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They got out of the car and stood at the front door. She looked at him. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and he knocked.
60 Biscuit tin, rusted, used as money box or for keepsakes, c.1944
When Mary's husband died, her eldest daughter persuaded her to move into town, into a small bungal
ow just around the corner from her, so that she'd be closer to other people if anything should happen. She hadn't liked it at first. She'd missed the open fire, the view across the fields, the smooth shine of the worn stone floor. She'd missed the smell of their clothes hanging together in the wardrobe. The weekly steaming ritual of the bath being filled. The photos and drawings pinned up across the walls, the tools hanging up on the back of the door, all the familiar bits and pieces of a home she had spent a lifetime making her own. The walls were thin in the new place, the doors hollow, and the electric heaters took so long to warm up and cool down that she had to watch the weather forecast just to know when to turn them on.
You're only lonely without Daddy, her children told her, when she said she wanted to go back, and she didn't think they were right but they were. You'll get used to it, they said, you'll like it there soon enough, and she found it hard to believe but she eventually did. She started to like sitting by the window, watching people walk in and out of town, waving back at anyone who smiled or waved. She started to like not having to worry so much about dust and draughts and smoke and ash. She liked being able to put her wet clothes into a machine and take them out as dry as if they'd been on the line for a week. And now that she had two rooms she didn't need, she liked having the children come to stay, bringing their own children with them, and boxes of toys, and new photographs for her to put up on the wall, filling her front room with stories of their new lives and jobs in the places they'd settled now, retelling old stories of the life they remembered growing up with.
And one day, barely stopping to think what she was doing, she told her eldest daughter what had happened all those years ago, when she worked in the big house in London, and got into trouble, and had to come home with her hands empty and her heart broken. You can understand why I didn't tell you before, can't you? she said, when her daughter had finished asking questions, and Sarah nodded, and shook her head, and said well of course, I suppose I do.
She'd thought that would be the end of it, a sad story to add to the collection, but Sarah began to ask more questions, and write things down, and to ignore her when she said that was enough she didn't want to talk about it any more it was done it was finished. And one day Sarah came round saying something about the internet, explaining things which were hard to take in for a soul who'd grown up with no telephone and no electricity and a postman who only came once a week if at all. I've found him, Sarah kept saying, and it took her some minutes to understand what her daughter meant.
I've found him. He's coming over to see you.
She wondered if it really could be as simple as that. She wondered if she was ready, having imagined it and prepared for it all those years, to finally open the door and say hello to him after all. She asked Sarah if she was sure, if there wasn't some mix up with the dates, if it wasn't odd that he was asking for her by her name and not by the name she'd given all those years ago, but Sarah said no it had to be right, it had to be him, he must have discovered the real name somehow and it was surprising what computers could do these days.
Aren't you excited? she kept asking. Aren't you pleased?
61 Paper package of selected photographs (reprints), c. 1950-2000
Well. Now. This is something, isn't it so. She stood in the doorway, looking up at him, her hands clasped together, a short white-haired woman with taut reddened skin and soft blue eyes, smiling faintly and saying well, well, right then.
Mrs Carr? he asked.
Ah, call me Mary, she retorted, laughing briefly and shaking her head. So, she said again. You'll be David. He nodded, and when he tried to say yes, that's me, I'm David Carter, his mouth went numb and only the first cracked half of his name came out. He nodded again.
She nodded back, as if agreeing with him, and unclasped her hands. Well, now, she said. He had no idea what to say. He just looked at her. Her mouth was small, the corners pulled tightly back into her cheeks. Her nose was very slightly turned to one side. She had a dark brown mole on the side of her face, just lower than her ear, with two thick hairs springing out of it. Her eyebrows were thick, and neatly arched, blackened with a little make up.
A voice called out from behind her in the house somewhere: Mummy, will you not invite the poor man inside? He heard quick, clipped footsteps, and a woman a few years younger than him appeared, smiling nervously, touching Mary's arm, saying I'm sorry, please, come inside would you?
I've got some things in the car, he said, half turning away, gesturing over his shoulder.
Oh, leave those for now, the younger woman said, get yourself inside and sit down. You must be tired. That's an awful long way to drive. Most people fly these days. She backed away from the door, as though drawing him in. Mary didn't move, looking up at him, squinting slightly, not quite smiling.
Well, he said. We thought we'd make the most of the journey. Enjoy the scenery, you know. He caught himself, and indicated Eleanor, saying sorry, this is my wife, Eleanor. The three of them said hello to each other, Mary's daughter introducing herself as Sarah and asking them again to come inside. Mary backed away, following her daughter into the lounge without actually turning away from him, her smile beginning to broaden. They wiped their feet on the mat and followed her.
There was a table by the window, set out with a spread of sandwiches and cakes, home-made biscuits and shortbread and soda bread, cups and saucers, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar. He heard the younger woman's voice from somewhere, and saw her silhouette through the frosted glass panels which divided the kitchen from the lounge. Is tea okay for you both? she asked.
Please, he replied, glancing at Eleanor, that'd be great, thanks.
Take a seat there, she said, appearing in the doorway, I'll be right through. He sat at the table, and when he turned to smile at Mary, to perhaps say something, he realised she'd slipped away to the kitchen. He could see her silhouette through the thick glass. Eleanor was still holding the bag of cakes she'd brought in from the car. I, well, I brought these, she said, stepping towards the kitchen, lifting one of the cakes out of the bag. I didn't realise you'd - and she gestured towards the table, so covered with home-baking that there was little room for anything else more than a pot of tea. There was a moment's silence, and he heard Sarah say oh before she caught herself and took the bag from Eleanor. Oh well that's smashing of you, she said; we'll certainly not go hungry now, will we?; laughing a little too loudly and saying thanks again. Eleanor turned to him, pulling a brief embarrassed face, and edged round the table to sit in front of the window, and when he sat down beside her she reached across and squeezed his hand.
It was a large room, made larger by the wide open screen of the window which took up the entire end wall. There was a gas fire set into the redbricked chimney breast, turned on low, a broad mantelpiece crowded with framed photographs and painted china figures. He looked at the photos and wondered how long it might be before he knew who all those faces were, knew their names and their stories, if he would meet them, if he would come to think of them as brothers and sisters and cousins. He wondered if it would come to that at all.
Right then, here we go, said Sarah, carrying a teapot and a place-mat into the room, sorry to keep you waiting there. Mary followed, staying close to her daughter.
Not at all, David said, standing up without really knowing why, this is great, thanks. She looked at him, smiling.
Oh, it's only a pot of tea now, she said, it's not all that much. He smiled, dropping his head, embarrassed. Anyway, she said. Sit yourself down. I'm going to keep quiet now. I'm sure you and Mummy have a lot to be talking about.
Mary looked up at Sarah, and at David and Eleanor, and leant forward to serve the teas. She trickled a little milk into each cup, and then took the pot in both hands to pour out the tea before sliding a cup across the table to each of them. She looked up at David, finally, and smiled. They looked at each other for what felt like a long time, taking in the details of each other's faces, the folds and creases and colours of the skin, the shape of the eyes, the way that the light coloured and shone in the eyes, the cut of the hair, the weight of the hair, the way the hair fell across the other's face or down the sides of the head, the line of the jaw, the shape of the chin, the colour and shape and tiny movements of the mouth and lips.
Well, she said. Now. Here we are then. So.
He smiled. Yes, he said. Here we are. It's been a long time, he said, smiling, and they both tried to laugh.
It has, said Mary, holding his gaze, it has.
