by Paul Magrs
‘Rubbish.’ Ray sounded like he was having an asthma attack. ‘You’re talking rubbish!’
‘I’m missing my arms,’ shrugged Terrance. ‘But that’s just flesh and blood. That isn’t all I am.’
‘What?’ Ray was losing the sense of what was being said to him. Staring at Terrance, he could see dancing motes of light in the air. ‘What are you on about?’
‘I mean that you aren’t even real to Winnie any more. She cooks your food. She sits with you each and every evening. She lies beside you in your bed. But now that she doesn’t love you any more, you’re less real to her than the characters she reads about. And you’re certainly less real to her than me.’
Terrance stopped. He looked at Ray’s anguished face, thinking: how can I say such cruel things to him? He’s just an old man. An old man who’s now got nobody left. How could I be so cruel as to tell him the truth?
‘How do you know anything?’ Ray shouted. ‘Has she said this? Has she told you all this in her own words?’
I could give him a heart attack. It could kill him. He could drop down dead, here in the shop. If I pushed him a bit further. Made him lose his temper a bit more.
‘She doesn’t have to tell me. I just know. I know what she’s thinking, and what she feels.’
Terrance stopped. He waited for Ray to calm down. The old man couldn’t get his words out. Terrance had gone too far now. This had to stop.
Ray started to breathe more evenly. The ripples across his vision slowed down.
At last Terrance said, ‘The blizzard is worse out there. You’ll not get home this evening. You’ll have to stay here tonight.’
‘I’ll not stay here,’ said Ray, but by now his protest was feeble.
‘There’s a chaise longue in one of the back rooms and a rug. It’ll be comfortable enough till morning.’
‘What? Stay here, with all your dirty old books? In the place owned by the fella who wants to run off with my wife?’ Ray laughed.
Terrance pulled away. ‘You can do what you want. But that cold out there is perishing. There won’t be any more buses tonight. If you go out there, you won’t be safe. Is that how you want your story to end? Is that how you want to finish up, Ray?’
Terrance turned and led the way deeper into the labyrinth of book-lined rooms. He was going to make up a bed for Ray, whether the old man wanted it or not.
Ray was surly as he followed. ‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘But I’m not happy. Sleeping among all your nasty, dusty old books.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Terrance, in an amused tone, ‘that we can find something suitable for you to read. Something to send you off happily to your dreams. As the storm and the night play themselves out…’
Still grumbling, Ray allowed himself to be led deeper, into the heart of the Exchange.
‘We’ll let them talk,’ said Simon. He drew Kelly away from the table in the kitchen. Ada and Winnie were in the thick of their memories by now’. Stories and more stories were tumbling out; shook out like bolts of old cloth; one on top of another, and each one leading inevitably to the next. Do you remember…? And… You can’t have forgotten…?
They were reminding each other of the things they had let slip to the silty riverbeds of their minds. It was as if both of the women had only half a memory each and here, with cries and laughter and talking at full tilt, they were finding a way to restore themselves.
‘Why don’t you two go and explore?’ Eric asked Simon and Kelly tactfully. He slugged more deep red wine into their glasses. ‘You should have a good look around this place. Leave those two old birds to it.’
‘I don’t want to be nosey,’ said Simon.
‘Oh rubbish,’ laughed Kelly. ‘He’s dying to have a good explore. Thank you, Eric.’
She went off then, leading the way. Simon was amazed by how at home Kelly seemed, wherever she went: even here, in all this luxury.
It was quite late by now. The afternoon had become evening and evening had turned to night and it had been dark outside throughout. Now, with Erie filling their glasses with great regularity, Simon was feeling tipsy.
He caught up with Kelly at the bottom of a flight of cool stone steps. Watery reflections hovered and shimmered in the air, rippling over everything, making the whole cavernous space of the room look magically uncertain. A colossal swimming pool opened up in front of them, weirdly shaped and extending for miles, into the darkened recesses of the basement.
‘What a waste,’ said Kelly. ‘I don’t suppose Ada gets to use this much, does she?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Simon.
Next thing he knew, and without much forethought, the two of them were throwing off their things and jumping into the blood-warmth of the water. Unusual for him, not to have qualms or doubts, or to hang back in indecision. He had a moment of — pants on? pants off? pants definitely on — before he jumped into the pool after Kelly.
As they swam up and down and across and around the perimeter of the irregularly shaped pool, Simon was revelling in the thought of swimming here, in somebody else’s house, without permission, a bit stupidly drunk, with the lights out, with a girl, late at night, warm while the worst snowstorm in living memory battered icily at the coast. It felt wonderful.
Kelly grabbed his leg as he went splashing by. She wrestled him underwater and, exerting more strength than he would have expected, she pushed him up against the side of tile pool, against the beautifully patterned tiles, all lizards and sea horses. Her breath was hot and spiced with wine.
‘Hey, sunshine,’ she said, looming close.
‘Hey,’ he said nervously. Wow, he thought. Her make-up hasn’t run at all. None of it. Not a smudge. Then he was aware that she was pushing up rather closely. He didn’t dare look down at her black lacy bra. Suddenly he felt too embarrassed to.
‘Simon?’ she asked and, very gently, moved in to kiss him. He responded and they kissed gently and then with a little more heat.
Then they drew back, at the same moment, and looked at each other.
‘Hm,’ said Simon.
‘Again?’ she said.
They kissed again and there was an awkward, tumbling moment, to do with whose arms went where. Kelly moved back a bit. She looked at him and said, ‘It isn’t really working, is it?’
He looked down, at the crazily zigzagging reflections on the water. ‘Not really,’ he admitted.
‘It’s not doing anything for you,’ she said. ‘Or me.’
‘I want it to,’ he started to protest. He heard his voice sounding very young and hollow, bouncing across the cavernous pool.
‘Wanting it’s not good enough,’ sighed Kelly. ‘That’s all very well. But somehow… it’s just not there, between us. We’ve given it a few good tries.’ She shrugged and shook out her mane of dark hair, showering him with cold droplets. ‘Shall we call it a day, sunshine?’ she asked.
After a moment he nodded sadly. ‘But… what a brilliant day,’ he said.
Some time later, towelled off, dressed again, quietly reflective and not at all awkward with each other, Simon and Kelly returned to the kitchen.
They found Winnie and Ada still laughing and chatting. Eric was sitting close by, like a bulky family pet, watching them fondly. Winnie was wiping tears of laughter away.
‘Oh, there you are, you two. I hope you’ve not been up to any mischief..
They denied it, standing there under harsh kitchen light with damp hair.
‘Romance of the year, those two,’ Winnie told Ada tipsily.
‘Really?’ said Ada, raising an eyebrow.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Winnie. ‘They’re so well suited. They’re both such big readers.’
‘Really,’ said Kelly, ‘there’s nothing going on. We’re best friends. That’s what we are. That’s all me and Simon need to be.’
‘Oh,’ Winnie looked at them. She seemed crestfallen. ‘Is that true, Simon?’
He nodded, smiling.
‘I was hoping it was something more than
that,’ said Winnie. ‘Really, 1 was hoping lor more.’
Simon shook his head. ‘What could be more than being best friends? I can’t think of anything more, can you?’
Then, soon enough, it was time to go.
Ada had pushed herself too far. After her reading and being out in public that afternoon, she had pushed all her physical resources to the limit, sitting up, drinking and talking and going over the past with Winnie. But it had been worth it.
Simon could see that, in the faces of both these old women, as Winnie bent to give the tiny Ada a hug goodbye. It had been worth it all, to have their reunion today.
Eric was going to drive them home. He assured them that he hadn’t touched a drop all night. He was safe to take them home. Through the sheeting, frantic snow, from Ada’s front door to Winnie’s. The weather didn’t bother him. It wouldn’t bother the Silver Ghost. They would simply glide through it all, he told them gently. They would glide through the night and through the deadly ice like a hot knife through butter, and soon they’d be safe at home in their beds.
‘Come back to see me again soon,’ Ada made them promise, waving exhaustedly from the kitchen table.
‘We will,’ said Winnie, and Kelly and Simon agreed. Then they turned and followed Eric out of the mansion to the Silver Ghost.
They would soon be home.
They relaxed in the back of the car and drowsed there: each swept away in their separate thoughts; none of them knowing yet that, when they got back, they’d find the bungalow empty, the door unlocked, and Grandad Ray gone.
They would panic at first. They would think he’d turned mad and run off into the storm.
But nothing bad had happened to him. It would take till next morning for the weather and the panic to abate, and for Terrance to ring and say that Ray was safe.
It had been a gentle night, all in all, and after all.
The savage, wintry storms had risen up. They had looked prepared to devastate the land. But the dawn came clear. Next morning, everything lay calmly, surprisingly, at peace.
Eighteen
‘She told me she was going to do this, you know,’ Winnie smiled. ‘That night. Back in December. After her reading, when we first met up again. We talked all that night and she kept saying how she had hoarded and amassed all this stuff, all these treasures, all her life. Well, she told me then what she was going to do with them.’
Simon and Winnie were strolling along a broad lane of slate chippings, under the unnatural, bright green of the lime trees. For an hour or more they had been wandering around the grounds of Ada’s mansion. It was spring: shoots and buds were starting to poke up everywhere.
‘I hope that Eric keeps this place on,’ Simon said. ‘Who else would be able to afford this? And to keep it up in this condition?’
‘Oh, he’s going abroad,’ Winnie said. ‘He told me that at the wake. He leaned down and whispered it in my ear when I asked him whatever would he do with himself now. He said he couldn’t bear to live here alone. In this huge empty place. He’s going to Italy. And never coming back.’
Simon nodded, turning to look back at the house, and at all the many people milling around the tables set out on the lawns and the drive. It looked like a bit of a scrum back there. It looked like a car boot sale. ‘What did you mean, she told you she was going to do this? Give all her stuff away like this?’
Winnie nodded sadly. ‘She did. She said she’d have no more use for it. She’d lost all sense of value for the things she’d collected, anyway. So she left instructions, all written down, that Eric was to lay out all her belongings on tables outside their house, and anyone who wanted to could come by and pick up anything they liked the look of.’
Simon nodded. It felt weird and perverse to him. The sight of all those people, hunting and scavenging through Ada’s things, unsettled him.
A call had gone out in the local press, and on the TV and radio. All of Ada’s many fans were welcome to visit her home today. It was the first time this secretive place had been opened to the public. And they would be allowed to take away a souvenir or two, of the writer whose books they had loved.
‘Do you reckon they’re all Ada fans?’ Simon asked his gran.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You know what people are like. They love free stuff. But I’d like to think so. She had a lot of readers, you know.’ She sighed. ‘No more stories. That’s an awful thought, isn’t it? No more stories from her.’ Simon looked away, out to sea, at the clear skies and gentle waters of the bay, where they had scattered Ada’s ashes in February. It had been a subdued, peaceful funeral, after the swiftness and the ferocity of her death. ‘It’s not fair,’ he said. ‘The two of you had less than two months to get to know each other again.’
Winnie smiled. ‘There’s no point thinking like that. It was long enough. We said the things we had to say. We swapped over the few bits of memories, and filled in the gaps and…’ She sighed. ‘We became friends all over again, really. Reassuring, isn’t it? Finding out that we’re still the same people, all that time later.’
‘Poor Ada,’ said Simon, as they started walking back to the house.
‘She had a good life,’ Winnie said. ‘There wasn’t enough people in it, that’s the only thing. The only sad lives are the ones that don’t have enough people in them.’
Simon suddenly thought aloud: ‘My mum and dad had people. They weren’t lonely. Their deaths were less sad than Ada’s, in a way.’
Winnie glanced at him. ‘They knew they were loved,’ she said. ‘And that’s the main thing. I hope that Ada knew she was loved, at the end.’
‘I’m sure she did,’ said Simon, and linked arms with his gran.
Up closer to the house, they watched a local TV news crew shooting a feature on the free car boot sale of the dead author’s belongings. The reporter speaking to camera sounded incredulous, that anyone — even rich and deceased — could simply give away what appeared to be rare and valuable ornaments and pieces of furniture. Around him, complete strangers were furtively picking up pieces and examining them carefully. They were still unsure of themselves: still not convinced that they were free to take away anything they wanted.
At one point Eric appeared at the front porch of the house, holding a tumbler of red wine, ‘Take what you want!’ he roared. ‘Take it all away!’ And the news crew were quick enough to capture it on tape, before he stomped back into the house.
‘He’s taken this quite badly,’ said Simon.
‘He was devoted to her,’ Winnie said. ‘He was a fair bit younger, you know. People said he was a gold-digger. But he did everything for her. They were devoted to each other.’
The two of them wandered between trestle tables and realised that the crowds were growing larger, more boisterous as the afternoon went on. They were less inhibited about picking up anything they liked the look of and popping it into their bags. Some cheeky, dauntless souls arrived with hired vans, and could be seen loading rolled-up carpets and fold-down tables into the backs.
Winnie scowled, disgusted by people.
‘Everything will vanish soon,’ said Simon. ‘You should have a look. Gran. You should take something, some souvenir of Ada. She would have wanted you to, you know.’
‘Oh, perhaps,’ she said, looking like she didn’t have the heart. ‘We should think about getting home again. Your grandad will fret.’
Simon rolled his eyes. It was strange how, in recent months, his gran and grandad had aged somehow. Since that wild, blizzardy night they had both become more fretful and anxious over the safety and the whereabouts of the other. It was weird to Simon, but maybe that’s what being married all that time was about.
These days Winnie didn’t talk about being in love with the man from the Exchange any more. It was as if Winnie had decided to settle for the life she already had.
‘Books,’ said Simon. ‘We should choose some books as a souvenir.’
They were confronted by what appeared to be a whole lawn filled wi
th books, spines uppermost, lying end to end on tarpaulins, open to the elements, and exhaling all their must and dust: looking exposed in the brilliant spring sunshine. The books were attracting less attention than all the other belongings. ‘Maybe that lot — that rabble — don’t think books are valuable,’ said Winnie, stooping to see what volumes Ada had kept hidden out of reach in her home.
The only other person there in the field of books was Kelly. At first even Simon didn’t recognise her. He hadn’t seen her since the funeral, the previous month, and already she had changed. That Gothic black and purple had been dispensed with. Now she was all earth colours, with sort, hennaed hair and a hippyish, tie-dyed green dress, and a lumpy cardigan in orange wool. She was wearing multicoloured beads around her neck and the biggest surprise was when she turned to smile at Simon and his gran: not a scrap of make-up on her face.
‘You look amazing,’ Simon cried, as they clasped each other. ‘What happened?’
Kelly shrugged vaguely. ‘Oh, it’s just another disguise, isn’t it?’ she said.
They wandered along with her through the rows of books. Some of the larger, leather-bound volumes looked ancient and valuable, but here they were lying higgledy-piggledly amongst millions of battered paperbacks.
‘Ada was as bad as me,’ breathed Winnie.
Simon said, ‘She must have spent as much of her life reading as you have…’
‘I wonder if, somewhere, amongst all these books, I could find the Children’s Golden Annual.’ She smiled. ‘That was the book I taught Ada to read with. It was mine and I used it to teach her her letters and everything. It mysteriously disappeared back then and I think she just nicked it off me. I wonder if it’s around…?’
‘It’d be worth looking for,’ said Simon.
‘It’d take hours searching this lot!’ laughed Winnie. ‘Still, it’s worth remembering. It was all down to me, in a way, wasn’t it? I was the one who taught her. I was the one who changed Ada’s life into what it became.’
The three of them considered that for a moment as they walked on.
