Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

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.

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.