Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin

But you don't do that now, she said, her voice rising indignantly. I had to say what you do now not what you used to do. What do you do now, Dad? she said again. They looked at each other for a moment.

I don't know, he said quietly. I've been having a rest for a while, he said. Like when you have a summer holiday. She looked at him, small flickers of disbelief wrinkling across her face.

Grown-ups don't get holidays like that though, do they? she said. He stood up.

Yes Kate, he said, I'm afraid sometimes they do.

Eleanor went out to the garden and sat beside him, wiping the evening's dew from the plastic chair. He shifted in his seat as she sat down but said nothing. They listened to the night's sounds for a moment: the call of a bird from the tree in next door's garden, televisions chattering through open windows, traffic on the main road. She leant across and touched his leg. It's dark now, she said, are you coming inside?

It wasn't the first time she'd had to do this. He seemed to lose himself sometimes.

You'll catch a chill, she said. It's getting damp out here. Come on. He nodded but didn't move. She picked up the folded beer cans from the lawn, and rubbed her hand across his shoulders. You can't stay out here all night, she said.

A long percussive sigh broke from his lips and he shook his head as he stood up. He rubbed his face and looked around for a moment, as if he was unsure of where he was, as if he was seeing for the first time the weed-choked flower borders, the flimsy fences, the soaring leylandii three gardens away. He turned and looked at the house, seeing the light still on in Kate's bedroom, and glanced up at the roof. That aerial needs fixing, he said, again. Eleanor nodded and put her arm around his waist as they walked back into the house together.

He hadn't known what to do when he lost his job. They told him that they'd had to let him go because he was the only member of curatorial staff without formal qualifications, and they'd tried to encourage him to go in for training. We appreciate your knowledge and experience, they'd said, but the museum environment is changing. They said they were sure, once he'd retrained, that he'd have no trouble finding another job; they sent him course literature in the post, application forms, funding information, usually with a note in Anna's handwriting saying that everyone wished him well in his career development. He threw it all in the bin. I know how to do the bloody job already, he said, whenever Eleanor tried to press him on it. It's just not me, going to university, not at my age. At which Eleanor usually smiled, and stroked the hair on the side of his head, and said what do you mean your age?

It was easier when the redundancy money ran out, once he'd spent it on a wish list of trinkets and comforts and toys a video recorder, a camera, clothes for Kate to grow out of, jewellery which Eleanor never admitted she didn't really like, a microwave, a stereo and a drinks cabinet with a spotlight that came on when he opened the door — and he had no choice but to find work again. It gave him something to do at least. They were warehouse jobs, admin jobs, serving customers at the garden centre — never jobs he was interested in — but they gave him a reason to leave the house in the morning, and they put money in the bank, and they kept him from feeling like he'd completely failed as a father and a husband. It made him feel useful again, to come home from a day at work. It gave him some of his old energy back; if not the energy to reconsider the curators' training courses he was still being offered, then at least the energy to take an interest again, to visit museums occasionally, to look over his old archives, to think about working on projects of his own. He went through boxes of old photos, arranging them into albums. He dug out the scrapbook from his trip to Ireland, reading slowly through the pages, wondering. He found the family tree Kate had drawn for her school project, looking over the faded felt-pen lines and blank spaces and deciding to finish it for her, phoning Donald to ask him for help and only realising as they started speaking how much of a shock it was to be in contact after all this time. He wrote down Donald's answers to his questions — Ivy Munro b.1910 m.Stewart Campbell b. 1900 d.1981. Hamish b.1931, Donald b.1932, William b.1933, John b.1936, Tessa b.1938, Eleanor b. 1948 — and listened to Donald say that he should be sure to phone again, that it was good to be in touch, that he hoped Eleanor and Kate were both well.

He spent an afternoon filling in the missing names, redrawing the broken lines, drafting and redrafting the diagram to make all the branches fit. And it was this that he'd shown to Eleanor earlier in the evening.

Oh David, she'd said, startled for a moment and then apparently touched, looking over it, tracing the lines with her fingers. Oh David, it's lovely. But I don't think it's finished at all, do you? Really?

He'd looked at her a moment, and she'd said I'm sorry David but just, sometimes, I think, maybe you need to, I don't know. Her words stopped and hesitated under his narrowing gaze. Maybe, she said, I don't know. Maybe you should think about it again. I mean. And he'd said nothing in reply, snatching up the piece of paper, folding and refolding it as he moved towards the back door, stopping only to take a clutch of beers from the fridge.

There was no need for her to have brought that up. She didn't know. She didn't need to have mentioned it. He thought she'd just be pleased with what he'd done, pleased that he was taking an interest in something again. He didn't need to have bothered. She didn't need to have said that.

She came out to see him later, after telling Kate it was time she went to bed. Kate moaned, and said do I have to I'm not a baby any more, but she stood up all the same. Eleanor noticed her glancing out at David before she went upstairs.

She doesn't like it you know, she told him as she sat down. It unsettles her, when you're like this. You're supposed to be the steady one out of us two. He shrugged and scratched his head and said nothing.

He said there's nothing wrong with me, I'm just sitting out in the garden having a drink. There's nothing wrong with that is there?

No, she said, there's nothing wrong with that, but it's just— She stopped. She said, I'm sorry about what I said before, for bringing it up, I mean. He shrugged again.

That's okay, he said. Doesn't matter. He looked up, and saw Kate standing at her bedroom window, looking down at them both for a moment before pulling the curtains closed. He dragged his fingers through his hair and said but you don't honestly think it's something I forget about, do you?

No, she said, quietly, following his gaze up to Kate's window and turning back to him, reaching out and touching his cheek; of course I don't. But sometimes you forget to talk about it, she said. He pulled his face away from her hand, sharply.

What am I supposed to say? he said. What is there to talk about? What do you want me to say, Eleanor? His voice was tense and defensive, raised against her intrusion. She sat back in her chair, leaning away from him.

No, she said, nothing really, you're right. Nothing.

I mean, do you want me to tell you about it all over again? he asked. You want to be my counsellor or something? I'm supposed to unburden myself, am I? Like, oh Eleanor I can't stop thinking about it I feel rejected and cut adrift, oh Eleanor I need some answers oh please help me — something like that?

She said nothing, waiting for his blurred sarcasm to wear itself out.

You want me to have a weep about it or something, you think I should stop bottling it up? he said. Or maybe you think I should take up painting and learn to express my inner feelings? He reached under his chair and opened another beer. Eleanor stood up.