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Later, this would seem the strangest part of it all, that no one noticed, that no one asked, that she was able to keep it so well hidden while she carried on with her work, the cleaning and the sweeping and the scrubbing and the pressing. I suppose I was stronger then, she would say, one day, when she was finally able to talk. A girl that age, I suppose they’re built for it, aren’t they? Young and supple and all. You do what you have to do, I suppose, she would say.
She took a bus to the hospital when she could stand it no more, wrapping her saved wages in the middle of her brown paper bundle of clothes, leaving a note that said nothing on her bed and a month’s money uncollected. Her waters had already broken by the time they took her on to the ward. When they asked, she told them her name was Bridget Kirwan and that she came from a village near Galway. It took her no more than a few hours to give birth. It was the easiest of the five, she would say, years later. I must have been tougher than I felt, though it still hurt more than enough. When the baby was born, an underweight boy, he was taken from her almost without discussion. They told her it would be the best thing, they told her it would be cruel to do anything else, and she was too shattered by pain and hunger and shock to raise a voice in disagreement.
They barely even let me say goodbye, you know? she would tell someone, eventually.
When she went home, after two weeks in a rest ward, she knew that she would never want to go away to work again. She didn’t say, of course, why she had come back across the water before her time, and she did her best to make up for the shortfall of money in the bundle she’d brought back, walking three miles each day to milk and feed and mind the cows on the landowner’s farm. And when the men came home towards the end of the year, older and fitter and better fed, swollen with talk and drink and money, she watched them carefully, waiting, choosing, and before the following year’s hiring fair she was married to Michael Carr, waving him off the way she used to watch her mother do, turning away before he was out of sight to settle into a house of her own. She scrubbed and cleaned and polished her own pots, her own plates, her own clothes and boots and low front step. She lit a fire in her own grate. She opened the door to her friends, and she waited for her husband to come home.
He brought no money with him when he returned, and she could smell on his breath that she’d chosen wrong.
I can say this now, she admitted to someone, years later, when she lived on her own and waited for her grandchildren to call; it was a wonderful marriage for eight months of the year. And that’s a lot more than some folk can say, don’t you think? Laughing as she said it, glancing up at the photograph of him on the mantelpiece.
Her four children all had their birthdays in late September. And she wondered, each time she held a newborn child in her hands, where that lost one might have gone. She wondered it with each niece and nephew and grandchild she was given to hold, saying he’s a fine one to the mother as she looked into the baby’s clouded eyes. She wondered it as she changed and cleaned her own children’s nappies, as she fed them, as she mended their clothes and sang them to sleep and sent them off to school. She wondered it as she watched them grow into young adults, going further away to find work, bringing back money when they ducked into the house, bringing back other young men and women with whom they shyly held hands at the supper table. She watched them marry, and she watched them make homes of their own, have children of their own, move away and move back and move away again, and she never stopped wondering, waiting, hoping for some young man to contact her from England, some long-lost solemn-eyed child to come calling across the water and tell her something, anything, of where he’d been gone all this time.
Part One
Eleanor was in the kitchen when he got back from her mother’s funeral, baking. The air was damp with the smell of spices and burnt sugar, the windows clouded with condensation against the dark evening outside. He stood in the doorway with his suitcase and waited for her to say hello. She had her back to him, her shoulders hunched in tense concentration, her faded brown hair tied up into a loose knot on the back of her head. She was icing a cake. There were oven trays and cooling racks spread across the worktop, grease-stained recipe books held open under mixing bowls and rolling pins, spilt flour dusted across the floor.
Hello, he said gently, not wanting to make her jump. She didn’t say anything for a moment.
How’d it go then? she asked without lifting her head or turning around.
Okay, he said, it was okay, you know. The oven timer buzzed, and as she opened the door a blast of hot wet air rushed into the room. She took out a tray of fruit slices, turned off the oven, and went back to icing the cake. He put the suitcase down and stood behind her. The creamy-white icing looked smooth enough to him, but she kept dragging the rounded knife across it, chasing tiny imperfections back and forth. He put his hand on the hard knot of her shoulder and she flinched. He kissed the back of her head. Her hair smelt of flour, and of baking spices, and of her, and he kept his face pressed lightly against it for a moment, his eyes closed, breathing deeply.
It looks like you’re done there El, he said quietly, reaching round to take the knife from her hand, putting it down on the side. It looks lovely, he said. He kept his hand on her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as it clenched into an anxious fist.
It was okay then? she asked, her head lowered.
It was okay, he told her. She turned round, wiping her hands on her apron, and looked up at him, smiling weakly.
Good, she said, I’m glad. She picked up a palette knife, and eased the fruit slices from the baking tray on to another cooling rack. I got a bit carried away, she said, waving the knife around the room to indicate the cakes and buns and biscuit tins. I wanted to keep busy. She smiled again, shaking her head. She carried the baking tray past him and put it into the sink, the hot metal hissing into the water. Did you find the way okay? she asked.
Yes, he said, it was fine. He sat at the table, stretching out his legs, squeezing the muscles on the back of his neck, stiff from the long drive. She tried to undo her apron, her sticky fingers fumbling blindly behind her for a few moments, and gave up, turning her back to him and saying could you? over her shoulder. He picked at the tight double knot, awkwardly, his own fingers thick with tiredness, easing his thumbnail into the knot and unlooping the strings. She sat down, slipping the apron off over her head and folding it into her lap, wiping her fingers clean on one corner. She looked tired. He reached over and ran his hand up and down her thigh.
Hey, he said, you okay? She closed her eyes, resting her hand on top of his.
Yes, she said, I’ll be fine. It’s just been a long day. It’s been a long few days.
They sat like that for a few minutes and he watched the lines around her eyes soften as she began to relax. Long strands of coarse hair had fallen free of the knot on the back of her head and were hanging around her face. He reached over and tucked them back, smoothing them into place. She smiled faintly, already half asleep.
Was it alright coming back? she murmured, just as he was about to slip his hand away and get something to eat.
It was fine, he told her, it took a long time but it was fine. Not too much traffic about. I stopped off at some services for a break.
You’ve eaten then? she asked, opening her eyes and rubbing at her face suddenly.
Well, a little something more wouldn’t do any harm, he said, looking over at the racks of cooling cakes.
Oh, sure, she said, smiling, be my guest. He took a plate from the cupboard and fetched himself a large rock cake, blowing at the steam that poured out as he broke it open.
What about Kate? she asked, turning round in her chair.
She’s fine, he said, I dropped her off at the station this morning. She sent me a text when she got home, she’s fine.
She was okay with it all then, was she? she said, looking up at him.
Yes, he said, she was okay with it.
Oh, good, Eleanor said.
Later, as she got into bed, she said, so, will you tell me about it? She sat up, the duvet held up to her chest, the pillows wedged behind her back and her hair pulled round to one side of her head. She looked up at him as he took his shirt off and folded it over the back of the chair.
What do you want to know? he said.
Just what it was like, she replied. Who was there, what happened.
Well they were all there I think, he said, all the family, grandchildren, a few neighbours. A few dozen altogether I think, he said. He leant against the wardrobe to take off his shoes and socks, rubbing at the cracked skin across the back of his heels.
And was Tessa there? she said. He looked up. No love, he said, no. Tessa wasn’t there. She pulled the duvet back from his side of the bed.
Come and tell me about it, she said, I want to hear. Was it a nice service?
He unbuckled his belt, slid off his trousers, and draped them over the back of the chair. He swapped his pants for a pair of pyjama trousers from underneath the pillow, and he told her about Ivy’s funeral. He told her that a lot of them, the immediate family, had met at Donald’s beforehand, and that Donald’s wife had overloaded them with sandwiches and cake, and that this was where Kate had first met them all.
I picked her up from the station, he said. She seemed very quiet but I think she coped with it well enough. People were saying she looked like her grandmother, he said, and Eleanor looked across at him with a doubtful expression.
No, she said, I wouldn’t say that. Does she? Do you think so? He smoothed his thumb across her creased eyebrows.
A little, he said, perhaps. It’s only natural, isn’t it? She thought about it, shaking her head. He told her about the service, that the minister hadn’t seemed to know Ivy at all and had just talked in general terms about a long and full life but that people hadn’t seemed to mind. He told her that it had felt very warm in the church, and she smiled and said well at least some things change then, and she started to close her eyes. He told her about the burial, about the corner of the cemetery which had trees along both sides and seemed to be well kept; that he’d spotted her Great-uncle James’s grave nearby, and her father’s of course, and that Donald had said her father’s father’s headstone was somewhere but they hadn’t been able to find it. He told her about the wake in the Crown Hotel, how good the food was and how people had kept buying him drinks.
He didn’t tell her about the question which had hung back on people’s lips when they found out who he was, or that he’d felt like apologising and explaining for her every time, even though people were too polite to mention it. It’s the travelling, he’d wanted to say; it’s such a long way, it would be too much for her. But he didn’t say anything, because people didn’t ask. There was a gap in the conversation all day, no one saying well she could at least have, or after all this time, or I suppose she didn’t feel she could; but it was a gap which was soon bridged by enquiries about work, or Kate, or how he was enjoying his stay.
She shuffled down into the bed, rearranging the pillows behind her, and turned her head on to his chest. He could feel the warmth of her breath. He leant down and kissed her hair. She spread her hand across his skin, tracing circles with each finger the way she’d always liked to do, pressing lightly against each of his ribs, his belly button, the short dotted scar above his waist.
He told her about walking around Aberdeen the evening before the funeral, and how different things were now; the massive oil tanks and pipeworks ranged along the harbour-front, the new shopping centre, the graceful blue-glass extension to the Maritime Museum, the rebuilt houses on Torry Hill where she’d grown up. You’d still recognise it though, he said gently. He told her about some of the people he’d met at the wake, what they were doing now, that they’d said to give her their love. He told her, as her eyes closed more firmly and her breathing settled into its familiar slowness, about the long drive home, past Dundee and Dunfermline and over the new Forth Bridge, past Hadrian’s Wall, through the high bleak openness of the North York Moors. He told her how nice it had been, passing through all that scenery. He told her that there’d been no traffic problems, that it had been straightforward finding his way, that everyone had seemed to be driving carefully and sensibly.
He shifted down into the bed, kissing her on the cheek, and reached across to turn out the light.
You still want to go then? she said, opening her eyes suddenly. He looked at her.
Yes, he said, you know I do.
It’s an awful long way again, she said, so soon.
I know, he said, but I want to go. It’s important, you know it’s important. I’ll be okay. He kissed the side of her face again, stroking the top of her ear with his finger.
Have you packed? she asked. Have you written a list?
He thought of all the things he’d considered taking with him, stacked in the corner of Kate’s old room: the photograph albums, the document folders, the bundles of letters and postcards and notes, the scrapbooks, the loose objects wrapped in sheets of old newspaper and filed carefully away. He went through them all in his mind, listing each item as though in a museum catalogue, picking out the few things he’d eventually decided to take.
Yes, he said, I’ve written a list. Don’t worry about it now though. We’ll talk about it in the morning. He turned the light off, and for a while he lay there listening to the quick shallow sighs of her breathing, the kick and twist of her legs as she tried to get comfortable.
Can’t it wait David? she said. Why do you have to go now?
Please, he said. Don’t. She turned away from him, pulling the cover around herself, shifting further down into the bed. It was a long time before she was still.
1 b/w photograph, Albert Carter, defaced, c.1943
He was going to start with a picture of his father. It seemed as good a way as any to begin. It was the first thing he’d thought of packing before he went off to the funeral, tucking it into a padded envelope to keep it safe. This is my father, he was going to say, holding up the small photograph for someone to see. When he was a young man, he was going to add, before I was born. Well now, someone might say, looking closely, and what are these marks here? And then he could explain, telling it the way his sister Susan always had, the words worn comfortably smooth with repeated use.
It was a story she liked to tell; it made her feel a part of something bigger than herself, tied to a time when there were bigger things to feel a part of. She’d told it again a few weeks earlier, looking at the same picture with a group of her friends after dinner one night. Someone had mentioned seeing it on the way in, and she’d led them all through to the hallway to stand around it, balancing their cups of coffee on thin white saucers while they listened and smiled and nodded, and remembered stories of their own, and went quiet at the appropriate time. Whenever he’d heard her tell the story, people had always gone quiet at the same appropriate time.
It was taken in 1943, she said, gesturing towards the photo, a small black-and-white studio portrait mounted on a greying cardboard surround, a name and number scribbled in soft illegible pencil along the bottom. Just before I was born, she said, placing herself firmly into that generation. He must have had it taken before going away on service for the second time, to the Med, I think, and sent it back from Portsmouth for my mother to put up on the mantelpiece while he was away. Pausing here, as she always did, picturing the man in the strange uniform above the hearth, watching over her and her mother while they crouched under the Morrison shelter in the back room, the ground shaking, firelight flashing past outside, or greeting them when they came home from the public shelter in the morning with the all-clear ringing out down the street, the house safe for another day and the garden strewn with rubble from next door but one. Remembering the morning her mother had tried to explain that a bomb had landed on her grandparents’ house, and that her grandparents wouldn’t be coming round for tea any more.
It was the Med, wasn’t it? she asked, glancing across at him. I can never remember. Everyone turned to look, and he shrugged, smiling apologetically.
Don’t look at me, he said, I’m not a historian, and they all laughed.
Albert Carter, their father, had been twenty-seven when the picture was taken, but he looked a lot younger; fresh-faced, smiling broadly, his skin so smooth that it was hard to believe he’d ever had to shave. His hair was slicked back, with the comb-lines as straight as a slide-rule, and his smile lifted the same creases around his eyes that David could remember seeing as a boy. The uniform looked a little too big for him, hanging loose around the shoulders, and there was none of the formal regalia which might have been expected in a portrait photograph, no spit-polished brass, or epaulettes, or braiding; it was a uniform which looked purely functional, ready for the serious business of crewing a ship into battle.
Of course, Susan said, I don’t remember much about the war, I was too young. All I can remember, really, is this man arriving in the house, like the man in the picture but older and heavier, and not smiling. The others leant in towards the photograph as she spoke, looking at Albert Carter’s fixed and frozen smile. He just appeared, she said, there was no discussion, he was just suddenly lurking about the place, making the house much smaller than it had been and taking up my mother’s time. Smelling unfamiliar and damp, she said, laughing, as though she was unsure what she meant. But that’s the thing I always remember, she said. His not being there and then being there, and nobody asking my opinion. The others smiled at this, as people usually did.
David was going to tell someone this story with the picture in his hand, holding on to it for a moment before passing it over, feeling the rough and crinkled texture of the greying card, turning it over to read the soft pencilled dates and numbers on the back, running his fingers again across the scratches scored into the photograph’s dull surface. Dozens of scratches, mostly too faint to see unless the picture was turned into the light; mostly, except for three deep scars which had split and torn right through the skin of the paper, gouged across the young man’s smiling face.
Susan explained that she’d made these marks, one afternoon when her father had been home for a few months. This was the part of the story where people always went quiet, and looked at the picture more closely, or turned to her and nodded, or smiled wryly because they could guess exactly what she was going to say. She’d been told to take a nap so that her mother and father could have a lie down while the new baby, David, was sleeping. Auntie Julia, whose house they were all staying in until they could find something of their own, was out doing some shopping. Restless and bored, Susan took a small metallic comb from her father’s desk, grabbed the picture from the mantelpiece, and scoured frantically across its surface before making a tearful escape to the bedroom.
The most awful thing, she said, pointing out an ashtray on the hall table to a guest with a cigarette, is that nothing was ever said. The picture was replaced with another one, almost identical, and nobody ever mentioned it, she said.
Goodness, said a woman with a bright red scarf tied around her neck. Really? Susan nodded.
Not a word, she said. We found the damaged original in a box of his things after he died, and I insisted on keeping it. I’ve only recently put it up though, she added. The dinner guests peered closely at the picture for a few moments more, mentioning similar stories of their own before gradually moving back into the dining room.
My mother told me I used to try and drag my father out of their bed, the woman with the scarf said, laughing, and the man with the cigarette smiled at her, nodding.
Anyone want another coffee? Susan asked, as she followed them back to the table.
David stood in the hall for a moment longer, looking at the picture, tracing the scratches with his fingers, imagining the distress of the three-year-old girl which they recorded so well. He looked at the eyes, the smile, the face of the man who had brought him up so lovingly and was now gone, and he turned away.
You’ll be careful with it though? Susan said, later, when he asked if he could borrow the picture for a while. She unclipped it from its frame and handed it over to him, and he told her that yes, of course, he’d be careful. And, I mean, are you sure this is a good idea? she asked, the whole thing? and he told her that yes, thank you, it was.
2 Handwritten list of household items, c.1947
When Dorothy Carter was twenty-seven she wrote a list, sitting at the kitchen table, tapping her pen against the side of her face while she thought of everything she wanted to include. When she’d finished she pinned it to the back of the utility-room door, where it stayed until the day she finally moved out, and as David was helping to pack away her things he took it down and slipped it quickly into his pocket, thinking that someone might be interested in having a look.
He imagined her sitting at the kitchen table that first day, with unopened suitcases and boxes all over the clean hard-wearing linoleum floor, a trunk, a bundle of bedding tied up with string. Susan stamping and clattering around the hard bare rooms, testing the echo of her voice against the walls, or playing in the sand and rubble at the back of the house. Albert would have been on his way back to London already, returning the borrowed bread van in time for that night’s deliveries, having stopped on the way out to take a photo of Dorothy by the front door with the new handbag he’d bought her. He imagined her looking out through the window at the unfinished road piled high with timber and roof tiles, the other houses still skeletal, scaffolded, half-built; or standing to open and close the spotless cupboard doors.
It was so much more than we were expecting, she told David once. It was so much more than I felt we deserved.
The new house had its own front garden, and a path leading up to the door. It had an indoor toilet and a bath. There were fitted cabinets in the kitchen, and an airing cupboard, and electric lighting throughout. There was a cupboard under the stairs instead of a damp cellar. He found it difficult to imagine, when she told him all this, that these things had once been enough to seem like a miracle, to stun someone into speechless tears, but they had. Later, when he watched her saying the same things to Kate, he could see that Kate didn’t believe her at all, saying, and did you make your own entertainment in them days Nana? Glancing at him and biting back a smile, not noticing how quietly her grandmother said yes love, we did, you’re right.
She’d never been inside a new house before. She’d grown up in a tiny soft-walled cottage in the Suffolk countryside, where the only new buildings were the Nissen huts and hangars of the new airfields, where a bathroom was a kitchen for six and a half days of the week and the cooking was done on the fire, and she had no way of picturing what a new house might be like. Theirs was one of the first houses in the development to be finished, and they’d had to drive carefully through acres of Coventry’s bomb-flattened streets to reach it, waiting for them, perfect and untouched. We could still smell the paint when we went inside, she told him. She’d never seen rooms without furniture before, and the emptiness made the house feel so large that she was convinced they’d made a mistake until his father went outside and checked the number on the door.