The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street

by Marlish Glorie

  In the warmth of the cottage’s small kitchen she sat cradling Paloma in her arms. ‘Oh, I could eat her,’ she cooed.

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘Wanna bet,’ Ella replied miserably, sitting back in her chair, arms crossed with her feet up on the kitchen table. ‘Sprig of rosemary. Bit of oil …’

  ‘Stop it,’ protested Penny.

  ‘Well, this isn’t my scene. What am I doing here in the middle of the day sitting on my backside?’

  ‘What’s Vivian say?’

  ‘Oh! The silent number,’ Ella scoffed. ‘Well, the sum total of what Vivian utters is nothing. He’s a speechless creature. And he creeps around me like I’ve got the bubonic plague. We’ve no sex life any more,’ Ella pronounced sulkily as if inviting sympathy.

  ‘You’ve only had Paloma three weeks, he’s probably a bit nervous of hurting you.’

  ‘Crap. He’s obsessed with the baby.’ Ella waved her hand at Paloma. ‘And,’ she paused, assembling her thoughts before discharging them, ‘his mother has too much control over him. I’m surprised she doesn’t still have him in a baby’s bib.’

  ‘Helen’s helped Vivian one helluva of lot.’

  ‘Well I don’t want her help. I’m not one of her social work cases.’

  Penny went silent, thinking of the misfits that occupied Helen’s life. Herself included.

  ‘And I don’t want her in my house,’ stated Ella.

  Penny couldn’t think of a response to that.

  ‘She’ll feast off my failure.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Helen loves people who fail in life. She’s like a farmer, harvesting failure. But she’s not having mine. She won’t get Paloma.’

  Penny thought about Ella’s assertions. And concluded that there could be a disturbing element of truth in them.

  Abruptly Ella stood up, and paced up and down the kitchen floor. ‘I’m bored out of my brain. I should be at work, not here playing mum,’ she moaned.

  ‘When were you thinking of going back?’

  ‘End of next week, when squirt there goes into childcare.’

  Penny’s mouth dropped. ‘That’s sad.’ She tried not to judge, but she didn’t see how anyone could bear to leave such a tiny child in care all day.

  Ella put both hands on the kitchen table and leaned towards Penny. ‘Honestly, I’d go bananas staying at home. I’ve got to work. I’m not like you.’ Ella made it sound as though she were accusing Penny of some hideous deed.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that! I know myself. I have little goodness in me. Whereas you … you’re full of goodness.’ Again Ella’s words sounded like an insult.

  Penny stared awkwardly around the room, then down at the baby sleeping peacefully in her arms.

  ‘What about Paloma? When do I get to see her?’

  Ella looked intently at Penny, ‘Don’t you get it? I’m no good at motherhood. I’m not into baby visits, or breastfeeding, or teething, or whatever it is babies do, or any other damn thing people seem to expect of me. My only duty is her physical well-being, keeping her safe.’

  Penny, shaken, said no more. She struggled to understand Ella, to see some chink of warmth in her. It wasn’t easy.

  *

  That night, in the flat above the bookshop, Penny gave Astrid an account of her visit and an edited description of her concerns for Paloma and Vivian.

  Penny listened to Astrid’s enigmatic reply. ‘Sometimes, there are women who cannot be mothers. And then, there are women who want to be mothers, but cannot.’

  The rumour mill turned quickly within the bookshop. Astrid told Helen who told Gabriel who quizzed Penny.

  Penny didn’t want to betray Ella, especially if, as it seemed, Helen and Gabriel were ganging up against her.

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s not the greatest mum in the world, but then, who is?’ she said casually, as they sauntered through the maze, stopping in front of the Art section, their favourite rendezvous spot.

  But Helen had delivered her edict to Gabriel: ‘I want you watch Vivian, closely,’ she had said.

  ‘For what?’ Gabriel had asked nonchalantly.

  Helen, maddened by his feigned indifference, snapped back, ‘Signs of depression!’

  ‘You mean, signs of pissed-off-ness,’ retorted Gabriel. ‘He’s not depressed. He’s pissed off with his marriage. Pissed off with Ella.’

  Helen glared at Gabriel, ‘You really don’t like her do you? Why’s that?’

  Gabriel shrugged.

  ‘You know, there’s not only Vivian to worry about, there’s Paloma too.’

  Penny though, hadn’t given up on Ella; she was determined to help her. Ella, she concluded, was just like the maze she stood in. There had to be a way in, around and out. Ella was a riddle, even to herself, Penny suspected.

  *

  Vivian knew he had to act when he saw Ella hit Paloma. She had been changing her nappy when Vivian had unexpectedly walked into the nursery.

  Paloma was not four weeks old, and the slap on her bare bottom had been hard enough to make her tiny body shudder. Yelling over her outraged screams, Ella began shaking her. ‘Oh shut up, shut up, shut up!’

  Vivian turned white with anger. He trembled with fear; fear that he would kill his wife. ‘Get out. Get out,’ he managed to hiss with steely control.

  Ella left, throwing the nappy at Vivian as she went.

  Vivian put the nappy on Paloma and then held her, walking the room and cuddling her until her cries subsided and she drifted off into sleep. Consumed by guilt, Vivian begged forgiveness from his tiny daughter. Only three weeks old and he’d already failed her as a father.

  He tucked her into her cot. Then he bent over her and gently gave her a kiss on her soft warm cheek. He dimmed the lights and pulled up a chair beside her cot, and sat there for hours watching her as he tried to work things out.

  40

  The young woman giggled as she waved her latest purchase, Love Jungle, in front of Helen and Vivian. She seemed to believe she was doing them a favour by reading aloud from it. ‘… their limbs like vines clung tightly …’

  Vivian, sporting bloodshot eyes, struggled to maintain his humour.

  ‘… she purred like a kitten … felt her body arch with …’

  Suddenly Vivian lunged forward and grabbed the book from the young woman’s hands and began to attack it, ripping it into shreds and throwing the pieces all over her. The woman stood speechless as pieces of paper stuck to her while others fluttered around her.

  ‘That’s romance for you. How it all ends. In shreds,’ said Vivian, pronouncing each word with a twist of anger.

  Helen was open-mouthed. Had Vivian just torn up a book and thrown it over a customer? She looked at her son, and saw the fight go out of him as quickly as it had arisen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he was saying to the young woman. ‘Forgive me, I’ll glue it back together, every single piece, even if it drives me crazy … although I think I am already. Still, that’s no reason to throw a tantrum.’

  The woman protested, ‘No please, please, it’s fine. I’ve read something that’s upset you. I think I’d better go.’

  Vivian gave a sigh of exasperation as she left the shop. He swung his body around to face Helen and screamed, ‘Why the fuck can’t anything be right? Just for once. And stay that way.’

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ said Helen, alarmed and bewildered at her son’s outburst.

  ‘No it won’t,’ Vivian yelled and headed for the street door. Helen followed him and watched as he rushed down the street. The sky, its clouds weighted with water, was black and low.

  He’d get caught in the rain.

  She went back into the bookshop and picked up the pieces of the book he had shredded. Each piece was a part of a puzzle: his inner turmoil — and what she could possibly do about it.

  *

  Vivian returned two hours later, soaking wet. He stood behind the counter shivering, a pool of water
around his feet. He stared straight ahead, studying the air before him as though it might contain answers, solutions to his problems. It yielded nothing. He leaned on the counter and, like a man lynched, hung his head low.

  Razoo had arrived for his weekly lesson and Helen was sitting on a bench listening to him reading. She watched Vivian until she could bear it no longer, and jumped up and went over to the counter. ‘Vivian, why don’t you go home? Have a shower and get into some dry clothes.’

  Vivian met his mother’s eyes. Then without a word he walked back out of the shop.

  Razoo tried to comfort Helen. ‘He’ll be all right. Getting hitched, tricky business. It’s why I stayed away from it.’

  ‘Never been tempted?’

  ‘Nah, not really. Some nippers would’ve been nice though.’

  Helen sat back down on the bench next to Razoo but the reading lesson was over. Vivian’s unhappiness had dissipated any enthusiasm she had for teaching, and she sat immobilised with concern.

  ‘Ahh, you worry too much,’ Razoo scolded good-naturedly as she continued to sit there, glum with anxiety. He picked up his Western in defiance of her mood and read on. ‘Maybe Unk had found what he’d been searching for most of his hard-luck life … a woman to love and protect, a child’s hand in his own, immortality. The dreams of a simple man.’

  *

  Vivian spoke his mind as sternly as he could muster. ‘I can look after her,’ he told Ella in their kitchen that night. ‘And Astrid, my godmother, she’ll have Paloma any time.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ella snapped viciously. ‘I’ve booked her into day care.’

  ‘You treat Siam better than our baby daughter.’

  ‘That’s crap —’

  ‘You wouldn’t put Siam into a cattery. And you wouldn’t slap and shout at that damn cat either.’

  Ella was shocked. These were the first harsh words Vivian had ever spoken to her. ‘Me hitting Paloma, and shouting, and shaking her, was a complete and utter one off. I promise.’ She hesitated, her mouth slightly open as if trying to say something. ‘It’s … I can’t seem to bond with her.’

  Vivian was surprised at the softness in her tone. ‘How about trying to bond with her?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of trying. It’s just not happening.’

  41

  While Vivian spent more time at home, Razoo frequently helped Helen sort the books. Helen would hand him a pile of books, telling him in which section the books were to be placed. Razoo then had to put them in alphabetical order according to the author’s surname. He did it with surprising speed, rattling off the alphabet, turning it into different country and western songs as he went along: C is for the Cowboys that Drive into the Evening Fire. Gee whiz.

  His reading had also improved dramatically and Helen barely had a finger on the word before Razoo spoke it.

  ‘Beat ya,’ he would cry with glee, showing off his decayed teeth.

  ‘Won’t be long before you can read all on your own.’

  ‘Oh I do already. The dogs don’t care for it though.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll get used to your reading. I mean, it is a book plant after all.’

  ‘And I intend to read every book in it,’ Razoo boldly pronounced.

  ‘Every book?’ laughed Helen.

  ‘Yep, every last one,’ he said, looking at Helen with a devilish grin. ‘Especially them written by cricketers.’

  ‘Philistine,’ mocked Helen. ‘Get out of here!’

  *

  Arnold felt like an intruder in his own home. Everything, apart from the essentials, was gone. He was now surrounded by unfamiliar space and it made him feel out of place. Yet this was how they first found the house, almost thirty years ago.

  Helen, he remembered with an acute wrench, wasn’t coming back; she had made another life for herself. And this was his life now — empty rooms filled with memories. He missed his ventures and collections yet, at the same time, he knew he didn’t want them back.

  He sat at the kitchen table and tried to plan. He’d achieved Plan A — sold off all his belongings and fixed up the house — but beyond that he hadn’t thought.

  The elusive Plan B. What, thought Arnold, does a fifty year old single bloke with no real qualifications beyond lawn mowing and a gift for collecting do with his life? He sighed heavily. Never had the future looked so daunting. And he had nowhere to turn for solace. He was all on his own in a big blank house, and felt as though he was watching the credits of his life roll before him. But there had to be more than this — surely it hadn’t ended yet?

  *

  Helen automatically filled the kettle; it was a lifetime’s habit; as soon as she returned home she made herself a cup of tea. But this time she filled the kettle but failed to turn it on. Her mind was a whirl of bewilderment, so that to perform an ordinary everyday act seemed impossible.

  She sat at the kitchen table and went over her visit to Ella and Paloma.

  Ella’s face had immediately fallen on seeing Helen, and then assumed a look of bored resignation. Helen sensed that she endured her. Ella had been polite and dutifully shown her the baby, who was sleeping in her cot. But there had been no offers of refreshments, or of sitting down for a chat. Ella had answered Helen’s questions about Paloma with the dispassion of an interviewee filling out a questionnaire. And as Helen was leaving, Ella had given her best-rehearsed smile. Helen knew exactly what it meant. ‘Piss off, and don’t come back.’

  And now, the emotional hangover from the visit began to settle and do its damage. Helen fought it, but to no avail.

  Ella had put up a barrier. Why? What was the problem? Only one thing was certain: whatever the problem was, Ella didn’t want Helen’s involvement. She was not wanted. Is this how Arnold felt when she’d left him — the Unwanted Man?

  Helen felt as though doors were closing around her. She was a pariah. People were disappearing, her sons had taken over the bookshop, and she was superfluous. Even the writer she’d groomed had vanished amongst the books below with her son. Or rather, the writer she’d tried to construct — an illusion to satisfy her self. It had all backfired and now her ego had taken a beating.

  She crept downstairs with the intention of talking with her former protégé. She was looking for comfort and some reassurance that she wasn’t a complete loon. And she felt she deserved something from Penny. After all, she’d fostered this creature from the gutter.

  In the bookshop the young couple were busily serving customers. Penny was chatting amiably to the Salvation Army lady and Gabriel was in deep conversation with Dreadlocks. She was not needed here.

  Helen watched for a moment and then feeling like a cur she crawled back up the stairs and into the kitchen where she sat, staring at the rubbish bin, and caved in to self-pity. She began racking up her failures thus far, and had lost count when she heard Penny’s voice close to her. ‘Helen.’

  Helen turned towards her. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You tell me,’ replied Penny.

  Helen folded her arms tightly, and rocked her body.

  ‘I take it your visit to Ella didn’t go well,’ said Penny.

  ‘Disastrous.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just her getting used to being a mum. You can’t take it personally.’

  But self-pity gave way to accusation. ‘It would seem I’ve not only lost Ella and Paloma before I’ve even got to know them, but,’ and here she hesitated, unsure of Penny’s reaction, ‘it looks like I’ve lost my writer too.’

  ‘I was never a writer. And never will be. I was a shattered person who you helped put back together again by making me write all my sorrows away. I owe you, big time. You saved me. And you’ll never ever lose me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Penny echoed back loudly and clearly, without even the hint of a stutter.

  ‘But what now?’

  ‘Well, you’re the one so infatuated with writers — why don’t you become one? Why don’t you write a book?’


  ‘Me?’ Helen was doubtful. She looked to Penny for confirmation. ‘Me? A writer? Seriously?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve a trillion words in that head of yours. And you have talent.’

  ‘How do you know that? How?’ She wanted reassurance. Writing was a crown that graced the heads of more worthy individuals.

  ‘By the way you talk.’

  Helen put her hand to her mouth.

  Penny was on a roll. ‘You talk like a writer. A true writer.’

  Helen blinked. Penny’s assertion didn’t really make sense. But for now, right now, she needed to believe it. And in that moment Penny’s suggestion became the path she would take. The path she’d always secretly wanted to take but which no one had shown her.

  Penny pressed on. ‘And you’re angry,’ she said with some force, punching into the air. ‘And passionate,’ she punched again. ‘Not to mention being full of angst, self-doubt, and torment and … well … moody. All you need now is to get drunk.’

  Helen laughed. ‘Let me think about it. I’d never thought of writing,’ she lied. It was her fear of failure that prevented her from admitting the truth.

  ‘Makes a lot of sense to me,’ said Penny.

  Helen could see herself writing madly at a desk while in the distance a garden was bathed in the golden rays at the end of a summer’s day. No, no garden; a farm with an orchard where, after a hard day’s writing, she would amble through the heavily laden fruit trees and think while chomping on a freshly picked apple. And maybe, at the end of the orchard, in the fading light, there would be a wooden table and chair. On the table, a bottle of red wine, a wine glass … bread, cheese … and there in the distance — her lover? No. Scrub that idea. A writer must create in solitude.

  Helen had no need to ask Penny, or anyone else, for ideas as to what she should write about. She knew already. She would write about a man whose son dies. And how, not knowing his way out of his grief, he turns to collecting junk. His sorrowing wife nags him at every turn, about every item brought into the house.