Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,48

mud-streaked muscled bodies, but as much as I tried it just wouldn’t come.

Aside from Tracey’s animated whispered commentary, no one spoke until, during a break in the action, my mother yelled toward Granddad, “This is Jesse’s friend, Tracey!”

“What?” Granddad said, frowning.

“This is Jesse’s friend, Tracey!” she yelled again, this time even louder.

Granddad let his gaze slide slowly up Tracey’s legs and torso. “Aye, I didn’t think I’d seen her before,” he said, his eyes finally resting on her face. “But I thought she might be one of your lot. I mean, it’s hard to keep track of them, isn’t it? Half the family flitting off to Australia, the rest of them in and out of the nick.” He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, pulled a smile, and turned back to the television.

I felt my mother’s body stiffen next to me, her knuckles pressed white into the settee cushions. She glowered at my father, who seemed suddenly intensely interested in the sufferings of an injured rugby player. Tracey crossed, uncrossed, and recrossed her legs. Even she, it appeared, had noticed the discomfort of this interaction.

“Right, then,” my mother said. “I’ll make a pot of tea, then, shall I?”

“Ooh, that’d be lovely,” Granddad said. “Nice of you to offer, Evelyn. And there’s some tinned salmon in the pantry. A plate of sandwiches would be nice, don’t you think?”

My mother swept wordlessly out of the room, slamming the door behind her and then clattering and banging around in the kitchen with what was considerably more fervor than was required to make a pot of tea and a plate of tinned salmon sandwiches.

Tracey looked curiously around the cramped and cluttered little room. “Who’s that?” she asked, gesturing toward the numerous framed photographs arranged on the mantelpiece, along the sideboard, and on top of the television. Almost all of them showed the same person, as a baby, a child, and a teenager. In many of them he was pictured kicking, holding, or heading a football.

“My uncle Brian,” I responded. “He’s dead.”

Brian was my father’s only brother, older than my father by a little more than three years. I had never met him, but I’d heard about him often enough. He died before I was born, on his eighteenth birthday. After downing several pints at the local pub, to celebrate his attainment of legal drinking age, he’d stepped into the road and been killed by a passing delivery van, driven by an off-duty grocer’s assistant who was somewhat under the influence himself. I had taken for granted being surrounded by images of this dead uncle in Granddad’s house, but now that Tracey had pointed out his omnipresence I saw it with a stranger’s eyes and realized that it was a little odd. I scanned for any pictures of other family members and found only two: a smiling portrait of my grandmother and a small picture of my father and mother holding me as a baby. We occupied the far end of the sideboard, in a particularly shadowy corner of the room.

Tracey stood up and went over to the mantel. “Was he a football star or something?” she asked.

“What did you say?” Granddad said, turning toward her when he noticed her picking up one of the several trophies and medals that interspersed the photographs.

“She asked if Uncle Brian was a football star!” I yelled.

“Oh, yes, he was going to be,” Granddad answered, nodding vigorously at Tracey. “No doubt about that. He was a genius at football, was that lad. A bloody genius. Could have been as good as Bobby Charlton. Could have played for England in the World Cup.”

“You don’t know that, Dad,” my father said, keeping his gaze fixed on the television screen.

“Of course I do. I saw our Brian play. He was a natural. More moves on that playing field than Fred Astaire has on the dance floor. Two days after he died, he was supposed to try out for professional.”

“For Hull City,” my father added scornfully but not quite loud enough for Granddad to hear. The local football team wasn’t exactly known for its stunning achievements. In recent years Hull had been lucky to avoid demotion to the Third Division. Even their most loyal of fans had started to become embarrassed about sporting the amberand-black of the Hull City colors.

“Everyone said he had talent,” Granddad continued. “If he’d lived, he’d have been making millions, just like that Kevin Keegan and the like. But, even though he died young, at least