‘Yep,’ Vivian replied without lifting his head. He didn’t want to get involved in his parents’ dispute. He’d copped the fallout of too many previous fights.
Helen stood waiting, watching. He wasn’t turning pages.
Vivian looked up at his mother. He wasn’t going to speak. His look said ‘suffer’ as he returned to the refuge of his book. He had perfected the art of subtracting himself.
Strange, thought Helen, that a person who has read so many books has so little to say. His brain must be crammed with words, stories, anecdotes. What were all those words doing up there? Line dancing? Anagrams? Or did they just sit in his head engaged in polite conversation?
Unexpectedly, Vivian spoke. ‘I’ve got nothing to say about Dad.’ His tone was final, meaning he didn’t want to get involved. Leave him alone.
Helen did a final slow lap of the shop, investigating its grunginess. Beyond that, on the horizon, she could make out something, a respectable bookshop. Would Astrid still want to hand over the money if it were for Vivian?
She slipped on her coat and walked out into the pouring rain. She didn’t care about being wet or cold or uncomfortable. She was a different woman to the one who had entered the shop. Now she had a clear vision of the work ahead of her. By the time her feet hit the pavement her mind was already plotting.
*
‘Whoa, Mr Budd-Doyle, you’ve got a tooth there that needs to come out. It’s cracked right in two. There’s no way I can fix it. You’re a tooth grinder,’ said Doctor E. Ipp, owner and chief dentist of the Tooth Fairy surgery. ‘That’s why you’ve got a lateral crack here.’
With a mouthful of instruments Vivian didn’t even attempt to acknowledge Doctor Ipp’s judgement. He just wanted to get rid of the pain. However he did take in being called Mr, and that she was to be referred to as Doctor. He found the formality a little odd, but it didn’t bother him, and he was quite happy when he felt her hand press against his cheek. Her skin was soft, her touch gentle yet firm as she slid the instruments out of Vivian’s mouth and addressed him. ‘I need to take that second molar out. It’s way beyond saving.’
Vivian sat silent, averting his gaze from Doctor Ipp.
‘It’s really nothing to worry about Mr Budd-Doyle. I’ll make it as pain-free as possible. And once the tooth is out and things have settled, come back and we’ll get you fitted with a mouth brace so you won’t grind away your teeth. You’ll need to wear it at night, while sleeping. That’s when you grind your teeth.’
He nodded.
‘Are you aware that you’re a night grinder?’
He shook his head a little.
Doctor Ella Ipp studied him; he seemed downhearted, and it didn’t seem to be just about losing a tooth. ‘Mr Budd-Doyle, tooth grinding is often just about us thinking things through while we’re asleep.’ She waited for a response.
He blinked.
Two hours later Vivian emerged from the Tooth Fairy, one tooth lighter and with little change from the money his mother had given him. Bedazzled by the gorgeous young female dentist he barely noticed that his mouth felt like he’d gone a few rounds with a prize fighter. He liked her manner. In fact, he liked everything about her. Which was too bad, because what, thought Vivian despondently, would a woman like that see in a fellow like him? The idea that she could be in any way interested in him would be laughable, if it weren’t so pathetic.
*
Long after he had gone, Ella picked up Vivian’s card. She ran her finger along its edge. There was something familiar about him, even his teeth were familiar. Strange. Another client perhaps? Perhaps he was related to Gabriel Budd-Doyle. There couldn’t be too many Budd-Doyles around.
Without doubt, thought Ella, Mr Vivian Budd-Doyle was an attractive man with a calm and steely disposition; why, he’d barely flinched when she’d pulled out his tooth. Not a word of complaint, just a quiet thank you as he left her surgery. But there was a lost quality about him too. Not an unattractive trait, quite the opposite — mysterious. He was a man of few words — another excellent trait.
If only she could meet a man like him under normal circumstances.
She studied his card, noted his address, date of birth and marital status. She saw his mobile phone number. But tempted as she might be to ring him and suggest meeting for a drink, it was, to her mind, unethical. She hoped he’d come back to be fitted for a mouthguard.
*
When Vivian returned to Astrid’s that evening he was even more withdrawn. His remoteness cast a long cold shadow in which Helen shivered.
He sat in the lounge ostensibly to read while Hendel watched the evening news on television. Hard of hearing, Hendel had the volume up, but Vivian seemed impervious to the deafening noise of the newsreader’s account of worldwide disasters.
Astrid was astonished that Helen could detect a change in Vivian’s temperament. ‘Sadder? Well, who wouldn’t be sadder having a tooth pulled out, all those gadgets and needles?’
‘It’s more than having his tooth pulled out; he hasn’t said a single word. Not one. I know he doesn’t say much but usually he says something.’
‘His mouth is too numb to speak.’
‘Not that numb,’ countered Helen.
Astrid concentrated, trying to recall if Vivian had said anything. Helen explained further. ‘And he’s reading the same book he was reading at lunchtime back at the shop. It’s only short. Vivian’s a fast reader, by now he’d be onto another book.’
Astrid peered through the lounge room door and whispered, ‘He’s reading now.’
‘Keep looking. Is he turning any pages?’
Astrid shook her head impatiently. ‘This is stupid.’
‘Look. Go look.’
Astrid obeyed, and to her surprise Vivian wasn’t turning pages. He was merely staring into the book, not moving a muscle. Astrid stood for a few seconds, suspended between the kitchen and hallway. Then she yelled above the television set at Hendel, ‘Turn it down! Hendel, turn the television down! Oh, what a racket.’
Like a docile child, Hendel did as he was told, then hauled his chair up close to the television to be able to hear.
Astrid went back into the kitchen. ‘How Helen, how in heaven’s name did you manage to have two sons so different?’
‘It just happens. But it frightens me to see Vivian like this.’
‘Ahh, try not to worry. Vivian will be all right.’
Helen now knew that the derelict bookshop was no place for Vivian to hang out; his depression would deepen, and go unnoticed there.
She needed to be alone with Astrid, away from any possibility of Hendel or Vivian overhearing their conversation.
‘I’m going to sit in the church,’ she announced. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’
Astrid looked around her. There was the unplayed deck of cards, empty teacups, the clock ticking, and the gas heater giving out its warmth. Was going to the church with Helen to be tonight’s entertainment? she wondered glumly. But she fetched her coat, tucking her pack of cards into one of its pockets. ‘You never know,’ she whispered to herself.
Sitting side by side in the cold, empty church, Helen and Astrid concentrated their gaze on the candles they had lit and which were now illuminating the church in tall fluttering towers of light and shade.
Astrid splintered the silence. ‘Say something Helen. You didn’t ask me here to pray.’
‘You can see Vivian’s depressed. He’s always suffered from depression, ever since he was a little boy. All those times when he was down for no reason.’
Astrid knew of Vivian’s depression, and had little time for it. She felt that his gloominess had been indulged by his mother, and thus exacerbated. However Astrid tempered her judgement; it was understandable that having already lost one son Helen should become an overprotective mother.
‘Shouldn’t he see a doctor then?’
‘He’s seen enough doctors, and none of them are any good. He needs something solid, something to absorb him … I
want to buy the bookshop for him. The one where he works.’
‘It’s wonderful you want to buy a bookshop. But not for Vivian. You must buy it for yourself.’
‘Myself? What about him?’ Helen watched the spiralling shadows play on the church walls.
‘Of course you must help your son. Of course. Except, he is no talker. Vivian is a silent number. Remember, a business needs a talker with an adult head, a wise head. Not Vivian, he is still too young and unreliable.’
Helen could not dispute this assessment. Astrid was right. Gabriel had christened his younger brother the silent number; and it had stuck for good reason. He was quiet enough when not depressed. And then there was the entire calamity up north, and not being able to save a cent. And his work resumé read like a menu in a cheap cafe.
‘You should own the business,’ said Astrid firmly. ‘Perhaps Vivian can be your assistant.’
Helen felt Astrid pulling something out from her coat pocket. It was the deck of cards and she began to shuffle. ‘Helen, inside my kitchen there is the bankcard, full of money, waiting for you to buy your business.’
Helen listened to the sound of the cards being shuffled. Despite her previous sense of urgency she now became hesitant. Could she really just take Astrid’s money?
Astrid sensed her uncertainty. ‘Take it Helen, please. It’s your freedom. All the times I can remember you talking about wanting a bookshop. You can do it now Helen. Take the money.’
‘What about your freedom? With so much money you could leave Hendel.’
Astrid ceased her card shuffling. ‘And what would I do? I am seventy years old. You are still young enough to do something good with this money. I will only lose it. You take it.’
Helen, speechless with gratitude, circled her arms around Astrid and hugged her tight. Then releasing her hold she couldn’t get her words out fast enough. ‘I will pay it all back. I promise I’ll pay you back.’
‘No need,’ replied Astrid, waving the offer away. ‘This is the best use of the money.’
‘One way or another, I’ll pay you back. I owe you.’
‘Ahh, you owe me nothing.’ Astrid paused, and then stared at Helen intently. ‘But Hendel must never, ever, find out that I gave you the money, or where it came from.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Helen, fully appreciating the ramifications for Astrid should Hendel find out that his wife had just handed over such a vast sum to a friend — not forgetting where the money had come from.
‘Helen, you must tell Vivian to keep it top secret too. I think it best to tell everyone that you got a loan, with the family home as collateral. I don’t think Hendel will do anything if he found out … but it is always the shark you never see that gets you. In German you say, Hab ich recht, ja … I’m right, am I not?’
Helen nodded in agreement, her heart racing. They’d have to make the story believable and watertight.
‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘Easy, play some blackjack with me.’
9
Vivian had told his mother where she might locate Jim, the owner of the bookshop, and what to expect. Most likely Jim could be found at the public bar of the National Hotel. He moved around a lot but informed Vivian of his hideouts and the times he frequented them.
The National Hotel was a Fremantle landmark smack in the middle of town, on the corner of High and Market Streets.
Helen hadn’t wanted to wait a second longer than she needed to in meeting the owner of the bookshop. Speed was crucial if he was facing bankruptcy, there would surely be creditors after him.
With Astrid’s help and Vivian’s more restricted assistance, Helen had devised a strategy for acquiring the bookshop. The night before they had, while sitting in Helen’s bedroom, gone over the details repeatedly until Vivian, still suffering from the pain in his jaw, collapsed into a deep sleep.
Vivian had been drilled on the official line: Helen had taken a loan with the family home as collateral. Arnold and Gabriel, of course, would eventually have to be told the truth, but sworn to secrecy.
*
Helen entered the public bar. It seemed empty. She looked at her watch. It was eleven. She turned at the distinctive cough of a heavy smoker, and spotted in the far corner of the bar a man in a three-piece rumpled suit. She walked towards him. He was drinking from a large glass tumbler, a cigarette drooped between his tremulous fingers. Helen tried to guess his age, maybe he was fifty, but he could be eighty.
On seeing Helen approach he looked wary, though he relaxed a little when she smiled and extended her hand. ‘Hello, you must be Jim. I’m Helen Budd-Doyle. I’m interested in buying your bookshop,’ the words rushing out of her as her nerves flared. She tried to relax by examining the man’s suit. It looked like a hand-me-down from a great-grandfather who wore it once, when he married, then passed it down the line until this poor man ended up having to wear it.
For a few moments the man looked confused, trying to register what she’d said. He took a long drag on his cigarette and a length of hot ash fell onto his suit. It made little difference; the fabric had already sustained numerous burns. Exhaling, he peered at her through the elongated coil of smoke. He kept what was left of his cigarette between his juddering fingers. ‘How’d you find me?’
‘Err, friend of a friend of a friend. You know.’
This was enough to satisfy Jim. She spoke his language — obscure and dubious — or so he thought.
‘Here, take a seat. Good to meet you, Helen whatever your surname is. Name your poison?’
‘No, not for me, thank you.’
‘Welcome to my office. Not bad hey?’
Helen looked around. The National had been given a significant facelift. Painstaking workmanship had brought it back to its former splendour. The bar where they sat dripped with brilliant fittings. For an office, she thought, it would be unrivalled, though its current tenant seemed hardly to match such a space.
Her mind went quickly back to business. Vivian’s words rang in her ears. ‘He’s got his back to the wall.’
She scrutinised Jim’s face and saw the personification of failure. It begged pity; heavily bloodshot eyes and skin the texture of scrambled eggs, his nose and ears reduced to ill-defined protuberances.
‘Michael!’ Jim cried out, putting his cigarette butt into an already full ashtray and lighting another, a lengthy process as he was doing it with fingers that refused to stop shaking.
A short clean-cut young man, the barman, arrived and duly filled Jim’s tumbler with four shots of whisky.
‘Put it on the tab will ya?’
The barman gave him a look of annoyance, as if Jim was transgressing some prior agreement about the buying of drinks.
Helen came to the rescue. She needed to get him on side.
‘I’ll pay,’ she offered, slipping a twenty-dollar note onto the bar. She hoped she wouldn’t have to buy too many rounds as the barman handed back a pathetically small amount of change.
‘Cheers,’ said Jim, lifting his glass and taking a swig. ‘Now what did ya come to see me about?’
‘The bookshop you have for sale. I’m interested in buying it.’
‘Oh yeah, it’s for sale all right, and the land it’s sitting on. Got a young fella there, keeping an eye on it for me.’ Jim went silent, as if trying to decide whether he could trust this woman. Finally he said, ‘Got him there to shoo the vultures away.’
Now Helen fully appreciated what Vivian was doing at the ruined bookshop: beating away creditors, throwing red herrings at them, anything to keep them away from Jim who was hiding here at the National and every other watering hole in Fremantle, which gave him a lot of places to hide out.
‘So can I buy the bookshop?’
‘Pretty lady like you? Sure. Give me a price, Helen.’ Jim gave her a lingering lecherous look.
Helen baulked momentarily. She hadn’t expected this, to be telling him how much she was willing to pay. She had three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. She
had hoped to pay around three hundred and forty thousand, leaving her enough for stamp duty and to fix up the shop.
Regaining her composure she shot out a figure. ‘Three hundred thousand.’
Jim curled his lip, tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘That’s not a lot of money.’
‘Well, you give me a price then.’
He lifted his glass and took another drink. ‘I was thinking more like six hundred thousand.’
Helen could feel the tension in her body, the sweat under her arms. Vivian’s words came back. ‘Drive a hard bargain, Mum, he’s got his back to the wall.’
‘Way, way too much. It’s not worth anywhere near six hundred thousand.’
‘It is. And don’t forget there’s the stock included, not to mention the goodwill.’ He smiled triumphantly, showing off a set of teeth coated in a residue of whisky and nicotine.
‘I’ve seen the place, Jim. There is no stock and, I suspect, even less goodwill. Granted, the land would be worth something.’
‘Bully for you, doing your homework.’ His smile melted into a grim line. ‘I take it you want to run it as a bookshop?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Jim threw his head back and gave a sly laugh as if to say — think you can make a go of it? Let’s see you try.
For a moment Helen panicked; she knew nothing of business.
‘Give me four hundred grand and it’ll be a deal. I’m feeling sorry for ya.’ Jim began to cough so violently Helen had to bend away from him. It took a while for him to settle and when he breathed again it sounded like he had a lot of loose change in his lungs.
Images of Vivian flashed before her. She steeled herself. Too bad if Jim had taken a tumble, she had to take advantage of his situation; she had to think of Vivian and herself.
‘Three hundred and twenty.’
‘Ouch! I was hoping for a little more.’
‘I don’t think it’s worth a little more. Cash payment in full though, and within the week.’
Staring straight ahead he took a drag of his cigarette, and then another, the smoke settling around him. He was thinking or stalling, or both, Helen couldn’t tell as she watched him anxiously.
The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street Page 6