So Many Ways to Begin

What time is it? he asked, and closed his eyes.

When he woke again, there was no one there. He could feel a sharp thudding pain in his stomach somewhere. There were metal rails along the sides of the bed, and he tried to remember where he'd seen that before. There was the brown plastic chair that Eleanor had been sitting in, but there was no sign of her. The room was darker than it had been. He could hear a hushed voice somewhere and he couldn't tell if it was coming from a radio or from someone talking, or if they might be talking to him.

David? She was standing right next to the bed this time, trailing the tips of her fingers across his forehead, brushing his damp hair away from his face. He looked up at her.

Hello again, he said. She smiled, and it was a smile of such open pleasure and warmth that he didn't quite know how to respond.

How're you feeling there? she said.

Sore, he told her, and sick, and a bit dizzy. She ran her hand down the side of his face, and he turned to kiss her palm. She looked round, and leant over to kiss his forehead, his cheek, the end of his nose.

Bloody hell David, she whispered, you had me worried there for a while. She reached down for his hand, held it, pulled the brown plastic chair closer to the bed and sat down, tugging his hand into her lap. Look at the bloody state of you, she whispered.

There was a vase of flowers on the locker next to the bed, and a card. From your Mum, she said, when she saw him looking at them. She'll be back down later.

Is Kate with her? he asked.

Oh, yes, she said, I was there with them both last night. I think your Mum likes the idea of having her to stay; I think it's an adventure for them both.

Have you told her? he asked.

Kate? she said. I've told her that you had to have an operation; I said they had to fix your tummy but you're alright now and you'll be home soon and right as rain. I told her it was your appendix, she added softly. She squeezed his hand, and traced the outline of his fingers with her thumb. She seemed okay with that, she said. Oh, look at you, she said again, running her eyes across the dark swollen bruises on the side of his face, his thick and broken lips, the mottled stains across his ribs.

Someone at the other end of the ward was watching television. He couldn't see the screen, but he could see a slight flickering glow on the man's face, and hear the rustle of studio applause. He was an old man, his hair cut fuzz-close to his head, his mouth hanging slightly open. He was wearing blue-and-white striped pyjamas, and a thin grey cardigan, sitting up in bed with a pile of pillows behind him. Through the window at the end of the room, David could see the top branches of two trees, shifting together and apart in a light breeze, the dark green leaves billowing and swooping towards each other. The sky was white with sliding clouds.

I brought you some grapes she said, trying to smile, do you want some? He reached out to the bowl on the bedside locker, tugging feebly at a grape. As it broke off the stalk he dropped it deliberately to the floor, letting his hand fall weakly to the side of the bed.

I don't think I've got the strength, he said.

You're unbelievable you are, she said, biting back a smile and standing closer to the top end of the bed. You're supposed to be sick and exhausted. She plucked a handful of grapes off the stalk, her hips tilting ever so slightly towards him, and fed the grapes into his mouth, poking each one into the reluctant press of his lips, withdrawing it with a teasingly raised eyebrow, slipping it back in, running the broken edge against the licked bi

te of his teeth. You should be careful of your blood pressure there old man, she murmured.

I'm being as careful as I can, he replied, but you're not helping much. He reached his hand up and curled it around the lean of her waist.

She stood away from the bed suddenly, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with her hand, catching her breath, looking around to see if anyone had been watching. She shook her head at him. You'd better be home soon, she said.

I'll see what I can do, he told her. I think they're going to want my bed back before too long. She sat down, looking at him and smiling as though she were the keeper of some great secret.

A nurse came and took his temperature, asked how he was feeling, and changed the bedding. There was some blood mapped out across one of the sheets where he must have caught a stitch as he turned over in his sleep. A man came round with a trolley, selling sweets and newspapers, books of crossword puzzles. People came round with food which tasted like it had been warm for a long time, and slid it in front of him on wheeled tables. After a couple of days he was able to sit up in bed, and then to get out of bed, and then to walk the short distance to the toilet. A doctor came, dragging the curtains closed around the bed, and listened to his breathing through a stethoscope, and looked into his eyes with a bright light, and tugged painfully at the ends of the blood-encrusted stitches. Time you were off I think, Mr Carter, he said vaguely, looking around as if he'd forgotten something. I think we've done all we can, he added, and slipped away again.

A police officer came, and sat by the bed with a notebook, and asked him what had happened. He told him, more or less, and the police officer wrote it down, watching David, asking questions, asking for a better description. David said it was unclear, that things had been quick, and confused. I'm not sure I'd recognise the man if I saw him again, he said. It's difficult to be certain, he said. I didn't even get a look at his face really, it was over so quickly, he said.

He lay back in a hot bath, steam rising from the still surface of the water and filling the darkened room, clouding the mirror and the window, curling and spreading across the ceiling. The two candles at the end of the bath burnt steady and still, their light streaming up the shining tiles behind them. Eleanor knelt on the floor beside him with a handful of cotton wool.

Kate was still at his mother's. Eleanor had said she wanted her to stay there a few more days, that she didn't want her to see him like this. She'd said it would frighten her. The house felt strange without her, empty and awkward, her toys still spread across her bedroom floor, her school satchel hanging by the door. But when he'd spoken to her on the phone she hadn't seemed unsettled by what was going on at all. Are you looking after Granny? he asked her. Are you cooking her dinner and making her bed? No! she said, giggling once she realised he was joking. Are you reading her a bedtime story? he asked. No Dad, she said. You're just being silly now, she said, and asked to speak to Eleanor. He missed her being in the house incredibly. They both did.

Sit up, Eleanor said quietly. She leant over, dipping a piece of cotton wool in the water, squeezing it out between her fingers. She pressed it on to the dried blood around the stitches, the grainy crust softening and dissolving and trickling down on to his skin. The cotton wool soaked red and brown, and she reached over to drop it into the bin. She dipped a fresh piece into the water and repeated the process, looking up at him now and again to see if it was hurting, carefully dabbing and wiping away the blood until there were only the pressed pink edges of the wound, the shining black stitches knotting it together, the red dotted punctures where the thread wove in and out of his skin. Stand up, she said, and he did, and the water streamed off him with a sudden plunging rush, the candlelight flapping for a moment in the shaken air. She held a towel up against him, drying his hair, his face, his chest and arms and back, pressing it carefully against his belly. When she pulled it away, it was marked with a small kiss of fresh blood. She soaked a pad of cotton wool in iodine and held it towards him. This is going to sting, she murmured, pressing it against the wound. It was cold, and he jerked back instinctively, but she kept it pressed against him as the initial jolt became a duller throbbing pain. He sucked air through his teeth, and smiled as she looked up at him. She dropped the cotton wool into the bin. There, she said, sitting back on her heels as if admiring her handiwork, how's that now?

He looked down at the scar, pink and hot from the bath, wreathed in the steam still rising from the water. I think that'll do, he said. Thanks, he said. They looked at each other for a moment, and she held back the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Water had run down her arms and soaked the ends of her shirt sleeves. As he stood there, looking down at her, he felt the familiar flush and pulse of an erection beginning to swell. She watched it for a moment, the shift and stretch of the skin, the darkening of the veins. She stood up, shaking her head.

You're a disgrace, she said, laughing, passing him the towel as she left the room.

42 Pocket address book, w/page torn out, c.1982

It was nobody's fault, he told himself later. It was just something that happened, something they'd both drifted towards without thinking it through. They spent so much time together at work, that was part of it. And they had a lot to talk about, things they could share, that was a part of it as well. They both had good reasons to stay at work late, not to go home, to find themselves yet again the only two left in the building.

We must stop meeting like this, she said to him once, laughing, as they both left the building after a long evening spent assembling new display panels. He laughed too, and said, right, well, see you tomorrow, and nodded a surprised hello to Chris, who was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps; and the next time they worked late she said, I didn't mean that you know, we shouldn't stop meeting like this at all.