face out of the advertorials. Practically no one in town knows me, despite the fact that I attend many public events, concerts, black-tie fundraisers, quizzes and fêtes. I have learned the skill of being likeable without being memorable. I wear no cologne. Where some stand out, I stand back; remote from the performance, I am part of the applause. Eventssuch as these are meat and drink to a local paper, of course. Here were typical ones – a cancer fun-run, a jumble of pictures from last week’s folk and blues festival held at the arts centre.
And then a thought struck me. I finished my second coffee, washed my dishes and cleared them away. Warninck’s was only ten minutes away, in the old part of town. It occupied the old corner Co-op – a large premises for an independent bookseller’s but resourceful in the way it drew business in. Even this early on a dull weekday there were customers, one or two sitting with a coffee in the rear of the shop. I could see now that this raised area, with its comfy seats pushed back, formed the stage area for their literary events.
I approached a woman wearing a manager’s badge.
‘I’m looking for a book,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she beamed, ‘you’ve come to the right place.’
‘The author did a reading here?’
‘Our evenings are very popular. Was it travel? We had Moira McLarrily in November. She was marvellous.’
‘No, this was a novel.’
‘Barrington Gates?
Suit of Coins
? He was excellent.’
‘That’s the man!’
‘He
is
popular. I think we might even have a signed copy, let me see …’ She led me into the fiction aisle. ‘E, F, Fleming, Gaskell … Oh,’ she said, her eyes re-scanning the shelf, ‘he’s more popular than I thought. I’m afraid we’re out of stock. Can I order you a copy?’
‘No, don’t worry. It was just a recommendation from someone. You must have done too good a job with your literary evening.’
‘Have you been along to one yet? It’s quite jolly. And of course there’s always a glass of wine thrown in, so to speak.’
‘So I gather. And who’s the chap who does the interviews?’
‘Oh, that’s Doctor Sharp. Douglas. We’re
very
lucky to have him. He lectures at Cambridge, no less, but he lives locally. It was his terrific idea to bring these events into Warninck’s. They used to have them in the library from time to time, but not with a great deal of success. We have a better position here. More footfall, I think he said. I’m sure I have his card here somewhere …’ She went behind the counter and rummaged through a box. ‘Yes, here he is,’ she said, holding the card to the level of her tinted bifocals and announcing his name and college.
I didn’t need to go to the library at all but as if to follow the woman’s cue – as if knowing what I really wanted – my feet took me there. I didn’t usually need a book to ground me here; I preferred to browse, move around. But I was drawn now to Barrington Gates. What was the theme that had inspired her question … loneliness? I found a hardback copy on the shelf and read the blurb: the redemptive tale of a self-made millionaire who returns to the village of his birth following the accidental death of his brother by drowning. I found a quiet place to sit, and was soon absorbed, though not for long.
It was her laughter I heard first – abrupt against the general quiet but quickly curtailed as if she couldn’t help herself. Then I heard her speaking close by, in local history – discussing something with a colleague, Margaret, her voice still full of stifled gaiety. I knew, even before I stole a sideways glance at her profile and the dark wavy hair that made her look like an English wartime film starlet, that it was her. This was why Sharp had come here the previous Friday – to let her know he was free and to urge her to join him at the house as soon as she could. I wondered now about her hours. Maybe she worked part-time herself, or was able to take a
And then a thought struck me. I finished my second coffee, washed my dishes and cleared them away. Warninck’s was only ten minutes away, in the old part of town. It occupied the old corner Co-op – a large premises for an independent bookseller’s but resourceful in the way it drew business in. Even this early on a dull weekday there were customers, one or two sitting with a coffee in the rear of the shop. I could see now that this raised area, with its comfy seats pushed back, formed the stage area for their literary events.
I approached a woman wearing a manager’s badge.
‘I’m looking for a book,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she beamed, ‘you’ve come to the right place.’
‘The author did a reading here?’
‘Our evenings are very popular. Was it travel? We had Moira McLarrily in November. She was marvellous.’
‘No, this was a novel.’
‘Barrington Gates?
Suit of Coins
? He was excellent.’
‘That’s the man!’
‘He
is
popular. I think we might even have a signed copy, let me see …’ She led me into the fiction aisle. ‘E, F, Fleming, Gaskell … Oh,’ she said, her eyes re-scanning the shelf, ‘he’s more popular than I thought. I’m afraid we’re out of stock. Can I order you a copy?’
‘No, don’t worry. It was just a recommendation from someone. You must have done too good a job with your literary evening.’
‘Have you been along to one yet? It’s quite jolly. And of course there’s always a glass of wine thrown in, so to speak.’
‘So I gather. And who’s the chap who does the interviews?’
‘Oh, that’s Doctor Sharp. Douglas. We’re
very
lucky to have him. He lectures at Cambridge, no less, but he lives locally. It was his terrific idea to bring these events into Warninck’s. They used to have them in the library from time to time, but not with a great deal of success. We have a better position here. More footfall, I think he said. I’m sure I have his card here somewhere …’ She went behind the counter and rummaged through a box. ‘Yes, here he is,’ she said, holding the card to the level of her tinted bifocals and announcing his name and college.
I didn’t need to go to the library at all but as if to follow the woman’s cue – as if knowing what I really wanted – my feet took me there. I didn’t usually need a book to ground me here; I preferred to browse, move around. But I was drawn now to Barrington Gates. What was the theme that had inspired her question … loneliness? I found a hardback copy on the shelf and read the blurb: the redemptive tale of a self-made millionaire who returns to the village of his birth following the accidental death of his brother by drowning. I found a quiet place to sit, and was soon absorbed, though not for long.
It was her laughter I heard first – abrupt against the general quiet but quickly curtailed as if she couldn’t help herself. Then I heard her speaking close by, in local history – discussing something with a colleague, Margaret, her voice still full of stifled gaiety. I knew, even before I stole a sideways glance at her profile and the dark wavy hair that made her look like an English wartime film starlet, that it was her. This was why Sharp had come here the previous Friday – to let her know he was free and to urge her to join him at the house as soon as she could. I wondered now about her hours. Maybe she worked part-time herself, or was able to take a
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