by Jon McGregor
It was difficult to accept, Anna getting the job he'd always imagined would be his, the job which should have been only the first step towards all those grand ambitions he'd had as a child, as a young man, the job which now seemed feebly out of reach. It was difficult to take instructions from Anna, to have to answer to her after everything that had happened.
He remembered Anna, the way she'd stood there in that dress. Her bare shoulders. The movement of the dress when she'd turned in the doorway, the way it had swung around the backs of her long bare legs.
He remembered Chris, laying him down by the telephone box, saying bloody hell, fucking hell, you're not going to tell anyone, are you, you're not going to say it was me? Saying it was an accident, mate, fucking hell, it was an accident.
He remembered lying there on the ground, the flow of blood seeming to slow and the sound of an ambulance in the distance, watching Chris wipe his hands across the backs of his trousers as he walked away.
49 Library tickets, green card with handwritten annotations, c. 1980s
Eleanor came to him that evening with a familiar urgency in her eyes, and they made love for the first time in months. You're safe now, she kept whispering, pulling him closer and closer against her, as if she'd understood far more about the scene in the park than he'd realised, as if by these fierce clinging acts of love she could protect him from it all.
He was reading a library book, sitting on the edge of the bed in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and when she came into the room he didn't even look up. She took the book from his hands, kissed him, and pulled at his belt and his pyjama buttons until her hands were against his bare skin, pressing and stroking and pulling and pinching. She pushed him back on to the bed, clambering after him, kneeling over his body and working her way forward until, shrugging her dressing gown from her shoulders, she could lower herself towards his mouth.
It was quick, and it was unexpected, but by then it almost always was. A stray glance, a quiet evening, a warm day, and the weeks and months of shared solitude - brief dry kisses, hugs, little more - would be swept aside in a hurried series of remembered moves and gestures. The hand on the back of the head. The unbuttoned skirt. The kneeling. The tugging at underwear. The clutching at each other's bodies. And the kissing, always the kissing. We should do this more often, they usually said, afterwards, but they didn't.
She fell back on to the bed, pulling him towards her, saying come here come here, you're safe now, come here, and as he felt the heat of her skin against his, the pull of her legs around his waist, he tried to remember when the last time they'd done this had been.
Two months, three months ago, with mud on their shoes and leaf-litter in their hair, an afternoon in the park with Kate having degenerated into a tickling match, the press and wrestle of their laughing bodies in the cold clear air reminding them again of what they'd been missing; and when they'd got home, for once she wasn't too tired, or too tearful, or too concerned about Kate playing alone in her room, and the moment hadn't passed, and they'd faced each other in their room and begun in the usual way. It was almost always the same. She would unbutton the back of her skirt, or he would do it for her. She would smile slyly, and meet his eye, and they would kiss. Her skirt would be pulled or pushed or wriggled to her ankles, and her knickers would follow, and then she would place her hand on the back of his head and push him lightly but firmly to the floor. He would kiss her, kneeling, and she would sink back on to the edge of the bed, and he would keep kissing her until she had finished. She would pause, and call him up on to the bed, and the two of them would be together again, holding, moving, murmuring.
Hey, she said, later. How're you doing? They were both sitting up in bed, dressed in their pyjamas again, reading. He looked at her and smiled.
Not bad, he said. Not bad at all. She laughed, embarrassed, and lowered her eyes.
No, but apart from that, she said. I mean, you know, what happened today and everything. He put his book down.
It's okay, he said. It was fine. Why? She looked at him and said nothing.
She said, and the job? Were you, are you very disappointed? He thought for a moment, and when he spoke he almost sounded surprised.
No, he said. No, I'm not. I thought I would be, but I'm not, I don't think. I don't know, he said. Maybe I'm just losing interest in the whole business. Maybe I'm growing out of it, he said, smiling. He picked his book up and started reading again, and she didn't ask him any more about it.
50 DHSS Booklet, Guide to Services for the Newly Unemployed, 1986
This was what it took, in the end, to break him. A five-minute meeting in a basement office. A man in a suit, ten years younger than him, talking about the need for efficiencies. Talking about the importance of restructuring, the generous size of the package being offered. Economic conditions are putting the whole sector at the back of the queue, Daniel, the younger man said. It's a tragedy for heritage in the county but we have to do our best with it.
It's David, he said tautly, leaning forward, placing his forearms on the desk. It was the same desk that had been there since the museum opened, a heavy modernist piece which had seen four directors sit where the young man was sitting now, and slide important pieces of paper across its polished surface. David had even taken his place there for a week once, standing in for a director who'd gone to the British Museum for a conference. How long have I got? he asked, cutting across the young man's continued explanations. The man looked up, meeting his eye for the first time since he'd started talking. He seemed confused by the interruption, frowning slightly.
I'm sorry? he said. David rubbed his forehead, holding his hand over his eyes for a moment.
Please, he said, gesturing vaguely at the papers on the desk, don't bother with all this. Just tell me how long I've got. A month? Three months? The man looked down at the papers in front of him, as if to check, tugging at his earlobe and sweeping his hand across the top of his head.
Well, he said. If you'll let me finish.
There was a filing cabinet behind the desk that contained the records of every exhibition held since the museum opened, the loans, acquisitions, searches and sales which had been necessary to facilitate them, the planning which had gone into them, the interpretative text which had been used in the displays, the visitor responses, the press coverage, the layout diagrams, everything. And with the exception of the years 1965-1968, between the museum opening and David starting work, there wasn't a single exhibition that he hadn't been involved with in some way. He wondered if the young man knew that. He wondered if the young man knew how often he'd sat in his bedroom as a child, sketching out exhibition spaces for the air-raid finds his father brought home for him from the building sites; or how many times he'd been to London to study the exhibitions there, the correlation of displays and texts, the skill needed to draw a visitor through a collection of objects and bring them out with a lived sense of one particular moment in time. He remembered the excitement he'd felt when he first took the job, and how he'd managed to hold on to something of that excitement even as the collections were being reduced, the staffing levels cut, even as he lost faith in his ambition of one day opening a museum of his own, or saw how easily the documents and objects in the archives would rot and crumble no matter how carefully they were kept. He wondered, looking at the locked filing cabinet, if he would ever be able to do anything else.
The young man was still talking, reading through a sheaf of papers spread out in front of him, the words chattering past unheard until David caught the phrase with immediate effect. He looked at the man and sat further forward in his chair.
Immediate effect? he said. The man nodded.
I'm so sorry, he said, tilting his head to one side and trying to make a sympathetic expression.
Right now? David said stupidly. The man nodded again. Bloody hell, David said. After twenty-three years? The man lifted his hands off the desk, holding his palms up towards him.
David, he said, I know. Your length of s
ervice is reflected more than adequately in the package we're offering to—
Twenty-three years, David said again, interrupting. I'm forty-one years old. This is all I've ever done. What am I going to do now? What the hell am I going to do now?
He might have signed something. He might have been handed a bundle of papers which he rammed furiously into a briefcase. Possibly the man stood and tried to shake his hand, and he either didn't notice or refused. Anna might have appeared on his way out of the building, to offer her apologies or her condolences or just to hold up her hands and say there was nothing she could have done. He couldn't remember. He wasn't sure how he got from the office to the house, whether he said goodbye to anyone on the way out, or said anything at all, shouted anything, kicked or slammed any doors. He wasn't in the mood, for once, to keep a record of the event.
51 Video cassette: World's Greatest Boxing Heroes, c.1987
He was watching one of his new videos, with his feet up on the coffee table and the curtains closed, when he heard Kate letting herself in through the front door, dropping her school bag on the stairs and walking straight past him into the kitchen. He sat up a little straighter, rubbing at the skin around his eyes and wondering what time it was. He heard her take a glass out of the cupboard and help herself to some orange squash, and he noticed for the first time that she no longer had to stand on a stool to reach it.
She came back into the room without saying anything, sitting at the far end of the sofa and slowly swinging her legs. She was eleven years old, and he realised that she was on the verge of no longer being a child. He watched her for a moment, her face lit up by the television screen, a biscuit in one hand and the glass of squash in the other, apparently unaware that he was looking at her. Her blonde hair was tied back into a neat ponytail, the arms of her small silver-framed glasses tucked into the hair around her ears. As she bit into the biscuit, she kept bringing a finger or a thumb up to her lips to poke stray crumbs back into her mouth, pinching up any that fell further down on to the front of her school uniform, her eyes staying fixed on the screen, the two men in black and white circling each other with their gloved fists raised, her face almost expressionless. He found something compulsive about watching her; something about her neat smallness, the delicate shapes of her hands, her ears, the soft roundness of her nose; something about the way each time he looked at her he saw some faint echo of Eleanor, or himself, or even of Ivy; something about the way each time he looked closely some part of her seemed to have changed, stretched and grown while he wasn't looking, the colour of her hair darkening slightly, the burnish of the skin on her face coarsening a little, the shape of her eyebrows shifting and settling, her feet stretching a little further towards the floor each time she sat at the far end of the sofa with a biscuit and a glass of orange squash. She would never again be the same as this one moment he was watching her now. Before she'd been born, he'd never understood what a privilege this would be. He watched her carefully, not quite turning towards her, trying not to let her see. She picked the last few crumbs from her sweater and gulped down the rest of her drink.
Dad, she said, turning to him suddenly, what do you do? He looked at her. She turned back to the screen.
What do you mean? he asked, taking his feet down from the table and sitting up, leaning towards her.
I mean, what do you do, she said again, emphasising the do, as if her question was obvious.
Well, he said, and then he didn't know what to say, and almost as suddenly as she'd started the conversation she seemed to lose interest.
Can I watch my programmes? she asked.
In a minute, he said. Do you mean what do I do for a job? he asked. She nodded.
Mrs Smithson went round the class and everyone had to say what their dad did, and I didn't know what to say and everyone laughed, she said, matter-of-factly.
Did everyone else have something to say? he asked her. She nodded again. Even Carl? he asked. And Robin?
Carl said his dad was an RAF pilot and Robin said his dad worked in America, she said. He smiled gently.
Oh, he said, I see. Well, you know that I used to work at the museum, don't you? You know I was a curator? Why didn't you say that? She sighed loudly, as if what he'd just said was too boring to even respond to. Kate? he said. She turned to him, resting her chin on her hand and lifting her eyebrows in an impression of her mother. Why didn't you say that? he asked again.
But you don't do that now, she said, her voice rising indignantly. I had to say what you do now not what you used to do. What do you do now, Dad? she said again. They looked at each other for a moment.
I don't know, he said quietly. I've been having a rest for a while, he said. Like when you have a summer holiday. She looked at him, small flickers of disbelief wrinkling across her face.
Grown-ups don't get holidays like that though, do they? she said. He stood up.
Yes Kate, he said, I'm afraid sometimes they do.
52 Hand-drawn family tree, marked 'Believed Complete', dated 1988
Eleanor went out to the garden and sat beside him, wiping the evening's dew from the plastic chair. He shifted in his seat as she sat down but said nothing. They listened to the night's sounds for a moment: the call of a bird from the tree in next door's garden, televisions chattering through open windows, traffic on the main road. She leant across and touched his leg. It's dark now, she said, are you coming inside?
It wasn't the first time she'd had to do this. He seemed to lose himself sometimes.
You'll catch a chill, she said. It's getting damp out here. Come on. He nodded but didn't move. She picked up the folded beer cans from the lawn, and rubbed her hand across his shoulders. You can't stay out here all night, she said.
A long percussive sigh broke from his lips and he shook his head as he stood up. He rubbed his face and looked around for a moment, as if he was unsure of where he was, as if he was seeing for the first time the weed-choked flower borders, the flimsy fences, the soaring leylandii three gardens away. He turned and looked at the house, seeing the light still on in Kate's bedroom, and glanced up at the roof. That aerial needs fixing, he said, again. Eleanor nodded and put her arm around his waist as they walked back into the house together.
He hadn't known what to do when he lost his job. They told him that they'd had to let him go because he was the only member of curatorial staff without formal qualifications, and they'd tried to encourage him to go in for training. We appreciate your knowledge and experience, they'd said, but the museum environment is changing. They said they were sure, once he'd retrained, that he'd have no trouble finding another job; they sent him course literature in the post, application forms, funding information, usually with a note in Anna's handwriting saying that everyone wished him well in his career development. He threw it all in the bin. I know how to do the bloody job already, he said, whenever Eleanor tried to press him on it. It's just not me, going to university, not at my age. At which Eleanor usually smiled, and stroked the hair on the side of his head, and said what do you mean your age?
It was easier when the redundancy money ran out, once he'd spent it on a wish list of trinkets and comforts and toys a video recorder, a camera, clothes for Kate to grow out of, jewellery which Eleanor never admitted she didn't really like, a microwave, a stereo and a drinks cabinet with a spotlight that came on when he opened the door - and he had no choice but to find work again. It gave him something to do at least. They were warehouse jobs, admin jobs, serving customers at the garden centre - never jobs he was interested in - but they gave him a reason to leave the house in the morning, and they put money in the bank, and they kept him from feeling like he'd completely failed as a father and a husband. It made him feel useful again, to come home from a day at work. It gave him some of his old energy back; if not the energy to reconsider the curators' training courses he was still being offered, then at least the energy to take an interest again, to visit museums occasionally, to look over his old archives, to think about worki
ng on projects of his own. He went through boxes of old photos, arranging them into albums. He dug out the scrapbook from his trip to Ireland, reading slowly through the pages, wondering. He found the family tree Kate had drawn for her school project, looking over the faded felt-pen lines and blank spaces and deciding to finish it for her, phoning Donald to ask him for help and only realising as they started speaking how much of a shock it was to be in contact after all this time. He wrote down Donald's answers to his questions - Ivy Munro b.1910 m.Stewart Campbell b. 1900 d.1981. Hamish b.1931, Donald b.1932, William b.1933, John b.1936, Tessa b.1938, Eleanor b. 1948 - and listened to Donald say that he should be sure to phone again, that it was good to be in touch, that he hoped Eleanor and Kate were both well.
He spent an afternoon filling in the missing names, redrawing the broken lines, drafting and redrafting the diagram to make all the branches fit. And it was this that he'd shown to Eleanor earlier in the evening.
Oh David, she'd said, startled for a moment and then apparently touched, looking over it, tracing the lines with her fingers. Oh David, it's lovely. But I don't think it's finished at all, do you? Really?
He'd looked at her a moment, and she'd said I'm sorry David but just, sometimes, I think, maybe you need to, I don't know. Her words stopped and hesitated under his narrowing gaze. Maybe, she said, I don't know. Maybe you should think about it again. I mean. And he'd said nothing in reply, snatching up the piece of paper, folding and refolding it as he moved towards the back door, stopping only to take a clutch of beers from the fridge.