Jon McGregor - If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

Oh, I don’t know what to say I tell him, and I don’t.

He says oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, they’re not, I mean it’s not anything, I just thought, erm, shall I, and his sentence trails off into a row of faint full stops.

I say, oh, they are nice though.

He says, I just thought, you know, you seemed upset, yesterday, I thought maybe they’d cheer you up, I’m sorry.

I say no, sorry, they’re nice, you just surprised me, that’s all, I wasn’t expecting, I just, look come in anyway, I’ll put them in something.

He comes in and stands by the door, and I put the flowers in a vase by the window, the stems curving upwards like the arch of a dancer’s back, the petals thick and glossy like morning eyes, the smell of them already beginning to fill the flat.

I make a pot of tea, and I pour it into thin white cups without saucers.

He says are you okay though, yesterday, was it hard?

I can’t decide how to answer him, I start to say something deflective, something like well it was okay I think they’ll come round, something that will slip from the question like shrugged shoulders from a shawl, but the words stick in my mouth.

I want to tell him something of what happened, the new understanding I was granted, but those words are locked in as well.

I say yes it was, it was hard but not like I expected.

He says what do you mean and I say I don’t know how to explain it I don’t think it would make any sense.

He says have a go, he smiles and says I’m not as stupid as I look you know and he lifts his palms up.

I say actually can we talk about something else now and he stops smiling and says sorry, sorry.

I say, the flowers, I do like them, thankyou.

He sits at the table, opposite me, and he looks at the flowers and he looks out of the window.

I say I was thinking about your brother this morning, and his head startles round to look at me, I say I was wondering what it’s like, being a twin.

He says what do you mean, I say well is it strange, do you feel different to anyone else?

He says I don’t know it’s hard to say, I’ve got nothing to compare it to, I don’t know what it’s like for other people.

It’s not like people think he says, we’re not telepathic or anything like that, but we’ve always been very close, we’ve always known most stuff about each other.

Connected he says, like we’re connected.

And then he pulls a face and wipes his forehead with his hand and he says well less disconnected than other people at least.

He says it’s hot in here do you mind if I open a window.

He tries to open the window, it sticks and he has to hit the frame with the heel of his hand.

He says you know that thing with his eyes, the blinking, and I nod.

I remember when his brother talked to me that day, blinking so hard that both his cheeks lifted up as if they were trying to meet his eyebrows.

He says that used to be the only way people could tell us apart, especially when we were at school and wearing the same clothes, it was the only difference between us.

He says I used to think he did it on purpose, just to be different, you know, I asked him about it once and he got really upset, he said it showed that even I didn’t know him properly, he asked me why he would put it on when it made him look so stupid he says.

It doesn’t make him look stupid I say, just a bit shy.

He looks at me, he picks up a pen from the table, a retractable biro, he starts clicking the point in and out, clickclick clickclick.

His hand clenches around the pen suddenly, his knuckles rising hard and white from his hand, he says he is not shy, my brother is not shy, and he weights each word as though he were underlining it with the pen in his hand.

He puts the pen down, he breathes out slowly, and I say I’m sorry I didn’t mean, I just, I mean I don’t know him really I was just saying.

He says look I’m sorry I think I should go I don’t know what I’m doing here.

He stands by the door, and he can’t get out because the key’s not in the lock.

He waits, and I look at the back of his head and I want him to turn around and I want him to tell me what’s wrong.

And suddenly more than anything I don’t want him to leave.

He says have you got the key the door’s locked, and he still doesn’t turn around, he’s talking to the door and his voice sounds strange.

I say don’t go.

He says my brother isn’t shy, but people never give him the chance, people don’t make the effort to get to know him, nobody knows him really.

He says I’m not sure that I even know him, and he’s still facing the door as he says this and I’m still looking at the back of his head.

I say don’t go.

He turns around and he says I don’t want to go I don’t know where to go.

He sits down and there is a quietness between us for a long time.

He says I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just, I feel like he needs protecting sometimes.

He says he was born a few minutes before me but I’ve always felt like his big brother I’m not really sure why.

I say you know every time you talk about him I feel worse for not knowing him properly when we lived there, I feel as though I missed out and it was sort of my fault, as though I should apologise.

I hold one hand in the other and say doesn’t he ever phone, do you think he could phone here and I could speak to him?

He says no he never phones, just like that, no explanation, and I think maybe I’ve upset him again, maybe this is too much hard work and I’m out of my depth here.

He says you know I told you he collected stuff, and took photos, I, he gave me them to look after and I think he wouldn’t mind if I showed you, I mean I think he’d like it, would you like to see them, and already he’s standing up.

I look at his sudden change of mood, I smile and say yes and unlock the door for him and watch him walking out to his car.

I look at my room, at the table with the flowers and the pot of tea, the two cups, I think how nice two cups on a table can look.

A shadow passes across the street, a faint imprint rolling briefly across the pavement and the tarmac, noticed only by the young daughter of the man with the aching hands, she is looking for things like this and she sees it passing as fast as a shiver and she looks up and sees a pair of wings high above her, perfectly white in the huge sky, a thin ribbon of vapour trailing out behind it.

As she looks up, a layer of cloud comes sliding into view, heavy and grey like unwashed net curtains and she watches the wings disappear, she watches the sky darken. She turns around and sees her father standing up, he is picking up his chair, hooking his arm through the seat back and dangling it from his elbow like a bag of shopping. She sees him stepping through their front door and looking over his shoulder at the sky. A cold wind pushes suddenly down the street, her hair lifts away from her neck, the milk crates in the street topple over and the bowler shouts you’re out even though he’s still holding the ball, the batsman stacking them back up and yelling it doesn’t count it doesn’t count you never even bowled I’m still in.

She looks up and sees more clouds scuffing in from the south, she sees the clouds swelling and darkening, the whole sky looking like the basin of water after her father has washed his hands. She is excited and she looks around her and she jumps from the pavement into the street. She sees the older girl, the one who told her about angels, she sees her at the end of the street, she comes running round the corner and straight along the pavement, her arm lifted high and the yellow ribbon streaming out behind her like a pennant from a car-radio aerial, she runs straight past and doesn’t say a word, her shoes slapping on the pavement like slow applause.