Jon McGregor - If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

The woman from over the road, the mum of the twins, standing at an open upstairs window, looking into the street, smiling, looking much younger than she must have been.

The man from next door, holding his hat off and pushing his fingers across his head like a comb, on the back it says I think they have an allotment somewhere but I think only his wife goes there.

I remember seeing her, pulling a shopping-bag trolley with a garden spade waving out of the top, trundling past, already wearing her gardening gloves, turning to us and saying hi-ho.

The man who was always washing his car, an empty bucket in his hand, a wet stripe down the front of his shirt as though he’d been running a race.

The young couple from the top flat opposite, I used to hear them arguing all the time but the picture shows them hand in hand and he is laughing.

There are other photos as well, without people, stuck to the cards without any explanation on the back, an armchair in an alleyway, a lamp-post painted red and green, a pigeon flying past with a twig in its beak.

A picture of a pavement by a bus stop, chickenpoxed with grey spots of spat chewing gum.

But mostly the pictures are of people, and mostly people in the street, the boy with the pierced eyebrow, the thin father of the kid with the tricycle, the man in the shop, standing behind his counter and smiling broadly into the camera.

On the back it says he was the only one I could ask, his name is Mr Rozi.

He says did you know all those people, I say I recognise them, I didn’t really know any of them, he says no.

He takes more things out of the box, a handful of curtain hooks, a jamjar full of cigarette ends.

He looks at the jar, he looks at me and he laughs, he says some of this stuff, it’s a bit, I don’t know, and he picks up the curtain hooks and starts passing them from hand to hand, letting them fall from one to the other like dominoes.

I say if he collects this much stuff while he’s travelling he’ll be driving a lorry by the time he comes back, and he looks up and half-smiles and the phone rings.

I get up and answer it, and Sarah says oh my God I don’t believe it.

I say hi, alright, I got your message, what’s up, what don’t you believe?

She says I just spoke to your mum, I lost your number so I called her to ask for it and she said she was worried about you, she said she thought I knew.

I say knew what, she says what do you think, I close my eyes and swear and turn away from the room, and as I do so I hear Michael picking up the teacups and carrying them through to the kitchen.

I say, oh, so she told you, she says yes I couldn’t believe it, I say I’m sorry I was going to tell you, I was just waiting, I was just waiting for, for a little while.

She says how long have you known when is it due who was the why didn’t you I mean, and her words come out all tangled and rushed, like a corrupted email.

I say Sarah I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it before, but I really don’t want to talk about it now, not right now.

She says oh, sorry, and her voice sounds punctured.

I don’t want to upset her, I say shall we meet up, soon, do you want to come round?

Okay she says, okay, maybe at the weekend, that would be good I say, there’s a lot to talk about, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and she laughs a little, nervously.

She says, but, are you okay?

She says, your mum, she was worried, she seemed really worried about you.

I say I’m okay, I’m fine, Michael’s here, he just came round, I think we’re going somewhere for lunch, I’m okay, thanks for ringing, I do appreciate it, really.

She says, he’s still there? it’s not him is it? and then she says

oh no, of course, and she giggles and she says goodbye and I tell her I’ll call her.

He comes in from the kitchen as I put the phone down, he says are you okay and I say I’m fine it’s just, it’s nothing really.

I look at all the things on the table, beside the box, I look inside the box and lift out a stack of polaroids.

I say, it’s my mum, she told Sarah about it, about me being pregnant, and I wasn’t going to tell her yet.

I look at the polaroids, they’re taken from his bedroom window again, a day when it was raining heavily, there are splashes on the lens and the street is shining wet.

He says didn’t you want to tell her at all, I say yes, but not yet, not like this, I wanted to wait until, I don’t know.

The twins are in one of the pictures, their heads tipped back into the rain, their clothes soaked, one of them waving a cricket bat in the air.

He says well at least, you can talk to someone about it now, I mean, you know, I’m not being rude but you need someone to talk to about it, properly I mean he says and I look at him a moment.

I look at the other polaroids, the sister of the twins waving her ribbon in the air, a barbecue billowing smoke outside number twenty-three, the dark sky full of rain, the street shining like glass and I look at them all again, closely.

I look at the picture of the twins, and I recognise the clothes one of them is wearing, the one with the cricket bat, and I realise when the pictures were taken and my stomach turns over, like a vase falling from a windowsill.

He takes the last few things out of the box, a thick bundle of spiral-bound notebooks tied together with string, a polaroid camera, pages cut from magazines, photocopied sheets of text.

I think most of this stuff was for his dissertation he says, and he picks up pictures of coffins and funeral pyres, an article about Graceland, he picks at the blu-tac on the backs of the pages.

He did something about funeral rites he says, comparing historical ones with modern ones, he got really into it he says.

I pick out the last pieces from the box, two broken pieces of a small clay figure, I think that was part of it he says, something oriental I think.

I hold the two pieces together, pressing the smooth round head onto the shoulders, holding it up close to look at it.

It looks elegant, peaceful, it’s very well made, the eyes closed, the nose a delicate pinch, the shoulders and body almost formless.

I turn it over, I put it down, I put the head by its side.

It’s a shame it’s broken I say.

He must have dropped it he says.

He starts putting everything back in the box, stacking and arranging it all carefully so that it fits in.

I say do you want to go somewhere for lunch, he looks up and I say I mean, I haven’t got any food in, I.

He says no no, that would be good, we, I’d like that.

He says actually I’m not doing anything all day, we could maybe go somewhere for the afternoon, it is a bank holiday he says.

He’s looking at me, his hands have stopped moving, I look up and he blinks and I look away, he says I mean that’s if you’re not doing anything.

No I say, quickly, no I’m not doing anything, no that would be nice, some fresh air I say, a bit of exercise.

He smiles, he says okay, good, he finishes packing the box, he picks it up and he says well shall we go now?

Okay I say, smiling, I’ll meet you outside, I need to get a few things, and I open the door for him and watch him walking out to his car, I feel strange and lightheaded.

I pick up my purse, I drink a glass of water and fill a bottle, I look at the flowers again and step outside, into the sunshine, heading for the waiting car.

In the bedroom of number nineteen, the mother of the twins lies awake in bed. Her husband sleeps, undisturbed, and she lies still beside him, locked inside the knowledge of absolute pleasure, thinking about the times when this was not the way of things, the times when there was a shadow over their moments together, the shadow of a thing not happened, the shadow of the family thinking badly of them, of her.