The Museum of Literary Souls (A Short Story) by John Connolly Page B

similarly unrewarding he fell back on poetry, the last resort
of the literary scoundrel. Finally, if only to keep his hand in, he began
writing letters to the newspapers on matters of national and international
concern. One, on the subject of badgers, was printed in the Telegraph ,
but it was heavily cut for publication, and Mr. Berger felt that it made him
sound somewhat obsessive about badgers, when nothing could be further from the
truth.
    It began to dawn on Mr. Berger that he might not be cut out
for the life of a writer, gentleman or otherwise, and perhaps there were those
who should simply be content to read. Once he had reached this conclusion, it
was as though a great weight had fallen from his shoulders. He packed away the
expensive writer’s notebooks that he had purchased from Smythson of Mayfair,
and their weight in his pocket was replaced by the latest volume of Anthony
Powell’s roman-fleuve, A Dance to the Music of Time .
    In the evenings Mr. Berger was in the habit of taking a walk
by the railway line. A disused path not far from the back gate of his cottage
led through a forest and thus to the raised bank on which the railway ran.
Until recently trains had stopped four times daily at Glossom, but the Beeching
cuts had led to the closure of the station. Trains still used the line, a noisy
reminder of what had been lost, but soon even the sound of them would disappear
as routes were reorganized. Eventually, the lines through Glossom would become
overgrown, and the station would fall into disrepair. There were those in
Glossom who had suggested buying it from British Railways and turning it into a
museum, although they were unclear as to what exactly might be put in such a
museum, the history of Glossom being distinctly lacking in battles, royalty, or
great inventors.
    None of this concerned Mr. Berger. It was enough that he had
a pleasant place in which to walk or, if the weather was conducive, sit by the
lines and read. There was a stile not far from the old station, and he liked to
wait there for the passing of the last train south. He would watch the
businessmen in their suits flash by and experience a surge of gratitude that
his working life had reached a premature but welcome end.
    Now, as winter began to close in, he still took his evening
strolls, but the fading of the light and the growing chill in the air meant
that he did not pause to take time with his book. Nevertheless, he always
carried a volume with him, for it had become his habit to read for an hour at
the Spotted Frog over a glass of wine or a pint of mild.
    On the evening in question, Mr. Berger had paused as usual
to wait for the train. It was, he noticed, running a little late. It had begun
to do so more and more of late, which led him to wonder if all of this
rationalization was really leading to any kind of improvements at all. He lit
his pipe and looked to the west to witness the sun setting behind the woods,
the last traces of it like flames upon the denuded branches of the trees.
    It was at this point that he noticed a woman passing through
the overgrown bushes a little further down the line. He had noticed before a
trail of sorts there, for the branches of shrubs had been broken in places, but
it was a poor substitute for his own path, and he had no desire to damage his
clothing or his skin on briars. The woman was dressed in a dark dress, but what
caught Berger’s eye was the little red bag that she carried on her arm. It
seemed in such stark contrast to the rest of her attire. He tried to see her
face, but the angle of her progress concealed it from him.
    At that moment he heard a distant whistle, and the stile
beneath him started to vibrate. The express, the last train of the evening, was
approaching. He could see its lights through the trees as it came. He looked
again to his right. The woman had stopped, for she too had heard the train. Mr.
Berger expected her to pause and wait for it to pass, but she did not. Instead,
she