The Keeper of Stories, page 16
The thought of this seems to perk Mrs B up and she sits up straighter under the table.
“Who?” Janice asks, and she knows she sounds incredulous.
“Mr Stanley Torpeth.”
“Who?” Janice repeats, but light is beginning to dawn. “Oh, Stan.” She cannot resist adding, “You didn’t even know his name.”
“A great oversight on my part,” Mrs B says, a little guiltily. “I must remember to apologise for swearing at him. Although”—she brightens up—“that’s nothing compared to what he’s used to.”
“Now you have completely lost me.”
“Stanley’s wife Gallina is Russian. He has promised to bring her to meet me one day. That will be such a treat. Apparently she has a magnificent temper. You know the Russian language is very expressive – there are so many ways to blaspheme and marvellous nuances that can be brought into play.”
Janice leans her head back onto the support in the middle of the table. “You really are a class act, Mrs B. Oh, by the way, I’ve left my husband.”
“That does not surprise me in the least, my dear. When he called me on the phone I was in no doubt that was what you would do. But sometimes these things need to go at their own pace; they cannot be rushed, whatever outsiders may think.”
“Is that why you didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t mention it, Janice, because I do not believe a woman is represented by the conduct or morals displayed by her husband. Augustus and I were always very clear about that. It was true we loved each other dearly but we were very independent people. You certainly do not have anything to apologise for. Whether I believe your husband to be deserving of being whipped through the streets on bended knee wearing a hair shirt is another matter altogether.”
Janice would like to kiss the old lady sitting beside her, but instead, she gives her hand a last squeeze and offers her a hot chocolate.
“Yes, I think that would be excellent, and we might move to the armchairs now. I believe my arse is completely without feeling.”
Janice collects her sticks and helps her to her feet. When she is settled in the chair, Janice heads to the kitchen. “Is there no drink at all, Mrs B? I think you could do with a splash of brandy in this; you’ve had a shock.”
“I am afraid not. Tiberius was tediously thorough in removing all the alcohol from the premises. I do not believe it helped matters that he found some of it under the sink. He certainly did not appear to credit my explanation that I kept it there as many of the other cupboards are too high for me to reach.”
“But Mrs B, why shouldn’t you keep your drink wherever you want to? It is absolutely nobody’s business.”
“I am afraid Tiberius is trying to make it other people’s business. As he is having little success getting me removed from here on the grounds of being infirm, he is now going to paint me as a drunkard. Still, we do have Stanley keeping an ear out and there is always Mycroft.”
Janice is tempted to offer to pop out and replenish supplies and get some brandy for Mrs B’s hot chocolate. But what if Tiberius came back? What if he caught her? When Mrs B says, “You must not be involved in this Janice. I do not want you to jeopardise your position,” Janice thinks she now knows how Judas felt.
When they are sitting in the armchairs by the fire, Mrs B asks, “So, would you be interested in hearing more about Becky – perhaps not today, but on your next visit? Or do you feel she is such a flawed character that she is no longer of interest?”
“Oh, Mrs B, it’s not like that. You know why I felt like I did.”
“In part I do, but I do believe there’s a lot that you’re not telling me.”
Janice looks at Mrs B over the rim of her hot chocolate mug. “I know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And what might that be?” Mrs B replies, trying to look the picture of innocence.
“You didn’t think I would come back and clean for you, did you, so you’ve been feeding me a story, Becky’s story, thinking I will want to hear more?”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Mrs B positively chortles.
“Scheherazade!” Janice declares, playing her trump card. “I spotted you were uncomfortable when I mentioned Arabian Nights. So I looked up the book of One Thousand and One Nights.”
“And the story is?”
“It’s about a Sultan who was so devastated when his first wife betrayed him, that he killed her. After that he took a new virgin bride for one night only, and the following morning killed her too. All so he would not be hurt again. When Scheherazade was unfortunate enough to be chosen as a bride, she spent the night telling the Sultan a fabulous tale. He was so engrossed in the story he did not kill her as he wanted her to continue the tale the following night. Which she did, and the night after that, until – as in all good stories – they fell in love and lived happily ever after.” Janice cannot help feeling a little smug.
“So I am Scheherazade?” Mrs B enquires, smiling at her.
Janice cannot quite read the look, but she knows Mrs B is building up to something.
“Oh, how the nuns would be blushing now.” Mrs B shakes her head.
“What?” Janice says suspiciously. She doesn’t trust this woman – too tricky by half.
“You really need to be more rigorous in your investigations,” declares the ex-spy with a first-class honours degree. “Scheherazade did not tell the Sultan the same story every night. She told him a different tale and it is this compilation of beautiful and mystical stories that constitutes what, in the English translation, is known as The Arabian Nights.”
Mrs B is swinging her small feet back and forward – a sure sign she is enjoying herself enormously.
“Scheherazade was a storyteller, but foremost she was a collector of stories.” Mrs B turns a bright eye on Janice.
“You, Janice, are without doubt, Scheherazade.”
Twenty-Four
An island of books
Major Allen does not appear to mind in the least that Janice is making an early start and when she arrives he is already on his second cup of coffee and tackling the Telegraph crossword.
“Always awake by 6am, up by 6.30am at the latest. Comes from years in the army. On exercise we trained our men the same way. Bowel movement at 7am and on with the day.” He coughs and returns to the crossword and Janice wonders if he is regretting sharing the last part.
She is quick but thorough with the cleaning. She reflects that this comes from years of experience. As she bundles up the sheets she has stripped from the major’s bed and carries them to the utility room, she thinks about Scheherazade. So, she was a collector of stories. Well, Janice knows she is a serious collector too and now, it seems, a storyteller. Hasn’t she been sharing some of her stories with Mrs B? But… Scheherazade? It is such a beautiful name, exotic and thrilling. Whereas she is a woman putting a load of washing on, before picking up a mop to tackle the spilt tea and porridge stains on the kitchen floor. Scheherazade? Hardly.
She thinks back to Mrs B’s comment about Janice not telling her everything. Of course this is true. Mrs B knows it and she knows it. Did Janice ever really believe she was the woman with no story? After all, she is Scheherazade (she is warming to this idea) and she would appreciate that everyone has a story to tell. But can you choose your story? She thinks about Adam. She hopes he can choose a different story for himself. And if he can, isn’t there a chance she could too?
She pictures Adam running around the field yesterday with Decius. It doesn’t bring with it the normal feeling of joy. There is something lurking – a gnawing fear that these precious moments are under threat.
Decius had been particularly bouncy as she walked with him back to his house. For once he seemed oblivious of her mood. On the doorstep as she unclipped his lead, he had turned his head and licked her hand. His expression seemed to say, “You and me. Dream team.” She could barely bring herself to look him in the face. In the same way as she could not look at all the wine boxes stacked in the hallway by the entrance to Tiberius’s office. For a split second she had thought about going up and picking out a bottle to take to Mrs B – surely he wouldn’t notice one missing? But then she heard the familiar tip, tip, tip, on the wooden floor and remembered what was at stake, and had turned and raced from the house.
She arrives at the café at 12.05pm. She has been loitering further up the street, by the market, to time her arrival at exactly this moment. Not too late, but not too early. Five minutes late shows she is not too eager, but that she is not a careless, unpunctual person. Euan is already at a table by the window and is halfway through a cup of tea. She takes this in in a few seconds, plus the dark trousers – similar to before but khaki rather than brown – and a nice jumper, black with a zip. He stands up and smiles – and there her stomach goes again. She is so glad she bought the boots. She reminds herself she was sold them by a woman who played squash for England. The thought sustains her as she crosses the room.
The first bit is easy: what coffee would she like, anything to eat, isn’t the view wonderful across to King’s, so many bicycles, did he bike here today, no, so you came on the bus (joke about did he drive it), they establish he lives near Ely.
Then silence. She stirs her coffee. He looks into his empty mug. She thinks it should be easier than this; she is approaching fifty and he looks about fifty-five. It seems so unfair that now, when they should have moved beyond all that, their inner teenagers have decided to wake up, stretch, and say, “God, this is SO embarrassing!”
“Get a fucking grip, woman.” She thinks of the fox terrier she loves. And didn’t one of the people Mrs B get a reference from say she could put people at their ease? Perhaps she can – herself included.
“Is that a Scottish accent?” she tries.
“I guess ‘Euan’s’ a bit of a giveaway too.” He looks up and is smiling again. “My family are originally from Aberdeen, but we moved when I was seven and I grew up in the Wye valley, not far from Hay-on-Wye. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I’ve always wanted to.” This is getting easier. And she actually wants to ask the next thing; she isn’t just trying to make polite conversation. “I’ve read about the book festival there. Have you been?”
Please, please, please say you like books.
“I used to help out there when I was a lad, doing the parking…”
Yes, but do you like books?
“…and now I go back most years for it. It’s a good chance to catch up with old mates and…” He spots her coffee cup is now empty. “Would you like another?”
“Yes, please.” But all she is thinking is, do you go for the books or the mates?
He gets the waitress’s attention and orders more coffee and tea. When he looks back at her, she knows she is sitting there expectantly. She imagines she has the same look Decius has on his face when he is hoping she has brought the chicken snacks with her.
“What were we saying? Oh, the festival. It’s a great boost for the town, live music, food and drink stalls. Feels a bit like a party. Some people hate it and rent their houses out and go away…” He pauses as a young girl comes to clear their table. He hands her the empty cups. “Yes, some people head for the hills, but I like it. But then I’ve always loved books. Got the shit beaten out of me at school for it, of course, but hey!” He shrugs, adding, “My dad would always patch me up though, you know, make a fuss of me. Perhaps he felt guilty.” Euan smiles. “After all, he’s the one that got me in trouble in the first place. He ran a bookshop.”
Janice pictures herself standing up, leaning across the table, putting her hands either side of this glorious man’s face, pulling him towards her, and kissing him full on the mouth. Instead, she asks him what he likes to read.
The next hour flies by and coffee merges into lunch. She finds out he loves Hemingway but struggles with Fitzgerald – the writing is beautiful but are the stories believable? She almost tells him that she collects stories – almost, but not quite. She discovers he is currently reading a lot from a Mexican writer and she thinks of Annie and her plant pots. By pudding (yes, of course, they should both have some), they are discussing whether it is better to be a good and prolific author or to write one thing of outstanding beauty, like To Kill a Mockingbird.
Then they order coffee and the flow is interrupted. He checks his watch – yes, he has a bit more time. She visits the bathroom. When she comes back to the table, it feels like ordinary life is back pressing in on them, and she realises she is sitting here with a relative stranger. She knows so little about him. She is suddenly very aware of her age, her build, her hands that look like cleaner’s hands. And now her inner teenager is back, pulling up a chair and saying, “Yeah … but, what do I say now?”
She realises that the talk of books gave them shared ground – an island on which to stroll – easy in each other’s company. But they can’t stay there forever. And now she doesn’t know where to go next. She feels stranded and she knows to ask him some more about books will only accentuate this feeling.
“I’ve left my husband.”
Why did she say that? What was she thinking of? It’s like she’s leapt off their island and plunged into ice-cold water.
“Right … right … are you okay?”
She can see he has no idea what to do with this. Why would he? All they have established is that they would be friends meeting for tea – or lunch, as it turns out. She sees his internal struggle and it’s painful to watch. Can he ask? Should he ask? Will she mind? In the end, he looks up and does what she did when they first met: he reaches for safe small-talk.
“What about you? Where did you grow up?”
She relaxes; she can do this. Or some of it. “I grew up in Northampton; we moved to the UK when I was seven.”
He nods, acknowledging the small, shared similarity in their histories – the same age he was when he moved to Hay-on-Wye.
“I was born in Tanzania but we moved to Durham when my dad got a professorship in the Archaeology Department at Durham University. They were very interested in his work on the Olduvai Gorge.”
“I’ve read about that. Isn’t it the site of one of the earliest records of man?”
She nods, thinking that his love of the gorge, rather than teaching in Durham, was at the heart of her father’s story.
“But you ended up in Northampton?”
She looks out of the window to something far beyond the bicycles and buildings. “My dad died when I was ten; he had pancreatic cancer.” She adds, “It was very quick.” She never knows whether this was a good or bad thing. She looks back at Euan. She’s glad he hasn’t said the traditional, knee-jerk, “I’m sorry”. She knows she is sorry enough for both of them.
“We moved to Northampton because my mother decided she wanted us to stay in the UK and she has a sister there.”
“Is she still there?”
“No, she died about fifteen years ago.”
Now he does offer, “I’m sorry.”
He can have that one. She is not sorry. She knows this is a terrible thing, and with it comes a mountain of guilt. Luckily, she had already laid a foundation – a massive bedrock of guilt to place it upon.
She realises whereas their previous conversation had been carried on at a normal volume, now they seem to be talking in hushed tones. She had thought she could do this but she can’t.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks.
She manages to say, “I have a sister,” but now she wants to leave. There is no point in this. It’s never going to work. She stands, and a second later he does too. He half puts a hand out towards her, as if he is going to, what? Stop her leaving? Take her hand? But then his hand drops to his side. She can only glance at him, but in that look she can see he is frowning and concerned.
“I must go,” she says, turning to collect her bag off the back of the chair.
“Look, Janice,” and now he does put his hand out. He doesn’t touch her but his hand hovers somewhere between them. “Could we start again? We don’t have to talk about families. We could talk about books. We could stick to that.”
She thinks of the island they found themselves on made out of books, and more than anything she wants to go back there. To her surprise, she finds herself saying, “I collect stories. I don’t mean stories in books – although I have a few of those – more, the stories of people. Just people.” She does not know how to explain it more than this.
“I collect conversations.” He sounds embarrassed, as if he has bought a packet of store-bought biscuits to a homemade cake sale. “They’re not real stories as such. Just things I overhear that make me think, or laugh…” His voice peters out.
He tries again. “We could talk books and swap stories… Well, mine are … not really—”
Because of the struggling and because she realises she cannot bear the thought of never seeing him again, she interrupts, “I’d like that.”
He sighs, exhausted, like a man who has climbed Snowdon.
As she walks away she can’t help wondering what Euan’s story is. She hopes he will tell her when they next meet. However, if he does, she knows it will not be a fair trade, because she is never going to tell him hers.
Twenty-Five
Reading between the lines
Mrs B is sitting at the oak table beside a small, rotund man. His face is wrinkled like an apple that has been left too long in the fruit bowl. He is plainly dressed and if Janice had to guess what his profession had been, she would say that he came from a very long line of plumbers.
“This is Mycroft,” Mrs B declares to Janice, beckoning her to join them. “And this is Janice,” she says, tilting her head towards her.
The small man jumps to his feet – he is surprisingly sprightly for his age. He extends a hand to Janice. “Fred, please. No need for that. I’m Fred Spink. Very pleased to meet you, Janice.”
