by William Bell
Robbie seemed to think every building in Charlotte’s Bight harboured a haunt somewhere in its dark corners. Alma was certain—almost—that he had made up the tale about the janitor. He told the stories just to get attention, she thought. Still, she kept her eyes fixed ahead as she mounted the three steps to the reading room and circulation desk.
There were a few people in the reading room, standing among the stacks or perusing newspapers at one of the broad tables in the centre. Alma caught sight of Louise Arsenault in the fiction section, with Polly Switzer and Samantha Keith, two of her most loyal followers. Alma pointedly ignored them and listened to the quiet, punctuated by the click, click of the old clock, with its hexagonal face and Gothic numerals, on the wall above the circulation desk. At the far end of the room, she saw her mother pushing a book cart among the stacks, pausing to replace a book, then moving on. When Clara looked up, Alma waved.
Alma’s first stop was the card catalogue. Miss McAllister had given the class an arts assignment that morning. The students were to choose an author and write a one-page biography by Friday.
She opened the R–S drawer of the author file and quickly found the card for Hawkins, RR. The seven books Alma was familiar with were listed, the trilogy and the series of four, but no others. It seemed that the owner of the Turnaround had been right, Alma thought with disappointment, for she had continued to nourish the hope that she would find other books by her favourite author. The card catalogue’s “Subject” section listed no biography of RR Hawkins.
Miss McGregor, the head librarian, wasn’t present that day. Alma liked her because she knew everything and was very eager to share her knowledge, sometimes too anxious. Alma went to the reference section, which was the kingdom of Mr. Winters, a skinny young man with dark, oily hair combed straight back. He always wore a white shirt and tie and his leather shoes squeaked. He looked up from a list he was making when Alma stood before his desk and said, “Ahem.”
“How may I help you?” he asked without enthusiasm.
“I have to write a biography of my favourite author. For school. But I can’t find anything about him.”
Mr. Winters put down his pen and laced his fingers together as if about to deliver a speech. “In whom are you interested?”
“RR Hawkins.”
“Afraid I don’t know him. You’ve tried the catalogue?”
“Yes.”
“The encyclopedias? Who’s Who?”
“No.”
Mr. Winters pointed to the stack nearest him. “Over there,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Alma’s mother was slipping the P volume of an encyclopedia into its proper place when Alma turned to the shelves.
“Hello, dear,” Clara said.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her mother had come to the library directly from her noon shift at the Liffey. Her clothes smelled of cigarette smoke and cooking oil.
“Shhhhhhh!” Mr. Winters admonished them.
Clara dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ll shush you, Mr. High-and-mighty,” she hissed.
Alma giggled. Clara and Mr. Winters were always at odds. “He’s not exactly the type to get down on the floor and play with the dog, is he?” Clara had once said of him. He acted as if he was Clara’s boss, but he wasn’t. Miss McGregor was.
“What are you after today?” Clara asked.
Alma told her about the project as she pulled down the H volumes of the three sets of encyclopedias and the Who’s Who.
“Well, that should be a stroll in the park for you,” Clara said. “I’ve got to keep going.” She pushed the book cart down the row, passing Louise and her friends, who had come to the reference section.
Polly wrinkled her nose. “I smell french fries,” she said in a stage whisper.
“Suddenly I’m in the mood for fish and chips,” Samantha said with a giggle, just loud enough for Alma to hear.
The three girls moved toward the check-out desk.
Bet you wouldn’t think it was funny if I pushed the bunch of you down the basement stairs, Alma thought, slapping one volume against another and earning a scowl from Mr. Winters. She took the heavy books to one of the tables and began her search. A few minutes later, she returned the volumes to their places, even though it was against the rules to reshelve books. But if she left them on the table her mother would have to replace them.
Back in front of Mr. Winters’s desk, she said, “Ahem.”
“Any luck?” Mr. Winters asked.
“No. Is there anything else I can try?”
“There are the vertical files, I suppose.” Mr. Winters rose slowly from his chair and went through a door behind him. He came back a few minutes later with a large folder in his hands.
“You’re in luck,” he said, handing the file to Alma. “Reference only, by the way,” he added. “You can’t take it out of the library and you’ll have to use it right there.” He pointed to the table nearest his desk. “Do not change the order of the contents or write on them or damage them in any way.”
“Yes, sir,” Alma said mockingly.
Mr. Winters gave her a cold look. “The library closes in half an hour.”
Alma carried the file to the table and sat down. She took a writing tablet and pencil from her school bag, then pulled on the black ribbon that held the musty folder closed. There wasn’t much inside—some newspaper clippings, a copy of a magazine article—Alma could tell from the glossy pages—and book reviews. She began to read and to make notes.
RR Hawkins, she discovered, had been born in New York City, the only child of a wealthy businessman, James Earl Hawkins. RR’s mother wasn’t named. The RR stood for Rachel Rebecca.
Alma had always assumed that the person who had created Centreworld and Alterworld, who had drawn the maps and invented the creatures who lived in those places and the languages they spoke, was a man.
“Female!!!” Alma wrote on her pad. “Rachel Rebecca Hawkins.”
For some reason, her discovery made her glad. She read on. RR Hawkins had moved with her parents to London, England, when she was twelve. Later, she went to Cambridge University and took her degree in ancient and medieval history. Alma got up and walked to the wooden stand where the big Webster’s Dictionary rested, to look up “medieval.” “Of, or imitating the Middle Ages,” she read, sighing as she crossed to the stacks and took down the M volume of an encyclopedia. “The period between A.D. 400 and A.D. 1500,” she read under “Middle Ages.”
She returned to her chair to find her mother picking up books left there by other patrons and arranging them in order on the book cart.
“Might as well walk home together,” Clara said.
“Sure, Mom.”
“How’s the research going?”
“Great. I discovered RR Hawkins was a woman.”
“Did you, now?”
“At least, I think she’s a ‘was.’ Maybe she’s an ‘is.’ I haven’t found out yet. I’ll have to come back tomorrow. I can’t take the file home.”
“No, it’s Reference,” Clara said, moving away. “We wouldn’t want to upset his highness,” she whispered, pointing toward Mr. Winters’s desk with her chin.
Alma laughed and got back to work. She read a book review of RR’s first novel, Circle of Doom. The reviewer heaped compliments on the book, called RR a “major new talent” and predicted the novel, “a stunner,” would win prizes. Circle of Doom was quickly published in many languages. RR became a very wealthy young—
“The library is closing.” Mr. Winters stood behind his desk.
Alma carefully aligned the documents and placed them in the file. She retied the ribbon, giving it a sharp tug, and carried the folder to Mr. Winters.
“Clara, if you would,” he said, passing the file to Alma’s mother, who was parking the book cart against the wall.
She took the folder and walked through the door behind Mr. Winters’s desk. When she came back out buttoning her raincoat, she had a shopping bag on her arm.
“Let’s go,” she said to Alma. “I’m famished.”
Darkness had fallen and the rain had stopped. Alma and her mother strolled the short distance to the alley, which was pocked with puddles reflecting the light from nearby windows. Once home, they hung up their coats in the alcove and Alma went to the hot plate to put on the kettle.
Clara opened her shopping bag and removed the folder on RR Hawkins. She dropped it onto the kitchen table, smiling.
“Mom!” Alma exclaimed.
“Do you think you can finish your reading tonight while I’m at work?” Clara asked.
“Sure, but won’t Mr. Win—?”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Clara said.
With supper done, the dishes washed and put away, the kitchen floor swept and the tea things laid out for Clara’s return late that night, Alma sat at the table and opened the file again.
Circle of Doom had been followed two years later by The Gathering Darkness, and, two years after that, The Rising completed the trilogy, making RR Hawkins a very famous and wealthy woman. But things in her personal life, the little that Alma could piece together from the book reviews, weren’t going well. RR Hawkins moved away from London, on her own, and then dropped out of sight. She became a recluse. Someone wrote an article saying she had joined a convent; another referred to a failed marriage; someone else claimed she had died, a bit of hearsay contradicted when the first novel in the Alterworld series, Into the Shadows, came out.
Alma was angry when she read a so-called news report that the Alterworld books had been written by someone else, under RR Hawkins’s name.
“That’s stupid,” Alma muttered, making notes. “You can tell she wrote all the Alterworld books.”
By the time she reached the last facts, Alma had two pages of neatly written information in point form. I didn’t find out much, she mused, but I can complete my report. Maybe I’ll ask Miss McGregor if she knows where I can get more information. At the end of it all, Alma’s favourite author was as much a mystery as ever. The final article in the file confirmed Alma’s worst fear.
INTERNATIONALLY RENOWNED AUTHOR PUTS DOWN PEN
A spokesman for Seabord Press, publisher of all seven internationally renowned novels by fantasy fiction phenomenon RR Hawkins, announced today the reclusive writer has vowed never to write another book.
Hawkins, who wrote her seven smash hits over a period of some fifteen years, has remained in seclusion for virtually all of her career.
“Her readers don’t know where she lives or what she looks like. Nothing about her personal life is known to the public. That’s the way she has wanted it and we have honoured her wishes,” said Seabord’s Editor in Chief, Stephen Knowles. “Now, she has told us her writing career is at an end. With regret, we must accept her decision.”
The object of much speculation and rumour over the years, Hawkins has, according to many in the publishing world, taken her wish for privacy to the point of eccentricity.
Asked what RR Hawkins’s plans for the future might be, Knowles said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
CHAPTER
Eight
On Tuesday, Alma made her way to the Chenoweth house after school. She was let in by Miss Olivia and went directly to her place at the desk. As darkness crept up the face of the buildings opposite the big window—daylight faded early at that time of year—Alma copied the three letters in the folder.
“Dear Mr. Vranckx, I am so glad you enjoyed the book,” the first letter began, “and that you took the time to write.” More pleasantries followed, then “Sincerely.” Alma took an envelope and wrote Mr. Vranckx’s name and address on the front, surprised to see the destination was Belgium.
The next letter was to a Mr. Wharton. “Dear Sir,” Alma copied carefully, “I am most grateful for your invitation to address your conference. Unfortunately, I must decline, as I am not available on the dates indicated.” This letter ended, “Regretfully,” and the address was Montreal.
There was one more letter. “Dear Margaret Stanhope, I am in receipt of your second letter requesting an interview and must once again disappoint you.” More expressions of regret followed, and, Alma thought, a slight impatience between the lines, as if Miss Lily was put out with Margaret Stanhope.
Alma had developed the ability to copy and at the same time allow her mind to wander, and when her thoughts strayed, they usually went toward one of her own stories. Today, she recalled Superdumb, a hero she had written about two years before. He was blond and handsome. He wore a light blue outfit with a crimson cape that swirled like the wind when he moved. Superdumb was tall and strong and he could fly. He had a kind heart and hated to see people, especially children, sad or suffering. But he wasn’t very smart. He got confused easily. So when he was little the local bully nicknamed him Superdumb.
Superdumb soared around the town and helped people. He pushed cars out of snowdrifts, brought frightened cats down from trees, found lost dogs and budgies. He broke up fights in the schoolyard and turned thieves in to the police. Alma liked him. He was dumb, but had a heart of gold.
“Superdumb went flying down the park” was the first line she wrote at her desk in the third row. Her teacher that year, Mr. Drake, stopped beside her.
“You can’t say ‘flying down the park,’ Alma,” he told her. “You can say ‘flying through’ or ‘flying over the park.’”
“But we say ‘driving down the road,’” Alma replied. “And ‘running down to the harbour.’”
A frown creased Mr. Drake’s long face just above his eyes. “And you mustn’t call someone Dumb. It’s rude.”
“But Superdumb doesn’t mind,” Alma said. “He—”
“It won’t do, Alma,” her teacher said sternly. “Begin again.”
So Alma scratched out the first line and wrote, “Once there was a squirrel named Bob.” Mr. Drake nodded wisely and moved on. When she got home that day, Alma completed her Superdumb story and put it in a cardboard box where she kept all the tales she had written.
“Alma, could you do me a favour?”
Miss Olivia’s words snatched Alma back to the present. She turned to see the plump woman pulling on her coat, her glass beads—yellow today—rattling. “I’ve got to dash out for a few minutes for Miss Lily’s medicine. If you hear her bell, just go on in to her room. All right?”
“Er, yes,” Alma replied. I’d rather not, she didn’t say.
The door closed, and Alma saw Miss Olivia hurry down the walk and turn up the street. Alma had one more letter to copy. When she was halfway through, she heard the tinkle of a bell. She got up, passed the kitchen and knocked on Miss Lily’s door.
“Come in, Alma,” she heard.
Miss Lily’s room had changed. On the shelves sat row upon row of books, most of them bound in cloth or leather. A typewriter, ungainly and black, sat on one of the desks beside a stack of paper, and a telephone, also black, had been installed.
Miss Lily was replacing the bell on the table beside her when Alma entered. She wore the same shawl over a navy blue dress that gave no colour to her pale features. Old-fashioned leather shoes, the kind that laced up, peeped out from under the hem. A cigarette burned in the ivory holder between her fingers.
“How are you, dear?”
“I’m fine, Miss Lily,” Alma replied, still not comfortable with the idea of addressing this fearsome-looking elderly woman, with her thick eyebrows and axe-blade nose, as Miss. “How are you?”
“I’m old and arthritic and therefore grumpy, I suppose,” she said, with a hint of a smile at the turned-down corners of her mouth. “I’ve dropped my cigarette lighter. It’s there, under Olivia’s desk.”
Alma got down on her hands and knees and peered into the dark knee-well of the desk. She reached in and retrieved the lighter, an ornate, heavy rendition of an urn.
“Put it on the table, beside my cigarettes,” Miss Lily directed. “And sit down.”
Alma did as she was told.
“Now, I want you to tell me about yourself, your family, everything,” Miss Lily said. “Begin.”
Alma faltered at first, unsure where to start. She told Miss Lily where she lived and went to school, described her mother’s two jobs, at the library and the pub, and confided that Clara was hoping for a promotion to waitress.
“A promotion to waitress,” Miss Lily said in her deep voice as her eyebrows rose. “Go on. You haven’t mentioned your father. Is he dead?”
Alma hated that word; she never said it or thought it. She merely nodded.
“Do you have many friends?”
“Not very many,” Alma replied, thinking “almost none” would be more accurate. “Mom doesn’t like me to bring girls to our house—apartment. She says she’s too busy.” But I know the real reason, Alma didn’t say. She’s ashamed. She doesn’t want people to see where we live, or they’d gossip. Living in an apartment under a pub, how awful, they’d say.
“Well, what do you do with your time?” Miss Lily asked impatiently, as if Alma wasn’t living up to her expectations. “Do you listen to the radio?”
“No, we don’t have one. I like to read. And write stories. I want to be an author when I grow up.”
“Do you, indeed? And who is your favourite?”
“That’s easy,” Alma replied. “RR Hawkins.”
“Indeed,” Miss Lily repeated.
Alma sat silently, unsure of what to say next.
“At any rate,” Miss Lily finally said, “your handwriting is satisfactory, and your work, too.”
“Thank you,” Alma said.
“You are interested in calligraphy, are you not?” Miss Lily said, making the question sound like an accusation. She screwed the end of a cigarette into the ivory holder and lit it with the urn-lighter, manipulating the objects awkwardly, as if her fingers wouldn’t bend properly.
“Yes.”
“Are you aware, Alma,” Miss Lily said, taking a deep puff on the cigarette, “that there was a time—before the invention of the printing press and movable type—when all books were copied by hand, and calligraphy was more than an art form but also a highly desirable and necessary skill? In monasteries all over Europe, thousands of monks kept books alive by copying them and storing them in libraries. Some of the manuscripts were illustrated with coloured inks. Quite beautiful. You’ve never heard of the Book of Kells, I don’t suppose? It was written around the year 800, in insular majuscule.”
