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Authors: Lucie Whitehouse
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watched.
The window display had given a false impression of the stock, which was not in the jumble that I’d expected. The books were arranged alphabetically and though all were second-hand, they were in good condition. Theirs was not the unlovely used-bookshop aroma suggestive of house clearances but the library flavour of those that still had something to offer. Interspersed among the bestsellers there were classics – a complete set of Jane Austen and a fair representation of Dickens and Eliot – and also quite a few new titles. I looked up. The man behind the desk was typing, squinting at the screen over the top of his glasses, and I moved along the shelf. There was A.S. Byatt, The Great Gatsby , Alan Hollinghurst, Portnoy’s Complaint . It was like meeting old friends, small pockets of my former life, before the Isle of Wight, before Richard even. I couldn’t think now why I had left my own books in London. I had to buy some of these; I wanted them around me again.
It took a while to choose and when I glanced over, I realised that the man was watching me. His glasses had slipped still further and his sharp blue eyes were now completely visible over the top of them. His expression was serious and as I went towards the desk, my movement made him start. There was no till and he added up the prices pencilled inside the front covers mentally before putting the books in a pink-and-white-striped paper bag from a pile on the floor.
‘You’re not from the Island, are you?’ he said suddenly, as I turned to go.
‘No. I’m just staying in Yarmouth for the winter.’
He nodded. ‘Good. Well, enjoy the reading.’
Out on the street again my happiness at finding the books, the moment’s connection, quickly dissipated. Of course he knew I wasn’t from round here, though: my jacket, my shoes, even my bag made me conspicuous. And then there was the black eye.
By the time I got back to the cottage, it was dark. The cold had reddened my cheeks and my fingers were stiff where they had held the parcel of books across my chest. I made a cup of tea and went upstairs to my makeshift study to check my email. It was Saturday so I didn’t expect much, if any, but there was a message. It was from Richard and the whole of it was written in the subject line: If you want to be alone, then be alone.
At the beginning, I had always slept better on the nights he was with me. Sometimes if I was on my own and I’d stayed up working so late that the street below the flat had finally gone quiet, I put off going to bed. I knew that as soon as the lamp went out, my ears would become hypersensitive and the near-silence inside the building would grow into a sound like the fizzing when a record ends. Then every small noise within it, in the flat and on the floors below, would become significant, evidence of the intruder who had broken in through the old back door on the ground floor and was now slowly working his way upstairs. My bedroom shared a wall with the top landing and though I told myself that the creaking I sometimes heard out there was just the sound of the wooden staircase settling as the temperature through the building dropped, there were nights when I had to turn the light back on, get out of bed and nerve myself up to look through the glass spy-hole in my front door to check that no one was there. Often on those evenings I would go to the kitchen afterwards and pour a glass of wine or brandy to take back to bed.
With Richard I didn’t even notice the quiet. Sometimes I tried to stay awake longer than him so that I could enjoy the feeling of security and listen to the sound of him breathing but by the time we turned off the light, it was always very late, often near morning, and I fell asleep immediately.
It was unusual for him to sleep longer than me. In fact, I was surprised by how little rest he seemed to need. Given the hours he worked, I thought that he would spend a significant amount of the spare time he did
The window display had given a false impression of the stock, which was not in the jumble that I’d expected. The books were arranged alphabetically and though all were second-hand, they were in good condition. Theirs was not the unlovely used-bookshop aroma suggestive of house clearances but the library flavour of those that still had something to offer. Interspersed among the bestsellers there were classics – a complete set of Jane Austen and a fair representation of Dickens and Eliot – and also quite a few new titles. I looked up. The man behind the desk was typing, squinting at the screen over the top of his glasses, and I moved along the shelf. There was A.S. Byatt, The Great Gatsby , Alan Hollinghurst, Portnoy’s Complaint . It was like meeting old friends, small pockets of my former life, before the Isle of Wight, before Richard even. I couldn’t think now why I had left my own books in London. I had to buy some of these; I wanted them around me again.
It took a while to choose and when I glanced over, I realised that the man was watching me. His glasses had slipped still further and his sharp blue eyes were now completely visible over the top of them. His expression was serious and as I went towards the desk, my movement made him start. There was no till and he added up the prices pencilled inside the front covers mentally before putting the books in a pink-and-white-striped paper bag from a pile on the floor.
‘You’re not from the Island, are you?’ he said suddenly, as I turned to go.
‘No. I’m just staying in Yarmouth for the winter.’
He nodded. ‘Good. Well, enjoy the reading.’
Out on the street again my happiness at finding the books, the moment’s connection, quickly dissipated. Of course he knew I wasn’t from round here, though: my jacket, my shoes, even my bag made me conspicuous. And then there was the black eye.
By the time I got back to the cottage, it was dark. The cold had reddened my cheeks and my fingers were stiff where they had held the parcel of books across my chest. I made a cup of tea and went upstairs to my makeshift study to check my email. It was Saturday so I didn’t expect much, if any, but there was a message. It was from Richard and the whole of it was written in the subject line: If you want to be alone, then be alone.
At the beginning, I had always slept better on the nights he was with me. Sometimes if I was on my own and I’d stayed up working so late that the street below the flat had finally gone quiet, I put off going to bed. I knew that as soon as the lamp went out, my ears would become hypersensitive and the near-silence inside the building would grow into a sound like the fizzing when a record ends. Then every small noise within it, in the flat and on the floors below, would become significant, evidence of the intruder who had broken in through the old back door on the ground floor and was now slowly working his way upstairs. My bedroom shared a wall with the top landing and though I told myself that the creaking I sometimes heard out there was just the sound of the wooden staircase settling as the temperature through the building dropped, there were nights when I had to turn the light back on, get out of bed and nerve myself up to look through the glass spy-hole in my front door to check that no one was there. Often on those evenings I would go to the kitchen afterwards and pour a glass of wine or brandy to take back to bed.
With Richard I didn’t even notice the quiet. Sometimes I tried to stay awake longer than him so that I could enjoy the feeling of security and listen to the sound of him breathing but by the time we turned off the light, it was always very late, often near morning, and I fell asleep immediately.
It was unusual for him to sleep longer than me. In fact, I was surprised by how little rest he seemed to need. Given the hours he worked, I thought that he would spend a significant amount of the spare time he did
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