tiresome give and take. You never have any freedom.”
She had files on the checkout girl in the nearby Co-op, and on the landlord’s agent and the postman.They weren’t very comprehensive.
“It’s hard to find out things about them,” she confided apologetically. “Sometimes I make direct observations , and sometimes I get information from the births, marriages and deaths columns in the paper. But I don’t go to their homes.”
“Direct observations?” I asked.
She gave a smile of satisfaction.
“You’ve never noticed, have you?” she said.
Noticed? Noticed what?
“I do a bit of spying,” she said. “I’m not remotely interested in making any impact on people’s lives; I don’t want to harm anybody, or help anybody, either. And I’ve absolutely no intention of making any use of this information. The sort of material I collect is of no interest to most people, anyway. I’ve made an arrangement with a lawyer for all this to be shredded, unread, in the case of my death. But I’ll let you see your own file.”
She pulled out a green metal drawer marked “Colleagues” and extracted a hanging file. It was quite full.
“Sit!” she snapped, as if I were a particularly dozy dog. She put the file in front of me on the table.
There were black and white photos of me at the library, in a street in town and on my balcony; the last of these seemed to be taken sideways from below, from the other side of the road. The photos from work were grainy, as if they’d been taken from a distance and enlarged.
“I’ve got developing equipment in the bathroom!” she said proudly.
There were lists of my work shifts, right up to today. There were circulars, minutes from union meetings and memos I’d signed and sent round. There was a little notebook marked “Clothes” where she’d correctly recorded my favourite colours and fabrics, and made a few comments on things I’d worn: “Christmas party: red pleated skirt, long cardigan, blouse with a big collar”. “May 15th: dark blue jacket, too big. Her late husband’s?”
There was a list of books I’d borrowed from the library and a couple of receipts from the supermarket where I shopped.
“They’re your receipts!” she said. “Do you feel uncomfortable about me taking your picture without you knowing, and collecting up your receipts in the shop?”
I couldn’t honestly say I did, especially not with her staring at me, head cocked to one side, as inscrutable as a house sparrow.
From the folder I took a large white handkerchief that smelt vaguely familiar. She blushed.
“Yes, it’s yours!” she said. “I don’t normally keep objects, but I wanted to preserve your perfume. It’s Calvin Klein’s ‘Eternity’, isn’t it? That was what I decided , anyway, at the perfume counter in Domus.”
“But you must do something with all this information you find out? Is it just because you like collecting and filing things? Or are you going to write anovel?” The idea suddenly came to me. I’ve read about writers who work like that.
“Not at all,” she said irritably. “There are far too many novels already. But… well, sometimes… I try out your lives a bit, like you might try on clothes in a shop. Things you’re not planning to buy at all, but you just fancy seeing yourself in something new! I might sit on the balcony and imagine I’m you, on your balcony, early one spring morning, in your old quilted jacket and your hat with the toadstools, eating some of those Finn Crisp you always buy. I shut my eyes and imagine my hair’s straggly and white and I’m in my thirties. I mean, I would have made some preparations, bought the Finn Crisp, even been tempted to buy a bottle of ‘Eternity’!
“So I sit there and think about what I’m going to wear tomorrow; shall I choose my long green skirt or my jumper and jeans? Shall I go for lunch with my girlfriend or go to the cemetery?
“And then I think about my late husband; well, I often
She had files on the checkout girl in the nearby Co-op, and on the landlord’s agent and the postman.They weren’t very comprehensive.
“It’s hard to find out things about them,” she confided apologetically. “Sometimes I make direct observations , and sometimes I get information from the births, marriages and deaths columns in the paper. But I don’t go to their homes.”
“Direct observations?” I asked.
She gave a smile of satisfaction.
“You’ve never noticed, have you?” she said.
Noticed? Noticed what?
“I do a bit of spying,” she said. “I’m not remotely interested in making any impact on people’s lives; I don’t want to harm anybody, or help anybody, either. And I’ve absolutely no intention of making any use of this information. The sort of material I collect is of no interest to most people, anyway. I’ve made an arrangement with a lawyer for all this to be shredded, unread, in the case of my death. But I’ll let you see your own file.”
She pulled out a green metal drawer marked “Colleagues” and extracted a hanging file. It was quite full.
“Sit!” she snapped, as if I were a particularly dozy dog. She put the file in front of me on the table.
There were black and white photos of me at the library, in a street in town and on my balcony; the last of these seemed to be taken sideways from below, from the other side of the road. The photos from work were grainy, as if they’d been taken from a distance and enlarged.
“I’ve got developing equipment in the bathroom!” she said proudly.
There were lists of my work shifts, right up to today. There were circulars, minutes from union meetings and memos I’d signed and sent round. There was a little notebook marked “Clothes” where she’d correctly recorded my favourite colours and fabrics, and made a few comments on things I’d worn: “Christmas party: red pleated skirt, long cardigan, blouse with a big collar”. “May 15th: dark blue jacket, too big. Her late husband’s?”
There was a list of books I’d borrowed from the library and a couple of receipts from the supermarket where I shopped.
“They’re your receipts!” she said. “Do you feel uncomfortable about me taking your picture without you knowing, and collecting up your receipts in the shop?”
I couldn’t honestly say I did, especially not with her staring at me, head cocked to one side, as inscrutable as a house sparrow.
From the folder I took a large white handkerchief that smelt vaguely familiar. She blushed.
“Yes, it’s yours!” she said. “I don’t normally keep objects, but I wanted to preserve your perfume. It’s Calvin Klein’s ‘Eternity’, isn’t it? That was what I decided , anyway, at the perfume counter in Domus.”
“But you must do something with all this information you find out? Is it just because you like collecting and filing things? Or are you going to write anovel?” The idea suddenly came to me. I’ve read about writers who work like that.
“Not at all,” she said irritably. “There are far too many novels already. But… well, sometimes… I try out your lives a bit, like you might try on clothes in a shop. Things you’re not planning to buy at all, but you just fancy seeing yourself in something new! I might sit on the balcony and imagine I’m you, on your balcony, early one spring morning, in your old quilted jacket and your hat with the toadstools, eating some of those Finn Crisp you always buy. I shut my eyes and imagine my hair’s straggly and white and I’m in my thirties. I mean, I would have made some preparations, bought the Finn Crisp, even been tempted to buy a bottle of ‘Eternity’!
“So I sit there and think about what I’m going to wear tomorrow; shall I choose my long green skirt or my jumper and jeans? Shall I go for lunch with my girlfriend or go to the cemetery?
“And then I think about my late husband; well, I often
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