The Bus of Books

The kitchen had been cleared and cleaned; scrubbed to within an inch of its life, and the only thing left that wasn’t stacked away on a shelf somewhere was me.

I had never seen a woman clean with such vigour, with such purpose, as if her life depended on it. Rosaleen rolled up her sleeves and sweated, biceps and triceps astonishingly well formed, as she scrubbed, wiping away every trace of life having ever existed in the place. So I sat watching her in fascination, and I admit with a hint of patronising pity too, at the unnecessary act of such intense polishing and cleaning.

She left the house carrying a parcel of freshly baked brown bread that smelled so good it sent my taste buds and my already full stomach into spasms. I watched her from the front living‑room window power‑walking across the road, not an inch of femininity about her, to the bungalow. I waited by the window, intrigued to see who would answer the door, but she went round the back and spoiled my fun.

I took the opportunity to wander around the house without Rosaleen breathing down my neck and explaining the history behind everything I laid my eyes on as she’d done all morning.

‘Oh, that’s the cabinet. Oak, it is. A tree came down hard one winter, thunder and lightning, we’d no electricity for days. Arthur couldn’t rescue it‑the tree that is, not the electricity; we got that back.’ Nervous giggle. ‘He made that cabinet out of it. Great for storing things in.’

‘That could be a good little business for Arthur.’

‘Oh no,’ Rosaleen looked at me as though I’d just blasphemed. ‘It’s a hobby, not a money‑making scheme.’

‘It’s not a scheme, it’s a business. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ I explained.

Rosaleen tut‑tutted at this.

Hearing myself, I sounded like my dad, and even though I had always hated this about him‑his desire to turn everything into a business‑it gave me a nice warm feeling. As a child if I brought home paintings from school he’d think I could suddenly be an artist, but only an artist who could demand millions for my works. If I argued a point strongly, I was suddenly a lawyer, but only a lawyer who demanded hundreds per hour. I had a good singing voice and suddenly I was going to record in his friend’s studio and be the next big thing. It wasn’t just me he did that with, it was everything around him. For him life was full of opportunities, and I don’t think that was necessarily a bad thing, but I think he wanted to grab them for all the wrong reasons. He wasn’t passionate about art, he didn’t care about lawyers helping people, he didn’t even care about my singing voice. It was all for more money. And so I suppose it was fitting that it was the loss of all his money that killed him in the end. The pills and the whisky were just the nails in the coffin.

‘Is it that photo you’ve got your eye on?’ Rosaleen would continue as my eyes roamed the room. ‘He took that when we visited the Giant’s Causeway. It rained the entire day and we got a puncture on the way up.’

And on she went.

‘I see you’re looking at the curtains. They need a bit of a clean. I’ll take them down tomorrow and do them. I bought the fabric from a woman doing door‑to‑door. I never usually but she was a foreign woman, hadn’t much English, or money, and had all this fabric. I like the flower in it. I think it matches the cushion there, what do you think? I’ve lots left in the garage down the back.’

Then I looked to the garage down the back and she’d say, ‘Arthur built that himself. Wasn’t here when I moved in.’

It struck me as odd phrasing. When I moved in. ‘Who lived here before?’

Rosaleen looked at me then, with those wide curious eyes she’d previously reserved for when I was eating. She didn’t say anything. She does that a lot, at the most random times. Dropping in and out of our conversations with looks and pauses as though she loses signal on her brain connection.

She freaked me out so much that I looked away, apparently down at the rug that was given to her by somebody for something, I don’t know…But that morning when I was alone and didn’t have her nervous jabbering interfering in my thoughts, I was able to look around properly.

The living room was cosy, I suppose, if not a little old. Well, a lot old, not like my house, which is‑was‑modern and clean, crisp lines and everything symmetrical. This room had things all over the place. Art that didn’t match the couches, funny‑looking ornaments, tables and chairs with spindly legs and animal claws, two couches with totally different fabrics‑one blue and ivory floral, the other as if a cat had thrown up on it‑and a coffee table that doubled as a chessboard. The floor felt like it was uneven, sloping from the fireplace to the bookshelves, making me feel a little seasick. The busiest area seemed to be around the fireplace; an open fire that made me shudder with its contraptions that looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber; wrought‑iron pokers with animal heads, coal shovels of different sizes, an ancient bellows, a black cast‑iron fireguard with an animal of some sort emblazoned on the front. I turned my back on the fire and concentrated on the floor‑to‑ceiling bookcase, with a ladder, running the length of the wall. It was filled with books, photos, tins, keepsake boxes, useless trinkets, that kind of thing. Most of the books were on gardening and cooking, very specific, not at all to my taste. They were old and well‑read, some ripped apart, some missing their covers, yellowing pages, and some that looked water damaged, but not a speck of dust was to be seen. There was a huge red‑bound book, which looked so ancient the pages were black with the red dye running into them. It was Lloyd’s Register of Shipping 1919‑1920 Volume 2 . Inside were hundreds of pages of the alphabetically arranged names of vessels, showing the dead weight and capacities of holds and permanent bunkers. I slid it back into place and wiped my hands on my clothes, not wanting the bacteria of 1919 to infest me. Another book was about faiths of the world, which had on the cover a gold emblem of a cross dug into the ground with a snake twisted around it. Then beside it was a book on greek cooking, though I doubted very much that there’d be a place for a souvlaki next to Rosaleen’s Aga. The next book was The Complete Book of the Horse, though it mustn’t have been, for there were twelve more on the subject.

I’d read only the first chapter of the book Fiona gave me at my dad’s funeral and already that was the most I’d read in a year, so the books stuffed onto the shelves didn’t particularly interest me. What did interest me was a photo album filed alongside them all. It was in the large book section, beside the dictionaries, encyclopaedia, world atlas and that kind of thing. An old‑fashioned album, it had the look of a printed book, or at least its spine had. It had a red velvet cover and was embossed by a frame of gold, and I took it out and ran my finger across the front, leaving a darkened trail on the velvet. I curled up in the leather‑studded armchair, looking forward to getting lost in somebody else’s memories. As soon as I opened the first page, the doorbell rang, long and shrill. It broke the silence and made me jump.

I waited, almost expected Rosaleen to come sprinting across the road with her teadress hitched up to her thighs, revealing hamstrings so tight Jimi Hendrix could play on them. But she didn’t. Instead there was silence. There wasn’t a peep upstairs from Mum. The doorbell rang again and so I placed the photo album down on the table, and made my way to the front door, the house feeling a little more like home as I did so.

Through the obscure stained glass, I could tell it was a man. When I opened the door, I saw it was a gorgeous man. Early twenties, I guessed, dark brown hair gelled straight up in the front, just like his polo‑shirt collar. He could well be a rugby boy. He looked me up and down, and smiled.

‘Hi,’ he said, and his smile revealed perfectly straight white teeth. He had stubble all around his jaw, his eyes were bright blue. In his hand was a clipboard with a chart attached.

‘Hi,’ I said, arching my back as I leaned in against the door.

‘Sir Ignatius?’ he asked.

I smiled. ‘Not I.’

‘Is there a Sir Ignatius Power in this house?’

‘Not at the moment. He’s out fox hunting with Lord Casper.’

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘When will he be back?’

‘After he’s caught the fox, I assume.’

‘Hmm…’ he nodded slowly and looked about him. ‘Are the foxes fast around here?’

‘You’re obviously not from around here. Everybody knows about the foxes here.’

‘Hmm. Indeed I’m not.’

I bit my lip and tried not to smile.

‘So he might be a long time?’ he smiled, sensing I was waning.

‘He might be a very long time.’

‘I see.’

He leaned against the porch pillar and stared at me.

‘What?’ I said defensively, feeling like I was melting under his gaze.

‘Seriously.’

‘Seriously, what?’

‘Does he live anywhere around here, at all?’

‘Definitely not behind these gates.’

‘What are you then?’

‘I’m a Goodwin.’

‘I’m sure you are, but what’s your surname?’

I tried not to laugh but couldn’t help it.

‘Cheesy, I know, sorry,’ he apologised good‑heartedly, then looked confused as he consulted his chart and scratched his head, making it even more tousled.

I looked over his shoulder and saw a white bus, with ‘The Travelling Library’ emblazoned across the side.

He finally looked up from his clipboard. ‘Okay then, I’m definitely lost. There’s no Goodwin on this list.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t be under my name.’ Byrne was my mother’s maiden name, my uncle Arthur’s surname and the name this house would be under. Arthur and Rosaleen Byrne. Jennifer Byrne‑it didn’t sound right. It felt like my mum should always have been a Goodwin.

‘So this must be the Kilsaney residence?’ he said hopefully, looking up from his chart.

‘Ah, the Kilsaneys,’ I said, and he looked relieved. ‘They’re the next house on the left, just through the trees,’ I smiled.

‘Great, thank you. I’ve never been around here before. I’m an hour late. What are they like, the Kilsaneys?’ He scrunched up his nose. ‘Will they give me shit?’

I shrugged. ‘They don’t say much. But don’t worry, they love books.’

‘Good. Do you want me to stop here on the way back out so you can have a look at the books?’

‘Sure.’

I closed the door and burst out laughing. I waited with excitement for him to return, butterflies fluttering around my heart and stomach as though I was a child playing hide‑and‑seek. I hadn’t felt like this for at least a month. Something had been reopened inside me. Less than a minute later, I heard the bus returning. It stopped outside the house and I opened the door. He was getting out of the bus, a big smile on his face. When he looked up he caught my eye and shook his head.

‘Kilsaneys not home?’ I asked.

He laughed, coming towards me, thankfully not angry but amused. ‘They decided they didn’t want any books as it seems, along with the second floor and most of their walls, and the actual roof of their home, their bookshelf went missing.’

I giggled.

‘Very funny, Miss Goodwin.’

‘It’s Ms, thank you very much.’

‘I’m Marcus.’ He held out his hand and I shook it.

‘Tamara.’

‘Beautiful name,’ he said gently. He leaned against the wooden porch pillar. ‘So seriously, do you know where this Sir Ignatius Power of the Sisters of Mercy lives?’

‘Hold on, let me see that.’ I grabbed the clipboard from him. ‘That’s not “Sir”. That’s “Sr”. Sister,’ I said slowly. ‘You muppet.’ I tapped him on the head with it. ‘He’s a nun.’ Not a transvestite, after all.

‘Oh.’ He started laughing and grabbed the end of his board. I held on tight. He pulled harder and dragged me out onto the porch. That close up he was even cuter. ‘So is that you, Sister?’ he asked. ‘Have you received your calling?’

‘The only thing I get called for is dinner.’

He laughed. ‘So, who is she?’

I shrugged.

‘You’re intent on making me get lost, aren’t you?’

‘Well, I just got here yesterday so I’m as lost as you are.’

I didn’t smile when I said that and he didn’t smile back either. He got it.

‘Well, for your sake, I really hope that’s not true.’ He looked up at the house. ‘You live here?’

I shrugged.

‘You don’t even know where you live?’

‘You’re a strange man who travels in a bus filled with books. Do you think I’m going to tell you where I live? I’ve heard about your kind,’ I said, walking away from the house and towards the bus.

‘Oh, yeah?’ He followed me.

‘There was a guy like you who lured children into his bus tempting them with lollipops, then when they got inside, he locked them in and drove off.’

‘Oh, I heard about him,’ he said, his eyes lighting up. ‘Long greasy black hair, big nose, pale skin, danced around in tight trousers and sang a lot. Also had a penchant for toy boxes?’

‘That’s the one. Friend of yours?’

‘Here,’ he rooted inside his top pocket and dug out his ID. ‘You’re right, I should have shown this earlier. It’s a public library, licensed and everything. All official. So I promise I won’t trap you inside.’

Unless I asked him to. I studied the ID card. ‘Marcus Sandhurst.’

‘That is I. Want to look at the books?’ He held his arm out to the bus. ‘Your chariot awaits.’

I looked around, not a soul nearby, including Mum. The bungalow also appeared dead. With nothing to lose, I climbed aboard, and as I did, Marcus sang, ‘Children,’ in the Child‑Catcher’s voice, and cackled. I laughed too.

Inside, both walls were lined with hundreds of books. Divided into various categories and I ran my finger along them, not really reading the titles, a little on guard at being in the bus with a strange man. I think Marcus sensed this because he took a few steps back from me, gave me plenty of space, and stood by the open door instead.

‘So what’s your favourite book?’ I asked.

‘Eh…Scarface.’

‘That’s a film.’

‘Based on a book,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not. What’s your favourite book?’

‘Coldplay,’ he responded. ‘Pizza…I don’t know.’

‘Okay,’ I laughed, ‘so you don’t read.’

‘Nope.’ He sat up on a ledge. ‘But I’m hoping that this experience will positively change me for the better and that I will be converted to a reader.’ He spoke lazily, his voice so lacklustre and unconvincing it was as though he was repeating something he’d been told himself.

I studied him. ‘So what happened, Daddy asked his friend to give you a job?’

His jaw line hardened and he was silent for a while, and I felt really bad, like I should take back the comment. I don’t even know why I said that. I don’t even know where that came from. I just had a weird feeling that I must have been close. I think maybe I recognised a part of me in him.

‘Sorry, that wasn’t funny,’ I apologised. ‘So what happens here?’ I said, trying to break the tension. ‘You travel around to people’s houses and give them books?’

‘It’s the same as a library,’ Marcus said, still a little cool with me. ‘People join up, receive membership cards and that allows them to take out books. I go to the towns where there aren’t any libraries.’

‘Or life forms,’ I said, and he laughed.

‘You’re finding it tough here, city girl?’

I ignored that comment and kept studying the books.

‘You know what people around here would really appreciate instead of books?’

He smiled suggestively at me.

‘Not that,’ I laughed. ‘You could actually make some money out of this thing if you got rid of the books.’

‘Ha! Now that’s not very cultured,’ he said.

‘Well, there’s no bus service around here. Apparently there’s a town fifteen minutes drive away‑how is anybody supposed to get there?’

‘Eh…the answer would be in your question.’

‘Yes, but I can’t drive because I’m‑’ I stalled, and he smiled. ‘Because I’m not able to drive,’ I finished.

‘What? You mean Daddy didn’t get you a Mini Cooper yet? That’s totally uncool,’ he imitated me.

‘TouchÉ.’

‘Okay,’ he jumped off the table, filled with energy. ‘I have to go there now. How about we go to this wonderful magical town that no human legs can reach.’

I giggled. ‘Okay.’

‘Don’t you need to run it by somebody? I don’t want to be done for kidnapping.’

‘I may not be a driver but I’m not a child.’ I kept my eye on the bungalow. Rosaleen was gone a long time.

‘You’re sure?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Please just tell someone.’

He looked anxious and just because of that I took out my phone and called Mum’s mobile, which I know she hadn’t touched for a month. I left a message.

‘Hi, Mum, it’s me. I’m outside the house in a bus full of books and a cute guy is going to drive me to the town. I’ll be back in a few hours. In case I don’t come back, his name is Marcus Sandhurst, he’s five foot ten, has black hair, blue eyes…Any tattoos?’ I asked.

He lifted his top. Ooh he was ribbed.

‘He’s got a Celtic cross on his lower abdomen, no chest hair and a silly smile. He likes Scarface , Coldplay and pizza, and is hoping to get into books in a big way. See you later.’

I hung up and Marcus burst out laughing. ‘You know me better than most people.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.

‘Are you always so misbehaved?’ he asked.

‘Always,’ I responded, and climbed into the passenger seat in preparation for my adventure out of Kilsaney Demesne.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 727