It did not matter a damn. He smiled blearily, his lips numbed by the cold, his cheeks damp and stinging. It did not matter one iota. He took a deep, steady breath and stared firmly ahead of him. No key. No keys. Because this was a door already open.
Nine
‘It has to be the start,’ Wesley declaimed passionately, his two elbows practically indenting the soft pine counter-top, ‘it just has to be the beginning of a whole, new, completely comprehensive language of mammals.’
He was holding forth in Canvey’s rather small but surprisingly high-ceilinged, semi-pre-fabricated library, to a charming and comely woman who wore a pale blue nylon twinset –effortlessly exuding the kind of easy stylishness rarely attributed to artificial fibre –some ludicrously playful kitten heels –not the heels, surely, of a dedicated librarian? –a heavy, calf-length beige skirt –sharply pleated to the front and the rear –a coral necklace –her ten wildly impractical false nails painted the exact-same peachy-coral colour –and a mop of blonde hair set in solid tribute to Angela Dickinson circa 1964. A woman in her late fifties.
This lucky female was standing on the opposite side of the waist-high, well-buffed library counter, over which her hypnotically pointed mamillae asserted their powerful dominion with such thrust and determination that it was as much as Wesley could do not to push his flattened palm onto them (simply to ascertain whether they’d cave or resist… Oh let them resist… But let them cave… Lord, why was sex always so fucking contrary?).
She was almost certainly the chief librarian, although she wore no formal indication to this effect about her person. No tag, no badge, no pin or anything. Just had an aura of inexplicably kindly authority.
‘And you honestly think coughing is central to this new language?’ she asked playfully, her lavender eyes twinkling behind a large pair of expensively cumbersome, baby-blue-framed glasses. She was charmed by Wesley’s conversation. But she was incredulous. Both responses in equal measure. Wesley always found this combination to be a happy mixture. He provoked it knowingly.
His ravaged olive-paste eyes twinkled straight back at her (was she a real pointy woman –like the wonderful, huge-hearted, exquisitely-well-starched kind who starred in all the best films of the 1950s –or was this riveting display purely the result of a lower back problem and an ill-fitting brassiere?).
Wesley tried not to stare. But it was a struggle. The breasts reared up at him like angry cobras, they pointed like cheeky schoolgirls without any manners. Oh.
‘What else?’ Wesley smiled, struggling to keep atuned to the flirty meander of their conversation, ‘I mean I’m no linguist or anything –this is purely an instinctive reaction –but what else unifies all creatures quite so absolutely as a sharp, hard cough, when you really come to think about it?’
He paused, then added, his voice dropping, but still showing a certain flash of sangfroid, ‘Apart, I suppose from those other three great unifiers: the fart, the burp, the sneeze.’
The chief librarian snorted, then covered her neatly-painted lips with her neatly-painted hand to try and mask it, pushed her glasses straight and shrugged, somewhat coquettishly. Her name was Eileen, and at root, at heart, she was incorrigibly Otherwise. (Otherwise? She was a mish-mash, a mosaic, a medley.)
Eileen was Otherwise (plainly and simply): she was the bird in the hand worth two on the bush, she was the silk purse from a sow’s ear, she was the stitch in time who saved nine –she was all of these things and more in her Littlewood’s underwear and skin-tone support stockings (only the merest hint of French eau de Cologne, but with industrial quantities of Harmony, for good measure, enveloping and supporting her bright, blonde hair).
Eileen.
An English rose, but with solid, Irish foundations. A refined and elegant lady –undisputedly –but with an accent steeped to its well-turned shins in the coarse, muddy burr of the Estuary. Blissfully miserable. Softly tough. Strictly gentle. Horribly lovely.
Irish parents: Siobhan and Flannery. Walthamstow born and bred. A north-east Londoner, an east-seventeen-teen, then twenty-something, then faltering, gingerly, on that awful ravine of thirty (thirty!) when in 1975 her whole damn family –aunts and uncles, nephews, nieces –upped and shifted, en masse, to Canvey.
She’d already served a full ten year sentence inside the Love Penitentiary: marriage – maximum security –to a wretch called Patrick, who smoked Silk Cut and worked as a plasterer (a devoutly Catholic union. Messily divorcing. They’d had no children. Eileen, it turned out, was hopelessly barren).
Poor Eileen: a planner, a dreamer, a lover, a traveller, yet still somehow –but how? How the heck had she managed it? –still living bumper-to-bumper with the people who’d raised her. Same house, same job, same prospects as her mother. 1975. Everything just as she’d dreaded it.
Needed a change of direction –but nothing too violent, or challenging –so when the whole street migrated (staggering, as one, to this tried but untested gumboot territory), Eileen packed her bags, hitched up her skirts and clambered (broke a nail, bruised a knee) onto the back of the bandwagon. Joined the exodus. Started a brand new life for herself, next to the Estuary.
I mean there were new houses here, weren’t there? And jobs promised. There were plans and stratagems, designs and sophistry. Multiple incentives for the poor, the keen, the needy. A social experiment, they called it, to shore up the demoralised Canvey community after the chronic floods of ‘53. To re-populate, re-invigorate, rejuvenate. New schools, new shops, new industry, new bridge, new… new library.
‘But where did it come from?’ Eileen asked, placing her own two elbows onto the counter in a perfect duplication of Wesley’s (their funny bones now very nearly touching. Her 24-carat gold charm bracelet sliding down her arm a-way –Wesley liked charms, and he liked Eileen; she was cute and obliging as a baby wallaby –her breasts pushed together, the underwire creaking like the straining bow on an ancient, sea-tossed, strong-timbered lobster smack).
She stood so close she could smell his breath, sweetly flavoured, as it was, with rum and raisin. With toffee (he’d offered her one. She’d refused. It’d looked slightly soggy and was frosted with lint. And there was a No Eating policy in the library. No Food. No Dogs. No Noise. No Running. Standard library requirements. Eileen –while soft-centred –was a terrible stickler).
Wesley ate the toffee anyway and grinned at Eileen, passing the sweet from one cheek to the other. He knew just what it meant to duplicate body language. It was always a good sign. He glanced at her left hand –wedding band –then snapped back to attention.
‘I was actually in Cornwall,’ he explained, ‘in the middle of nowhere, out walking, when this sheep coughed from behind a nearby hedge. I almost jumped out of my skin. I thought it was a person –the cough was so… so human. It was creepy. But once I realised… well, an absolute revelation…’
While Wesley was speaking, the library’s swing doors swung wide behind him. He felt a gust of cold air but did not turn to face it, merely watched all the action gradually unfolding inside the high-polished reflection of Eileen’s two, wide lenses.
Doc… The girl (the new girl –Miss Whisky-Eyes, Miss Sticky-Finger)… Patty… Shoes… then Hooch, five seconds later… Another person; a woman with a baby (in a pushchair); Hooch held the door open for her. Wesley automatically counted her among them (he’d had mothers and babies Following before, but only very briefly. It wasn’t especially workable, or healthy, for that matter).
The woman paused as the door slammed behind her, then peeled off to the right, splitting from the others –Good. That was better.
The rest slowly filtered past him, one by one, glancing nervously around them, nobody speaking, feet shuffling, weatherproof jackets squeaking, noses streaming…
Then he heard the girl. ‘Fiction,’ she whispered. ‘Over there, I reckon.’
Shortly after, Hooch (a muffled boom –like heavy-artillery practice at a firing range, five-plus miles away) murmured, ‘I told you so,’ then sniggered obnox
iously.
The girl led the rest of them into the far left-hand corner (she’s been here before, Wesley surmised, slotting this fact away for later). They all followed her, except for Patty, who slid the flat of his grubby hand along the counter-top –savouring the high-polished gloss and the squeak of his palm on it –then stopped and waited.
Wesley’s lips tightened. He found the boy irritating. Children never understood the way of things. Following especially. The rules. The protocol. Didn’t have the subtlety.
Eileen was still talking –
Bugger
– he tuned in again, but too tardily to catch the gist of it.
‘… unless it’s a two way thing, ’ she finished, ringingly, her bright eyes engaging his, demanding a quick response from him.
Bollocks
Wesley immediately threw all his eggs into one, small basket.
‘Cat person,’ he exclaimed trenchantly, pointing the middle and index fingers on his good hand at her (like he was aiming a friendly gun –the kind that fired out a flag emblazoned with the word Bang or Gotcha). He acted as if the need to recognise this simple truth –this unifying attribute, this cat-fact –surpassed virtually everything.
Eileen frowned, thrown slightly off kilter, ‘Uh… no. No. I’m allergic, actually.’ She shrugged. She was not impressed. But she was briefly distracted.
‘Ah.’
(Fuck. That was clumsy.)
Wesley glanced down. Dennis was sitting on his right foot. ‘Hello there Dennis.’
Wesley smiled at him. Dennis yawned. Eileen stood on tiptoe and peeked over the counter. Dog
‘We actually have a No Dog policy in the library,’ she explained.
Dennis stared up at her, impassively. His stumpy tail ticked. Left, right, left, left, left.
‘Dennis here,’ Wesley explained, ignoring the policy (he was no fan of policies), ‘has diabetes.’
No palpable reaction.
‘And he cannot bark. He is dumb, which is rare for a terrier. But he barks in his dreams. Dennis is a dream barker.’
Eileen stopped frowning. Her eyebrows (hard plucked as a good turkey dinner) rose a full half-centimetre. He barks in his dreams
She let this beguiling thought slowly penetrate her. Oh. That was just so… so right, so pretty… so… just so darling.
He barks in his dreams
Wesley had selected his ammunition masterfully. Because Eileen –as it so happened –was an absolute glutton for dreamers. She was a pushover, a mug, a fool for dreaming. She was a cinch, a patsy, a stooge, a greenhorn… Forget librarian –chief librarian, even –because in the real world, in the harsh –too harsh –light of daytime, day dreaming was her actual –her bona-fide – profession.
She was a dreamer by instinct, by nature, by inclination; a de facto dreamer. Always had been. Dreamed so much sometimes she hardly noticed the day’s closing or the season’s passing (wore light summer dresses in winter, until the cold made her shiver). Forgot birthdays, mealtimes, hair appointments, anniversaries, all in a miasma of other-worldly hankering.
Lived in the eternal summer of dreams. A long, slow, blue-skied, green-grassed, yellow-hued, daisy-kissed, wheat-smelling, poppy-bleeding, bee-buzzing, stonechat-smacking pastureland of dreaming.
Hardly knew what she was doing –point of fact –hour by hour. Did a whole week’s shopping without even noticing, made the bed, brushed her teeth, put on her face every morning, all in a deep, sweet, haze of not-thinking. Saw real life through a mirror, covered in condensation. Blurred at its edges. Wore a cobweb coat to dinner. Sipped on nectar. Broke the worldwide record for dandelion blowing. Flew on little wings. Shared the mossy bed of the badger. Fought with the weasel. Darned and seamed her daytimes with fine-stitched patchworks of light and downy, feather-bellied imaginings.
Nothing too spectacular. Nothing wrong or weird or dirty or anything. Just all things familiar and rosy and comforting. Her dreams were as soft and clean as she was. There was nothing in them to be ashamed of. I mean there was no law against the yearn, the keen, the wish, was there? Was there?
Wesley made a sharp mental note of Eileen’s reaction. Dreamer (almost lost her back there with that cat person clap-trap. But now she was hooked. Now he could play her).
A mere four feet away, the small boy, Patty, was still carefully inspecting the constellation of spit and snot he’d just recently downloaded onto the counter-top. He was too short to lean on the counter properly. Instead he stretched himself up and over. Stood on tippy-toes, fingers grappling, coat riding up, trousers slipping down to reveal the top half of the lean cheeks of his flat-boy-buttocks. Tummy, hips, belly-button, all perkily protruding.
He was thin. Pale skinned. Unhealthy looking. He hawked expertly then swallowed noisily. He was a boy with a minor sinus problem.
Eileen peered over at him, then back at Wesley again. There was a piece of paper –just to the left of their elbows –lying on the counter: Wesley’s Library Membership Application Form. It was only partially filled in. Eileen reached out her hand for it. ‘We’ll be needing your current address,’ she said, ‘and your date of birth, obviously.’
Wesley grabbed the form and the pen he’d been using previously.
‘Do you like music?’ he asked, scribbling away diligently.
‘Music? Hmmn. Yes, I suppose I do,’ Eileen answered, idly watching the small group in the corner: the man with no shoes whom she’d seen in there earlier, and the girl, the girl with short hair.
‘I play the banjo. You should come and listen. I use the Clawhammer technique, due to my, uh…’
He lifted his right hand. Eileen’s eyes widened.
‘I’ll be playing later, about three-ish, once I’ve hiked around the Island’s perimeter. On the private fishing pier near the Gas Storage Terminal…’
He glanced up, ‘I’d love to see you there.’
He pushed the slip of paper towards her.
Under DATE OF BIRTH (Eileen focussed in on it, with a slight start), Wesley had written:
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly
Then an inch or so lower, in the margin, What is essential is invisible to the eye.
Eileen glanced up at him, perplexedly. But he was staring over towards the fiction section, at the small crowd pulling books from the shelves there. Then suddenly he was bending down to stroke the dog, then stepping back, then smiling, nodding, turning, walking, opening the door. Quick as anything. Quick as… Without even… without…
Eileen’s gaze flew to the section marked ADDRESS and it was then that her half-quizzical-smile froze; c/o, it said, c/o Ms Katherine Turpin, followed by a horribly familiar Furtherwick Road number.
Ms Katherine…
What?
The smile remained stuck; stiff at its corners.
Patty cleared his throat. Then he cleared it again, even louder. Eileen put down the form, her expression smeared with joy and fear, hope and hunger.
‘I want to join this library,’ the small boy said (he was a simple boy and Eileen’s Otherwiseness meant nothing to him), ‘but I’m rubbish at writing things.’
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,
What is essential is invisible to the eye
The Little Prince. Antoine De Saint-Exupéry. Her favourite book, her favourite writer, her favourite person in the whole wide world, ever ever ever.
Eileen deftly slid Wesley’s slip under the counter –her face still a casualty ward of mixed emotions –then turned towards the child and asked if she could help him. As she listened dutifully to his answer, she dazedly twisted her wedding band on her neatly-painted finger; her soft, sweet, lavender eyes slowly clouding over.
Ten
Hmmmmn
Dewi chewed solemnly on a heavily-salted tomato sandwich as he peered through his living room window, his dust-iced skin zebraed by the sharp stripes of winter light which gushed, unapologetically –like hordes of white-frocked debutantes flashing their foaming
silk petticoats in eager curtsies –between the regimented slats of his hand-built shutters.
He chewed methodically, his muscular jowls working –deliberately, repetitively –his dark eyes staring out, unblinking. He was waiting for Katherine. But he was thinking about Wesley. Wesley.
Wesley ‘the joker’. Isn’t that what they called him? Or Wesley ‘the wild card’. Or Wesley… Wesley ‘the maverick’ (that was a popular one, just currently). But there were others, too, and plenty of them: ‘The Scholarly Beadle’ (a pretty pitiful soubriquet, all things considered), ‘The Post-Millennial Prankster’ (and people actually got paid to write this crap?).
Wesley.
Dewi stopped chewing. He swallowed, slightly prematurely, experiencing some difficulty; gulping. He sniffed. He swallowed again, then picked a tomato pip from his molar with his finger. The pip was dislodged. He bit down hard upon it. He crushed it.
But weren’t these people –these mild-mannered commentators, these hacks, these pen-pushers, these thoroughly indulgent, head-shaking, lip-biting, gently tutting people, these mollycoddlers to a man –weren’t they all forgetting something? Something important?
Weren’t they forgetting –I mean he didn’t want to piss on their fucking chips or anything –but weren’t they forgetting the damage? Yes. As blunt as that. Plain as that. Boring as that: The damage –The devastation –The pain –The destruction.
(Tedious truths, Dewi was the first to acknowledge –truths invariably were, weren’t they? –but truths just the same. Indubitably.)
Caught up –as they obviously were –in all the fun of it (the waggishness, the roguery), couldn’t they at least show a pretence of concern over the possibility that they might, in some small way, be in serious danger of overlooking the crucial, the more salient, the rather less salubrious issues?
Wesley the Heartless. That was more like it. Just the kind of monicker he was really crying out for (didn’t it at least mean something?), or Wesley the Careless. Wesley the Killer (so much more fitting than the Beadle thing). Or Wesley the Bastard (Hell yes. Even better).
Behindlings Page 10
