Jon McGregor - If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

We come off the motorway at the next junction, and I start slipping directions into the conversation.

He says do you think it was weird, me saying that about my brother, you know, about him being in love?

I think for a moment, left at this next roundabout I say.

We drive past a retail estate, and I see a line of cars crossing an empty carpark like wagons across a prairie.

I say well yes, I did, it did throw me a bit, it wasn’t really what I was expecting.

Straight over at these lights I say.

It’s a big word I say, love, it seems a bit, you know, clumsy.

He says I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spin you out, I wanted to tell you, I wanted to see what you thought, I say but I don’t really think anything I don’t even know him, I’m sorry.

No he says, I suppose not.

Left at this pub I say, and we swing into my old estate, lunging over battered speed-bumps, and I wind down my window and it all comes rushing in, this place, the smell of it, the feel of it, pieces of things that happened when I was younger.

Right at the mini roundabout I say, and I remember falling off my bike and breaking my glasses, my mum stopping my pocket money until the new pair was paid for, left past the shops I say.

Can I ask you something I say, he says yes, he turns the radio off, I say why are you doing this?

He says you said you couldn’t afford the train fare, no not that I say.

I say why are you here, now, telling me all these things about your brother, asking me how I feel, what are you trying to achieve?

He stops the car, suddenly, he looks at me and says shit I’m sorry I didn’t mean to upset you.

You haven’t upset me I say, I just, it’s a strange thing to do and I’m interested to know why you’re doing it.

I don’t know he says, he looks atme, I can’t answer that he says.

He says he told me you looked lonely and he couldn’t do anything about it.

We drive past my old junior school, left I say, left again, and then round a corner and we’re outside my parents’ house, my house.

I thank him for the lift, I offer him a cup of tea before he goes.

He says no, thanks, I should probably leave you to it, and he gives me the phone number of where he’s staying, he says call me when you want to go back.

He says, if that’s okay, I mean, if you don’t mind, and I smile and say of course I don’t mind.

He drives away, and I wave, and I stand outside my house and wait.

I look down at my stomach, and I wonder if it shows properly.

It feels different to me already, when I lay my hands across it I can feel the swelling, like a deep breath in a very tight dress, the stretch of it, and I wonder if anyone else can see.

I wonder if my dad will be able to see.

I ring the doorbell.

There’s a thudding sound from a door across the street, from behind the door maybe, and he looks up to see what it is, the man with the burnt hands, he lifts the cracked shell of his face and tries to see what the noise is.

It’s coming from number seventeen, a banging noise of wood against wood, the doorhandle is twitching up and down and the door is pressing outwards with each thud, like the heartbeat of a Bugs Bunny in love, boomba boomba. He thinks to himself, the door must be stuck, it happens, in the heat, in these old houses where the landlords let things slip.

The noise stops. He looks at the door, at the shine of the doorhandle, the metal of the doorhandle warming up in the midday sun.

And then the window next to the door is hauled up suddenly, the sashes squeaking, and a gangly young man clambers out through the opening, the net curtain covering his face briefly like a bridal veil before he emerges into the street and strides away towards the shop. He holds his hand up over his eyes, screws his face up against the glare of the sun, pulls at the collar of his crumpled white shirt. One of the twins stops his bowling run-up and shouts splash sploosh, and the young man ignores him.

The man with the ruined hands sits in a chair in his front garden and looks at the net curtain wafting in and out of the open window.

The veil she wore on their wedding day was white, it was like the curtain. It was smooth, silk maybe, and when she breathed it drifted out from her face like a feather. This was many years gone now, their wedding day, but it is like no time at all.

The look in her face when she lifted the veil, the delight, the pride, the beautiful in her soul, could be yesterday.

Her face, was beautiful.

Her hands, was beautiful.

Her skin, was smooth and clear and unbroken, when she touched him lightly it felt like water trickling across his body. She would move her hand across his face to see if she wanted him to shave before the evening meal, and when she was done his skin would feel clean of the dust of the day.

She was tall, and strong, and she kept her hair coiled tightly around the back of her head and she had intricate paintings on the secret parts of her body. She was a wonderful woman, but this was not enough to help her. He loved her deeply, but this was not enough to help her. Please, darling, she called out to him, through the door, the closed door. Please darling can’t you help me she called. He could not reach to her, he was not enough.

The door was stuck, in the heat, it was swollen, the wood of the door in the frame, the frame it was too small, like a wedding ring on a very hot day.

It was so very hot.

She said darling I am very hot I cannot breathe please can’t you reach me.

The paint on the door was coming away, it was bubbles, blistering, each time he touched it he felt knives across his skin and into his bones. The metal of the doorhandle, when he touched it, it melted his hand like butter, it sunk into his skin like an axe into a tree and the hot air and the poisonous paint in his lungs, he thought he would die but he did not. He did not die.

She said my God my God what is happening.

He sits in his garden on a folding wooden chair, this man with the burnt hands, and the sun is shining and his daughter is playing with another girl in the street and he is okay but he is not okay.

He watches the young man with the white shirt and the tie loping back along the street with a bag of shopping. The bag is red and white, thin plastic, inside there is a pint of milk, a carton of orange juice, packets of crisps. He watches as the young man clambers back through the open window, he licks a peel of skin on his palm, flattening it, he watches the young man reappear and fiddle with his front-door handle. The young man pushes at the door with his shoulder, he rattles the handle, he kicks the bottom of the frame. He puts his hand through the letterbox and shakes the door.

The man in the chair brings his hand to his lips and thinks of his wife saying my God the door what is happening.

The young man stands back from the door, he looks around. His face is red and he is sweating. He sees the man in the chair, they see each other, the young man makes a face like well what a laugh and the man in the chair replies with a single slow nod.

She said it is too hot I cannot breathe I cannot please my God can’t you help me darling please.

The young man turns and lifts his foot high and kicks into the door, his arms raised and his fists clenched, his body all pointed down the line of his leg in a rush and a tangle and the door swings open and his momentum carries him through into the shade of his hallway and there is a sound like he is falling to the floor.

The man in the chair looks, he does not move. He remembers her, she said what is happening, the door, please, can’t you reach me, please, the door.

His daughter skips past, her shoes are tapping on the pavement, she is singing and she does not look up at him as she passes.