‘Shhh. Mummy’s here now,’ she said. ‘Shhh. Everything is going to be all right.’
FERN
On Monday morning, I help a woman wanting a book recommendation for her introverted twelve-year-old daughter who wants to become a writer (I give her a copy of I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith); I set up chairs for a Toastmasters group in the function room; and I ask a man who has been in the bathroom for over an hour if he requires any assistance (it turns out he had dropped his wedding ring down the sink, and Tom, the maintenance man, has to search for it in the S-bend). I fold and restack the newspapers and lie on the floor to read a book to a little boy who doesn’t want to sit on a chair in the kids’ area. So more or less a regular day at the library.
I’d handed Alfie off to Wally at 8.45 am, as planned. When Wally arrived outside my building in his orange kombi van, I will admit to being relieved to see him. Yes, we’d made an arrangement, but people can be fickle with arrangements. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, plans can be cancelled, postponed or even just deemed to be an idea rather than an actual plan (as is often the case when coffee is involved, I’ve found – Let’s have coffee, people will say, but then seem perplexed when I get out my diary to determine when we will drink it). So I was pleasantly surprised when Wally showed up.
I was all ready for him, naturally. I had packed up Alfie’s lead, his food, his water bowl (and two large bottles of tap water, so Wally could fill it up even if he couldn’t find a tap or hose). I’d also given Wally a wad of plastic bags for dog poo and a tennis ball. Wally took it all eagerly, which was quite nice. I’d always found there was something agreeable about people who liked dogs and something untrustworthy about those who didn’t. The night before, I’d considered telling Rose that I was outsourcing Alfie’s care for the day, but after careful consideration, I’d decided against it. After what had already happened with Alfie, I wanted to spare her the additional worry of a stranger looking after her dog (even if, judging by the text messages Wally has been sending from the dog park, Alfie is receiving a vastly superior level of attention than he would receive in either Rose’s or my care).
Mid-morning, I’m looking at one such text message – a photo message of Alfie, sitting on Wally’s lap at a café drinking from a bowl shaped as a coffee mug labelled PUPPY-CINO – when I am intercepted by Carmel and her cart.
‘Fern, I’m glad I ran into you,’ Carmel says, even though she was not running and nor had we made physical contact. She is wearing a bold yellow dress that suits neither her skin tone nor her personality.
‘I notice you haven’t put your name down for the staff bowling day.’
She pauses expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, even though no matter how many times I replay her comment, I can’t find the question. Once, years ago, Rose told me that conversations were simply a series of questions. One person asked a question, the other person answered, and it went back and forth like this until the questions ran out. This explanation has assisted me through countless episodes of small talk. But lately, it feels like more and more people are opting for statement-to-statement types of conversation. Which generally leaves me at a loss. I am still searching for an appropriate response when Carmel continues.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
The expression isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. I googled it several years back and established there were two possible origins: one, referencing a whip used by the Royal Navy called the cat-o’-nine-tails (apparently the pain this whip inflicted was so severe that it caused the victim to stay quiet for a long time); two, derived from ancient Egypt, where liars’ and blasphemers’ tongues were cut out and fed to the cats.
‘I am able to speak,’ I confirm. ‘And you are correct that I haven’t put my name on the list for the bowling day.’
Carmel’s eyes narrow. Her eyelashes are short and sparse and could do with a coat or two of that volumising mascara that Rose wears. ‘Fern, these team-building events are important. Getting the team together in a social environment helps make for better communication in the workplace.’ Almost as an afterthought, she adds, ‘It’s a company-sponsored event, so you don’t have to pay.’
Again, no question has been posed. I look around and let out a long sigh – attempting to send out a non-verbal message that I am tiring of the conversation and she should speed it up.
‘Fern, are you planning to put your name down?’ Carmel says snippily, which frankly is a little annoying as I’m the one who is being put through this pitiful attempt at conversation. But at least she’s finally asked an actual question.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t like bowling.’
Now Carmel is red in the face. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But it is a compulsory event for all staff.’
‘It is?’
‘Yes, it is.’ Carmel seems surer of herself now, nodding with each syllable. Yes. It. Is.
‘Then why have a sign-up sheet at all?’
‘Well, because . . .’ Carmel drifts off, less certain now.
I wait.
At lunchtime, I am in the staffroom, tapping away at my computer when Gayle appears at my desk. She has what looks like a bit of spinach caught in her teeth and unusually wide – excited – eyes. I’m relieved it’s not Carmel. I’ve made a mental note to avoid Carmel until this bowling function is over or until her conversation skills improve, whichever comes first.
‘There’s someone here to see you,’ Gayle says, once I have pointed out the spinach.
I frown. The only time anyone comes to see me at work is on my birthday, when Rose comes to take me out to lunch at the sandwich place I like. That is always planned in advance, of course, because I don’t like surprises. But today is not my birthday and I don’t have anything planned.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the man from the other day. The one who was having trouble with the printer.’ Gayle lowers her voice to say this and waggles her eyebrows up and down. It makes her look quite bizarre.
‘Where is he?’ I say, getting up.
‘Just outside the door,’ she whispers excitedly.
Sure enough, when I come to the staffroom door, Wally is standing there. Alfie is by his side, on the lead.
‘Hello,’ I say, then frown at Gayle who is still standing there. She shuffles away sadly.
When I look back at Wally, the first thing I notice is that he’s not wearing that atrocious hat! He looks different without it. He has quite lovely hair – thick and black and swept, with the slightest curl to it. I study it admiringly before noticing the rest of his clothes are different too. Instead of the jeans and shirt, he’s wearing a business suit . . . with a tie! There’s something else different about him too . . . something to do with his face. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
‘I’m so sorry to do this, Fern,’ he says, ‘but something has come up and I won’t be able to watch Alfie for a couple of hours. I could have left him at your place, but I knew you’d worry so I brought him here. It’s a . . . an interview of sorts. It just came up and I . . . I . . .’
For someone who is usually so eloquent, Wally seems to be struggling to string a sentence together. It’s almost as if he’s nervous. I look him up and down again – the suit, the tie. Suddenly I realise what is different about his face. ‘You shaved!’
He rubs his face and smiles at the floor. ‘I did.’
‘For the meeting?’
‘Yes. It’s with a former colleague of mine. We worked together a few years back and there’s a chance we could do something together again.’
He holds out Alfie’s lead and I’m grabbing hold of it when I hear Carmel’s cart rolling toward me.
‘Fern! There you are!’
‘Who’s that?’ Wally asks.
I gauge the distance between Carmel and me and deduce that it’s too late to make a run for it. ‘My manager. She wants me to go tenpin bowling. I have a company-sponsored bowling night on Wednesday.’
‘Really?’ Wally says. ‘Fun
ny, because I’m an excellent tenpin bowler.’
‘Would you like to be my guest?’
‘Sure,’ Wally says. ‘Why not?’
Carmel rolls to a stop in front of us, staring at Alfie.
‘Put me down for two for the bowling, Carmel,’ I say.
Carmel glances up from Alfie. ‘Pardon?’
‘Two. For the bowling. Me and Wally.’
‘Rocco,’ Wally corrects, shooting me a frown. He extends his hand to Carmel. ‘Rocco Ryan.’
I think Carmel is going to protest, but instead she takes his hand. ‘Rocco Ryan?’ She stares at Wally for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I, er, fine. I’ll put you both down. But Fern, the dog has got to go.’
I pretend not to hear her. ‘Good luck with the meeting,’ I say to Wally.
Carmel and I both watch Wally walk away. He looks nice in his suit. I get the feeling, from Carmel’s odd behaviour, that she has noticed too.
‘I’ll look forward to bowling,’ I call after him on a whim, realising, despite the multitude of reasons I shouldn’t, that it’s true.
I have a secret at the library that no-one knows about, not even Gayle. I found out about it several years ago, while Janet was still the manager. I’d been at the front desk that day, because Linda and Gayle had both been off work with a hacking cough that had done the rounds of the library staff (which I’d escaped due to my disinclination to shake hands). A council meeting had taken place in the circular meeting room that afternoon and, afterward, tea and cakes had been served. I hated it when tea and cakes were served to the council workers, because it meant dozens of fat, balding, middle-aged men were hanging around, nursing cups of tea and pieces of cake, and taking up lots of space, physical and emotional, the way fat, balding, middle-aged men did. Their small talk hummed around the building, bouncing off walls and making me feel squidgy. Lots of questions like, ’Scuse me, love, where’s the bathroom? and You couldn’t clear this plate away, could you, darl?
I’d give them blank stares and scurry away, but wherever I went, there were more fat old men with more questions. Worse, this time, one of them had located the little bell at the front desk that I had hidden in a drawer, and was it pinging every few seconds.
Ping.
‘’Scuse me.’
Ping.
‘Is anyone here?’
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
It was hard to describe what that particular kind of noise – trapped noise – did to me. It filled my brain like a scream, until tears itched at my eyes and my heart threatened to burst from my chest. I’d been hiding among the travel books at the back of the building when Janet, my old boss, found me.
‘Bad place to hide,’ she whispered. ‘These guys all fancy themselves as world travellers – they’ll be back here soon, looking for books about Egypt so they can point out all the places they went on their last vacation.’
‘Crochet section?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Janet said. ‘Follow me.’
I followed her to the very back of the library, the older part beyond the archive area. There, in the red brick wall, was a door that I had not noticed before. Janet opened it with a key.
‘This is a little treasure I found a few years back,’ she said, opening the door to a tiny windowless room filled entirely by a shabby armchair and a small side table. It had a slanting roof where the stairs went overhead. ‘I call it the secret cupboard. I use it sometimes to make phone calls, or go through payroll, or do something where I don’t want to be interrupted. But I think perhaps you could use it more than me.’ She handed me the key. ‘This is the only key that I know of. It’s yours now.’
I looked at the small gold key.
‘Use it whenever you like. But don’t ever tell anyone of its existence. It’s too precious to be shared.’
I agreed. Far too precious.
I had been in the secret cupboard earlier this year when Janet had a massive stroke in Junior Non-fiction. Dead before she hit the ground, apparently. A perfect place for her to die, people said later. Surrounded by books, in the place she loved most.
All these months later, I can’t figure out if I feel guilty for being in the secret cupboard when it happened, or glad.
I spend most of the afternoon in the secret cupboard with Alfie. He is very happy. I set up some newspaper and his water bowl and he remains there cheerfully even during the short periods when I have to dart out and be seen by Carmel on the floor. I am doing one such trip when Gayle spots me.
‘Fern, there you are! There was a man here to see you earlier, but I couldn’t find you.’
‘A man?’ This is most peculiar. ‘Wally?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. A different man.’
I frown. I don’t know many men and, apart from Wally, I don’t know any who would pop in randomly to see me at the library.
‘Well . . . what did he look like?’
Gayle thinks about it. ‘Good-looking. Thirties, probably. Clean-shaven and nicely dressed.’
I’m stumped. ‘Are you sure he wanted to see me?’
‘He asked for Fern. He said he was a friend.’
I assume it must be a mistake. He probably asked to see someone else. Or maybe wanted to borrow a book on ferns. ‘Did he leave a message?’
‘No. He said he’d come back another day.’
‘Oh. Well, then I expect he will.’ If he was actually looking for me.
I’m distracted from the clean-shaven mystery visitor when I spot Wally walking into the library. He mustn’t see me, because he walks quickly past me, headed toward the shower room.
‘How did the meeting go?’ I say, running to catch up to him.
Wally keeps walking. ‘I can’t talk right now.’
He pushes through the door into the vestibule and I slow my step. I usually stay out of there in the afternoon, as it tends to get a little stinky. But today, I decide I’ll brave it.
Wally whirls around. ‘Are you planning to follow me into the shower?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I thought you’d stop before we got there. And you did.’ I grin. ‘How did the meeting go?’
‘The meeting didn’t happen, okay?’
I frown. ‘Why didn’t the meeting happen?’
‘I was going to take the train to the city, but I couldn’t find an all-day parking spot at the station. The most I could find was two hours. So I didn’t go.’
I stare at him. ‘Because you couldn’t find anywhere to park?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘You have no idea how difficult it is to find adequate parking.’
‘I wouldn’t say I have no idea. Such a thing as moving a car around is actually very easy to imagine.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Was that funny?’ I am genuinely curious. But he doesn’t respond.
‘Why didn’t you just pay for parking?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t have any money.’
‘I thought you did have money. You’re not homeless, right?’
He’s red in the face now. ‘I didn’t have any coins,’ He makes a noise like ugh and clenches his fist into a ball, like he is angry.
‘Why are you angry, Wally?’
‘I’m angry that I missed the interview, okay? I’m angry that you’re following me when I want to be alone. I’m angry because you keep calling me Wally!’
He’s the most upset I’ve seen him. I think of something Janet said to me once when a borrower had been very angry that a book they had reserved hadn’t been returned yet. The borrower said she had walked a long way in the heat to get to the library and she wasn’t leaving without the book. She had become quite aggressive indeed. Janet had apologised profusely and offered to personally drop off the book to the woman when it was returned. Then Janet had asked if there was anything else she could help her with. That was the moment the woman broke down in tears and confessed that it was the anniversary of her son’s death, and she�
��d been desperate to escape the day by losing herself in a good book. Janet had driven the woman home via the bookstore, where she’d purchased for the woman not only the one she’d reserved, but also several others.
‘Why were you so kind to her?’ I had asked when Janet returned to the library. ‘When she’d been so rude to you?’
‘Angry is just a penname for sad,’ Janet had explained. ‘In my experience, nine times out of ten, if you are kind to the angry person, you will calm them down and find out what is really going on with them.’
‘You know,’ I say to Wally, ‘I have a parking spot, at my place. I’m a five-minute walk from the train station. You’re welcome to park there if you have another meeting. Or anytime, really.’
He frowns, his expression different again. Not angry, more confused. ‘That’s very generous.’
‘Not really. I don’t own a car, so it just sits there empty.’
He appears to think about this for a moment.
‘I do have one thing to ask in exchange, though.’
Wally crosses his arms. ‘Oh? What?’
He watches me through narrowed eyes. His eyelashes are long and dark and curled, like an old-fashioned doll.
‘I’d be most grateful,’ I say, ‘if I could keep calling you Wally.’
To my surprise, Wally throws back his head and laughs. And even though I’m not sure why we’re laughing, I laugh too.
I arrive at the bowling alley at approximately 6.30 pm on Wednesday evening. I’m unable to confirm the exact timing due to leaving my phone at home. This oversight is unlike me, and I attribute it to the low-level anxiety I’ve felt all day at the prospect of visiting a bowling alley. A bowling alley, with its noise and lights and smells, is most definitely out of my comfort zone. Part of me, the rebellious part, feels excited about this. The rest of me is struggling to breathe.
I caught the bus here. Wally had offered to drive me but small talk in cars always gives me a headache, so the bus seemed a safer option. The flyer in the staffroom said it was a 6.45 pm meet-up for a 7 pm start, which would allow everyone time to select their bowling footwear and to collect their meal coupons and tokens for the pinball machines. (Learning about the pinball machines had been a blow. Games tended to be loud and bright, and I hate loud bright places.) But I’ve prepared for it as best I can, and I find myself feeling cautiously optimistic.
The Good Sister Page 7
