declaiming it, with all the ardour and romantic fire of every impassioned tenor in Bayreuth, Covent Garden, La Scala and the Met.
chapter seven
‘Right, Kath, we’ll start here in Biography. What we need to do is weed out any stock that’s tatty, dirty, or falling apart. For instance …’ Eric checked through a few volumes, then withdrew a book from the shelf. ‘This life of Mary Wollstonecraft.’ He tensed at the author’s first name: Amanda. Five whole days and still Mandy hadn’t rung. Perhaps she was dead , he thought, with horror; mangled in a car-crash, once she’d dropped him off at Kingston and continued down the motorway.
‘But that’s not tatty or dirty.’ Kath’s voice was all but drowned by the shrilling siren of the ambulance as it sped towards the wreckage.
‘It’s not in prime condition, though.’
‘Still, seems a shame to throw it out.’
He had felt the same at her age, reluctant to dispose of any book whatever . In his childhood, books had been precious passports to all the things he craved: happy, cosy families, seaside holidays, pet dogs and cats, visits to doting relatives. And, later, as an adult who avoided danger and had never been abroad, he valued books for their power to whisk him to every country in the world, or let him live vicariously as deep-sea diver, Arctic explorer, parachutist, mountaineer.
‘Don’t worry, Kath, many of the books we discard end up in good homes. Some are sent to other libraries and some to the prison book club. And the prisoners often pass them on to other men on their wing, or to visiting friends and family, who, in their turn, may give them to someone else, so they keep having a new lease of life.’ He liked to think of all those readers bringing their own perspective to each book; gaining something unique from it; interpreting it in different ways. ‘And we’re planning a big book-sale in February or March, with all the other branches in the borough, which will take care of some of the weeded stock. Now, I’d like you to go along this shelf, Kath, examine the condition of each book and tell me whether you think it should go or stay.’
He was grateful that the library was uncharacteristically quiet, since he couldn’t really concentrate – well, only on Mandy and why she hadn’t phoned. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve: the day she was meant to be delivering his made-to-order cake. Yet he hadn’t even given her the details: what sort of cake he wanted, its size and style and type of decoration. Had she known that he was lying; that the big bash at his flat was a total fabrication ; the cake a mere device to ensure he stayed in touch with her?
‘This one’s slightly grubby, but the dirt’s only on the cover, so should it go or stay?’
Reluctantly, he took the book from Kath, longing to be alone, at home, so that he could fix his entire attention on the only thing that mattered in his life. Except he’d been doing that the whole of yesterday; spent an exhausting Sunday veering from dizzy hope, every time the phone rang, to deep despair when it was some odd friend and not the woman he adored.
Was he raving mad? How could he adore a woman he’d met for precisely fifty-seven minutes? For all he knew, she might be gay or married. She hadn’t worn a ring, though, nor made mention of a partner. But suppose she was a schemer or a cheat, or even a boozer or a druggie. ‘No!’ some voice inside him screamed. ‘She’s flawless, perfect, exemplary in every way.’
He forced himself to examine the book, although the picture on the jacket began changing before his very eyes to that of a gorgeous female with Titian hair and heavenly blue eyes. ‘We’ll keep it, Kath,’ he stated, clinging on to it protectively.
If only he’d taken her phone-number, but he’d been so incredibly nervous in the car, they were fast approaching Kingston before he’d plucked up courage to trot out his string of lies: how New Year’s Eve just happened to
chapter seven
‘Right, Kath, we’ll start here in Biography. What we need to do is weed out any stock that’s tatty, dirty, or falling apart. For instance …’ Eric checked through a few volumes, then withdrew a book from the shelf. ‘This life of Mary Wollstonecraft.’ He tensed at the author’s first name: Amanda. Five whole days and still Mandy hadn’t rung. Perhaps she was dead , he thought, with horror; mangled in a car-crash, once she’d dropped him off at Kingston and continued down the motorway.
‘But that’s not tatty or dirty.’ Kath’s voice was all but drowned by the shrilling siren of the ambulance as it sped towards the wreckage.
‘It’s not in prime condition, though.’
‘Still, seems a shame to throw it out.’
He had felt the same at her age, reluctant to dispose of any book whatever . In his childhood, books had been precious passports to all the things he craved: happy, cosy families, seaside holidays, pet dogs and cats, visits to doting relatives. And, later, as an adult who avoided danger and had never been abroad, he valued books for their power to whisk him to every country in the world, or let him live vicariously as deep-sea diver, Arctic explorer, parachutist, mountaineer.
‘Don’t worry, Kath, many of the books we discard end up in good homes. Some are sent to other libraries and some to the prison book club. And the prisoners often pass them on to other men on their wing, or to visiting friends and family, who, in their turn, may give them to someone else, so they keep having a new lease of life.’ He liked to think of all those readers bringing their own perspective to each book; gaining something unique from it; interpreting it in different ways. ‘And we’re planning a big book-sale in February or March, with all the other branches in the borough, which will take care of some of the weeded stock. Now, I’d like you to go along this shelf, Kath, examine the condition of each book and tell me whether you think it should go or stay.’
He was grateful that the library was uncharacteristically quiet, since he couldn’t really concentrate – well, only on Mandy and why she hadn’t phoned. Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve: the day she was meant to be delivering his made-to-order cake. Yet he hadn’t even given her the details: what sort of cake he wanted, its size and style and type of decoration. Had she known that he was lying; that the big bash at his flat was a total fabrication ; the cake a mere device to ensure he stayed in touch with her?
‘This one’s slightly grubby, but the dirt’s only on the cover, so should it go or stay?’
Reluctantly, he took the book from Kath, longing to be alone, at home, so that he could fix his entire attention on the only thing that mattered in his life. Except he’d been doing that the whole of yesterday; spent an exhausting Sunday veering from dizzy hope, every time the phone rang, to deep despair when it was some odd friend and not the woman he adored.
Was he raving mad? How could he adore a woman he’d met for precisely fifty-seven minutes? For all he knew, she might be gay or married. She hadn’t worn a ring, though, nor made mention of a partner. But suppose she was a schemer or a cheat, or even a boozer or a druggie. ‘No!’ some voice inside him screamed. ‘She’s flawless, perfect, exemplary in every way.’
He forced himself to examine the book, although the picture on the jacket began changing before his very eyes to that of a gorgeous female with Titian hair and heavenly blue eyes. ‘We’ll keep it, Kath,’ he stated, clinging on to it protectively.
If only he’d taken her phone-number, but he’d been so incredibly nervous in the car, they were fast approaching Kingston before he’d plucked up courage to trot out his string of lies: how New Year’s Eve just happened to
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