Читать книгу: «When the Music Stops», страница 4

1948

ELLA IS SITTING AT her window, with Rene’s guitar resting on her knee as the sun rises over Springburn. There’s steam curling up from the back court, where Mrs Kerr has lit a fire in the building where they wash their clothes. It takes a while for the cast iron tub to heat up, but Mrs Kerr rises every morning before the cockerel, and the little shed is puffing like a traction engine.

Ella plays and sings, looking through the rising clouds to the grey city beyond. She likes to start the day by practising. Ella never had music lessons like Rene did. She taught herself from books that her dad bought at the big music store on Sauchiehall Street. This tune, called ‘The Maiden’, is from one of those. She knows it so well, it’s like she’s been playing it her whole life.

It’s eleven years since Rene died. Ella wonders what her friend would have made of the last eleven years. It seems strange to her that Rene never saw the war. She wasn’t there when they announced it over the radio, or when they built the timber scaffolds in front of the tenements to protect the entrances. The wood was rough-hewn from pines and much of it still had the mossy bark left on. It looked like something out of a picture book, like Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham.

And of course, Rene wasn’t there when their fathers left. She wasn’t there when the bombs fell, intended for the shipyards on the Clyde but often straying into quiet streets. She wasn’t there to keep Ella company on the half-days when school was closed in the mornings. She wasn’t there when they’d gathered them in the gymnasium under the school to sleep the night. Ella remembers thinking that, if Rene had been there, it would have felt like an adventure. Without her, it was more time to be scared on her own.

Now the war is over, though much of the city lies in ruins, and her childhood seems further away than a mere decade. Her father hasn’t returned yet, because it takes time to put all the pieces back in the toybox. Rene’s father, who she called Pa, won’t be coming back at all, killed in Africa not by tank or grenade but by a tiny, biting insect that gave him malaria. At least her friend didn’t have to read that telegram, didn’t have to watch her mother fade to a ghost.

All these thoughts pass fleetingly through Ella’s mind as she plays, because playing familiar tunes does not require thought. Playing feels like opening a door to a private room where she can go and collect herself. That’s why she does it – not to get better or impress anyone, but only to feel free for a while, a bird in flight.

Ella hadn’t started playing the guitar straight away. Before the funeral, she’d put the guitar in its case under her bed, pushing it right to the back and filling in the space with everything she had – a box of wooden dolls, tangled skipping ropes and the teddy bears she already considered herself too old for.

Ella didn’t mind being the keeper of the instrument, so long as she didn’t have to look at it. She couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing the guitar, let alone playing it. It would feel like a betrayal to let anyone else have it. She told her parents she wouldn’t be learning the instrument, and they had agreed with a shrug.

All the time, the guitar lay silent in its case under the bed. Or at least, it should have been silent. At night, when the house was quiet, Ella would turn over in bed, and the creak of the iron springs was answered by a hum. The noise was so soft she could never be sure if she had really heard it. Not a plucked note, but the gentle buzz you would hear if you opened the case. Ella would turn over again, to see if the noise repeated, but it was never clear enough to be sure. The guitar was mocking her.

Finally, she’d had enough. Ella didn’t want to look at the guitar, but if she got it out, she could lay an old blanket over the strings, so they would be muted. After the lights had been turned out, but while there was still enough of a glow from the fire to see by, Ella had gotten out of bed, pulled everything aside and dragged the case out. She lifted the lid and sat staring at the guitar. The blanket she’d intended to put over the strings was next to her, and Ella felt suddenly guilty, as though it were a sack for drowning kittens.

The next morning, before she’d even been out to visit the second-floor toilet, Ella told her parents she was going to learn guitar. Her father had given her a lecture about not wasting money only to change your mind later, but she had promised. He didn’t seem to believe her, but they’d gone to the biggest music shop in town, where he asked a sales clerk for a guide.

Left to herself for a moment, Ella had scuffed her feet and looked around the shop. Along one wall were booths where you could play the latest records on big headphones. Three young men were bobbing their heads to different tempos. She had gone to look through a rack of music books. There were a lot of books about music, Ella thought – who had time to read them all? They were the size of sheet music, no thicker than a quarter inch. They had titles like A Theory of Harmony, Patterns for Improvisation and A Repository of Melodic Ideas. Sitting among them, one title caught her eye.

The Songs of the Dead

by

Jack Shapiro

Was it that word, ‘dead’, that made her stop? Or the whole title, like a puzzle to be solved, for how can the dead sing? She thought of Rene, who had liked to sing. Ella had reached the book down from the shelf. There were more words than notes in this book, which contained just seven songs, or ‘exercises’:

1. The Child (Ionian)

2. The Maiden (Dorian)

3. The Lover (Mixolydian)

4. The Rebel (Aeolian)

5. The Matron (Phrygian)

6. The Mother (Lydian)

7. The Crone (Locrian)

‘Ah, these books aren’t primers, Miss.’ The sales clerk has reappeared with her father, carrying a book called The Complete Guide to Guitar. ‘They’re for the advanced player.’

Ella ignored him and held the book up to her father. ‘Can I get this one?’

Her father looked at the clerk, who had pulled a face. ‘That one is rather esoteric, sir. I think your daughter might be better …’

Her father had flipped the book over, read the title, and looked at Ella with something like understanding.

‘That’s all right. We’ll get the both of them.’

Ella plays ‘The Maiden’ through for the fourth time, watching the steam from Mrs Kerr’s washing. She wonders what she thought she would find in The Songs of the Dead. It’s full of strange ideas about life and music, with hand-drawn pictures that look like they belong in a spell book.

‘Eleanor! Come get your breakfast,’ her mother calls from the next room.

Being an only child, Ella has always had her own bedroom. But now, with just her and her mother, the house feels almost luxurious with space – a room each! Her mother says that being left to her own devices made Ella wilful, but Ella isn’t sure. She gets up and smooths her new dress out. She likes the fabric – little white flowers on a blue background – but can’t help feel the cinched waist would look better on someone with actual hips.

‘Come on love, before it gets cold.’

Her mother has made pancakes, once a treat, though the milk used for the mixture is so watered down that they are leathery, and there’s no sweetness to be had. At least there’s a little butter to spread. Ella was always scrawny, but the last few years have been especially lean. Hunger hasn’t stopped her upward growth, and she feels like a malnourished house plant, grown too tall in the search for sunshine. At least she has a job. She can afford to put a bit more food on the table, when the ration book allows.

The pancakes are gone in a minute and they sit in silence, sipping the tea. Ella looks at her father’s shoes, which have been propped on the rail around the hearth since he left, so that they’re inclined towards the fire. Every week or so her mother will take the shoes and polish them, if only to get the dust off, but then they go back in front of the fire as though he will put them on any minute and needs them warmed.

‘You better get off. Don’t want to be late.’

‘Want me to pick anything up on my way home?’

‘You’re all right, love.’

Eleanor looks over at her mum, in her floral pinny and hairnet. She is only in her early forties but looks like an old woman. Ella wonders if she’ll look like this in twenty years’ time.

‘Bye, Mum.’ She kisses her on the head, then goes to fetch the satchel that she wears to work.

* * *

It’s a quiet morning in the bank – the worst kind. By the time Ella has ridden the tram into town and walked to St Vincent Street, she’s ready to lose a few hours to work. Ella is grateful for her job but that doesn’t mean she has to enjoy it. It’s better than a munitions factory or sewing uniforms till her fingers bleed, but that doesn’t make it any less dull.

The main hall is grand – a wide checkerboard floor, curving wooden counters polished until they shine, and a glass dome in the ceiling to flood it with light. The grandeur of the dome is reduced only slightly by the crosses of brown tape over every pane to stop them shattering in an air raid.

Ella takes up her place at the counter. She deals with an update to a pension book, serves a small withdrawal and helps an elderly gentleman make out a cheque. But there are gaps between all of these, and the gaps are the worst. There are three other tellers, all of them men too old to go to war. There’s no music, and they’re not allowed books either, or magazines. Not that Ella can imagine any of her colleagues reading anything as frivolous as a magazine. They are allowed to talk to one another, if there are no customers to serve, but the men never stoop to make small talk with Ella. Sometimes she wonders whether they think that, if they are unpleasant enough to her, she might leave and be replaced by a man. Mostly she thinks they’re just rude.

She wishes she could listen to some music. She knows she could do anything if there were music. Her fantasy which recurs the most – more often than tables piled high with food or beds piled high with silken sheets – is endless music. The fantasy is vague, almost abstract. Sometimes she imagines the music following her, like the soundtrack of a film. Other days she imagines disappearing into the music altogether, floating away into a lifelong song.

Today Ella has fixed the handle of a rubber stamp with her attention and is trying her best to let her mind wander when she becomes aware of a customer standing on the other side of the counter. She snaps to attention.

‘Good morning, sir, how can I help you?’

‘Hey.’

‘Hello? Oh!’

She didn’t recognize him at first, perhaps because he has grown, or perhaps because she hadn’t expected to see him here. It’s Rene’s brother, Robert. She wonders if Rene would recognize her brother now, changed from a scrawny nine-year-old to a young man, broad-shouldered, with his curly auburn hair cut short enough that it can be gelled and neatly combed down. A single curl stands in rebellion near his temple. He’s holding a parcel under his arm, wrapped in brown paper. He still looks like he has something on his mind.

‘How are you, Ella?’

‘I’m fine, fine.’ She nods, not used to making small talk. ‘You?’

He bobs his head agreeably. ‘Fine, aye. Nothing to complain about.’

‘You got a job at the docks, Mum said?’

‘Got myself an apprenticeship as an electrician. But they sent me on an errand to head office, so I’m in town …’

The explanation seems to suggest something else. Ella becomes aware of her colleagues turning their heads to look. She hopes the manager isn’t lurking in the background somewhere.

‘How can I help you, Robert?’

‘Oh, I don’t have an account here.’

Ella frowns. ‘Would you like to open one?’

‘Oh, no, no …’

If she once felt intimidated by the two-year difference in their ages, Ella has forgotten. Her anger, never at the end of an especially long fuse, flares.

‘What do you want, Robert? This is a bank, not a dinner dance.’

Does she hear one of the men snigger? Robert’s eyebrows rise, but he looks more amused than offended.

‘I was just wondering when you take your lunch? I wondered if you fancied something to eat? I’ll pay.’

Ella feels several conflicting emotions at once, primarily embarrassment but also fear, curiosity and residual anger.

Her stomach growls.

‘Something to eat?’

* * *

By the time the hour hand of the main hall clock has crawled to one, Ella is so nervous that she steps out and immediately accepts Robert’s offer of a cigarette. He lights it for her with a brass Zippo. She takes a quick drag, appraising him properly for the first time. Smart shoes, trousers pressed, but his burgundy tie is askew. He doesn’t look out of place in his beige electrician’s coat – even at twenty, there is something of the absent-minded professor about Robert.

They walk in silence through the city centre, which is quiet even at lunch hour. Sometimes it feels as though the city is being slowly deserted and nobody is telling them. Ella feels she will wake up one day and find herself alone in this crumbling maze. She’s light-headed from the cigarette. There’s a cold wind blowing down Buchanan Street and they hunch into it, drawing a little closer together.

Miss Cranston’s tea room is warm and brightly lit. The air inside is steamy. A girl at the door takes their coats and shows them to a table.

‘Have you been here before?’

‘No, I haven’t …’ Ella puzzles over her menu, because she can’t think of a single thing to say to the man across the table. While not exactly scandalous, this meeting will inspire gossip. The sort of thing a young woman should avoid if she wants to maintain her good name. Ella feels that, through no fault of her own, she’s never had a good name to tarnish. Everyone in the cafe seems to be side-eyeing them.

‘You should order something.’

Robert nods, gets the waitress’ attention, orders a pot of coffee and afternoon tea. The waitress nods and retreats.

‘Coffee and tea?’ Ella asks, incredulously. ‘I thought we were having something to eat?’

Robert smiles, not unkindly.

‘Afternoon tea is something to eat – sandwiches and scones and little cake things. You’ll like it.’

‘Oh.’ Ella reddens. ‘That sounds nice.’

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a long minute. Just as earlier at the bank, Ella feels she needs to say something to move things along.

‘Look, Robert, this is very nice … I’m flattered … But don’t you think I’m a bit young?’

‘Young?’ Robert rubs behind his ear, a habit of his when he’s confused.

‘Yes, I mean … I’m eighteen, you’re what? Twenty now?’

Realization seems to dawn on Robert and he panics. ‘Oh! No that’s not … what I mean is …’

Ella watches him fluster for a minute, completely lost.

‘What I mean to say is, I’m not trying to court you.’

At this exact moment two waitresses appear, bearing coffee and a tiered silver stand, laden with sandwiches and cakes. Robert clears his throat and looks up at them.

‘Sir?’ one of them asks, eyebrows raised.

‘Yes,’ he says, sounding as though he’s being strangled by his necktie, gesturing to the table in front of them. They set to work laying out everything.

When they are gone, Ella and Robert sit looking at each other. Her mouth twitches with a smile, which breaks into a full-blown grin, and then she’s laughing. Robert smiles, then breaks down, suppressed laughter shaking him. In the quiet of the tea room, the moment is amplified so that Ella cannot stop herself from laughing, gripping the table with one hand, wiping her eyes with the other. People are definitely looking now, but she doesn’t care. This is the best lunch break she’s ever had.

When they’ve calmed down, they take a breath and look at each other again. Robert takes the coffee pot in hand.

‘Shall I?’

‘Please. Mind if I …?’

‘Go on, you must be hungry.’

Ella puts a few of the little triangular sandwiches on her plate – ham and cucumber, egg and cress, something fishy that might be salmon. She starts to eat. The white bread is light and fluffy, the inside spread thickly with butter. She pauses to add a generous serving of cream to her coffee and three spoons of sugar. The tension has gone between them, as they go about the little rituals of serving themselves.

‘God, I wish I worked here instead of the bank.’

‘You must make more than a waitress?’

‘Not by much, I reckon. They don’t pay me anything like what the men get. If I worked here, I could take some leftovers home.’

Robert smiles.

‘I see what you mean. Come to think of it, I think I’d rather be a waitress than an electrician.’

‘You’d look very fetching in that black and white pinny.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got the legs.’

This makes Ella grin as she’s biting down on a cream scone, and her resulting imprecision makes jam spurt onto her hand.

‘Bugger,’ she mutters under her breath, licking it off and reaching for a napkin. A man in the corner audibly tuts.

‘You’re going to get me kicked out of this place.’ Robert laughs.

‘Now that would be a memorable lunch break.’

‘I think you’re supposed to save the scones for after you’ve finished the sandwiches, no?’

She shrugs. ‘They looked too good; I couldn’t help myself.’

‘Here, you should have one of mine.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m not that hungry.’

Without waiting to be told again, Ella slides the scone onto her plate and gulps some more coffee.

‘Shouldn’t you be telling me why I’m here?’ she asks.

Robert’s eyebrows rise for a moment, as though he had forgotten he was the one who asked her here. ‘Oh, yes. So … you still have the guitar?’

Ella stops midway through the miniature chocolate cake she’s stuffing into her mouth and swallows hard.

‘Look, I know it belonged to Rene. And I wouldn’t blame you for wanting it back … But I’ve grown very attached to it.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean.’ Robert spreads his hands on the table. ‘Thing is, your mum was talking to my mum, and she said that you got really good. At the guitar, I mean.’

‘No.’ Ella shakes her head. ‘I mean, that’s nice of her to say. I’m not bad, I guess, but I taught myself.’

‘She said you could play along with anything on the radio, just by listening.’

Ella shrugs, not confirming or denying.

‘The thing is, I play a bit of saxophone, and I’ve got a band.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, it’s not really my band. The guy whose band it is fell off some scaffolding at the docks a couple of weeks ago.’

‘That’s awful!’

‘He’s okay. Well, not okay, but he’ll be okay. He’s all in casts at the moment, and he’ll not be playing guitar any time soon …’

Ella starts to put things together.

‘You’re asking me? I’ve never played in public, not even in a talent show.’

‘Well, I’d want to hear you play first. If you’re interested.’

Ella pours herself another cup of coffee and catches a passing waitress. ‘Can we have some more cream please?’ She takes her time stirring in the sugar.

‘What do you think?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘Can’t you get anyone else? I can’t be the only guitarist around our way.’

All of Springburn is musical, she thinks. In their close alone, Ella can think of two trumpeters, the hermit in the single-end who plays the C melody sax and a drummer in the basement. The family upstairs all seem to play piano and violin.

‘I am not saying you’re the only choice, I just thought …’

‘There’s Mr Mactaggart up the road.’

‘Bill Mactaggart must be in his sixties – he doesn’t want to go around with a bunch of teenagers playing residentials in a badminton club.’

‘You have a residential?’

Robert shrugs by way of downplaying the term. ‘Once a week at the club on Keppochhill Road, you know the one?’

‘Never been there, but aye.’

‘Well, it’s okay. We play every Wednesday and we get the takings on the door. But the owner says we have to replace Jimmy on guitar if we want to keep our spot.’

‘How do you split the takings?’

‘Evenly. It’s not loads, but the other night we took home three and six each.’

Ella pauses in ferrying the last cake to her mouth.

‘When can I audition?’

Robert grins. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

* * *

The men’s changing rooms of the badminton club are unheated, so Ella sits on a wooden bench with her coat still on. The air smells like BO and talc. Resting on her lap is the heaviest guitar she’s ever held. It’s an Epiphone, an American import with a sunburst finish and violin cut-outs. Ella has never played on a full-sized guitar like this, only on a three-quarter scale bought for a seven-year-old. She has no time to get used to stretching her hands over the wider frets.

Worse still, there’s a cable running from the guitar to a menacing metal box at her side, with the words ‘HIGH VOLTAGE’ stencilled in red on the back. Another cable runs from this box out of the room, to where Robert is searching for a plug socket. Apparently, he made the amplifier himself from spare parts. Ella keeps her hands off the guitar strings to avoid fatal electrocution.

There is a sudden hum from the box.

‘There you go!’ Robert shouts from the hallway.

The two other boys eye her. They seemed amiable enough when Robert introduced her, but it’s clear she’ll have to win them over. Willie Barr sits on the opposite bench a little further down, with his bass drum, cymbal and snare arranged in front of him. Sandy (no surname given) stands, warming up with scales on his double bass. Robert strides back over.

‘Well? You should try something.’

Ella takes a deep breath and gingerly places her fingers on the strings. The humming goes expectantly quiet. She holds down G major and strums. In the small, tiled space of the changing room, the sound from the little box is enormous. It rings in her ears like a bell. She looks to Robert, who is grinning at her surprise. He turns a dial on the amplifier and the volume is tamed.

‘You ready to try something?’

* * *

Despite the combined weight of the amplifier and the guitar in its case, Ella floats home. She can’t remember feeling more exhilarated. Perhaps when Rene was alive, perhaps all that time ago. What has she been doing since? What the hell has she been doing for eleven years, when she could have been doing this?

Her fingers are stinging, her ears are ringing. As of twenty minutes ago, she is a proud member of the Jimmy Grey All Stars. When Ella is more established in the band, she will suggest changing their name to someone who was actually playing in it. She races up the stairs of their close and fumbles the key into the lock.

‘Mum, I’m home! Sorry I’m late, I—’

Before she can finish her sentence, a man steps from the door to the front room, his face half obscured by the shadows. He stands there, unspeaking.

‘Dad?’

She puts down the guitar and amplifier just inside the doorway and steps closer. The man who might be her father stands his ground.

‘You’re late.’

‘Yes, I … Dad?’

Ella moves forward, pulling him into a hug. He’s no taller than she is now, which strikes her as very odd. He puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her back to arm’s length, looking her up and down. Her mother is standing in the doorway to the front room, smiling uncertainly. She looks like she’s been crying.

‘Come on, the both of you. I’ll make a pot of tea.’

Ella’s father grunts and lets go her shoulders. She stands in the dark of the corridor, listening to her parents talk to each other for the first time in years. She feels as though she has forgotten how to walk, how to move. She has waited so long for his return, so why this weight in her stomach? The man in the next room looks like her father, sounds like her father, even smells like her father – coal soap, Brylcreem and Ogden’s pipe tobacco in a precise ratio. But for all that, the man in the next room fails to unlock any of the memories Ella has of him. She can’t shake the feeling that he’s a doppelganger.

A dark reflection.

* * *

It is the third Wednesday night they’ve played the badminton club, and Ella has never seen it so busy. She wouldn’t be big-headed enough to suppose this was anything to do with her if Robert hadn’t said so himself.

‘They’re coming to see you, Ella!’

‘Pfft, no way.’

‘They are too. There aren’t any other bands with a girl on guitar.’

Ella smiled. ‘So, I’m a circus attraction? The bearded lady, that kind of thing?’

‘No, not like that. I mean, name me another band that has a girl in it. Not a singer, I mean.’

Ella knows he’s right – she can think of women who sing, and the music halls have plenty of women who play piano, or niche instruments like the harp. There are no dance bands with a woman.

‘Well, let’s just hope the novelty doesn’t wear off too soon.’

Robert rolled his eyes. ‘Well, I think it’s great.’

Tonight, they’ve run through their repertoire of dance tunes, foxtrots and waltzes, with the occasional tango as an ‘exotic’. Robert has been sharing his gramophone records with her so that she can learn new tunes at home. She’s even learned to sing a few of them, though she knows she’s a better guitarist than a singer.

When everything is done, she packs away quickly while Robert goes to talk to the manager about getting paid. She helps Willie disassemble his drums, which live in the back room of the club unless they’re needed for another gig.

‘Thanks, Ella. Will you join us for a dram?’

The manager lets them buy beer if they drink it in the back room. Ella shakes her head quickly, not meeting his eyes.

‘No, I should get home. My dad will be waiting for me.’

Sandy looks up from the chord chart he’s frowning over.

‘That’s a shame,’ Willie says. ‘He should let you stay out a bit later.’

‘I’ll walk you home, if you like,’ Sandy says.

Ella is taken aback. Sandy never speaks, to her or anyone else, unless it is to ask a question about the music.

‘Yeah, all right.’

Robert comes back, bearing a plate of sandwiches from behind the bar. He puts it down and turns out his pocket onto the nearest beer-stained table, then sorts the coins into four piles.

‘Good news – we can all retire. Five and two.’

Willie rubs his hands together in exaggerated glee.

‘Five and two! A few more nights of this and I’ll be able to buy the radio instead of us shelling out the rent every month. Jimmy falling off that scaffold is the best thing that ever happened to us!’

Robert punches him on the shoulder, but Willie just laughs. Willie has three younger sisters and no dad. He makes a joke out of everything, but Ella knows that he isn’t doing gigs for the fun of it.

‘Want to fritter some of this hard-earned cash on a drink?’ Robert turns to Ella.

Whenever Robert talks to her, the other two turn away, as though it’s a private conversation that needs to be respected.

‘’Fraid not; I need to get home. Sandy’s going to walk me back.’

Robert rubs behind his ear. ‘All right then. See you on Friday for practice?’

‘See you then.’

‘I’ll let you know if we get any other gigs, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Right, well … night then.’

Ella turns to grab her gear.

‘Oh! You should have my half of the sandwich.’

‘You sure?’ She smiles.

‘Aye, Mum always has something waiting for me.’

‘I’ll have it, if it’s going wastin’,’ Willie teases.

Ella grabs the half of ham sandwich before he can and shoves it in her mouth with a grin.

* * *

It’s cold out, but the sky is scattered with stars which shimmer in the black pools of rainwater. Ella and Sandy walk in silence. Her shoulders ache from carrying the guitar and amplifier to-and-fro, but none of the All Stars owns a push bike, let alone a car, so all gigs must be within walking distance or they’d need to scrounge a lift.

She shouldn’t complain, of course – with his double bass strapped to his back, Sandy looks like a skinny-legged ant carrying a leaf several times his weight. He seems nice enough, and plays well, but Ella knows almost nothing about him. He has a good job at the docks – an apprentice draughtsman. He’s older than the rest of them, stayed in school longer. She thinks they’re going to walk the whole way in silence when suddenly he pipes up.

‘Your dad giving you trouble for staying out?’

‘He …’ Ella isn’t sure what to say, though she sure wants to talk to about it. ‘He just got back from service, I think he’s a little …’

She trails off, not knowing how to express it.

‘My dad got back a couple of months ago.’ Sandy looks straight ahead.

‘Oh?’

‘Rob and Willie don’t understand – Willie never had a dad, growing up, and Rob … well, you know.’

Ella isn’t sure where this is going but lets him talk.

‘I’m just saying, I know how it is.’

She isn’t sure that she does know what he means, because it hasn’t occurred to her that there might be something in common between the families of men returning from war. To her, it’s just her dad. His problems are his own. The way he won’t say anything as they sit around eating breakfast. The way he will slope off to the pub as soon as it opens. The way she hears him through the walls in the night, shouting in his sleep.

‘I think … I think it’ll be better when he gets a job.’ She looks at Sandy, who looks back, briefly.

‘Yeah, I’m sure it will be.’ He doesn’t sound very sure. ‘I guess what I’m saying is, when they left they were our dads, but now they’re back they’re soldiers. They’re used to routine and being given orders and giving orders. And they’re used to excitement and being surrounded by other soldiers. They’re used to … I don’t know.’ He shakes his head.