Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

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?

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?