So Many Ways to Begin

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 i

t. 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.