A Library of Lemons

by Jo Cotterill

  Thank you for sending us A History of the Lemon. It is undoubtedly the result of many hours of work, and we can see that it is thorough and expressive. However, the non-fiction market is very tough at the moment and we are sorry to say that we won’t be taking on your book. We wish you luck in placing it elsewhere.

  Oh no. My heart drops into my stomach. I close the email and see that immediately underneath it is another, from a different publisher. The words are brisk and businesslike:

  We regret that A History of the Lemon is not suitable for our list at this time …

  Two rejections. Two rejections of his life’s work, coming within minutes of each other on the same day.

  Where is he?

  I run through the house, shouting for him. He’s not in the kitchen. He’s not upstairs, in his bedroom or mine, or my library, or the bathroom. I am relieved that he hasn’t drowned himself in the bath. But has he gassed himself in the car? I run down the stairs so fast that I take the last three in one jump, and I throw open the door and slip along the paving to our dilapidated garage. The car is in there, but it is cold and empty.

  My breath comes in uneven gasps as I look around wildly. Where could he have gone?

  Has he left me?

  I should ring someone. The police? But I can’t bring myself to dial 999. It’s not a proper emergency, is it?

  I go back into the house. The phone is in the hallway, on a rickety shelf that comes away from the wall if you put too much weight on it.

  I pick up the phone, ready to dial Mae’s house. Her mum will know what to do. Or should I ring Antonia? I hesitate.

  There’s a very faint noise, so faint that I’m not even sure I’ve heard it. It’s coming from the sitting room – Mum’s room.

  Suddenly I’m cold with fear. My back tingles with apprehension. I push the door open, phone gripped tightly in one hand. I didn’t look in here. I didn’t even think of it.

  It’s dark. I’ve seen enough scary things on TV to know to switch on the light. My imagination is running riot. Is Dad bound and gagged on the floor?

  When the light comes on I see him immediately. He’s sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty fireplace. He’s as still as a statue, just staring and staring.

  ‘Dad?’ I say. He’s so still I wonder if he’s paralysed. Maybe he can’t actually move? Maybe he’s been hit by some mystery illness and he’s been stuck here all day, unable to call for help.

  I go to sit next to him, still holding the phone. ‘Dad. It’s me, Calypso. Are you all right?’

  He blinks, and some emotion flickers across his face. But he doesn’t speak or turn his head.

  ‘Do you need a doctor?’ I ask. ‘Can you move? Dad – I need you to speak to me.’

  He licks his lips, as though they’re too dry to form words. ‘My book,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Oh, Dad. I know. I saw the emails. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Two in one day.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean the others will reject it too. You sent it to lots of publishers, didn’t you?’

  He remains silent.

  ‘And anyway,’ I plough on, ‘lots of books get rejected to start with. Harry Potter did.’

  This doesn’t cheer him up. ‘Years of work,’ he says.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry, Dad.’ I put my hand on his arm and give it a squeeze.

  He hardly seems to hear me. ‘What will I do if no one wants it?’ he says.

  I don’t know how to answer. ‘Come on, Dad,’ I say, pulling at his arm. ‘Let’s go and cook something nice for supper.’

  But he won’t move. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  I gaze at him, wondering what to do. In the end, I go and heat up some soup from a tin and bring it with a loaf of bread into the sitting room. It feels chilly in here, so I put some newspaper twists into the fireplace and add two logs on top. By the time I’ve found the matches and lit the fire, the soup is cold and he hasn’t touched it.

  ‘That’s better,’ I say, trying to be cheerful. ‘A nice fire.’

  It isn’t a nice fire. I haven’t made it very well, and it doesn’t warm up the room at all. I blow on it in an attempt to make it spark up better. It spits pitifully.

  I drink my cold soup and eat two slices of bread in silence. Dad is still immobile. Every now and then he says, ‘My book,’ like it’s a missing child.

  The fire goes out. I pick up our bowls and the bread and take them back to the kitchen. Then I wash up and put the kettle on. I’ll make him a cup of tea. Maybe he’ll drink it.

  I make two mugs and carry them through. ‘I’ve got to do my homework,’ I tell him. ‘Shall I bring it in here?’

  I know he’s heard me because he raises his eyebrows very slightly and makes an expression of ‘I don’t know’.

  I bring in my school bag and sit on the floor. I talk to him while I do my homework. ‘Miss Spotlin’s given me a science sheet. I have to fill in these sections about magnets. Do you think the answer to number one is a or b?’

  He doesn’t reply, but somehow I keep going. Part of me, deep down, is growing very scared. He loves that book. He’s been working on it for as long as I can remember. The lemons on the shelves were all part of it. What if no one will publish it? All that work … for nothing. No book. It would be even worse than the review for After Armageddon. That was just a small thing – this is big. Huge. His magnum opus. It’s the most important thing in his life. More important than me, I think.

  I want to batter down the doors of those publishers, scream in their faces. I want to write emails full of swear words, telling them what they’ve done. Don’t they think of the person who’s put their heart and soul into a book when they reject it? How can they write emails like that?

  He’s been making such an effort recently. He’s really been trying to be a better dad. And things had been going so well! He was cooking! He was smiling, even laughing! I knew he had a long way to go still, but it was a beginning! I was starting to think we could be properly happy – and now this. What if he never recovers?

  While my head fizzes with fear, I keep babbling about the questions in my homework. He sits, silent, occasionally sighing. I write nonsense for my answers.

  When I finish, I take our mugs (his is still full) to the kitchen and put them on the side. Then I lean on the sink and stare out of the window at the blackness of the sky. What should I do? Should I ring Antonia and tell her Dad’s gone funny? But it’s past six o’clock – she won’t be at work.

  I have this sudden aching desire to ring Mae. It is so strong it makes me tremble, and I have to hold onto the sink to stay upright. I don’t want to do this on my own. Mae will help. Her mum will help.

  But what if … what if Dad is crashing? Like Lisiella said? What if bringing other people in tips him over the edge? And if he tips over the edge, what will happen to me?

  If Dad tries to …

  If Dad …

  Where would I go? Who would look after me?

  I can’t risk it. The best thing I can do is stay with him, keep close. Watch him. Be cheerful. Keep him going. Don’t do anything different.

  I look out of the window, at the indigo sky and its handful of pinpricks of light, and I take a breath.

  Then I go back to the front room. One tiny orange spark glows faintly but the rest of the fire is dead. Determined, I rake out the ashes and build another fire, better this time. Girls like me used to build fires all the time when they worked as maids. It can’t be that difficult.

  When I have something resembling heat coming from the pile of paper and wood I turn to Dad. He stares at the flickering light but otherwise hasn’t moved at all.

  ‘I’m going to get a blanket,’ I say, ‘and then we can watch the TV for a while. Okay?’

  A very faint frown gathers over his eyes, as though he’s trying to remember something, but he doesn’t say anything, so I go upstairs and drag a big blue blanket out from under my bed.

  There’s a programme about the countryside on
BBC Two. That will do. I put the blanket over his knees and curl up on the other half of the sofa. This room is almost cosy now. I begin to pretend that I am in a book. That helps. I am a poor girl, living with her invalid father, in Victorian Britain, with no prospects. But at the end of the book my rich aunt, who has been searching for me ever since her sister, my mother, died, will find me and we will live in luxury and warmth for ever more. A bit like A Little Princess, only without the India bit.

  It’s hard to imagine Victorian Britain when you’re watching the television, though. And the programme starts talking about fox hunting, and there’s a horrible bit with a mangled fox, and I glance sideways at Dad, wondering if I should change the channel. But he’s staring at the screen like maybe he’s interested. So instead, I close my eyes and go back to the story in my head.

  After the countryside programme, there’s a quiz. And then the news. Dad doesn’t get up even to go to the toilet. We sit there for three hours, staring at the TV, and I write an entire novel in my head.

  Eventually, I realise we’re going to have to do something about going to bed. Can I leave him alone in his room? But what if …?

  No. I can’t. I’ll have to spend the night in his room, somehow.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘It’s time to go to bed.’ I switch off the TV.

  He comes, unresisting. Is that a good sign? Getting him up the stairs is hard work. I push him from behind, and he staggers up on all fours, like a child or a really old person. I make him go to the bathroom and stand outside anxiously. When he comes out I remind him to wash his hands, so he goes back in again.

  I don’t even try to make him take his clothes off. Instead, I tell him to sit down on his bed, and I remove his shoes. Then he lies down and I put the duvet over him.

  ‘Thanks, Calypso,’ he says, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. His eyes are wide open.

  ‘I’m going to sleep in here,’ I say. Then I go to my own room and drag the mattress off the bed. I’d never realised how heavy mattresses are – and it doesn’t have handles or anything to hold onto, so getting it across the landing and through Dad’s doorway is like hefting an elephant. By the time it thumps awkwardly to the floor of his room, I am sweating and dizzy.

  I fetch my duvet and pillow and make up my bed on the floor. Then I go to the bathroom and do all the usual things. I’m getting into my nightie when I realise I should check that the front and back doors are properly locked. I put on my dressing gown, which is two sizes too small, and go back downstairs. The stone flags burn cold through the worn-out soles of my slippers.

  The remains of the fire glow stubbornly. I wonder if I should put them out completely. Is there a risk that the house will catch fire if there are any embers left alight?

  I am so tired I almost sob with the weight of having to make a decision. In the end, I leave the fire to put itself out and crawl back upstairs, my feet blocks of ice. If we can just get through tonight, maybe it will all be better in the morning.

  I get under my duvet and rub my feet. Dad is completely silent. Is he breathing? I have to get up to check.

  His eyes are still open, and as I sit up he whispers, ‘All that work …’

  I press my hand to my mouth so that I can’t cry. Then I lie down again.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  I don’t know how much I sleep. I keep waking up to check that Dad is still alive. You can’t die from sadness, can you? I know it can’t really be possible, but still I can’t help being frightened.

  When it’s half past eight, I get up. I am pleased to see Dad is breathing even though his eyes are closed. I wonder what time he fell asleep. I tiptoe out of the room so as not to wake him.

  It’s Friday, but I can’t go to school and leave him. I boot up Dad’s computer and write an email to the office: I’m sorry to report that Calypso was sick last night, so she won’t be in today. Yours sincerely. It’s lucky for me that the school accepts sick notes via email.

  There are rules about sickness and school. You can’t go back until you’ve had two clear days of not being sick. If necessary, I can use the same excuse on Monday.

  I listen to a programme about Anne Frank on Radio 4 while I eat some toast. It’s really interesting and I try to remember some things to tell Mae later.

  I call Antonia, but it goes to voicemail. I hesitate. I don’t know what to say. ‘Hi, it’s Calypso. Um … I just wondered … Dad’s a bit down. Er … maybe I’ll talk to you on Monday.’ I hang up, feeling stupid. I hate leaving messages. I never know what to say.

  Looking for something comforting, I go into Dad’s library, still in my nightie and dressing gown. The books that we managed to save take up less than half the shelf space. The rest of the shelves are empty. I feel a pang for the books that didn’t make it, as though we turned off their life support. But they were the ones whose pages simply dropped out, the glue from the binding dissolved; the ones with mould so black that the paper was slimy with it.

  I run my fingers over the spines of the books that have made it – the scarred survivors. I reach a hardback with a torn dust jacket and take it down. It’s a copy of Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations. I flick through it. The print is so small! How did people read it without getting a headache?

  Mum’s shelf is only half full now. I insisted her books went back on the same shelf they always lived on. To Kill a Mockingbird is absent. So are Frederica, Jamaica Inn, The God of Small Things, The Bell Jar and at least five others.

  I reach for one that should really have been thrown away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, and I wouldn’t have saved it except …

  On the flyleaf is my mother’s handwriting, neat and careful as it is in all her books: Coral Costello, aged 10½.

  The same age I am now.

  My fingers tremble as I touch the writing. This is a little piece of her – Coral – when she was exactly my age. Coral the child, a long time before she became my mum.

  Was this book one of her favourites? Not that it matters. I shall read it anyway, just as I shall read all of her books over time. I turn the pages, holding my breath. Her eyes followed these same words. The story flowed into her mind, just as it now flows into mine. Through this book, we are connected. And there she is again, in my mind’s eye, smiling in the sunshine. Books give you more than stories. Books can give you back people you’ve lost.

  I wish you were here, I think. I wish more than anything. I close my eyes, and wish and wish and wish so hard I think the wishing part of my mind might break.

  Dad stays in bed. I take him food and drink, but he barely touches a thing. I know a person can go a long time without food, but it’s important to drink water.

  ‘You have to drink,’ I tell him at midday. I hold the glass to his lips until he has to take a sip. Then I put his hands on the glass and tell him to hold it himself.

  I try to cheer him up. I even read him a few pages from a book, but he closes his eyes and turns over, pulling the duvet up over his shoulders. I suggest he comes downstairs and we can watch TV together, but he doesn’t say anything

  Antonia doesn’t ring back. I don’t know why. Maybe the voicemail recorder is broken. Maybe she’s not in the office today. Maybe she’s off sick. Or maybe she listened to my message and thought it didn’t sound important. Is it important? I don’t know. I think about ringing her again, but I don’t want to be a nuisance.

  At the back of my mind is the nagging worry that if I tell someone, they might take me away from Dad. And if I’m not here to look after him, who knows what might happen?

  I go back to Dad’s library and take down Jane Eyre. The scene where she is taken to the red room makes me shiver in fear. Poor Jane! And she had lost both her parents. So many people in stories grieving for loved ones. In a way, it’s kind of reassuring. I’m not the only one.

  But as I read on, my brain starts firing on its own: new characters burst into my thoughts, clamouring to tell their own story. I aba
ndon Jane Eyre, fetch some sheets of paper and a pen and lie on the floor. My pen flies across the paper, filling it with phrases and sentences that I hardly think about. It’s like my brain is spilling words and ideas onto the page without letting me know what they are first. It feels like magic.

  The house is still and quiet, but I don’t mind it now, because my head is on fire, full of thoughts and dreams and memories, and I’m writing about my mother as she must have been as a child, and about a lonely boy who doesn’t know how to make friends. And in my story they meet, and she fills his head with flowers and music and jokes and journeys, and the boy realises that being one of two is better than being one of one, and they decide they’ll be together for ever because life is just better that way. A million, squillion times better.

  When my arm aches so much that I can’t actually hold the pen any more, and I have filled over twenty pages with writing, I rub my eyes and realise it must be well past six o’clock. The room is almost completely dark.

  I scramble up, grabbing the sheets of paper. Dad! I have been so lost in my own world, he could have come down the stairs or run a bath, cooked a meal or … or died, and I wouldn’t have heard. I’m supposed to be looking after him!

  I run upstairs, taking them two at a time, panic and guilt flooding through me.

  I push open his door and almost collapse with relief. He’s not dead. He’s actually sitting up in bed. The eyes that he turns on me are sad and tired, but at least he’s looking at me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘I was writing downstairs, and I lost track of time. Are you all right? I’ll make you a cup of tea. And some toast.’

  The skin between his eyebrows furrows, as if he’s trying to understand me. ‘Tea?’ he says.

  ‘Yes! Yes, tea. I’ll make some, all right?’