15th-century building
whose downstairs was one of those packed-to-the-ceiling antiquarian book
emporiums where cardboard boxes full of paperbacks spilled out onto the
pavement during opening hours, and where there was a cavernous interior, where
shelves tottered dangerously under the weight of thousands of tomes, and there
was barely room to walk. To the right of Mad about the Book’s main entrance,
Lucy led me to a much less noticeable doorway, behind which was a narrow
winding staircase. That first time I climbed those stairs, I had to practically
bend double to clear the ceiling until I emerged into the cramped oak
floor-boarded nest that was her home.
Weirdly, behind the outside door
to her flat, were huge metal bars that slid into the brickwork either side,
which were, as Lucy told me, “To protect me. Don’t laugh.” She went on: “But I
would always feel insecure, if I didn’t have locks like this. I couldn’t sleep,
I’d be afraid of someone breaking in. The windows are alarmed, too. I’m a
scaredy cat, I know, but I worry about being attacked. Especially now.”
“Canterbury is one of the least
crime-ridden cities in England.”
“I know. It’s stupid, but that’s
just the way I am. Easily scared. And right now it’s even more important to
take care.”
And that wasn’t all of it. She
carried a flick knife – a vicious looking thing that was undoubtedly illegal –
in a sheath attached to her ankle, and showed me how quickly she could slip it
into her hand and activate the sharp snap that flicked out the vicious pointed
blade, apparently honed to a razor’s edge. She also carried a can of mace, also
illegal, the spray that disables an attacker by temporarily blinding him. And
she told me she’d attended an unarmed combat night class, and was adept at
certain karate chops.
It did make sense in one way, but
it was only later that I understood why she felt so scared all the time. Of
course by then it was too late.
Like the staircase, the sitting
room had a very low ceiling, as well as tiny, leaded-light windows with frilly
curtains, a small television and a comfortable floral-pattern covered sofa and
chairs, and the floorboards were dark oak, waxed to a bright shine. Through one
doorway was her tiny kitchen, and the other door led to her bedroom. I’d
glanced into the bedroom in passing, and it was just as I’d imagined it would
be: chintz covered eiderdown over the half-tester bed, that had neat dark blue
drapes. The ceilings and walls were painted white between the twisting
woodworm-riddled black oak rafters. The whole flat smelt of furniture wax,
cooking herbs and the faint scent of incense from joss sticks. Lucy told me
that she liked to light a joss stick wherever she could, she enjoyed the sharp
hard tang of the smoke, it reminded her of her mum, who’d apparently been a
hippie in the 60s. Even now, whenever I smell that characteristic sharp tang it
reminds me of that time, when I was more content than I’ve ever felt before or
since.
Her workshop was next door to the
bedroom. On one work-table was a miniature wooden dressing table, two inches
tall, complete with shield-shaped, swivelling mirror. Its drawers, so miniscule
that it was almost impossible to grasp their handles between fingertips, slid
in and out smoothly, constructed using such delicate joinery that it was
unbelievable. Another workbench was taken up partially by a large bandsaw, an
elaborate affair with a metal platform, the centre of which had a fine-toothed
blade running at right angles. There was also a pedestal drill, with a similar
flat bed and a handle to pull the drill bit downwards, and there were also
miniature clamps, tweezers, and a special miniature hand-held drill, as well as
several large magnifying glasses on bendable metal arms. In the corner there
was a partially constructed dolls’ house – Georgian, with fine-grained
floorboards and tiny fireplaces. On shelves above her worktable there were
racks full
whose downstairs was one of those packed-to-the-ceiling antiquarian book
emporiums where cardboard boxes full of paperbacks spilled out onto the
pavement during opening hours, and where there was a cavernous interior, where
shelves tottered dangerously under the weight of thousands of tomes, and there
was barely room to walk. To the right of Mad about the Book’s main entrance,
Lucy led me to a much less noticeable doorway, behind which was a narrow
winding staircase. That first time I climbed those stairs, I had to practically
bend double to clear the ceiling until I emerged into the cramped oak
floor-boarded nest that was her home.
Weirdly, behind the outside door
to her flat, were huge metal bars that slid into the brickwork either side,
which were, as Lucy told me, “To protect me. Don’t laugh.” She went on: “But I
would always feel insecure, if I didn’t have locks like this. I couldn’t sleep,
I’d be afraid of someone breaking in. The windows are alarmed, too. I’m a
scaredy cat, I know, but I worry about being attacked. Especially now.”
“Canterbury is one of the least
crime-ridden cities in England.”
“I know. It’s stupid, but that’s
just the way I am. Easily scared. And right now it’s even more important to
take care.”
And that wasn’t all of it. She
carried a flick knife – a vicious looking thing that was undoubtedly illegal –
in a sheath attached to her ankle, and showed me how quickly she could slip it
into her hand and activate the sharp snap that flicked out the vicious pointed
blade, apparently honed to a razor’s edge. She also carried a can of mace, also
illegal, the spray that disables an attacker by temporarily blinding him. And
she told me she’d attended an unarmed combat night class, and was adept at
certain karate chops.
It did make sense in one way, but
it was only later that I understood why she felt so scared all the time. Of
course by then it was too late.
Like the staircase, the sitting
room had a very low ceiling, as well as tiny, leaded-light windows with frilly
curtains, a small television and a comfortable floral-pattern covered sofa and
chairs, and the floorboards were dark oak, waxed to a bright shine. Through one
doorway was her tiny kitchen, and the other door led to her bedroom. I’d
glanced into the bedroom in passing, and it was just as I’d imagined it would
be: chintz covered eiderdown over the half-tester bed, that had neat dark blue
drapes. The ceilings and walls were painted white between the twisting
woodworm-riddled black oak rafters. The whole flat smelt of furniture wax,
cooking herbs and the faint scent of incense from joss sticks. Lucy told me
that she liked to light a joss stick wherever she could, she enjoyed the sharp
hard tang of the smoke, it reminded her of her mum, who’d apparently been a
hippie in the 60s. Even now, whenever I smell that characteristic sharp tang it
reminds me of that time, when I was more content than I’ve ever felt before or
since.
Her workshop was next door to the
bedroom. On one work-table was a miniature wooden dressing table, two inches
tall, complete with shield-shaped, swivelling mirror. Its drawers, so miniscule
that it was almost impossible to grasp their handles between fingertips, slid
in and out smoothly, constructed using such delicate joinery that it was
unbelievable. Another workbench was taken up partially by a large bandsaw, an
elaborate affair with a metal platform, the centre of which had a fine-toothed
blade running at right angles. There was also a pedestal drill, with a similar
flat bed and a handle to pull the drill bit downwards, and there were also
miniature clamps, tweezers, and a special miniature hand-held drill, as well as
several large magnifying glasses on bendable metal arms. In the corner there
was a partially constructed dolls’ house – Georgian, with fine-grained
floorboards and tiny fireplaces. On shelves above her worktable there were
racks full
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