Words in Deep Blue(16)

I look into the future – twenty years, say – and I know it’s unlikely we’re still making a go of it. I see myself sitting behind the counter reading Dickens in Dad’s spot, talking to Frieda, the sun coming in the window, lighting up universes of dust and the relics that are second-hand books. I see myself going off at night to work a second job to pay the bills, like Dad’s had to do more than a few times over the years. Eventually, I see a world without books, definitely a world without second-hand bookshops. I have a flashback to Amy and me talking when she loaned me the money to pay for travel insurance. ‘If you want to have a life, Henry, you need to get a proper job.’

‘How bad is it really?’ I ask Mum. She does the accounting. She’s the practical one who thinks about the future.

‘It’s bad, Henry. We barely make ends meet some months. I want to be able to pay for George’s university fees next year. I want to retire some day. I want to leave you and George with a future.’

And suddenly it’s a no-brainer why Amy broke up with me. I’m destined to be unemployed. She’s destined to be a lawyer. At the moment, my plan is to live with my dad and my sister long-term in the shop. Her plan is to buy her own flat. The reason she broke up with me can’t be as simple as that, but it must have something to do with it. I hardly ever have money to take her out.

I love second-hand books; I love books. But if things are as bad as Mum says then selling’s the best thing for all of us. ‘If there’s a huge offer on the table, maybe we should just think about it,’ I say, avoiding Dad’s eyes.

‘Maybe we should just talk to the agents,’ Mum says and she takes our silence as agreement.

George goes to the bathroom, mainly to avoid the discussion. While she’s gone Mum tells me that she’s hired a couple of people to catalogue the books so we know what stock we have. ‘You know one of them, in fact – Rachel.’

I don’t have to ask her which Rachel. Again, there’s only one Rachel.

‘I saw her aunt in the supermarket last week,’ Mum says. ‘She told me Rachel was moving back to the city, but the job Rose lined up for her at the hospital café fell through. Rachel’s good with computers, so I told Rose she could have the job.’

I listen to Mum and try to think about what conditions would have to exist for Rachel to accept a job working with me at Howling Books. Maybe she suffered a blow to the head and she’s got amnesia.

‘I thought you’d be happy,’ Mum says when I don’t respond. ‘You’re best friends.’

‘That was before she moved,’ I tell her. ‘We haven’t spoken in years.’

‘Should I un-hire her?’ she asks. ‘I don’t think I can un-hire her.’

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see Rachel. Lying if I said I hadn’t missed her. And if she’s taken the job then maybe she feels the same way. ‘Don’t un-hire her,’ I tell Mum as George comes back and says she’s not hungry anymore and wants to go home.

Mum leaves with her, so it’s just Dad and me. We sit at the table with too many dumplings and a whole heap of quiet. ‘You’re disappointed,’ I say. ‘I haven’t officially cast my vote yet.’

‘We all have a vote. We’re all part of the decision. Don’t look so worried.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m not disappointed in you.’

‘I read an article that said second-hand books will be relics eventually,’ I tell him, still trying to make excuses for how things went tonight.

‘Do you know what the word relic actually means, the dictionary definition?’ he asks, offering me the prawn crackers.

I take one and tell him I don’t know.

‘It means sacred,’ he says, breaking his cracker in half. ‘As in “the bones of saints”.’





The Great Gatsby

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Letter left between pages 8 and 9

Undated



To my love

If I knew where you were, I would post this letter. But I don’t, so I will have to leave it here. I know how you love F. Scott. More than you love me, I think. I searched every inch of the bookshelves. I feel certain you’ve taken our copy. We bought it together. Don’t you remember? So it wasn’t really yours to take.

Your letter arrived. It was better than a text, I suppose, but you’re wrong. It wasn’t the kinder way to end things. It would have hurt just the same if you’d said goodbye to my face, but it would have stung less.

Where have you gone, my love? After ten years together I think knowing this is more than my due. Write me one line to let me know where you are. So that I do not wonder, for the rest of our lives when I imagine you, what is the background to your face.

John





Henry




shit days generally get more shit

I walk back from the restaurant towards Laundry thinking about Rachel and the bookshop, about whether or not I should sell, and about what I should do when I see her.

The problem with the bookshop is that selling makes sense. I’ve been thinking it for a while now. Mum makes a good argument, and she’s always been the practical one in the family.

The problem with Rachel is that I don’t know what to say when I see her. I don’t know if I can be her friend again if she doesn’t say that she missed me, or give me a good explanation as to why she didn’t write. I don’t have a whole lot of dignity, but I’ve got some.