Helen would read to Leif as he lay stretched out on the pew with a blanket over him and his head on her lap. She would caress his head with one hand and hold the book with the other. What was it she read?
There was something that had especially caught his attention. Hendel thought hard. Yes. Roald Dahl’s The Twits. And Leif’s laughter, a raw wheezing sound that Hendel remembered with an ache. Leif’s funeral had been held in his church too. Hendel had conducted the service. He recalled the small coffin and Helen and Arnold’s incomprehension.
They were shattered and he had felt completely incompetent in helping them with their loss; it was beyond him. Yet Hendel had almost envied their grief because it was so demonstrably great he knew that it could come only from an immense and profound love, something he had never experienced, or was ever likely to.
Hendel was unsure of many things, but of two things he was certain; he was old and his marriage was dead, a stone cold cadaver.
Astrid had been unable to accept God’s will that she was not to have children. She had pooh-poohed her religion and sought medical advice that had found she was as fertile as a cow and that the likely cause was Hendel. A low sperm count.
Hendel was incensed by his wife’s unilateral action, and had refused medical treatment to increase the potency of his poor sperm. Astrid had raged against his manly pride and blind faith, but to this day Hendel believed his decision, however hard, had been the right one. He had accepted God’s will.
*
‘Better go see the old man,’ Vivian announced the next morning at breakfast. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’
He returned at midday. ‘Sorry I was so long. Got caught listening to Gabriel’s army adventures.’
‘Gabriel?’ Helen and Astrid cried in astonished unison.
‘What’s he doing home? And why hasn’t he come to see me?’ demanded Helen.
‘He’s quit the army. Said he’ll be over in half an hour.’ Vivian’s speech slowed as he realised how his words were affecting his mother. ‘He also said to tell you he’s really sorry for not coming over sooner. But he’s been sleeping.’
‘How long has he been home?’ Helen’s face registered disappointment.
‘Not long. Day and a half, maybe,’ ventured Vivian.
Helen sat open-mouthed as she thought briefly of the incomprehensible behaviour of one’s children. ‘Sleeping,’ she remarked in amazement. She wondered if Arnold had summoned them home.
‘Did you say he’s quit the army?’ she asked.
‘Yep.’
‘Why?’
‘Reckons they didn’t like his name.’
‘Gabriel’s a wonderful name,’ argued Helen.
‘Yeah, sure, if you’re a hairdresser. Or a chef. Geez, I copped enough flak up north being called Vivian.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
Helen felt deflated. It upset her; she’d taken great care to pick their names. ‘They are boys’ names,’ she replied quietly.
‘Which also happen to be girls’ names. Were you hoping for girls?’
‘No. I picked your names because of their meaning. I can’t help it if the rest of the world is so narrow-minded.’
Vivian looked blankly at her. Helen changed tack. ‘How’s Gabriel anyway?’
‘Busy giving Dad a hard time. Trying to get him to offload some of his crap.’
‘One hell of a job ahead of him,’ Helen stated forlornly.
‘If anyone can get Dad to move his stuff, it’s Gabriel.’
Helen knew this to be true. Gabriel’s powers of persuasion were legendary.
*
Gabriel came to visit and quickly reassured his mother and Astrid that he’d not left the army because of his name. ‘I’d had a gutful. My time was up. Simple,’ he said.
Helen hugged him. And he returned the hug before pulling away. ‘So you finally left the old man, or was it the junk you left?’
‘Both,’ answered Helen.
‘Well, I reckon I can get Dad to clear out his junk.’
Helen said nothing.
‘I know I can,’ stated Gabriel.
‘Let’s change the record,’ said Helen.
Before long Gabriel was telling them a story. Followed by another. He chattered non-stop; candidly, wildly, gesticulating with his arms; he laughed uproariously. Helen tried not to make comparisons between her sons. Astrid, though, did compare; had compared the two boys all their lives. As much as she loved Vivian, Gabriel was her favourite.
*
Next day midday Vivian announced that he had some work, ‘Keeping an eye on a bookshop.’
‘A bookshop?’ Helen asked, a little perplexed.
‘Yeah. Start the day after tomorrow.’
‘Doing what exactly?’
‘Just keeping an eye out … you know,’ he said, grabbing a chair and sitting on it.
Helen didn’t know but decided to move on. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Fremantle.’
‘Fremantle’s a big place Vivian.’
‘Just in Freo.’
‘Just in Freo,’ Helen sighed, ready for the long haul. ‘Whereabouts in, just in Freo?’
‘Jacaranda … Street,’ Vivian answered, as if giving away confidential information. ‘It’s a bit of a back street.’
‘It sounds lovely,’ replied Astrid. ‘Jacaranda Street. Now, how about a game of cards? Blackjack?’ she suggested in a conspiratorial hush.
Astrid’s suggestion was a welcome reprieve from his mother’s interrogation. ‘Sure, if you want to give your money away.’
Astrid chuckled as she scurried to get the stash of coins she kept in an old honey jar in the laundry. She brought it out, rattling it like a child, delighted at the prospect of playing blackjack with Vivian.
‘Better deal then,’ said Vivian, grinning as he recognised the old jar. He began trawling through his pockets for loose change; there wasn’t much, so Astrid supplemented his paltry amount from her considerable quantity, just as she had when the boys were little.
Helen was thinking about Vivian’s newfound work. It sounded odd, keeping an eye on a bookshop. But, importantly, he had a job. Be enthusiastic she told herself, for Vivian’s sake.
‘A bookshop! What a great place to work,’ she declared.
‘I won’t be reading books all day,’ grumbled Vivian as he won another hand.
‘Of course not. But you’ll be in good company.’
‘World first for everything,’ said Vivian. ‘And it’s a second-hand bookshop, Mum.’
He picked up the card Astrid had dealt him. She looked on shrewdly as he called for another. Flicked his two cards up, twenty-one. Astrid swore under her breath.
‘Actually I’d love to work in a second-hand bookshop,’ Helen said enviously.
‘Then why don’t you? You’ve always wanted to,’ said Vivian.
‘Ja, he is spot on,’ added Astrid, as she looked at Helen with lips fiercely pressed and eyebrows arched significantly. Helen shrank from Astrid’s expression. She could translate it exactly; it meant: I’ve offered you the money, take it you great ninny. You can buy yourself a bookshop.
They were right. Why didn’t she? She’d always dreamed of it. Now there was nothing to stop her.
Later in the evening, when the dishes were finished, the kitchen cleared, and Vivian had gone off to read in another room, Astrid turned to Helen. ‘He doesn’t say much, but what he does say is chock-o-block full. You mark my words, one day Vivian will make a wonderful husband for some lucky girl. A chatterbox makes a shocking husband. Hendel use to be a chatterbox until I shushed him for good!’
Helen wondered where Hendel was. It seemed he’d not only been shushed for good, but banished as well. She dared not comment though. Instead, she thought of her son, the silent number.
She loved Vivian the way he was. Sometimes, Helen thought, love is silent, without a whole lot of racket passing off as communication.
*
The following d
ay Helen went to see Vivian at the bookshop. She wanted to see him in his new environment. She took sandwiches, cake and hot soup in a thermos; the layers of fat that had fallen away needed replacing.
Heavy rain whipped at her, forcing her to scamper down Jacaranda Street; a street placed so far back and haphazardly, it would be easy to miss. But with a little persistence, Helen found it. And it was obvious how it had earned its name; it was lined with jacaranda trees. Against the winter sky they stood like sentries with their limbs taut and haunting as the charcoal-coloured clouds above them.
She’d wrapped her raincoat tightly around her body, a large duffle bag hidden beneath. Despite the rain she could see that it was a quiet street, the buildings unkempt. The few clothes and gift shops open were hardly booming, in fact they appeared to be on their way out as they displayed signs proclaiming ‘Clearance Sales’ or ‘50% Off Everything’. But there was a deli and a small coffee shop that looked promising.
Through the rain Helen trudged back and forth along the street. There appeared to be no bookshop. Then she stopped, and as if gripped by a pair of icy hands around her throat she stood stone still. Her heart sank. Was this it? She had been past this door half a dozen times, barely giving it a glance. Somehow she had convinced herself that Vivian’s bookshop had escaped the sorry fate of its neighbours. It was worse.
Helen stood in the rain and examined the shopfront. It was a shambles, incapable of enticing anyone in. A rain-drenched lopsided sign spelled out ‘Book- hop’. Spray-painted obscenities spoiled the brickwork, while each of the two large windows facing the street resembled a crazy network of spider webs. Where the odd brick had penetrated the glass, the hole had been covered with tape.
The double doors were filthy and shut tight. Driven by the vigour of the cold wet wind which whirled around her, Helen tugged and pushed at the wooden doors until they opened. Once inside she quickly flung them shut. She brushed the rain from her face with the sleeve of her coat and blinked to clear her vision, then carefully took off her coat, trying not to sprinkle raindrops on herself. Her hair was sopping wet and a few drops slid down the neck of her jumper, enough to make her feel ticklishly uncomfortable.
Vivian was sitting on a wooden box with an open book on his lap and an old tattered blanket across his bony shoulders. A tiny electric bar heater sat at his feet.
The scene alarmed Helen; how easily her son fitted in with the miserable surroundings. His behaviour and appearance contradicted nothing about the shop. Helen was thankful she’d brought the food. There was nowhere to put her coat so she held it pincer-like under her arm as she managed to shepherd the food out of the duffle bag.
‘You warm enough?’ she said.
‘Enough.’ He took the lunch gratefully, saying nothing else while his mother did a more thorough assessment of the shop.
She felt as though she had escaped the harshness of one season to enter into another, for the interior resembled autumn with its books brittle and warped and pages yellowed and curled and detached from their branch and fallen onto the floor where they drifted to the outer edges of the room, decomposing.
The counter was littered with empty milk cartons, crushed polystyrene cups and circular coffee stains where cups had once stood. Rubbish skulked along the floor. Of the shelves still left standing, most were collapsing, and contained few books.
She could smell the rot and feel the unsympathetic cold seeping in from all the cracks, fissures and gaps the building was plagued with. She shivered. Through the fractured window she saw a large jacaranda. Bereft of its frond-like leaves and soft mauve flowers it stood dejected. It was late July and buds would not appear for some months. Still, the thought of spring was a consolation.
Vivian was the only soul around. It was as though the place had been evacuated months ago. At any moment she expected to see tumbleweeds blowing across the floor. No wonder he’d got the job so swiftly, she thought ruefully, this wasn’t work; it was babysitting a ruin for some peculiar reason.
Vivian ate greedily, stopping briefly to address his mother. ‘What were you expecting?’
Helen hesitated, ‘Well, not this. Why did you lie to me?’
‘I didn’t lie. I told you I was keeping an eye on the place. Your brain concocted some notion of me working in a swank bookshop.’
It was true that Helen had expected the vibrant yet genteel bookshop of her own dream. Row upon row of books, old yet still in mint condition and all neatly arranged in alphabetical order. A distinguished, dignified looking establishment, crowded with discerning and solemn looking book lovers poring over each and every book, chatting discreetly with the owner — her — asking for advice, discussing ideas, talking about books with restrained animation. And there, at the end of the counter, the grand gold coloured Royal Agent till ringing constantly from the endless sale of books.
Helen pictured herself making recommendations to the person who loved reading but didn’t know quite what to read, or what was good for them. She would have not one finger on the pulse but five fingers. Her establishment would be a hustling, bustling, thriving business.
‘Not what you had in mind, Mum?’
‘Hardly. Are you getting paid for this?’
‘Yeah. Cash.’
‘Where’s the owner?’ Helen asked.
‘In some bar, it’s how I got the job. Met him in a bar. He told me he needed someone he could trust to keep an eye on things.’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Suppose. He’s trying to sell the place.’
‘Not trying very hard.’
‘It’s a private sale,’ explained Vivian as he poured hot soup into the thermos mug.
‘What does that mean?’
‘You buy directly from him. No middleman to take a cut. He’s a drunk. A total idiot. Got a string of businesses going bust. I’d say he’s facing bankruptcy; he’s gotta sell before his creditors take it over.’
‘How much is he asking?’
‘Six hundred grand.’
‘Six hundred thousand,’ repeated Helen, feeling defeated.
‘Drive a hard bargain, you could get this whole shebang for a steal. Maybe half the price. And it might be a dump, but it’s a big dump. And it’s just a matter of time before this street starts to move.’
It was a large building, Helen noted. There was a lot of floor space.
‘If I had money I’d buy it. Give me a reason to get out of bed in the morning,’ said Vivian.
Helen was struck by her son’s words. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. For sure. Problem is … I don’t have any money. Which reminds me, can you lend me some for the dentist? My appointment’s this arvo.’
‘Sure,’ she said, delving into her duffle bag and pulling out her purse. She handed Vivian a number of notes. ‘Keep the change, if there is any.’
Helen thought it best to ignore the fact that he’d saved nothing up north; the important thing was Vivian wanting to own a bookshop. She started to walk around the building and noticed with surprise the pressed metal walls with dado wood panelling.
There were three storeys. She crept up the old wooden stairs that twisted up to the upper floors. Each step she took brought a loud creak and a groan.
If downstairs was derelict, the two upstairs levels were depravity. The windows had been boarded up from the inside, making it dark and difficult to see. However, on the first floor she could make out a kitchen with a bathroom-cum-laundry next door. Further along were three bedrooms and a living room. The whole area was surprisingly spacious but taken up with furniture that was broken, chipped and dirty.
The air stank. Dead cockroaches, stiffened with age, littered the floor. Climbing the stairs to the attic she could hear the rain pounding away on the roof.
The top floor was one large dark room inhabited by even more old furniture coated in thick jackets of dust that flowed gracefully onto the floor, covering it like a primeval rug. But the effect was spoiled by rain; in several places drops fell onto the fl
oor, forming murky puddles that seeped downward to the ground floor.
Helen was surveying the first floor again when the building gave an audible wheeze. A sharp breath. Helen gasped as memories of Leif swamped her. She spun around then shook her head. How stupid, she’d been tricked by her imagination again. Even after twenty years she could still see her boy returning. Thin and pale but with a beguiling smile and rich auburn-coloured hair. People had always commented on the colour of his hair.
Vivian had the same hair. And at times, with a wrench, she saw traces of Leif in him.
As she moved carefully around the kitchen her spirits began to lift. There was something about this building which hooked her and slowly reeled her in. She could see the potential, and beyond that, a future. The gap between the dream and reality was beginning to close in her mind. She visualised Astrid holding up the bankcard, the three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Maybe …
Downstairs, Vivian was finishing off his lunch. ‘Be a good place to do up,’ he remarked.
‘Yeah, it would,’ answered Helen, trying not to sound overly interested, or give any sense of a promise that she could not fulfil.
‘And I know who supplies the owner.’ Vivian lifted up the book he was reading as if to illustrate his point. ‘Blood Bath is one dollar from the supplier. Not bad.’
Helen had no argument; Vivian was right about the building. And Jacaranda Street would be developed just like so many other streets in Fremantle. There was only the problem of money. The thought of Astrid’s money was tempting. But surely she couldn’t accept it? And she could hardly evict Arnold out of the family home. She wouldn’t. That wasn’t an option.
Vivian’s head was back in the book. Like her, he had always been a voracious reader.
‘I thought you said you wouldn’t be reading all day.’
‘Nothing else to do.’
‘We could talk about your dad and me if you like. Why I left him.’
Vivian looked up from his book. ‘I’d rather read.’
He may be the silent number but he certainly knows how to bite, thought Helen. ‘You must have spoken to him yesterday.’
The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street Page 5