Andrew O'Hagan - The Illuminations

‘It’s because she’s been abroad,’ said Dorothy. ‘That’s where it all starts.’

Anne continued. ‘She said a woman should have her own journey … her own … thing …

un itinéraire unique

.’

‘She’s speaking foreign now,’ Dorothy said. ‘Did you see? That’s it: she’s speaking foreign.’

‘I have lots of souvenirs,’ Anne said. She made the remark and put down her cup and saucer, as if everything was now settled and for the best. She saw a little sprinkler throwing jets of water over the yucca plants in the botanical trench. She was aware of the warm light coming through the ceiling and knew it was good for the plants. Anne had the words that Friday afternoon and was happy to answer the nurse’s questions.

‘You were born in Canada but your parents were Scottish?’

‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ Anne said. ‘It was a big house in Hamilton called Clydevia.’

‘Hamilton in Canada?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the house was named after the River Clyde?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Were they posh people?’

Harry wasn’t from posh people. He liked the workers. He grew up near a brush-making factory in King’s Cross.

‘What did you say?’ asked Anne.

‘I was asking if your people were posh.’

‘They were religious. My father owned stores but he wouldn’t open on Sundays. I remember us all brushing … those big red leaves you get in Canada. Trying to sweep them up. Trying to catch them. They whirled about the yard in the fall and we ran in circles.’ The money had come from Glasgow cotton-spinners and she remembered the aunts coming over one time to help her mother, when she was ill. Anne always felt she owed it to the aunts

to come and help them when their time came. ‘I had to leave my career in New York,’ Anne said, ‘but I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But that was later,’ the nurse said. ‘We were talking about your childhood.’

‘They helped my mother.’

‘And what about your daddy?’

He sent her typewritten notes whenever he went away on business, always signed: ‘I love you, Daddy x.’ She could see them today. He fixed up a small light bulb in the doll’s house by her bed so that she could leave it on while she was sleeping, the perfect house, the perfect house to dream by, and it would stand there no matter what happened in the world. The child and the adult too lived in sympathy with the landing light. Her mother went mad when the jerking took over, when nobody could help her any more, and one day she simply disappeared from their lives. And so it was that whenever Anne pictured the house called Clydevia she was really picturing the doll’s house. ‘It was lit with a bulb,’ she said again. ‘And that’s what my father did and I think that’s enough for now.’

Maureen looked moved by what she’d heard. She felt close to Anne when it came to certain things and put a hand on her sleeve.

Often prints for hanging and exhibits require a generous amount of fixing up and retouching. To prevent markings from showing, you should follow a certain treatment. This method works best with dead matte paper without any sheen. That was Harry. He could spend hours retouching because that was his thing. You don’t mind me saying that, love? I never told you about the doll’s house because I wanted our house to be the first.

A young man wearing a boiler suit came into the lounge

carrying a pole and he winked at the nurse. ‘Afternoon, ladies. I won’t be a minute, I’m just checking the smoke alarm.’

‘What’s that?’ Dorothy said.

‘It’s a big pole, missus.’

‘Jeezo,’ Maureen said. ‘They’ve got all the technology nowadays.’ The man got two beeps out of the alarm and seemed satisfied with that. Dorothy played a few silent notes on the organ and the elderly man continued sleeping in the chair.

‘Then what happened?’ asked Maureen.

I might be daft, but I’m not as daft as I look, Anne thought when Maureen asked for more. She knew that her daughter and Maureen were always talking on the phone. And they wouldn’t be talking about Luke or any of the important things because that would be unlike Alice. They would just be gossiping about Anne’s pension book and probably talking about the photographs Anne had in the darkroom.

‘You need to go easier on Alice.’

Maureen had said that to Anne the day before. And that was a sign, thought Anne. That was definitely a sign. Alice had always wanted to turn Anne’s neighbours against her. She’d tried to poison Luke’s mind but he was off fighting, so he wouldn’t be bothering with all that nonsense. Anne believed nowadays that her daughter’s main goal was to put her in a nursing home. Alice blamed her for everything. ‘I don’t remember anything else,’ she said to the nurse, thumping the arm of the chair. The nurse pretended she was startled, then spoke with her eyes down.

‘Aw. I think you do, Anne. I think you remember artists you used to like. You spoke about them last time. Maureen was helping you, remember? Because she says you were a very talented photographer.’ Anne found it hard sometimes to tell the

difference between Luke and Harry. And she found it hard to separate pictures she had taken herself from ones she just loved. The young man in the boiler suit had finished what he was doing and he just sat down with them. Nobody seemed to mind because he was nice and he was young and Anne was an open book.

‘I wanted our house to be the first,’ she said.

‘What house is that?’

Anne waited. It took a while. ‘When I left Canada I was only seventeen. The place I went to was a summer camp for photographers. A nice place. Upstate New York. We all wore sailor suits and that kind of thing. One of the girls became very good. Her father had owned a store as well and she loved taking pictures of people. It was a famous place by a lake and we were happy there. That was our lives at the time. We didn’t need men and we were young and it was easy to be happy. You woke up that way. And one of the teachers in the colony had taken a famous picture of horses pulling a carriage through the snow.’

MY LUKE

The young man with the pole stood up. ‘I’m just listening to you,’ he said to Anne. ‘Is your name Mrs Quirk?’

‘It is,’ Maureen answered, leaning forward. ‘Mrs Quirk. And you’re the man from the council, aren’t you?’

‘Aye. My name’s Russell. I’m here to check the smoke alarm.’ It turned out his older brother had gone to the same university as Luke. ‘My big brother did politics at Strathclyde,’ he said, ‘and he knew your grandson, Mrs Quirk.’

‘Luke is in the army,’ Anne said.

‘Jesus,’ the young man said. ‘We had the radio on in the van and they were saying another soldier got killed.’

Maureen looked up. ‘In Afghanistan?’

‘Another one, aye,’ the boy said. ‘It was on West Sound. They say he came from around here.’

Maureen was looking at Anne but it wasn’t clear if the young man’s news had got through to her, then Maureen noticed a spot of colour on each of her friend’s cheeks. ‘My Luke’s over there,’ Anne said. ‘He’s called Luke Campbell but he’s from Glasgow.’

The young man rubbed at his ear and stepped back. ‘Well, obviously they’re talking about somebody else.’

‘Obviously,’ Maureen said.

Anne’s eyes went to the pinboard where some of the cards still remained from Easter. She felt tired suddenly and wished she could lie down on the bed she and Harry had bought that time in Blackpool.

THE EXTRAORDINARY LIFE OF HARRY BLAKE

The next day a child brought in a tortoise and it sat in Anne’s lap at the breakfast table. She liked the feeling of its paws. ‘He’s all right,’ she said when the boy tried to lift him off. ‘I’ll tell you something, dear. At one time I could’ve run right past this creature. Long ago, I was quick. You wouldn’t have seen me for dust.’