The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street

by Marlish Glorie

  Dragging herself into the kitchen, Helen began to make dinner. Within ten minutes she was sitting opposite Vivian and eating in a measured way between yawns.

  ‘A lot of those books downstairs are disgusting,’ she offered.

  ‘Disgusting sells,’ Vivian replied dryly, staring at his plate of bread, baked beans and sausages, secretly hoping his mother might read some of the cookbooks. But she was a good cook. He knew that; it had been a long and arduous day, and they did not have the money to eat out.

  ‘If I could, honestly, I’d return the crappy ones, first thing in the morning,’ said Helen.

  ‘You mean you’d return about four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine books.’

  Helen threw down her fork and knife and began to cry.

  Vivian felt bewildered. He tried to reassure her. ‘We’re beggars, not choosers. One dollar per book is dirt cheap. We can’t lose.’

  She was not reassured. How were they ever going to sell all those lousy books that now littered the shop floor?

  Vivian touched her shoulder. ‘Please don’t cry. People love reading crap. I love reading crap. Crap sells. You’re too highbrow Mum.’

  ‘Too highbrow?’ Helen asked, alarmed, though she knew the accusation carried more than a scrap of truth. She was a snob who judged books by their cover and their content. And she was a harsh critic who not only reviewed the book but also judged the reader. If a person read romance or crime she considered them flawed. She supposed that reading books of inferior quality was somehow infectious, and had always kept well away from them. Even Arnold, for all his faults, had soon learned her discriminating taste. But now here she was, acting as a pimp for drivel.

  She glanced at Vivian through a fog of tears. He handed her the tea towel. ‘Come on, wipe your eyes.’

  She wiped her face and scrunched the tea towel into a ball that Vivian took off her and lobbed into a bucket in the laundry. Then he came back and said, ‘I’ll go empty the buckets upstairs. Finish eating.’

  After dinner, despite her exhaustion, she went back to the books; perhaps her judgement had been a little harsh. Maybe, she thought, Vivian was right. But on sifting through them her spirits plunged again. She picked up two Westerns, Battle at Bitter River and Passport to Hell, put them back and walked to the window. It was raining heavily and water flowed fast in the gutter outside.

  If only she’d been able to select books she knew she could sell. In her daydreams she picked the books she wanted with a pair of crystal figurine hands and a ballet dancer’s gait. Swanning around on her pointes, past columns of books on display, running her nail along book spines, stopping at Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen; swooning over cookery books despite Vivian’s assertion that nowadays people ate ‘out,’ and then, like a true prima ballerina, dying beneath Virginia Woolf to rapturous applause.

  Reality was catering to philistines braying for appalling books written by appalling writers.

  She sorted through the books for another hour before making her way to bed, where she slept for eight hours uninterrupted. There were no nightmares and no ghosts demanding the return of their property.

  And sometime during the night the rain stopped. The clouds drifted elsewhere, allowing the sun to stream in through her bedroom window. She felt uncommonly rested, cautiously elated, as she lay in bed, bathing in the sun’s rays. For some reason these books from deceased estates had not called the dead back from the grave to haunt her. Perhaps the dead didn’t bother to reclaim crap books. She smiled at this notion then thought of Razoo’s words. ‘They never spooked me and that’s because I own them. And I’m not dead. Am I?’

  Was it that simple, she mused as she threw back her bed covers and wandered out to the kitchen.

  In the kitchen she felt even greater joy as she saw Vivian was already out of bed, showered and dressed and eating a breakfast of fried eggs and tomatoes. He looked up at her. ‘Want some? There’s tea in the pot, just made it.’

  *

  The mountain range of books that was stacked inside the shop was moved once more, this time onto the shelves. Helen and Vivian sifted and sorted, moving from one end of the bookshop to the other and through the maze as they did so.

  Instantaneously the word ‘section’ was littering Helen’s speech, as if she needed to try it on for size. Did it sound right coming from her mouth? Because this word was to become an important and prevalent word in her everyday language.

  Vivian liked the notion of sections, the way things could be placed and then forgotten. Fiction, Non-fiction, Science, Health, Self-help, Gardening, Cooking, and on and on and on. Sections split to form new sections, which split to form new sections, which split …

  For those books not blessed with any literary merit or usefulness, a special Irrelevant section was established, which to Vivian’s alarm was becoming too large, too quickly. His mother had also established a Limbo section, the place for books which really defied categorising. Vivian tried to argue for a Religious section but to no avail; Helen was adamant. Vivian was dismayed. When would his mother learn that they were running a business and not some crackpot organisation in which to air personal grievances?

  Then there was the Crime section, which, to Helen’s dismay, grew and grew as the books were sorted, until it claimed more books than any other genre. Or was it the Romance section? Or the Horror section? She bit her lip with anxiety; there were an awful lot of bad books.

  Vivian’s appetite for horror bordered on gluttony. Helen hoped it would not turn him into an axe-wielding homicidal maniac or Dracula incarnate. Then again, his consumption of horror was tempered by his craving for self-help books. She noticed he took When the Blues Get You and Heal Thy Self back to his room.

  Did he intend mending his emotional problems by reading these books? Why couldn’t he read good literature? Books to feed the soul.

  But it could be worse; he could be reading his way through the Science Fiction section. Or the War section. Or, God forbid, Autobiography. Reading about some cricket player’s life was, in Helen’s book, rock bottom, time for the asylum. She had tried to hide the cricketers’ autobiographies, but Vivian had found them, condemned to one of the lower shelves on the back wall, and he argued their case. ‘Cricket autobiographies sell, so it’s front row tickets for them.’

  ‘Who wants to read about some yobbo who’s never done anything but hit a ball in this life?’

  ‘Well, it’s a sad fact of life, Mum, but lots of people do.’

  ‘They all have ghost writers.’

  ‘They sell. They stay.’

  ‘Don’t we have any principles? Or decency?’ grieved Helen.

  ‘No. We’re running a business, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘I’ve noticed, believe me. I’m just not sure if I like what goes with it.’

  ‘Mum, when I was up north, mining, I don’t think you’d have liked me much. Nothing decent about me back then. Ashamed of myself really. I didn’t want you knowing that I wasn’t coping. Blew all my money. Well, didn’t really blow it, spent it more for services provided.’

  ‘Services provided?’

  ‘Yeah. A hooker, I told you. She helped me a lot … dragged me out of myself. Kept telling me to go home.’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of you at all,’ said Helen. ‘You’re a wonderful son. She paused, ‘Try not to be too hard on yourself. In the scheme of things, what you did up north wasn’t that bad.’

  Vivian smiled. ‘Thanks Mum.’

  *

  Arnold lay stretched out on the floor, belly up. It took every ounce of Gabriel’s limited patience not to land a kick into his father’s rounded stomach. Instead, he went down on his hands and knees to speak with him. ‘Selling stuff is no big deal.’

  ‘I gotta ease my way into it.’

  Gabriel suspected his father may have cottoned on to Operation Baby, but he continued on with the charade. He felt he had to, ‘Dad, remember my pregnant girlfriend.’

  ‘Yeah, the one I haven’t met
yet? How could I forget her?’

  ‘I know you must think she doesn’t exist, but she does.’

  Arnold blinked, thinking that Gabriel was one talented liar.

  ‘I want you to meet her, but I daren’t bring her here until the place looks normal. She’ll dump me if she realises what I’m asking her to come to.’ It was like flogging a dead horse, but it was the only one he had.

  Arnold didn’t trust himself to speak; he was fed up with hearing about this phantom pregnancy.

  Gabriel decided to change tack. ‘It’s amazing what Mum and Vivian have done to the bookshop. The launch is next week. And we’ll be going, old man. I’ve had a gutful of sitting around all day watching telly while you dither over whether or not you can part with your precious crap.’

  Arnold thought of his own inaction in comparison to Helen’s capacity to act, to move forward and to not look back as he did. He had spent his life guided by a tragic past.

  *

  The number of books in the Romance section was blossoming. Helen stared at them, daring them to fondle each other in front of her, daring them to fall in love with one another. Their arrangement was so compact they merged into one long colourful band. Fornicating no doubt, breeding more children of a romantic persuasion. Was there no shame? She sneered at the cheap paperbacks, a shabby lot which remained shy beneath her judgemental eye. She knew the cheap and sleazy words they held. ‘You better sell yourselves, or else!’

  ‘Or else what?’ said Vivian.

  ‘They get shredded.’

  Vivian rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation, as he hastily put the crime books into alphabetical order.

  Helen had placed a wooden chair in the centre of the maze, and had Vivian built benches for people to sit on in front of the windows. Now it was time to take care of the front of the shop. The shattered window panes were replaced with brand new gleaming sheets of glass which made the shop look alive; two clear wide-eyed squares which provided clear views of the streetscape from the shop, and of the shop from the street.

  The old paintwork daubed with obscenities was scraped off and repainted a brilliant green with a contrasting tomato-red window trim. The double doors got the full treatment too. Sanded and scraped, doorknobs replaced and then finally painted the same tomato red as the window trim. A purple awning topped it off.

  ‘The shop looks like a vegetable,’ Vivian said mockingly while installing the two giant awnings over the windows.

  ‘We need to draw people’s attention,’ Helen replied as she held the ladder that Vivian teetered on.

  Vivian studied the people passing by. Surely they’d take notice soon and come ambling in, asking, talking, and hopefully buying. He felt anxious.

  ‘Mum, we haven’t got a name for this place yet.’

  ‘I know. What do you think we should call this magnificent establishment?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘How about the Book Maze — Second-hand Books.’

  Vivian sounded it out. And wondered. The way his mother had said it, as though she had picked it out some time ago, way before the bookshop even existed, when all this was a mere blueprint in her mind.

  ‘The Book Maze. It’s great,’ he said.

  Helen was happy on two counts, that Vivian liked the name she had chosen and that he had, for the time being, beaten the devil. His involvement in the bookshop was working.

  ‘So now, let’s get the sign painted,’ she announced.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside, on the wall.’

  ‘We need a sign writer for that.’

  ‘I’ve already arranged it. He’s due any minute.’

  ‘Can we afford it?’

  ‘Hang the money,’ she cried cheerfully. ‘We’ve got to have a good sign.’

  Within the hour they were watching a whippet-thin man painting the sign on the front of the shop wall in a brilliant red. When he had completed his task and gone, Helen stood out in the street and admired it while Vivian began to prepare food and drinks for the launch.

  Finally Helen was able to place the front doormat down. She looked at it, as if not quite believing. Upon its thick brown bristles was the word WELCOME emblazoned in red with green leaves intertwined.

  She stood tall, admiring the façade. Then she looked at the jacaranda in front of the shop covered in bright green buds, some of which had unfurled to reveal intricate leaf formation.

  Spring had truly arrived. She measured how far she’d come since leaving Arnold three months ago; she’d travelled a long way since winter.

  *

  Remarkably, or so it seemed to Helen, the bookshop was filling up with people who’d come along to celebrate the launch. A trestle table stood overloaded with food and drinks.

  Arnold, shy of the crowd, made his way into the maze that he’d spied on entering. He had gone to great pains with his appearance, but now the self-inflicted fuss made him feel uneasy. He had soaked himself in a hot tub bombed with ancient bars of soap. After his bath, he’d slapped on some Old Spice aftershave, even though he hadn’t shaved since 1973. Then he’d dressed himself in an XXL long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants, whose previous owner was now six foot under.

  He walked through the maze, astonished by Helen’s achievement. Without him, she seemed to have come to life. Sure, a bit tipsy, but she sounded good. Where had all this come from? He’d had no idea this was in her. And the bookshop was proof enough of her moving on. Arnold reflected on his life. And again, he felt disgraced.

  Astrid arrived with Hendel. And while outwardly cheerful and full of congratulations for Helen and Vivian, she felt miserable. Her old friend had a new life without her. Helen’s life was all tied up in the rows of books surrounding her. Astrid had scarcely seen her since she moved in above the shop. But more than that, Astrid was disappointed in Helen’s lack of enthusiasm for her as yet unborn grandchild. She couldn’t fathom Helen any more, and kept a polite distance.

  Hendel was enjoying himself; he loved books, and examined the bookshop thoroughly, chatting to various people as he went. He was in his element, and began to wish he too had an enterprise such as this one.

  Gabriel was in high spirits, having quickly consumed a fair amount of beer and wine. He teased Vivian relentlessly about the maze. Of how customers would lose their way, become insane, and finally die of starvation while trying to eat a book. But in truth, Gabriel was envious of Vivian’s success, especially in light of his own failure to make any progress with his father.

  Arnold was scanning the small crowd of people for the mythical Ella. There wasn’t a pregnant woman in sight, which didn’t really surprise him. He noticed Gabriel clowning around and felt sick. Arnold went towards the back of the shop; he didn’t want to face Gabriel, especially not on Helen and Vivian’s big night.

  Speeches were made, people applauded, and photographs were taken.

  Hendel purchased a book to much wild cheering and clapping from Gabriel and Vivian, and Helen gave him a bottle of red wine for being their first ever customer.

  The Book Maze Second-hand Bookshop was proclaimed open. Vivian turned the ‘closed’ sign hanging in front of the window to ‘open’ and swung the double doors wide, revealing from the inside of the shop a pleasing enough streetscape, people walking by, some meandering, a few rushing. Across the road was the tiny cafe with outdoor seating. The large jacarandas lining both sides of the street were bursting with tiny green leaves inherent with promise.

  Helen and Vivian could not have been more content; the combination of a future, of hope and an exciting unknown had opened the door to that longed for emotion — happiness.

  *

  Arnold walked down Jacaranda Street with a clear head. If Helen could get on with her life, so could he. Arnold knew what he had to do. But revenge was still on his tastebuds. He’d make Gabriel sweat.

  17

  It was dawn the next day, a Sunday, and Vivian was giving Gabriel a lift home in their mother’s car after a night of heavy partyin
g. Both were nursing hangovers, which were revving up to maximum, when they saw the sign.

  It was no ordinary sign. In fact the words written in bold red letters across the wooden plank made the boys think it was a sign from God, and so distinguished it from the ordinary. For it said: GARAGE SALE. Beneath these two words was a red arrow pointing towards their house. The brothers’ hearts began to beat fast. Vivian drove slowly; neither said a word.

  Pulling up at the family home, they saw another sign. Bigger, and much louder, CONTINUOUS GARAGE SALE HERE!!! God had given them a gift; yet, though the four words sent them reeling, like Doubting Thomas they walked tentatively towards the house.

  Noise was coming from the hall; things were being moved, shoved, pushed, and dropped, and all accompanied by the sound of their father cursing. Could it be possible? Was the miracle they’d always prayed for now being played out?

  Arnold emerged from the house with a cardboard box full of plastic flowers, his large hands splattered with dry red paint.

  ‘Good morning boys. Where have you two been all night?’ Arnold didn’t wait for an answer. He dropped the box on the ground, causing some plastic flowers to jump out and land around it, and on the way back inside he stopped before his sons. ‘You boys gonna stand and stare, or help your old man? I’ve been at it all night. Thought I’d start with the hall, then work my way through the house. First thing tomorrow I’ll be getting some skip bins. Need to dump some of this stuff.’

  ‘Dad … what …?’ Vivian asked while Gabriel stood open-mouthed.

  ‘Turning this place into a dental surgery for Gabriel’s girlfriend. I figure she’s now about twenty-two weeks gone. Right? This gives me another eighteen weeks to clear all this lot out. Nice coat of paint, and hey presto! Dental surgery for my new grandchild and Ella, and you too, of course, Gabriel. So, first step is to have a continuous garage sale. I’ll ring council tomorrow morning about it. Reckon they’ll give me permission? Not that it matters. I’ve already started. Mind you, they’ve been bugging me long enough. Do you like the signs?’