Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

You're not the only one, Father Dwyer said gently. You know that at least, don't you?

He left Eleanor at home, to pack a suitcase or to decide that she didn't want to make the long journey with him after all, and drove round to see his mother, looking for a few more photographs to take with him. She was standing outside when he pulled into the small cul-de-sac of sheltered bungalows, waiting for him, watering the potted flowers they'd bought her as a moving-in present.

No Eleanor then? she said as he got out of the car, barely looking up.

No, he said, she's busy sorting a few things out.

Pity, she said, putting down the watering can and tilting her cheek towards him to be kissed, it's been a little while. Her skin was dry against his lips, and her body felt thin and fragile as he put an arm around her.

They're looking nice, he said, nodding down at the flowers. She looked at them, sceptically.

Well, she said, as good as can be expected with the light they're getting there. She turned away, leaning on the walking stick which had been propped up by the drainpipe, and eased her way back into the house. He tried to take her elbow, to support her weight, but she shrugged free of his grip and headed into the kitchen. He stood in the small entranceway for a moment, watching her stiffened movements, slower versions of the ones he'd grown up with, watching as she filled the kettle, plugged it in, opened the cupboard, took out the teabags. The bones of her hand looked as though they had shrunk, leaving the skin loose around them. There was a brown spot on the back of her wrist which he hadn't noticed before. She put a plate of biscuits on the table, and a pair of cups and saucers, and sat down. As the kettle came to the boil, David filled the pot, brought it to the table, and sat down beside her. She turned the handle towards him and waited for him to pour.

So, he said. How are things, Mum? How are you finding it? She smiled slightly, looking past him towards the window, looking over at the other bungalows with their ramped entrances and grab handles beside the door, their groups of potted flowers and thin strips of lawn.

Oh, it's all very nice, she said. I've got no complaints. It's warm, and dry, and clean. It does me okay.

It had taken them a long time to persuade Dorothy to move. They'd reminded her, more than once, that the doctor had said the stairs were doing her hips no good, and she'd told them she could get one of those stair-lift things, what did they call them? They're ever so expensive, Susan had said, and Dorothy had looked at her, narrowing her eyes, saying are they now Susan, is that right?

They'd asked her what would happen if she slipped in the bath one night and had no way of calling for help. They'd told her the house was too big for her to keep clean any longer, and she'd said well, I know that, what do you think I keep asking you lot round for? But she'd agreed in the end, grudgingly, saying she supposed it was better than going into a home like Julia had done, saying she'd go along with it if only to stop them all harping on.

The night before she finally moved out, they cooked her a dinner and kept her company until late in the evening, sitting around the same kitchen table she'd been putting food on for more than fifty years. David and Susan, with the help of Susan's son Mark, spent the day emptying most of the house, taking some things to the bungalow and the rest to charity shops and auction yards, or to their own garages and lofts. Dorothy kept out of the way, saying she was sure they knew what they were doing, talking to Eleanor in the garden or on the way to and from the shops, and in the evening they laid the table as they would for Sunday lunch, with warmed dishes for the vegetables, white sauce in a jug, separate serving spoons, napkins in rings. Eleanor suggested candles, and they found some left in the cupboard under the stairs, and put them on the table in half-sized wine bottles with the labels scrubbed off. They poured drinks for everyone, and drank a toast to Albert, to the house, to new beginnings.

When his mother had poured out a second cup of tea for them both, he said listen, is there anything you want me to do, while I'm here?

Well you're not leaving yet are you? she asked.

Not straight away, he said, but I can't be too long. We should try and get going before lunchtime. He put his hands on the table, as if he were about to get up, and she looked at him.

We? she said. Is Eleanor coming with you now? He nodded, and Dorothy smiled.

Oh, I am pleased, she said. I never did think it was a good idea to go on your own. He shrugged, looking around the room.

Is there anything you want me to do though? he said again. She watched him for a moment and shook her head.

There's not an awful lot to be done, she said.

No hoovering or anything? he asked.

Now then, she said, watch yourself. I'm not an invalid yet. But you can wash these things when we're done, she added, glancing at the cups and saucers on the table. He nodded.

He said, almost as an afterthought, oh and Mum, I was still hoping to borrow those photos, you remember? She looked at him. Do you mind if I have a look for them? he said. I was hoping to take them with me. He said the words quickly, quietly, picking crumbs from the lace tablecloth as he spoke.

Oh, she said. Well. Of course. She nodded towards a stack of cardboard boxes behind the door. I think they're still packed in there.

Can I look? he asked again. She waved her hand towards them, nodding, in a gesture which might have meant be my guest if she hadn't also turned her face away and lifted her cup of tea unsteadily to her lips.

The albums were still packed where she'd put them when she moved out of the house, wedged in between recipe books and old gardening magazines. He stood in the corner of the room to look through them, knowing already which pictures he wanted, removing them quickly and laying them to one side on the worktop; his and Susan's first days at school, Albert and Dorothy moving into the house, a summer holiday with his grandparents, small square snapshots with rounded edges and faded colours. His mother carried on looking out of the window, fiddling with the sleeves of her cardigan, rolling the cuffs back and straightening them again. Each time he peeled back the plastic cover of an album page it made a sound like tearing paper and she glanced at him anxiously.

You will be careful with those, won't you? she said. He nodded, still flicking quickly through the heavy pages, squeezing each album back into the box when he was done.

Look, Mum, he said when he'd slipped the chosen pictures into a clear plastic binder, are you sure you don't mind?

When they'd had dinner together that evening, the night before Dorothy had moved into the bungalow, some awkward things had been said. She'd drunk too much wine, and had let her anxiety about what he was doing spill out, saying I'm not going to stand in your way but you shouldn't think I'm happy about all this, saying isn't it a bit late now, really? Saying oh this is all Julia's fault. But now, with only a cup of tea passing her lips, and with the sharp summer light filling the small and tidy room, she had nothing left to say.

Really, I don't mind, she said eventually. You go and get on with it. She stood up suddenly, looking around the room as if she wasn't sure where she'd put something, as if she wasn't sure what it was she was looking for, and sat down again. Say hello to Eleanor for me, won't you? she said, her voice sounding tired and faint. Tell her I said to look out for you.

He said that he would, and he carried the cups and saucers across to the sink, rinsing them under the tap and balancing them on the draining rack, glancing up at the clock.