Exchange

by Paul Magrs

  Once, when leaving his parents’ home, Simon had thought himself content to get rid of his novels. To dump them, as just another redundant part of his lost, previous life.

  Not now though. What Winnie had said to him back then was right. The novels he had read anchored him here, inside his life. They reminded him of who he was supposed to be. And of who he wanted to become.

  He looked at Winnie as their bus finally made its way into Kelly’s town. (It was funny, that was how he thought of the place now — like that was its name. Like Kelly was the most important thing there.) With a shock he realised that Winnie was close to tears.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘I’m a silly old woman. Your grandad’s right. What’s the point in getting upset over a bunch of old novels?’

  The Book Exchange smelled wonderful and welcoming. They were used to its curious mixture of wood and old paper; the teasing aroma of strong coffee. Winnie and Simon hurried in out of the wet and gulped down this air as if it was medicine.

  How many times had they visited here? Not many. Only a month or so ago they hadn’t even known the place existed. Now it seemed as if every detail of these rooms was something Simon could see when he closed his eyes at night. He even imagined living in the flat above the Exchange, like the man with two plastic arms did. To Simon, that seemed like the best place in the world to live, with all these rooms beneath him. A labyrinth between himself and the world outdoors. Kelly guarding him, painting her fingernails black as she sat on her high stool. What did that make Kelly? he wondered. The Minotaur? He wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, as he and his gran brought their books to the desk.

  ‘Ah, my friends,’ sighed Terrance, holding out both arms in greeting. ‘Right on time, as usual. It’s getting to be the highlight of my week, seeing you.’

  Simon knew that by ‘you’ he meant Winnie. She moved towards him and it was clear, suddenly, that he was holding out both plastic arms for her to take hold of. Or maybe he was attempting to embrace her. It was hard to be sure. Winnie went up to him and, after a clumsy moment of hesitation, took hold of his fake hands and pressed his fingers, in greeting, as if he could really feel it. The Exchange owner flushed with gratification.

  Simon and Kelly were watching with great interest.

  Then, suddenly, Winnie burst into loud and messy tears. She startled even herself with the intensity of her sobbing. This made her even worse and soon she was wailing and her face went scarlet with frustration and fright.

  Terrance darted an anguished look at his assistant. He tried to get Winnie to put her head on his shoulder, but she was taller than him, so it was awkward to manage. Then he tried to hug her, to pull her close and to pat and rub her back, but his fake hands weren’t dextrous enough. He looked angry at his own uselessness and, all the while, Winnie continued to give vent to her sadness and her grief.

  Simon had never seen anything like it. His gran never let go of her feelings. Not even at the funeral had she behaved like this. A dignified little sniffle. A stifled sob now and then. Sometimes a bit of a stomp about and a hissed, angry word.

  But this display was melodrama; it was opera. It was unheard of in public.

  After a while she subsided and Terrance lowered his useless, unfeeling arms. He turned away and hooked up his jacket from the back of his wooden chair and slipped it expertly on. ‘I’m taking you out for a coffee,’ he told Winnie, in a bright, extra-hearty fashion.

  ‘What?’ She pressed a wad of damp tissues to her eyes. Her face felt swollen and horrible.

  ‘I’m going to treat you,’ he said. ‘We’ll have cakes and buns and whatever else you want. It’s about time you and I had a little sit-down together. Come on!’ He was full of bravado. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Winnie — Simon could tell — was flattered, embarrassed, horrified and pleased, all at the same time. ‘I’ve made a show of myself in front of you…’ she said.

  ‘So?’ Terrance smiled. ‘Mop yourself up. It doesn’t matter. Come along with me. Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.’ He proffered his arm again, so she could link with him.

  Winnie threaded her arm through his very carefully, as if she was scared she might break him. Then they were heading for the main door, without a backward glance. Terrance called something back to Kelly about holding the fort, and Kelly replied helpfully, but Simon wasn’t taking much of it in. He was still gobsmacked by his gran’s upsetting collapse. He hadn’t realised she was as close to the edge as that. And Terrance was waiting for her, at the moment she toppled over into despair. He had been so gallant.

  ‘They are going to fall in love,’ Kelly said, jolting Simon back to the present, timeless moment of the Exchange.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I knew it was going to happen,* she said.

  Simon didn’t say anything.

  ‘I always know when stuff like that is going to happen,’ she said, eyeing Simon.

  Now they were alone together, for the first time since saying goodbye on the X50 Express. It felt weird to be alone with her in the Book Exchange. Weird but right. Like this place could be their own world. They could be self-sufficient here and never want for anything or anyone else. Simon allowed himself a few moments’ fantasising in this vein. He wondered if all the books packed into these rooms could last him out the rest of his life. It wasn’t a very practical fantasy, was it? he realised. Unless they could survive on coffee and custard creams they would be dead of starvation pretty soon. It was a stupid fantasy. Kelly was giving him a look like she knew what kind of stupid stuff was going through his mind.

  ‘What’s wrong with Winnie?’ she asked. ‘She must be really upset, if that’s how she reacts to a bit of kindness.’ Simon knew she was right. It was Terrance holding out his arms like that. Attempting to reach for her with those plainly artificial hands. There was so much tenderness in that gesture. Somehow it had pitched Winnie over into that crying fit.

  Quickly Simon explained about Grandad Ray that morning: the savagery of his behaviour; his destructiveness and threats; the way that kind of thing was becoming more frequent. The pall of anger and black depression that had started to hang over their bungalow just recently. As he said all of this, Simon realised that it was true. It had been pretty tense at home of late. They had all been living under a weird kind of pressure. Kelly was nodding sagely.

  ‘Maybe it would be best if Winnie really did run off and leave him. It doesn’t sound like they can go on much longer like they are.’

  ‘But they’ve been together… for ever,’ Simon said. ‘They can’t just split up now.’

  ‘Why not?’ Kelly smiled. ‘Just because you can’t imagine it? Because they’re your gran and grandad and you can’t picture them apart?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Simon snapped. What he didn’t say, though, was that he was starting to believe it was all his fault. His coming to live with them was what was causing all this tension. It was breaking them apart.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Kelly, ‘the worst thing you can imagine has to happen, in order for things to get better.’

  Simon tutted. ‘You sound like daytime TV.’

  She swore at him. ‘I think it’s a good thing, if Winnie and Terrance fell in love. If she ran off with him. He wouldn’t mind how many books she read. He’d make her happy. She’d be good for him. He’s got no one now. No family left. She’d make all the difference.’

  Simon was uncomfortable talking like this. Kelly was making Winnie sound like some kind of loose woman who went running off with the first bookshop owner she liked the look of. Was Winnie really that keen on escaping the life that she had? He wondered. She had spent all her time making her life into what it was. Would she willingly change all of it around?

  Simon hated change. He knew that much about himself. Change was something that simply happened to you. You yourself didn’t make change happen. Instead you were at its mercy. This past year had taught him that. Change could pick
you up; it could pick up everyone and everything in your life and it could wantonly destroy and randomise every factor. It could dump your whole life down again, altered out of all recognition. Simon didn’t want anything to change, ever again. Not without loads and loads of warning.

  Suddenly he remembered what he had wanted to ask Kelly. ‘What did you mean, when you phoned me? About doing something to cheer up my gran?’ He was changing the subject, he knew. Kelly looked at him like he was being deliberately evasive. But now was the right time to cheer up Winnie. To do something that didn’t involve her running off with a man with no arms.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kelly, opening a drawer in her desk and rooting around. ‘I picked up a flyer in town. There’s an event I think you’ll want to go to. Quite soon. You’ll want to take your gran.’

  ‘An event?’

  ‘A books event,’ she said. ‘What they’re calling “a Literary Lunch” … Ah. Got it.’

  She passed him a slip of pink paper. On it there was a rather dark and smudgy reproduction of a photo of an elderly lady. She was scowling and, even though the photo was of terrible quality, there was a great intensity to her gaze. A certain twinkling wit shone through. What really attracted Simon’s attention was the blocky print announcing a Literary’ Lunch at the King’s Arms Hotel, and the identity of the ‘Grand Guest of Honour — International Bestseller and Beloved Local Novelist — Ada Jones’.

  It took a few moments to sink in. 4Shc’s coming here,’ he said. ‘The King’s Arms… that’s here. That’s in this town. Just off High Row.’ He glanced at the date on the flyer. ‘It’s a week next Friday.’ He looked up at Kelly, who was grinning.

  ‘We have got to go, haven’t we?’ she said. ‘We just have to spring it on your gran, don’t we? It’ll be amazing. She’ll die of shock.’

  Simon laughed. ‘That’s not exactly the desired effect.’

  ‘You know what I mean. She’ll be over the moon. She’ll be so glad. Just imagine, Simon. Just picture it. After all these years. All this time. Reunited! Those two little girls, whose lives took them so far apart… in such different directions…’

  Simon was thinking of the two little girls in that first Ada Jones novel, that he had been reading this past week. Despite the occasional mawkishness of the writing he had utterly succumbed to the tale of their growing up and growing apart. He had recognised his gran, too: even as a little girl, even in a novel. Ada had captured her. He shivered now, at the thought of being able to add another chapter, maybe, to that story. Imagine the two of them, he thought: Winnie and Ada coming face to face after all these years.

  ‘The King’s Arms is really smart,’ Kelly said. ‘It’s a Christmas lunch they’re doing. Come on, Simon. It’ll be fab. Let’s do it. They do all this gorgeous food and loads of wine and then Ada gets up and does a talk and afterwards we’ll be able to go up to her and say: Look! Here’s the little friend you knew when you were seven years old! Here’s Winnie, who gave you your first notebook. She taught you to read and write, didn’t she?’ Kelly rolled her eyes and whistled through her teeth. ‘I mean… Ada owes your gran everything, really.’

  ‘Maybe Gran wouldn’t want to go,’ said Simon. ‘Maybe she wouldn’t want to embarrass Ada.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Of course she’ll want to. Let’s do it, Simon. Let’s buy the tickets.’

  He flicked the pink flyer at her. ‘Have you seen the cost? They’re forty quid each. Just for lunch and the chance to gawp at some old wife.’

  ‘It’ll be all posh people going, that’s why,’ Kelly said. ‘But we deserve to be there as much as they do, don’t we? More than them, actually. Oh, come on, Simon. We could run down town right now and buy the tickets…’

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Do you realise how much that is?’

  ‘Well, there’s me and you and your Gran… one hundred and twenty pounds.’

  He pulled a face. Leaving aside the fact that he hadn’t yet offered to buy a ticket for Kelly herself, it was still a lot of money to come out of his special account.

  ‘Your insurance money,’ Kelly urged him tactlessly. ‘You told me you’ve got money in the bank. You can afford it.’

  ‘It’s not a huge amount,’ he said.

  ‘Enough for this?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘But…’ He looked down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mv grandad. He checks all my statements. He checks everything to do with that money. He didn’t think I should have had access to it so soon. He thinks I’ll waste it. I’m already waiting for him to go crackers over that fifty’ quid I blew the other day, when we bunked off school. That’ll cause enough problems. I can’t take our £120, just for lunch on another day when I should be at school.’

  Kelly looked surprised. ‘He checks your account?’ she said. ‘Wow. That’s rough.’

  ‘I suppose he doesn’t trust me with it,’ Simon said. ‘He’s the same with Gran. She has to give him receipts for everything.*

  ‘Well,’ said Kelly. ‘We’ll have to think of something else. Some way of getting the money out of your account without him knowing…’

  She walked away from Simon, playing with her hair thoughtfully. Simon watched her go, sucking in a lungful of patchouli-scented air as she passed. The sharpness of the air stung his sore lip. He sighed. He wasn’t even sure this literary lunch event was a good idea at all. It was the kind of thing he could very well imagine ending up in disaster. Kelly was taking it as read, though, that he was in agreement with her: that they would be willing to move heaven and earth in order to bring Winnie back into Ada’s glamorous orbit.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Simon suddenly asked Kelly, realising that she’d wandered off into the next book-lined room. He went after her.

  ‘Come and see,’ she said, laughing. She was leading him into the labyrinth. Ariadne — that’s who she was.

  ‘Where?’ he asked, and then realised.

  ‘Behind the beaded curtain,’ she said. Then there came a percussive clatter and tinkle of coloured beads. ‘This is our chance, while the others are away,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come into the room that you didn’t even know existed…?’

  Twelve

  Simon was starting to feel peculiar. The air here seemed heavier, thicker with dust. It was darker, too. Just two amber bulbs sent out a very murky light into the cupboard-like space of the secret room. Kelly stood wordlessly beside him, watching him absorb the details of the place.

  The walls were decorated with old magazines preserved in plastic bags. The women on the covers were familiar to him. They had the same jaunty, ooh-la-la expressions; the same dayglo tans and the same ruffly bikinis. These were the same compliant faces that had stared out of his grandad’s collection of mags.

  What was it about these men and their secrets? These hidden stashes, treasures in the attic, these unnoticed rooms. It was as if this clandestine stuff was a part of growing up and becoming a man. Simon was starting to wonder: would becoming a man mean he would have to be the same as that?

  Would he have to learn to keep secrets of his own? To be shifty like that?

  Just being in this stale-smelling room, Simon felt like he was examining Terrance’s private belongings, rather than just another part of his shop.

  He stared at the pert and nubile models. These dolly birds from the past. He looked up at this array of bums and breasts with polite interest and he could hear Kelly smirk at him. He was looking at these women like he would at the bouncing cherubs of the Sistine Chapel. But that’s how he felt. Pretty much unmoved by the whole thing.

  ‘How am I supposed to feel?’ he asked, and realised that he was speaking aloud. ‘Sexy?’

  ‘I think these pictures are quite sexy,’ said Kelly, flipping through the racks of magazines. ‘I can see what some of these old men like about them.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you what makes me feel weird, though. And that’s how old these pictures are. These young women could now very well be wrinkly, saggy old women. They could
be the age of your gran…’

  ‘Stop it,’ Simon laughed, but feeling at the same time, vaguely offended on his gran’s behalf.

  ‘What if she was in here somewhere?’ Kelly went on. ‘What if she had an earlier career as a glamour model, eh?’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing that would happen in a novel,’ said Simon. ‘We’d look at one of these mags, and there she’d be…’

  ‘In an Ada Jones novel,* said Kelly. ‘That’s what would happen. Some sensational secret from the past, breaking out into the present.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what happens in real life, is it? Not our lives, anyway.’ Simon glanced around again. ‘Can we go back to the shop, now? I’m feeling a bit oppressed by all this heaving female flesh everywhere.’

  ‘Some men would relish that.’

  ‘I feel like I’m running out of oxygen.’

  She snorted. He looked round at her and, in the smoky orange lighting, her make-up looked more bizarre than ever. Not unattractive, but sort of hellish and extreme. Her eyes were almost completely black. Her jagged fringe cast long, spiky shadows down her weirdly pale skin. The hollow of her throat looked very sort and white.

  ‘Do you want to kiss me again?’ she said. ‘You messed it up when you tried last time.’

  ‘When I tried?’ he burst out. ‘You were the one lunging at me!’

  ‘That’s not how I remember it.’

  He was stung by the injustice of this. ‘That’s not true. That’s not what happened.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No! I would never have—’

  ‘Oh, great,’ she said. ‘Cheers. You’d never have tried to kiss me. How come? Am I that revolting?’

  ‘No!’ He was flustered. ‘I just mean I wouldn’t have jumped on you, on the bus, like that.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh well. Your loss. It was a lousy kiss anyway.’

  He nodded. He felt a rush of sadness. Suddenly there was even less space between them in this murky room. He grew anxious and conscious of all the nipples and buttocks and pouting lips.