Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

My dad came here the long way round, Chris told him, dangling his empty pint glass between his finger and thumb, watching it swing. He went east to get away from the Germans, and ended up on a boat to England, ended up in the air force loading bombs to send back at them. He watched Anna walking back from the toilets, squeezing past a group of men by the bar, resting her hand on someone's shoulder by way of an excuse me. His eyes narrowed slightly before he turned back to David.

My mum came west a few years later, he said, to get away from the Russians. She met my dad in the Ukrainian club up in Leeds, and they moved down here when he heard about jobs going on the cars. Turned out they were only born twenty miles apart, he said as Anna sat down, saying it like a well-worn punchline, sitting back on his stool and turning to look at the bar.

Your parents? Anna asked, and he nodded.

We could have interviewed them if you'd mentioned it, David said to Anna, and she shook her head.

I don't think they would have wanted to take part, she said. Chris stood up, taking their empty glasses.

They don't like immigrants, generally, he said, turning towards the bar.

He was a broad-shouldered man, and people moved naturally aside to let him pass, as if they'd felt his approach without looking. As he got to the bar Anna said, murmuring, he's working again now you know, for the parks; it'll probably only be until the end of the summer but it's something at least. David nodded.

That's good, he said. That's something.

She looked at Chris, who was laughing briefly at something the barman was saying. It's not as bad as it was, she told him now. My money's enough for us both really. David watched him heading back across the room towards them, the three drinks held awkwardly out in front of him. He noticed Anna moving the back of her thumb across her wedding ring, rubbing it clean, the same way she'd been doing a few nights earlier when she'd told him about their anniversary. Five years though, she'd said, tutting and sighing fondly, seems hard to believe sometimes, and he hadn't known whether she meant hard to believe how quickly the time had passed or hard to believe they'd got married at all.

Where's your missus tonight anyway? asked Chris as he sat down, the three glasses knocking against each other and slopping beer out on to the table.

She's staying in, David said. She's, I mean, she's a bit under the weather at the moment.

Really? said Chris. Nothing serious is it?

Well, said David, no. Nothing serious. He noticed Anna looking at him, looking like she wanted to say something, an edge of worry in her eyes.

She not made it to the exhibition yet then? Chris asked, and David shook his head no. Pity, Chris said, it's a good bit of work. He moved his hand across Anna's thigh, grasping it, leaning in towards her. It's a smart idea she had there, I reckon, he said, and David nodded in agreement, Anna smiling with surprise, turning suddenly and kissing her husband on the cheek.

David sat back a little, not wanting to intrude, a familiar resentment turning over in his stomach. He wanted to be able to sit in the pub with Eleanor beside him, having a drink with their friends and talking about the small things. He wanted not to have to explain her absence every time, and almost always to have to lie about it. He wanted at least to know how long this was going to go on for, or to know that there was something he could do about it. He wanted their life together to be the way they'd told each other it would be when they first got married, instead of the empty helpless waiting his life had become. He wanted — and he felt a rush of shame as he realised this — he wanted her to make more of an effort to get better. He couldn't be expected to wait for ever, he thought, trying to silence the words even as they formed in his head. He pushed his glass away with half the pint still undrunk.

I'm sorry, he said. I'm going to have to get going.

Anna and Chris looked round.

Say hello to her for us, won't you? Anna said, reaching her hand out across the table. Give her our best wishes and everything, she said. Chris muttered something along the same lines, and David said that he would, looking back at Anna, looking at the tilt of her head, the reach of her arm across the table, her fingers arching a little. Looking at her bottom lip, caught by the concerned bite of her teeth.

I'll do that, he said. I'll say hello for you.

It was the birdsong he remembered, mostly. High up in the branches somewhere, hidden by the pale and folded first leaves of spring, a bird had started singing, the notes tumbling down into the yard. The air was wet, and clean, and still. The brick walls were streaked with rainwater, the stone paving slabs by the back door gleaming darkly. The bushes under the window were spilling fat beads of rain to the ground, nodding gently as each drop swelled and broke free. Everything felt as though it had been smoothed and shined by the rain, and the birdsong chittered against the hard surfaces like scattering pieces of polished glass. It was a slow, languid sound, barely even a song at all, more of a hesitant trickle down the notes of the scale, but there was something compelling about it, something demanding and insistent. Something about the way the sound was carried through the wet air. Something clear and bright and pure, moving in through the open kitchen window and raising tiny braille bumps on their skin, so that they could only stand and listen, and not dare to move, and not dare to breathe. Their bodies touched and pressed against each other. He could feel her warmth, the pulse of blood against her skin. The brittle words and stamped feet of a few moments before were forgotten. She closed her eyes, and the corners of her mouth lifted gently into a smile. The song stopped. There was silence for a moment, broken only by a few drops of water spattering on to the stone, and just as they were about to move, to turn away and say something, or not say anything, the song began again.

She shifted beside him, her shoulders dropping as she eased out a held sigh. She looked up into the tree, trying to spot whatever bird was up there. He leant forward and tilted his head beside hers, and as he did so the sound stopped abruptly. The light in the small yard faded, and there was a rapid smatter of raindrops which soon accelerated into the same heavy downpour of a few minutes before. Water splashed in off the window ledge, clattering lightly against the glass.

She backed away, startled, looking at him for a moment without quite meeting his eye, and edged out of the room. He watched her go. He reached out and swung the window closed, fastening the catch and wiping his wet arm on the side of his trousers, and he heard, from upstairs, the bedroom door closing gently, the slow rasp of curtains being pulled closed.

It was the first time, the only time, that he'd ever come close to hitting her.

He'd told her to pull herself together, and she'd said she'd be alright if he left her alone.

He'd come back from work and found her in bed again, sitting up against a heap of cushions and pillows with the sheets hauled up to her chest, staring blankly at the wall. The curtains were closed, and the room smelt as though it could do with the windows being flung wide open.

For heaven's sake Eleanor, he said, have you seen yourself? She looked confused, and it seemed to take her a few moments to work out where his voice was coming from. What are you doing? he said. You can't just sit here like this. He opened the curtains. He made her get out of bed and come downstairs. He put the kettle on, talked to her, tried to snap her out of it. She'd obviously been in bed all day; her hair was tangled and her breath smelt sour, and when he helped her down the stairs she felt hot and clammy and slow. He told her that she needed to look after herself. It was the wrong thing to say.