Words in Deep Blue(39)

The Broken Shore

by Peter Temple

Letters left between pages 8 and 9

16 January – 22 January 2016



Hi Martin

I’m writing to explain some things about last night. I was wrong about you – you’re a nice guy. I liked talking to you in the bathroom. I liked hearing about Rufus, who’s no particular breed that you know of. I like that you chose him because he was the strangest dog at the shelter and you thought no one else would take him. I meant what I said – I’d like to meet him one day. I’d like to meet your mums, too, and your little sister. I think you’d make a great human rights lawyer. I like that you like mysteries. I like you.

And the kiss – what we had of it – was nice.

But, there’s that guy I told you about. I know, for certain now, that he’s stopped writing because he’s gone overseas, so I’m going to wait for him to get back. I’m really hoping that you and I can be friends. It’ll be a long summer in the bookshop if we can’t.

George



Dear George

Thanks for your letter. I still feel like a bit of an idiot but your explanation helps. (My kiss was nice?? That’s hugely flattering, thanks, George.) You have my word that I won’t try to kiss you again and yes we can be friends. I’d like that. I’d like if we could be friends when we go back to school, too. It’ll be a long summer if we’re not friends, but it’ll be an even longer year.

Martin



Dear Martin

Thanks for your reply. That’s a huge relief. I meant the kiss was really nice. It was more than nice. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but I think you’re a good kisser. Sure, we can be friends when school starts, but that might cause some trouble for you with Stacy and her group.

George



Dear George

Friends it is, then. You really need to stop worrying about what people think. That’s half your problem.

Martin



Martin

I have a problem? You’re the one who’s hanging out with Stacy, a girl who likes to call people freaks.

George



Dear George

I’m sorry. I wrote that last note in a bit of a hurry at the end of my lunch break. I didn’t mean you had a huge problem, just that you tend to hang out alone at school, and I know of at least one person who’s tried to talk to you (me!) and you haven’t exactly been friendly. I just meant that you’re a great person and maybe the guy you like would have told you who he was before now if you’d been a bit more welcoming.

Martin



Martin

Fuck off and stop writing to me.

George



Dear George

I’m not fucking off. I’m your friend. Friends don’t fuck off. And by the way, friends don’t tell each other to fuck off, either.

Martin



Martin

Fuck. Off.

George





Henry




it’s the closeness of them that’s mesmerising

Martin walks over to me around four on Friday the 22nd. I know it’s 22 January because I’m staring at the calendar and Tom, the customer who pretty much lives in the Supernatural section, is trying to teach me to flip the page over to February with my mind. I stop testing my psychic abilities when I notice that Martin is the closest to angry that I’ve ever seen him.

‘Your sister,’ he says, holding up a note, ‘just told me to fuck off.’

‘She tells me to fuck off all the time. I wouldn’t take it too seriously.’ I share with him the truth that’s universally acknowledged in our family – that we’re shit at love – and he says, ‘I’m not trying to love her. ‘I’m just trying to be her friend.’ He walks away to vent his frustrations on the cataloguing.

I’ve been having a difficult few weeks myself when it comes to girls. Amy replied to the note I left in her mailbox last week with a cryptic text – Thanks. That means a lot at the moment, Henry.

She hasn’t sent anything since and I can’t stop wondering what at the moment means.

I’ve also spent the last few weeks trying to cheer up Rachel, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t do anything obvious, since I’m not allowed to tell anyone about Cal. The only thing I can think of to do is to try to talk to her about it, but she’s told me straight out that words won’t change anything and she doesn’t want to talk.

She’s not being rude anymore. She’s being what I’d describe as obsessive. She was going crazy on the cataloguing before she found Cal’s note on our copy of Sea. Now she’s a step beyond obsessive. She’s working without breaks. She’s searching, although she hasn’t said, for another word from her brother.

Frederick walks over to the counter to check on the state of the Walcott search. I don’t have anything new to report, but while he’s here I ask him a hypothetical question.

‘If you had a friend who was upset about say, a death in the family, but they didn’t seem to want sympathy, what would you do? If you thought they needed to talk about it, but they wouldn’t talk about it?’

‘I think you have to respect their wishes. If they don’t want to talk about it you can’t force them.’ His eyes move towards Rachel and back to me. ‘You might try to make her laugh.’