So Many Ways to Begin (11 page)

17      
Pair of cinema tickets, annotated '19th May 1967"

I don't know, anything.

Tell me something about when you were a boy.

Anything. The first thing that comes into your head.

But he said nothing, and there was only the quietness of two people breathing, the scratch and shift of a skirt being straightened, a trouser leg awkwardly tugged.

Are you not going to say something?

I'm thinking, he said.

Her eyes, when she looked at him, kept flicking from one small point of focus to another, the way they would if they were looking at a waterfall, or a fire, or the view from a moving train. It felt as though she was looking for something, something new, or something familiar but forgotten. The skin around her eyes stretched and folded into tiny creases with the movement. As she blinked, an eyelash caught and fell on to her cheek. He looked at it. He wanted to reach out and dab it away.

What do you want to know? he asked.

Anything, she answered quickly. Just, I just want to hear your voice a while. He looked at the eyelash on her cheek and she reached a finger up to rub it away. Gone? she said.

Gone, he told her, smiling. There were footsteps somewhere, someone coughing, men's voices, and they both turned their faces towards the noise until it had passed.

How about, she said, were you ever in the hospital? Her voice was quiet and tense, as if she was afraid of being overheard. He thought about it for a moment, trying to think of something to say. She closed her eyes, and he noticed for the first time that she had faint bobbles of skin on her eyelids, like tiny colourless freckles, and he wondered why he'd never noticed them before. She opened her eyes and looked back at him, and almost without meaning to they leant slightly closer together.

He told her about when he was eight years old and Susan had left him in the park near Julia's house, and the boys had thrown stones and chased him until he fell.

Did it hurt awful bad? she said.

I've still got a very small scar, he said. It bled all the way back to Julia's house and they had to put a bandage on it. As he said this, they were both looking down at his knee, as if they could see through his trousers to the tiny pink stitch of a scar which was hidden there. He rubbed at it with the palm of his hand.

The room was very quiet again. She looked down at the floor, put her hands on the edge of the chair, crossed and uncrossed her feet. His shoes squeaked as he rubbed them together. He looked around the room, at their jackets folded together on the back of the chair by the door, at the clock ticking loudly on the mantelpiece, her parents' wedding photo on one side, photos of her and her four brothers on the other. She looked up at him and smiled. This feels a little strange, don't you think? she said.

She told him that her earliest memory was of being lifted on to her father's shoulders, having to hold on tightly as his long steps bounced her up the hill leading out of their side of town and on until they could turn round and look out over the city and the sea. She turned and pointed as she said this, as if the high open moorland was just in the next room. He told her that he was ten years old before he saw the sea.

I couldn't believe how cold and grey it was when I finally got there, he said, or how huge.

Aye, she said, but I'll bet you it's even colder up here, and she laughed.

Their voices were soft and low, pressed close together, and when one of them spoke, murmuring, their words seemed to curl towards each other like a twist of smoke from a candle flame. Tell me something else, she said.

He told her about how when it was very hot in the summer his father liked to spray them with the hosepipe while he was watering the rose bushes, and how his sister and her friends would creep up behind his father until he span suddenly round and sent them all scattering into the road to escape the icy shock. He told her about the summer holidays they spent at his grandparents' house in Suffolk, about vague memories of pink cottages and fields full of poppies, of being taken by his grandfather to watch the blacksmith at work, of his uncle driving them all down to the sea. She told him about racing a cart down the steep streets, and how much trouble she'd got into when she fell out one time and hurt herself.

When neither of them had spoken for a few moments, he leant forward, resting his hand on the arm of her chair, and kissed her.

What was that for? she said.

He shrugged. Just because, he said. She lifted her face towards him, and he kissed her again, slowly this time, and she raised her hand to touch the side of his neck, his jaw, the faint rub of stubble around his chin. He moved his hand from the arm of the chair and up on to her shoulder. He lifted a finger to her cheek, trailing his hand down the neckline of her shirt. Their movements were slow and tentative, as if this was still the first time they had kissed. She leant away from him, opening her eyes, and he pulled his hand back. She looked at him for a moment, touching his lips with the knuckle of her thumb, then looked away.

Just, she said, just, I want to keep talking for a while, okay?

He said, but I thought—

I want to hear you talking, she said. I like the sound of your voice. There's things I want to know still.

He told her about the museum he and a friend had made in his bedroom, and about the exhibition he curated at school, and about how he tried to get his first Saturday job at the archives, and about how he would one day have a museum of his own. He'd told her these things before, but she listened again. He didn't tell her what had happened with Julia, what Julia had said, the unbelievable truth she'd revealed. It seemed an impossible thing to say out loud. She asked about his first kiss, and he told her about a girl called Rebecca. She laughed and told him about a boy called Jack.

There was a muffled sound from somewhere, from next door, footsteps going up and down the stairs, low voices clouded by the thin walls. She looked round, bringing the tips of her fingers to her mouth, staring at the wall, her breath held tight in her chest. She looked back at him and smiled, faintly, her bottom lip dented by her two front teeth. The voices faded.

They looked at each other, waiting uncertainly. He shivered, suddenly very cold, a draught coming in through the kitchen and the open door and skidding across the bare wooden floorboards. He rubbed his hands on his trousers to warm them up.

You want to hear more? she asked him, turning in her seat and pulling her legs up beneath her, straightening her skirt around her knees.

Yes, he said.

Well then, she said. When I was seven I fell in the water by the harbour and a man had to jump in and rescue me.

Really? he said. What happened? How long were you in the water for?

Oh, not very long, she said, smiling, looking pleased with herself. I don't think I was in any danger; they didn't have to give me the kiss of life or any of that. But it was a big upset all the same; I near choked myself with crying until my mam told me to stop making a scene. He leant forward, fascinated.

But how did you fall in? he asked her. Was it cold?

I don't know really, she said. I was just standing there waiting for Ma and Da to come back from doing something and next I knew I was in the water. Aye, course it was cold, she added, rolling her eyes and crooking the arch of her eyebrow at him. Was it cold, she repeated, laughing. I remember hearing a ship's hooter out at the harbour mouth, she said, so l must have turned to look and just slipped in. This man was in something fast though - felt like he was there by the time I came back up above the water almost. And he just grabbed me by the neck and pulled me over to the side, and he said don't worry love you'll be fine, or something the likes of, and I couldn't see him, I could only feel his great big hands on my neck, and I could see all the lights from the harbour front shining off the black water, and the cranes along the jetties further off, and the ship that had blown its hooter still out by the mouth, and when he got me over to the wall there were all these faces looking down at me - my ma and da, some other people I didn't know - and they were all talking at once and reaching down towards me and it felt like they were miles away. It was only once they'd hauled me out and I was stood there with them all looking at me and someone asked if I was alright that I started crying my eyes out. She spoke quickly and breathlessly, her hands fluttering around her mouth, or sweeping her hair back behind her ears, or smoothing down the hem of her skirt.

He watched her talking, the room suddenly bright and loud with it, and when she'd finished he said but Eleanor, what if that man hadn't been there? What if he hadn't seen you?

Aye, she said, I know. She reached out and ran her finger along the back of his hand, a little out of breath. But he was, she said. And he did. So it's okay.

He leant forward again and kissed her cheek, touching the corner of her jaw with two fingers as he did so, running his fingers across her face as he pulled away, nudging the tip of one finger between her lips. She kissed his finger, and he drew it back, and they both dropped their eyes, looking across the floor, looking around the darkened room, waiting.

She looked up at him again. Do you want to go upstairs? she said.

Shall I put some music on? he asked her, standing at the table and flicking through the records.

No, she said, whispering, lifting a finger to her lips. It's late, the folk next door don't like the music this late. He looked up at the wall, startled, wondering how much they could hear. She waved her hand at the bed. Come sit down, she whispered, and as he moved back towards her he was suddenly conscious of the sound of his footsteps on the bare floorboards, the sound of his breathing. She laughed at his tiptoe steps, covering her mouth with her hand. You don't need to be that quiet, she said. It's not as if they're listening up against the wall or anything. He sat down carefully, looking at the wall again, unconvinced.

She was looking down, at her hands in her lap, twisting one of her fingers from side to side. No, he told her. He was too embarrassed to ask in return. He assumed by the way she asked that she hadn't. She looked up at him, shifting her weight towards him on the small narrow bed. They kissed, and her hand resting on his thigh felt suddenly charged with anticipation. He lifted his hand to her hip, fitting his fingers to the curve of it, easing his fingertips beneath her shirt and on to her bare warm skin. She lifted her mouth away from his, pulling back a few inches and opening her eyes. They stayed like that for another long moment, uncertain, nervous. He dipped his head and kissed the soft part of her throat where her collarbones met, the way he liked to do. He liked the way it made her tremble very slightly, the faint sighs brushing against the top of his head. He did it again, but the second time she lifted her head and moved away a little, resting her fingers on his chest. Wait, she said.

It had been a long day. They hadn't met until late in the evening, by the clocktower, barely catching each other's eyes before turning and walking quickly to the cinema, heads down, not touching. Neither of them, when they talked about it later, could remember a single scene of the film. They'd held hands, briefly, but she'd pulled away. She'd kept looking over her shoulder, as though the usher might have seen them sitting too close together, as though somebody might be standing waiting to catch them as they left. Her parents had gone away to Glasgow for two days, but it felt as if they were still lurking behind every corner.

It wasn't until they'd got back to her house that she'd kissed him; and even while she was kissing him she'd been looking carefully over his shoulder until she was sure that no one was watching from behind any curtains. When she was sure, she'd opened the door and quickly pulled him inside, leaving him standing in the hallway until she'd rushed around the house and tugged all the curtains tightly closed. And finally, then, she'd come to him, and slipped her hands inside his jacket, around his waist, and kissed him slowly, and said hello.

She leant towards him, kneeling up on the bed, putting her hands on the blanket either side of him and dropping her head to kiss his upturned face.

Her weight, resting on his, her hand sliding inside his shirt and across his chest, his hands tugging at the buttons of her shirt.

She sat up, kneeling astride him, and undid the rest of her buttons, letting her shirt hang loose and watching his gaze fall to her chest. She slipped the shirt from her shoulders with a wriggle, pulled her arms loose, and dropped it on to the floor. Now you, she said, smiling, and he took his shirt off, undoing the top few buttons and dragging it over his head. He felt cold for a moment, awkward.

Her flat hand on his chest, polishing his skin. His fingers compassing around the curve of her breasts, his thumb pressed flat against each of her nipples. The way she closed her eyes, the sounds she made.

She lowered herself again, kissing his throat, his breastbone, his nipples, his shoulders, and as she did so he felt the weight of her breasts pressing against his skin. He had to bite both his lips to keep from calling out. And as she rolled away from him, on to her back, and drew him towards her to kiss and stroke her bare chest in turn, they were both thinking of the same thing, of the only other time they'd been exposed to each other in this way, that long hot afternoon at the start of the summer when they'd walked up past the brow of the hill, and looked down at the flat grey sea, and somehow dared each other into unbuttoning and removing their tops. Then, they hadn't kissed each other the way they were now, too embarrassed perhaps, too afraid of some stray walker or farmer appearing suddenly, and so they'd only looked, and laughed, and blushed slightly, and turned away from each other to get quickly dressed again.