Alma

by William Bell

  “No, Miss Lily.” Or monasteries, or insular whatever, or something-or-other type, Alma didn’t say. She had heard of monks, but didn’t know what monks did or where they lived.

  “Go to the bookshelf. Second row from the top, right side.”

  Alma followed her directions.

  “The thin, tall book. Bring it down.”

  Standing on her tiptoes, Alma slid a leather-bound book from the shelf and handed it to Miss Lily.

  “No, Alma. It’s for you. To borrow. Take a look inside.”

  Alma opened the cover and flipped a few gilt-edged pages. The paper was glossy. The book showed different kinds of writing—Italic, Carolingian, uncial, Roman.

  “When you leave today, tell Olivia to give you a spare pen and a few nibs. Do you have ink at home?”

  “No.”

  Miss Lily looked at her as if she had just said, We have no food. “Take a bottle with you.”

  “Yes, Miss Lily.”

  “Good. Now you may go back to your work.”

  Alma took the book to the sitting room. By the time Miss Olivia returned, she had finished her letter copying and was looking through the calligraphy book. Alma told her about the pen, nibs and ink. Miss Olivia’s eyebrows rose, but she gave the items to Alma, who carried them home in her school bag like prizes won at a county fair.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  At the kitchen table, with a checkerboard wedged upside down between her lap and the table, and the calligraphy book propped open before her, Alma practised her “hand.” She had examined the calligraphic styles described in Miss Lily’s book and decided she liked Carolingian and half-uncials the best. Gothic was too dark and stiff and aggressive, Italic was too showy, Roman too blockish. The problem was, her pen nib was pointed and the book said you should have a squared nib so you could make thick lines with downstrokes and thin lines with upstrokes.

  She wrote slowly and precisely, learning the strokes required to form each letter. It was much more fun than penmanship at school on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  A thump on the inside door told her that her mother was home for supper.

  “Mom, can I get a calligraphy pen?” Alma asked.

  “For the love of heaven, Alma, let me get my foot in the door before you start in,” Clara said. “Why isn’t the table set?”

  Alma screwed the cap on the ink bottle, cleaned her pen with a tissue, closed the book and carried everything away into her room. Once back in the kitchen, she took down two plates from the cupboard and began to set the table around the grease-stained package in the middle.

  “Fish and chips?” Alma said unnecessarily, since the odour of battered fish and oily french fries had already filled the tiny kitchen.

  “I was able to get my hands on some halibut this time,” Clara said from the sink where she was washing her hands. Seated, with their lukewarm food before them, Clara asked, “Now, what’s all this about a pen?”

  As she halved each french fry, Alma explained the book Miss Lily had lent her and the pen and ink. “I think she used to be a librarian,” she added, “like Miss McGregor. She loves books, and she knows a lot about them.”

  “You’re quite the pals now, are you?” Clara said.

  “I don’t think so, Mom. She still scares me. She practically made me borrow this book. But I’m glad she did.”

  “And why weren’t you writing your report when I came home?”

  “I’m going to finish it tonight. It’s almost done. I still have to colour the cover page. And you’re changing the subject.”

  “The subject?” Clara asked innocently, popping a wilted french fry into her mouth.

  “The pen, Mom.”

  “Oh, the pen. A calligraphy pen, no less.”

  “With a square nib.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You always say that.”

  “True. But we’ll see.”

  With the kitchen seen to and her mother back to work, Alma completed her report on RR Hawkins, squeezing crayon bits between thumb and forefinger as she coloured the map of Otherworld she had drawn on her cover page.

  I wonder why RR Hawkins quit writing, Alma thought. Maybe she died. No, that can’t be. The newspaper story said she just stopped. Alma looked at her report. She had two pages filled with writing, but still there were more questions than answers. What, after all, did she know about Hawkins? Everything was there; Hawkins was born, went to London, England, at twelve years of age, got her university degree, left home—and disappeared.

  So, Alma decided as she gathered up her crayon bits, something happened when RR Hawkins was in her early twenties, something that made her flee human contact. Maybe she came down with a horrible, disfiguring skin disease that ravaged her face and drove her into hiding. Maybe she had become engaged to a handsome young man whom she loved more than life itself, but he was killed in a war (dying a heroic death) and she vowed to remain single and reclusive forever. Maybe she decided to travel the world and was captured by a band of vagabonds who—No, Alma checked herself, that’s silly. Still, you never knew.

  Whatever it was hadn’t deterred RR Hawkins from writing stories. She continued to publish. Something made her stop eventually, though, Alma thought as she left her report on the kitchen table beside Clara’s teacup. Maybe Miss McGregor will have some ideas.

  When Alma got up the next morning, Clara was already in the kitchen, humming and flipping pancakes in the iron skillet, her thick braid swinging back and forth across her back as she worked. Alma washed and dressed and combed her hair, then sat down at the table. The stack of pancakes had been topped with a big square of yellow butter. Alma poured maple syrup on the pancakes, licking her lips in anticipation. When her mother had sat down, Alma dug in.

  “Bet I know the answer,” Clara said, squinting and arching her brows mysteriously.

  Alma couldn’t speak for a moment. Her mouth was full. “Answer?”

  “I read your report. Your author left home alone, right? And that would have been almost, what, fifty years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, here’s my guess. She took up with a young man her family didn’t approve of—they were very rich and likely snobbish along with it. They forced her to break it off with him, or bribed him to go away. She was bitter and left her family. Bitter at him, too, I wouldn’t be surprised. What do you think?” Clara smiled mischievously.

  Alma chewed slowly on the last bite of sweet, buttery pancake. “I wonder if I should write that in the report,” she teased.

  “No, I wouldn’t. For one thing, you don’t know it to be true. It’s just a story spun by your mother. Second, you wouldn’t want to ruffle Miss McAllister’s feathers with talk of illicit goings on with men below one’s station.”

  “I wonder if Miss McAllister has a boyfriend,” Alma mused. Then a thought struck her. “Do you think I’ll ever have one?”

  “What, a beautiful, intelligent child like yourself? It’s only a matter of time.”

  Alma noticed that the playful look had left her mother’s face. Bet I know what you’re thinking, she didn’t say. Bet you’re lonely sometimes.

  Although she had finished her report and handed it in to Miss McAllister, who praised the colourful title page with its Carolingian lettering, Alma went to the library for one more try.

  Whenever she saw Miss McGregor, Alma thought briefly—and, she hoped, not unkindly— of the blue herons that waded in the shallows of the Springbank River. The librarian had a long neck and legs like stilts. Her feet stuck out to the sides, her hands were big and bony. Behind her wire-rim spectacles, Miss McGregor’s complexion was florid, her broad, high forehead shiny, her black hair pulled back severely in a tight bun.

  A person has to be careful when talking to Miss McGregor, Alma reminded herself as she approached the counter behind which the head librarian sat over her desk. If you asked Miss McGregor, “Do you have any books on such-and-such?” she would tow you through the stacks like a barge, lo
ading your arms with books and chattering away about each volume as she plopped it on the pile. It helped if you could make your question as exact as possible.

  “Hello, Alma,” Miss McGregor said from her chair.

  They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then Alma got to the point. “I’m trying to find out as much as I can about RR Hawkins,” she began, “and—”

  “Wonderful writer!” Miss McGregor exclaimed as she jumped to her feet like a meadowlark taking flight. “Wonderful. Come on, I’ll—”

  “No, wait!” Alma exclaimed, bringing the librarian to a halt. “Um, I’ve looked at everything here, and—”

  “The encyclopedias?” Miss McGregor queried, somewhat crestfallen. “The Who’s Who?”

  “Yes,” Alma replied.

  Miss McGregor raised her finger as if to make a point. “Ah, but we’ve a vertical file on RR Hawkins. Let me—”

  “Read it,” Alma cut in, feeling almost guilty.

  “Hmm,” Miss McGregor said to herself, returning to her chair and folding her legs under her desk.

  “I was just wondering if you know of anywhere else I could look,” Alma said.

  Miss McGregor pointed to a chair beside her desk. “Sit down, dear.”

  Alma slid into the wooden chair.

  “There’s one more thing we can try,” Miss McGregor said. “I don’t think there are any biographies of RR Hawkins, but I’ll make enquiries, just to be sure. And we’ll try an inter-library loan. One of the larger libraries may have something. We try our best here, but we’re a small operation compared to some.”

  “Thank you, Miss McGregor.”

  “She’d be proud, you know,” the head librarian said, nodding her head. “RR Hawkins would. If she knew that you loved her books so much.”

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  The first storm of the season roared out of the northeast, driving snow before it like a flock of manic sheep. Alma walked to school with icy flakes pelting her face and at the end of the day slogged through more than a foot of snow, the bitter wind at her back, coating her with white as she pushed down Little Wharf Road to the Chenoweth house.

  After her duties in the cosy sitting room had been performed, Alma headed home in the dark. The alley behind the Liffey was rutted and churned by delivery trucks, and the door to the apartment wouldn’t open until she cleared away the snow with a broom her mother had left leaning against the building.

  There was a note on the table. “Come meet me at the library,” it said. Alma sighed, put her coat and hat, mitts and boots back on, locked up and headed for the library. She arrived just as her mother came out the big oak doors, wrapping her scarf around her neck.

  “Come on,” she said. “We’re eating at a restaurant tonight!”

  A restaurant! Alma couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in one. A waste of money, Clara always said. What had changed her mind?

  “What’s your fancy, young Miss?” Clara asked.

  “Anything but fish and potatoes.”

  Clara laughed. “Fair enough.”

  A short while later they were seated in a booth at the Fireside Café, a silly name, Alma thought, since the restaurant had no fireplace. The window looking onto the street was coated in steam, the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth fresh and crisp. The restaurant was, despite the weather, crowded, and the odour of damp clothes competed with the fragrance of grilled steak and onions, the Fireside’s famous vegetable soup, and coffee.

  Alma had a tall cola with ice and a long straw in front of her. Clara sipped a cup of steaming coffee.

  They had ordered spaghetti with meatballs, and Alma knew something very important was happening when Clara asked the waitress to put aside two pieces of apple pie for their dessert. Alma looked around as they waited for their food.

  “Well,” Clara began, pulling Alma’s attention back to the table, “you’re probably wondering what’s going on.”

  Alma nodded, slurping the last bit of cola up the straw.

  “You’re now looking at Liffey’s new waitress!” her mother said, smiling. “That means a small raise, more hours, and tips!”

  “That’s great, Mom,” Alma said.

  “And it means I could buy you this,” Clara added, placing a small box before Alma. “It’s a bit early for Christmas, so let’s call it an un-birthday present.”

  “What is it?” Alma asked, though she could guess from the shape of the box.

  “Open it and see.”

  Alma removed the coloured paper carefully so it could be taken home and reused. Inside was a white box with red trim. Alma opened it.

  The pen was black, with a brass clip on the cap and a brass circle near the base of the barrel. Alma pulled off the cap. The nib had a square tip. “Waterman” was etched into the gold-coloured nib in graceful flowing letters.

  “A calligraphy pen! It’s beautiful,” Alma said, looking up. “Can I keep it?”

  “Of course, ninny.”

  “Honest and true?”

  “Honest and true.” Clara smiled. “You can use it to write your stories.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” The cap went click when Alma replaced it. “I’m going to write a story in Carolingian hand first. It’s more than a thousand years old. Then I’ll write one in half-uncials. That’s the hand used in Ireland from 600 to 800. It’s not as old, but it’s prettier.”

  The waitress arrived and placed plates of steaming spaghetti on the table.

  “Cheers,” Clara said.

  “Cheers,” said Alma, clinking her water glass against her mother’s.

  When Alma came home from school Friday she found a bulging file on the kitchen table, an accordion-sided container with a string on the flap wound around a stiff paper button. “RR Hawkins” had been written on the edge of the file with a fountain pen above a label that said “Inter-library Loan.” A note from Clara said Miss McGregor had sent it home with her. Alma could keep the file for a day or two, but it must be returned Monday at the latest.

  Alma shucked off her coat and hung it up. She took the file to her room, sat on the couch and unwound the string. She lifted the papers out and put the folder aside. Alma slid to the floor and, using the couch as a desktop, began to go through the material, all the while hoping against hope that there would be more books by RR Hawkins. There were newspaper stories, magazine articles, book reviews, just as the other file had contained, but more—not much more, but some. Alma got out her new calligraphy pen and began to make notes.

  After RR Hawkins disappeared, she moved to New York and attempted to remain unnoticed, but interest in her as a writer was high and she was found out. She had a baby, a girl, letting it be known that her husband was still in England. “Maybe Mom was right!” Alma noted in brackets. The press eventually dug up the fact that there was no husband. There was a scandal that drove RR Hawkins into hiding again.

  She was discovered, a few years later, by a fan, in a Boston department store. The press pounced on her again. But this time she apparently decided not to run. She had bought a large house in one of the better neighbourhoods and refused all requests for interviews and public appearances. It was almost, Alma thought as she read, as if the more people wanted RR Hawkins to be public, the deeper they drove her into seclusion.

  RR Hawkins continued to publish. Her daughter grew up, went to college, married a composer and moved away; Alma couldn’t find out where. The husband died young. Overcome by grief, RR Hawkins’s daughter returned home to her mother. She never remarried. She seemed to desire seclusion as much as her mother.

  There was one last item in the file. On a scrap of yellowed newsprint was a photo of two women emerging from the door of an imposing, two-storey house. One was considerably taller than the other. Their faces were shadowed by the overhanging verandah. The caption under the photo said, “Seen at their house on Kavanagh Street in Boston are the author RR Hawkins and her daughter, Olivia.”

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

&nb
sp; Could it be? Alma wondered. She did a quick calculation in her head. Yes, Miss Lily was about the right age. Had she and Miss Olivia moved to Charlotte’s Bight from Boston? Were they on the run, attempting to find an out-of-the-way place to live a private life? No. Impossible. The question and answer buzzed round in her head like pesky mosquitoes. Unable to put the issue out of her mind, she grabbed a sheet of paper and drew a line down the centre. At the top of the column on the left she wrote “Could be” and, so excited that she didn’t bother to form her letters properly, she put “Not possible” above the right-hand column, adding an exclamation mark for good measure.

  What were the clues? she asked herself.

  1. “Miss Lily is tall, like the woman in the photo,” Alma noted in the left column. On the right side she wrote, “Lots of women are tall!”

  2. “Miss Lily likes books.” “Lots of people like books, including me, and Mom, even Miss McAllister. And Miss McGregor.”

  3. “The letters I copy for Miss Lily sometimes refuse interviews and invitations to talk to audiences, the kind of requests made of famous people.” Alma could think of nothing to put down in the right-hand column.

  4. “Miss Lily’s letters have no return address, as if she doesn’t want people to know where the letters come from.” “That’s silly,” Alma scribbled on the right side of the line. How could she get the letters she was answering if the sender didn’t know where she lived? Unless the letters came to her indirectly. Through her publisher, maybe. Alma penned a question mark between the columns.

  5. “It’s Miss Lily, not Mrs. Somebody.” As if the old woman in the dark study who reminded Alma of Miss Havisham had never married.

  6. “Miss Lily has a daughter named Olivia Chenoweth.” Alma had always thought Chenoweth was the surname of both women. But if Olivia had married and her husband had died, she’d have a different surname, her husband’s.