at it, hotly, her eyes stinging a little. Probably she got some sand in them when he pulled her over, she thought.

You alright petal? he asked. I didn't frighten you, did I? She didn't say anything, but rubbed the corner of her eye roughly with the bony heel of her hand. She heard him shuffle and fidget behind her. She heard the snap and hiss of a match being struck, the slow sigh he always made when he lit a cigarette. Aye well, I'm here now, he said quietly.

David watched Eleanor carefully while she told him the story; how it had seemed like hours that she'd stood there in the crackling silence and wondered where he'd got to and if she should go for help, how he'd suddenly leapt out behind her, laughing, and lifted her up into the air. I told him it wasn't funny, she said, smiling.

He lifted her T-shirt higher and pressed his mouth against the warm expanse of her back. Don't stop, he said. It was so rare for her to talk like that, even to mention her family, or her childhood, or anything north of the border; and especially not in that way, the memories coming easily, her body relaxed, laughter spilling out around the words. He didn't know why she'd brought it up then, why she'd rushed upstairs to find the rarely opened packet of photographs she kept at the bottom of the wardrobe somewhere. Some distant sense memory triggered by the heat of the day perhaps, or by the voices of children playing out in the streets. Some rip in the smothering comfort blanket those pills provided. A little more wine than usual. But just hearing her talk like that, with the slow evening closing in outside, with her leg lifted up on to his lap and his fingers climbing inside the ankle of her trousers, things seemed okay for the first time in months, things seemed okay and normal. A husband and wife talking about their families, their childhoods, the things that matter and the things that don't.

She stacked the photographs back up on the mantelpiece, and opened another bottle, and they waited for the taut closeness of the air to break into rain. And as the first fat drops slapped on to the path outside she put her glass down on the table, took his out of his hand, and leant over to kiss him. She stood up, a little unsteadily, and pushed her skirt to the floor.

Hey, she said. So, do you want to, her voice trailing off as though she'd forgotten how to put it, what to do, and she lowered her head to look down at herself.

He smiled, pulling at his belt and his trouser buttons, and he said do I want to what? She clambered on to the sofa, kneeling across him, clumsy with drink and banging her knee against his hip, leaving a bruise.

I'm not sure, she said, kissing his face and his neck, twisting away to reach for another mouthful of wine. Remind me, she said. And they made tired and uncoordinated love on the sofa, rain splashing in through the window, elbows banging into the wall, her soft voice whispering delightedly into his ear even as they shifted and adjusted the awkward fit of their hips across the narrow sagging sofa, stopping and starting as one or other of them said no, ow, you're squashing my arm, you're pulling my hair, move round a bit, move back a bit; but between these uncomfortable readjustments they still found room to savour the taste and the feel of each other's bodies, to press warm skin against warm skin, to pinch and to kiss and to hold.

So it wasn't difficult, when the question arose, to know when the moment had come — to circle the day on the calendar, count off the weeks, to smile at the faint smell of stale red wine on the end of the cork he'd kept, to say, it was that night, you remember, it must have been then, of course, when else would it have been? There wasn't another time it could have been.

And something happened, something which stretched the boundaries of Eleanor's enclosed world much further than they had been stretched for a long time, some massive damburst of hormones, more effective by far than the powdery charms in those pills, roaring and singing through her body and bringing her back to life. She started to pull further and further away from the stifled stronghold of their house, setting herself targets — the park, the shops, the city centre — and when she met him one day at work, waiting outside with a cigarette in her hand and a proud smile on her face as she watched him coming down the steps, he dared to hope again that the worst might be over. She cleared out the spare room, stripping the wallpaper, repainting the walls and the ceiling, hanging up mobiles and alphabet charts, buying furniture and nappies and tiny sets of clothes. When he got back from work each evening, there was always something new in the house — a baby blanket, a set of feeding bottles, a row of toys lined up along the dinner table — and the kitchen always seemed to be full of the smells of her cooking, baking cakes and biscuits, preparing dinner, making up soups for him to take to work in a flask; and when he came in through the door she was always there to show him, taking him by the arm, saying look what I bought, isn't it lovely, isn't the baby going to love it, are you hungry now by the way, and kissing him, holding him tightly, pressing her face into the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, saying oh I'm so happy I'm so happy I'm so so happy now.

39 Hospital admissions card, 1945 (Discovered 1976)

The last time he went to see Julia, she didn't say anything at all. She gazed up at him from the bed, blankly, drifting in and out of a dream-drenched sleep, the covers pulled fretfully up to her chin, old before her time. Later, Dorothy told him that, four days before she died, she sat up in bed and had a suddenly lucid conversation with the doctor and her, asking who was looking after the house and whether Dorothy was still planning to take that trip to the Isle of Wight, asking how David was getting on at the museum and when he'd be down to visit her next. But nothing like that happened when he was there. She watched him coming into the room, following him with her eyes, her expression fearful and tense if it was anything. Her body gave up before she did, the muscles in her legs weakening until she could no longer stand, her bladder and bowel control faltering, her arms quivering and flailing into the air if they weren't tucked safely beneath the sheets.

I'd have been lost without her and no mistake, Dorothy told them, a few weeks after the funeral, when they were gathered at Julia's house to help Laurence sort through all the things she'd left behind. I couldn't believe it, she said, the first time she invited me here for dinner; gesturing around her as if to say, this house, I mean, just look at it. It wasn't what I was expecting, she said, laughing, not when everyone else lived in those dingy old nurse's rooms. They sat around the kitchen table, Dorothy, David and Eleanor, Susan, eating the sandwiches and cakes Laurence had laid out, and she told them all about when she'd first met Julia and how much Julia had helped her out. Laurence hovered in the background, listening, waiting to restock any empty plates, putting the kettle back on for a fresh pot.

They'd had little in common when they first met, making hospital corners on the beds of a whole wing of new wards, but that hadn't kept them from making friends almost immediately. Something just clicked with us, Dorothy said. I never knew what it was, she was like my sister more than anything else. She showed me round London, and introduced me to people, and toughened me up. I was only eighteen when I started nursing, I needed a bit of toughening up, she said, laughing, gathering up the last few cake crumbs on her plate. Laurence started to clear their plates away, asking if there was anything else anyone wanted. They shook their heads. I hated it for months, Dorothy went on, couldn't stand it, the work, and the people, and the effort involved in just getting from place to place, but I didn't dare go back. Where I came from, people didn't do that. She laughed again. I must have seemed like a real country girl when we first met, she said, but Julia soon fixed that. She turned me into a proper Londoner. I still feel like one even now, she said, shaking her head and smiling, running her thumb along the smooth worn edge of the table.

They sat quietly for a few moments more, and then David said well, should we? And they stood up, ready to get on with the job in hand, moving back through the musty hallway with its rolled-up carpets and stacked picture frames, working their way through each room and sorting everything into categories: boxes of clothes, boxes of bric-a-brac, magazines, newspapers, printed documents, handwritten documents, photographs, jewellery, items of value, items mentioned in the will. Laurence stood around awkwardly, collecting up the mugs from the table, walking back and forth between the rooms without really doing anything, picking up the occasional ornament and putting it back down, his hands hovering uselessly above papers and boxes he seemed unable to touch. Eleanor, seven months pregnant, did what she could and sat down whenever the others insisted. And although they all tried to keep each other moving, and tried not to stop and think, they each came across something which caught them out, something which snagged a loose thread of memory and tugged them to their knees. Julia's wedding dress, still wrapped in tissue paper in the attic. A photograph of Dorothy holding a one-year-old Susan, both of them clutching their thick rubber gas masks. A cigarette holder. The two telegrams. A birthday card David had made at school, with To Auntie Julia smeared across it in flaking orange poster paint. Her old nurse's watch. Half a dozen pairs of mislaid spectacles, gazing blindly up at them from beneath magazines, cushions, handbags. And towards the end of the afternoon, while everyone else was back in the kitchen drinking more cups of tea, he found what he'd been unknowingly looking for all along, tucked away at the bottom of a suitcase in the attic, waiting for him.

The suitcase was full of old papers — programmes from some of the plays Julia's mother had been in, a stack of appointment diaries, thick bundles of bank statements and tax certificates. But once he'd sorted it all into piles, ready to take downstairs, there was something left over. He listened to the voices of the others floating up from the kitchen, Susan saying something about the smell of Julia's tweed coats that she remembered from when she was a little girl, Dorothy laughing, and he thought, for only a brief moment, about putting the slip of card back where it had come from. He wondered if his mother even knew about it.

A hospital admissions card, headed Royal London White-chapel, 29th March 1945.

Brisk blue handwriting, the details spread neatly across the dotted lines.

Mary Friel. D.O.B. 14.11.11. Maternity.

There was an address, a King Edward Avenue in St John's Wood, but it had been crossed out in red pen, the words prob. false written above it. And there was a signature, Mary Friel, the writing scratched and faltering, the e and the / of Friel falling beneath the dotted line.

He sat slowly on the chair by the small dormer window and looked at it for a long time in the failing evening light. He tried to convince himself that it was something other than what he knew it must be. He tried the name for size, and it felt heavy and alien on his tongue. Friel. David Friel.

He tried to imagine the young girl whose handwriting this was, and the much older woman she must have become. He traced the shapes of the letters with his thumb, hoping for more clues than those few words could give.

Friel.

He practised saying the name, whispering it to himself in that large bare room littered with piles of paper. He wondered why even the date of birth was uncertain. And the hunger came back once more, the hunger to know, the hunger that had never really gone away. Friel. Mary Friel. David Friel.

And someone might say, my God, I don't believe it, with the shock that comes from sudden recognition, from a memory abruptly refreshed. My God, where did you find this? Reaching out to touch it, mouthing the words written across it, saying, I never thought. I remember when. They said I couldn't, I couldn't. But however did you find it? someone might ask. I mean it could have been anywhere couldn't it? I wasn't really looking, he was going to say, smiling, shrugging, it was an accident more than anything.

An accident, like the Mildenhall ploughman tearing through thick frosty soil to haul out the treasured silver plates with his bare hands. An accident, like Julia's original slip of the tongue.

40 Scrapbook w/postcards, tickets, maps, etc., 1979

He stood out on the deck, watching the dockers wrestle the heavy mooring ropes into place around the bollards, watching the oily slip of water between the boat and the quay narrow to nothing, and he felt the sudden rush of tears. It was unexpected. Hedidn'tso much burst into tears as subside into them, his face collapsing slowly in on itself, his eyes squeezing shut and his lips rolling over each other, his head bowing as though in prayer. He gripped the rail, steadying himself, grateful for the sprays of rain drifting down across the docks and flashing through the haloes around the warehouse lights. He wiped his eyes and his cheeks with the backs of his hands. The people standing around him began to move away, down to the car deck or the passenger exits, wandering off in twos and threes. A low grinding vibration shook through the boat as the bow doors opened. He looked out over Belfast, the buildings huddled together under the low grey sky, towers poking up out of the gloom, a line of hills rising faintly in the distance.

He walked from the dock to the bus station, following the directions on a map he'd brought with him. The streets were quiet and dark, as if people were waiting until the last possible moment before heading out for work, keeping their heads down and their lights low. The people who'd come off the boat with him walked quickly, holding umbrellas or newspapers up against the rain. A police Land Rover hurtled past, a skirt of steel-plating around its wheels, metal grilles across its windows, hurling up spray from the road. A man watched him from inside a dark blue news-stand, cutting open bundles of newspapers. Another man came out of a side street ahead of him, pushing a handcart blooming with cut flowers in black buckets, and he tried to nod good morning but the man ignored him. He came to a hotel with all its front windows boarded up, found his bus waiting in the bus station behind it, and took his seat.

Later, he stuck the tickets and maps and handwritten directions into a scrapbook, along with the other remnants of the journey — postcards, bus tickets, beer mats, notepaper printed with the addresses of bed and breakfast guesthouses — and he imagined someone, someone smiling, wrinkles creasing around their eyes and away from the corners of the mouth, someone saying look how close you came, saying ah but you're here now though.

He woke up with no idea of how long he'd been asleep or how far the bus had travelled. From the window he could see long sloping fields of wheat and open pasture, large white farmhouses and open-walled barns set back from the road, mournful-looking long-haired cattle standing unexpectantly in the damp corners of fields. It could have been the southwest of England, or Wales, or Northumberland, except for the hard-edged accents of the other people on the bus, or the union flags which hung limply from every other telegraph pole along the road. The hills got higher, and the fields on either side became more barren, littered with rocks and striped with marshy puddles. Sheep sprang away from the roadside, mud stained halfway up their legs, colliding with each other as they hurried away from the bus. Valleys fell away to one side, steep-sided and channelled out by narrow streams. They reached the top of the ridge, passing through a small town, and as they came down the other side, the driver changing down through the gears and leaning heavily on the brake, he saw Londonderry appear below them, hooked to the near side of the river by a long narrow bridge, ringed by a wall which no longer held the whole city within it. He changed buses in Londonderry, crossing the border soon afterwards. A soldier got on to the bus to look at the passengers. Another one walked around outside, crouching at each corner to peer at the axles, glancing up at the tops of the surrounding hills, waving them through with a swing of his heavy black gun.

Eleanor's anxieties about leaving the house went further than keeping her from walking to the shops. They made her worry about other people's journeys, and about David and Kate's in particular. When David had to drive somewhere for work she would question him repeatedly about where he was going, why he was going, how long it might take, which way he was planning to go. She took comfort in seeing him perform small rituals of safety — checking the oil and the water and the brakes before he left, putting a blanket and a first-aid kit in the boot of the car, fastening his seatbelt before she waved him goodbye. So it took a long time, when he finally decided to make this trip to Donegal, to persuade her to let him go. It'll only be for a few days, he said, maybe a week. You'll be fine with Kate, my mum will come round and help out. Please, he said. But she only asked him not to go. He said he wouldn't drive, and she said that made her feel better but she still didn't want him to go. What will you do? she said. You've got no idea where to go. What are you expecting to find? I don't know, he told her. I just want to have a look. I just want to see what it's like. But it's not safe there, she said, how will I know you're okay?

So he didn't tell her about the soldiers or the Land Rover when he spoke to her on the phone that evening. He told her about the hills, and the flags, and the sheep, and he told her about his first darkened view of Belfast in the morning.

What's the weather like? she said. Where are you now? He could hear Kate in the background, saying she couldn't hear, saying it was her turn to talk now.

It's been raining all day, he said. I'm in Donegal Town. The room's a bit small but it's clean and everything. He could hear voices in another room, and see someone moving around in the lounge, setting tables for breakfast. She asked how long he was going to stay, what he was going to do.

I don't know, he said, a couple of nights here, I think, so I can try and work out where to go next. He read the names in the visitors' book on the table beneath the phone, turning a few of the pages. How're things at home? he asked.

Fine, she said quickly. You know, fine. Weather's nice. Your mum said she might come round tomorrow.

He closed his eyes a moment. There were things he wasn't saying, and he wanted to say them. He wanted to tell her how he felt now that he was finally there, that he was at once excited and disappointed, that he'd been surprised to feel no sense of homecoming; how utterly lost he had in fact felt when he'd arrived. But he wasn't sure if she wanted to hear these things, or if she wanted him to be there at all, and so he said nothing.

And how's Kate doing? he said.

Well, she's fine, she said. You want to speak to her? He said that he did, and he listened to Eleanor holding the phone out, leaning over to Kate and asking if she wanted to speak to her daddy. He heard the soft whump of the sofa cushions, and pictured Kate burying her face in them, trying to hide herself. Eleanor spoke again. She's gone all shy on you, she said, a smile in her voice. She misses you, you know, already.

I know, he said. He hesitated, looking to see if the woman was still setting the tables in the dining room, lowering his voice. And you're okay? he asked.

Yes, she said. I'm fine. He heard the edge of her voice tighten, and knew that she'd closed her eyes.

You've been making sure you take them then? he said. You haven't missed any? There was a long silence, without even the sound of Eleanor's breath reaching down the phone line to him, and he wasn't quite sure if she was still there. Eleanor? he said.

Yes David, she said. Yes, I have. He heard Kate running into the kitchen and dragging a stool across the floor, and he heard Eleanor telling her not to do that, the phone lowered away from her face. I've got to go, she said, speaking to him again.

Right, he said, okay. He started to say look sorry, I didn't mean to, and he heard something breaking in the kitchen, a plate or a glass, and Kate screaming in surprise, and Eleanor telling her not to move. He said I love you, I'll be home soon, over the noise, but he wasn't sure if she'd heard.

On his first morning in Donegal, after breakfast, he walked through the town centre, calling into a newsagent's by the market square to buy a handful of postcards, sending one to Eleanor and Kate and keeping the rest to stick into a scrapbook. The streets were busy with people shopping, women mainly, standing at shop counters set just in from the door, loading cuts of meat and handfuls of vegetables into cloth shopping bags, chatting to the flat-hatted shopkeepers or to the women beside them in the queue. He found himself looking out for women in their late forties and early fifties, stupidly, as if he might somehow catch the eye of one and recognise something in her face, and be recognised in turn.

He walked away from the square, past a small ruined castle and across a river, looking for the town library. It was closed. There was no museum. He walked along the river to a jetty, watching some men unloading armfuls of netting from their boat. He went for a drink in a bar, barely able to see for a moment as he stepped in from outside, blinking quickly and asking for a stout. At the edge of town, just off the Ballybofey Road, in a steeply sloping field beneath an oak tree, he found a memorial stone to the famine dead, buried together there beneath his feet.

Kate said hello to him on the phone that evening, but sank into a breathy silence when he said hello back, when he asked her what she'd been doing, as if she couldn't quite believe it was him at the end of the line.

He phoned Anna, and she said oh hello, I was wondering how you were getting on. It's been quiet at work without you there, she said, half-laughing, are you heading back soon? He told her he'd be a few more days yet, there was still plenty left to see. She said well we all miss you, speaking, as she often did, as if she meant something else, something more, and he wondered again if there really was something more to be meant. The teasing sound of her voice when she spoke like that reminded him of her fingers trailing through the hair on the back of his head, or of her breath moving across his cheek when they looked over layout diagrams together, leaning over the desk, her elbow pressed against his.

He said anyway, I was just phoning to see if there'd been any post for me, any messages I need to deal with?

She said no, nothing that can't wait. We can cope without you, you know, she added, laughing.

Oh, no, yes, of course, he said. Well, okay then. I should go.

Take care then, she said as he hung up.

He left Donegal Town and took a bus to Kilrean, a smaller place which didn't look like much more than a hamlet on the map. He was the only passenger on the bus, and he sat near the front, looking through the tall windscreen. The driver didn't say anything to him. The roads seemed wider than they were in England, but less well made, unfinished, petering off on either side into broken gravelly verges. The driver would sometimes have to steer a wide swerve around a pothole or a stretch of broken tarmac, or swing on to the wrong side of the road to slowly overtake a tractor pulling a trailer piled high with muddy potatoes. Dogs, keeping sluggish watch at the entrances to farmhouse driveways, their heads wedged between their front paws, would look up while the bus was still in the distance, running to meet it, barking and jumping and chasing it furiously away down the road. What few other drivers there were would greet the bus driver with a curt wave, usually just lifting a finger from the steering wheel and nodding, and he wondered whether the driver knew them all.

They stopped outside a pair of shops and a garage. There was a man sitting on a bench outside one of the shops, a black dog curled up by his feet. There was a long burgundy car poking out of the garage workshop, the bonnet open, two men leaning over the engine together. The driver turned to him.

Are you getting off then? he asked. David looked at him, and back out of the window.

Is this Kilrean? he asked.

It is, the man said, pointing at the door to clear up any confusion.

Kilrean, Ballybofey, Raphoe, Kilross; he stayed a night in each, walking around the area, calling into a shop or a bar, ready for conversation but not sure how to begin. Once or twice, with a couple of beers inside him, he said something to a barman like, I'm looking for a woman, Mary, Mary Friel, she was in London during the war, you don't know of anyone do you? And the barman would say something like, I don't know if I can help you there, or that's a long shot isn't it, or we're all looking for a woman, son. And David would smile, and shrug, and say yes, it's a long shot, not to worry; until one evening in Kilross an older man sitting beside him said, Friel was that you said? You want to head up to Fanad if it's Friels you're after.

He phoned Eleanor each evening, a stack of small coins ready beside the phone, and told her what he'd done that day, where he was, who he'd seen or met or spoken to briefly. He turned each coin over in his hand as he spoke, looking at the dates and designs embossed on them, the harps and salmons and bulls. I know it seems strange but it feels like it's worth it, he said. I know she might not even be here but at least I'm getting a look at the place. It's some thing, he said uncertainly. I love you too, he said each evening. Tell Kate I'll be home soon, tell her I love her, tell her to be good. He always paused a moment before putting the phone down, listening to the click and buzz of the broken connection.

He looked out for museums, but there didn't seem to be all that many around. He found one in Letterkenny, and spent the afternoon in there, reading the mainly handwritten display boards above the few artefacts. He read about burial chambers and dolmens, the fragments of shields and beakers and belt buckles found beneath the stacked slabs of rock. He read about farming in the Middle Ages, and expressions of religious faith, and the dominance of the oral culture. He read about the coming of the English and the Scots, the battles against the landlords, the potato blight, the starvation and desperate emigrations, the villages left abandoned and burnt. He read about the uprisings, and partition, and then there were photographs to look at and his interest in the stories faded as he studied the blurred faces looking out at him from those white-washed walls. He didn't know what he was looking for; some familiarity in a glance, a nose, a jawline or a posture which might catch him by surprise, something he could recognise. Something which would make someone stop and say well now, would you look at that. He's got your eyes. He's got your smile. He's got the same tiny curl of skin at the corner of his mouth. That's the spit of you. He wanted a photo he could rip off the wall, and show to someone, and have them say something like this. It would be a start. It would be something to go on.

He remembered when Kate had been born, how people had said these things to him then. Look, she's got your eyes, don't you think? There, that smile, that's pure David Carter, look at that. It had shocked him, hearing people say this, the force of the joy which had erupted inside him, a joy which came from the knowledge, at last, of someone connected to him. Someone in the world who was truly the flesh of his flesh. The only one. There were evenings, holding Kate in his arms, or watching her sleep, when he was frightened by the strength of the feeling surging through him. It was something so much more than love. It was something which made him crumple at the sound of her breathing coming down the telephone line. It was something, he was sure, he would be capable of tearing flesh from bone to defend.

He asked the woman at the front desk of the museum where Fanad was, explaining, when she asked where he wanted to go exactly, that he was looking for someone called Friel. She smiled. Well you're heading in the right direction then, she said. You'll be researching your family tree? she asked, looking up at him through gold-rimmed glasses. He hesitated, and said that he was. She looked in her desk and found him a leaflet — Ancestor Research, A Visitor's Guide — and told him not to say that she'd said but the best place to start would be with Father Dwyer at the church in Kerrykeel. He'll have records, she said. But don't tell him I sent you, she said again, tapping the side of her nose. He promised he wouldn't.

There were no buses until the next day, so he spent the evening in a bar, reading a newspaper and listening to other people's conversations. He phoned Eleanor, but she was busy putting Kate to bed so they just told each other they were fine and said goodnight.

He phoned Anna, and in the middle of talking about the way small museums seemed so reluctant to keep anything in storage, crowding out their displays in a way which was muddled and off-putting but also perhaps more honest, she said I've been thinking about you a lot, have you been thinking about me?

The church in Kerrykeel was set back from the road, low and dark behind a row of trees. There was a pub opposite, single-storeyed, its windows curtained off against the outside, and a shop that looked as though it had been closed all day. He ducked under the arch in the thick boundary wall and followed a path round to the side of the building. A door was half-open, and he could see, on a doormat just inside, a man easing a pair of mud-clodded boots from his feet, his hand jammed against the door frame for support. The man looked up and saw David before he could turn away.

Can I help you there at all? he asked. David hesitated. He'd had difficulty deciding what to ask, how much he should say. The man straightened up and looked at him.

Father Dwyer? David said. The man nodded patiently. Ah, David said, well, I was wondering if it would be possible to have a look at some parish records. I'm doing some research, he said. I mean, if it's not too much trouble. Father Dwyer pulled the door open wider and stood to one side, his thick socks half hanging off the ends of his feet.

I'm sure I can spare a few moments from my busy schedule, he said. What is it you're after exactly?

As he was showing David into the sitting room, once David had tried to explain what he wanted, he said, well, we can have a look but my guess is I'm not going to be much help. He went into another room, and came back with three dark-green record books, heavily bound, the page edges thumb-darkened and worn. Can I get you a cup of tea? he asked.

David nodded. Please, he said, that'd be great. It's been a long day.

He looked at the record books while he listened to the tea being made. He wasn't sure whether to pick them up and start leafing through or if he was expected to wait. He felt nervous sitting beside them, as if Father Dwyer might take them away again, as if this was the only chance he had to thrust them into his bag and sneak off. He reached a hand out to touch the top one, and drew it back again quickly.

Father Dwyer came back into the room with a tea tray, clearing a space on his cluttered coffee table. Excuse the state of the place, he said. He sat down opposite David. Go ahead, he said, take a look. It's all there: births, christenings, weddings, funerals, the whole lot. Well, everything they tell us about, he added, laughing briefly, leaning forward to pour out the tea. David picked up the first book and rested it on his lap, heaving it open to the first page.

Mary Friel, died 1920 (born 1872), the very first entry said in a flowing hand, the glossy ink matted by the years. He glanced down the page and found Michael Friel, John Friel and Dermot Friel; Bridget Friel, Margaret Friel, Nora Friel There was a Mary Friel, born 1927, two lots of Mary Friel, born 1928, and five lots of Mary Friel, born 1929. He looked up at the priest, who shrugged, raising his hands and lowering them again. It's not an unusual name around here, he said. Not an unusual name at all. You'll be tracing your family tree?

In a way, David said, turning the pages and running his finger down endless columns of Frieb, and Dohertys, and Carrs. Another three Mary Frieb, born in 1930, and four in 1931. Father Dwyer looked at him seriously for a moment.

I get a lot of people tracing family trees, he said. Americans mostly, more so than folk who ended up in England or Scotland. More likely to have lost touch, I suppose, he said, nudging a teacup towards David's side of the table. David kept turning the pages. Mary Friel, died 1932 (born 1925). Mary Friel, married Sean Sweeney, 1933.

But if it was something else, Father Dwyer said, lowering his voice very slightly. If it wasn't the family tree exactly. David looked up. If it was something else, Father Dwyer said again, then I'd say a little caution was needed. He coughed suddenly, bringing his hand to his mouth, sitting forward in his chair. Excuse me, he said. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket and swallowed a few times before continuing.

People can cause upsets, he said, looking down into his tea as he stirred it, when they go about the place asking questions. People can get ideas. Things can be dug up which didn't need to be. David looked up at him, his hands resting on the roughly textured pages of the record book. They heard footsteps outside, loud and brisk on the stone path, and something rattling through the letter box.

Excuse me, Father Dwyer said, putting his tea down and crossing the room to the hallway. David heard him picking something up from the mat and opening the door for a moment. The smell of cool damp air swung into the room before the door closed again.

Do you mind me asking how old you are? Father Dwyer said as he came back into the room. He was holding a thin white envelope, turning it over in his hands as if he could read the letter without going to the trouble of opening it.

Thirty-four, David said. Father Dwyer took the letter through to another room, closed a window there, and came back to his cup of tea.

Thirty-four years, he said, looking at David steadily. That's a long time now, isn't it? David closed the book, and put it back with the others. He drank his tea. He looked around the room, blinking quickly, looking at the pictures on the wall, religious paintings mostly — a crucifixion scene, a bearded man holding a baby in a temple, Rembrandt's darkly clouded image of a father resting his hands on the bowed shoulders of his son.

Sometimes people prefer to forget, Father Dwyer said.

David finished his tea, and put his empty cup back on the tray, and wondered what he could say now. He felt as though the words would fall apart if he tried to speak them, would spill wetly into the air.

You're not the only one, Father Dwyer said gently. You know that at least, don't you?