So Many Ways to Begin

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.