Andrew O'Hagan - The Illuminations

‘They have to go,’ she said. ‘It’s the war.’ The boy put down his cup and adopted a serious expression, which caused him to blush again and look worried.

‘Mrs Quirk, I said something today and I shouldn’t have said that in front of you. I’m sorry.’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘I said about the news. That a soldier from around here had died in Afghanistan. It was on the radio in the van. And I shouldn’t have said that, Mrs Quirk. I listened to the report again. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with you because they always contact the families first.’

‘The men have to show courage,’ she said. ‘And go and fight for their country.’

‘Mrs Quirk—’

‘That’s what Harry said. And he was right. You take it on the chin and that’s true, son. You have to stand up and be counted. You’re all the man you’ll ever be. And when you get the call, that’s you.’

‘I’m daft sometimes. And it’s been bugging me since yesterday …’

He looked a little bit like some of the photographers she used to know. They were always out on the streets, those guys. They wanted to get away from studios and portraiture, all that stuff, lights and props, airbrushing. They were always young and confident. ‘You work for the Council?’

‘That’s right.’ He was a nice-looking man. He looked like

the photographer Roger Mayne. She remembered seeing him in Manchester with Harry one time, this thin-faced, serious man with a lock of dark hair falling over his brow and these pictures he’d taken of children in London.

‘Those were fine pictures,’ she said.

‘They said the soldier who died was part of a big operation to do with a dam. I wrote it down.’ He took a note from his pocket and read from it. ‘The Kajaki dam. They said it was a big job to bring electricity to the Afghan people.’

‘I thought I was an old hand,’ she said. ‘Then I met Harry and all the younger ones. I’d been away from it for a while, looking after them in Glasgow. Then I came to Blackpool and met Harry. He changed the way the pictures looked. He showed me how to bring out the light, the eyes, the background, you know, and he taught everybody.’

‘Are you talking about your husband, Mrs Quirk?’

‘Harry. You remember him?’

The boy took his cup to the sink and ran it under the tap while Anne talked about them, the Young Meteors, the group of photographers surrounding Harry at Manchester in the 1960s. It did occur to Anne that the boy might be too young but he seemed part of it, the men who worked for

Picture Post

and for Kodak and … maybe she was boring him.

‘I’m really sorry, Mrs Quirk,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you and I should watch my mouth.’

‘You’re okay.’

He stared at her. It took him a moment. Then he stroked her hand and said he met a lot of elderly people because of his work for the council. His eyes were young. ‘I hope that wasn’t your Luke,’ he said. ‘My brother said they would definitely come

round and tell the family ages before it was on the radio.’ He stood up and picked up his keys from the breakfast bar. Anne hoped he would stay because she wanted to talk about what to do with the stuff that was still down in the darkroom. It was nice to take pictures of children, she thought: they were only small for a short period of time and then it was over, wasn’t it?

Maureen noticed it had gone quiet next door during the time she was on the phone to Alice. She didn’t feel guilty but she hated to think it troubled Anne. It wasn’t as if Maureen didn’t have a family of her own: they were a full-time job, three grown kids and grandchildren into the bargain, and she only phoned Alice to make sure she understood everything that was happening. Since the rabbit, some people, some neighbours, had said that Anne’s daughter was too absent. But Maureen understood families and she wasn’t afraid to use the phone to try and help. It was late in the conversation that she turned to the day before.

‘Have you heard from anybody?’

‘Should I have?’

‘Not especially, no.’ Maureen pursed her lips and gathered herself. ‘That nurse was in again this week,’ she said. ‘Yesterday. They like to get your mother talking about her childhood and all sorts.’

‘All sorts is right,’ Alice said.

‘The illness makes her confused.’

‘She’s always been confused when it comes to the past. The fact is, Maureen, my mother’s always had issues with her memory. That’s what makes this so …’

‘Heartbreaking.’

‘Sad, yes. It’s sad. Sad for us. Because it’s now too late for my mother ever to face anything. If I was being unkind, I’d say that her illness has caught up with her character.’ Maureen sometimes

felt a twinge at the idea that the criticism coming from Alice was general, as if Anne’s daughter was making comments about all mothers when she spoke about Anne and her problems. ‘Now she’s fantasising about a rabbit,’ added Alice, ‘but she was always fantasising about something. We’re used to it.’

‘The rabbit comes and goes.’

Alice responded with clarity. The people on TV, thought Maureen, are seldom so clear. ‘We’re used to my mother having relationships that keep us out. It’s one of her things. At least, it’s one of her things with me.’

‘You’re a mother yourself,’ Maureen said.

Alice swallowed hard and let the implication fade. She had never been the mother she wanted to be — it wasn’t allowed. And now she had to depend on the next-door neighbour to keep her informed about what was happening in her own family. It was pitiable, really. Anne had failed as a mother on nearly every front, but fantasy would carry her all the way. Everybody, including Alice’s own son Luke, would pity the sad life of sacrifice she had framed so perfectly for their eyes. Alice knew better. But why did that knowledge feel like a curse?

‘Mother seems to have told you a lot,’ she said.

‘That’s what it’s for, the Memory Club.’

‘And she spoke about Harry?’

‘Oh, yes. A lot about Harry.’

Alice felt that people kept her out of having information until she didn’t want it any more. ‘Well, thank you for phoning, Maureen. I really appreciate you taking the trouble.’

‘It’s no bother,’ Maureen said. They paused. The call hadn’t gone well, but Alice didn’t want to appear angry.

‘I pray for them at morning Mass,’ she said. It was clear that

Alice needed to take strength at the mention of Harry.

‘Were you his child, Alice?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He got her pregnant.’

Each wanted to hang up, but they kept hoping for something more, a clever development in the conversation that would turn it into something nice. Maureen said her father was the person she missed all the time. ‘We used to run away to Glasgow together when I was wee,’ she said. ‘Just me and him and we had the whole day to ourselves. He used to take me to the perfume counter at Arnotts. We’d buy soap. And on the way back …’ She paused and Alice felt kindly towards her. ‘I always wished the train belonged to us and that we’d never have to get off.’

‘I had none of that,’ Alice said.

‘He called me Mog.’

‘I don’t think my father even remembered our names.’

‘Whose names?’

‘Ours,’ Alice said. She spoke reluctantly, feeling that she had gone far enough with Maureen. There was such yearning in Alice’s voice, as if she wished more than anything for things to be certain, but she knew they couldn’t be. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.

ALWAYS

It was only a fraction of the stuff from Atholl Gardens, but the linen was washed and ironed, laid out and tied with blue ribbon, looking like old stories that had yet to be told. Over the TV set Anne draped an Edwardian tablecloth that had come from Canada