An Imperfect Librarian by Elizabeth Murphy Page A

outport, probably on the whole island. It earned me more suspicion than friends though. I would have been more popular with the largest marble or doll collection.”
    â€œI remember a boy in school who brought a collection of objects his father, a doctor, removed from windpipes, ears and nostrils. Stuff like popcorn, peanuts or peas.”
    â€œEnglish peas?”
    â€œFrench.”
    â€œIs your father a doctor?” she asks.
    â€œA civil servant.”
    â€œRetired?”
    â€œRetired to be a curmudgeon.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    â€œShe retired to Spain once my umbilical cord was cut. We haven’t been in touch since.”
    â€œI can see the Spanish in you. If you’d come to St. John’s thirty years ago you would have been mistaken for a sailor. You have an exotic look for around here.”
    â€œPlease don’t remind me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY
swindled share of summer
    A FTER THE MEAL, WHILE N ORAH putters in the kitchen, I browse her collection. I count twenty-four editions of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and as many or more of Through the Looking Glass. The two framed photos on the wall are more interesting to admire than count. There’s one colour photo of what looks like Norah with Will and her mother. The other is a black and white photo of a fair-haired boy with Will. When Norah enters the study, I shift my attention back to the books. She takes me on tour. She hands me books to examine as if they were fine jewellery. She explains the differences between editions, which ones are most sought after and why. “Am I going into too much detail?” she asks.
    When the tour ends, I help her carry in firewood from the outside to the porch. After, we sit in rocking chairs by the floor-to-ceiling window. She talks about her collection and favourite passages in Alice in Wonderland . I tell her a story I once read about a Mr. Benjamin Button who was born old then grew younger as he aged. She asks me about my workand then about my parents.
    â€œNo mother? What about your mother country?” she asks.
    â€œNowhere, really.”
    â€œIt’s settled. You’ll become a Newfoundlander. Our population is declining. We can always use a few more people here.”
    â€œFor ballast?”
    â€œYou’re funny,” she says.
    â€œI don’t look like a Newfoundlander. I certainly don’t sound like one. I wasn’t born here.”
    â€œBeing a Newfoundlander is not about being born here. It’s about how you connect with the place. It’s about missing the island when you go away, putting up with the fog, walking face-first into gusts, that sort of thing.”
    â€œMy friend Mercedes says there’s no bad weather only bad clothes.”
    â€œThe weather here isn’t the scoundrel people make it out to be. Besides, there’s so much else that makes up for it. You don’t mind putting up with someone who makes your life more difficult if they have finer qualities to compensate. We may not have the weather but we have other things.”
    â€œLike char in phyllo pastry?”
    â€œThat’s a Cliffhead specialty. Like people who surprise you and come through for you. Years ago, before I lived at Cliffhead, I went camping up the flats of a river with a friend. There were sandbars and grassy islands everywhere so we assumed it was fine. That night it poured out of the heavens. Daylight came, we packed up. We had to wade in water up to our knees, carrying our gear until we made it to the road, then to our car. In that short distance, one person shouted, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Someone else called out, ‘Do you need a place to stay?’ Not everyone is so welcoming. You met Ray Harding so you know that. But he’s the exception.”
    â€œYou may not have the weather but you have Ray.”
    â€œYou’ll get used to the weather after a few winters. You’ll accept your swindled share of