Anna

by Sammy H. K. Smith

  “Do you know what you’re going to say? How you’re going to ask?”

  “I’ll just ask. Mr Henley is chairing today and I’ve heard he likes to read. I’ll play to his love of books.”

  “You’ll have to win over Simon though. He’ll not be happy that you want them to search for books when they could be getting supplies or enforcing.”

  Simon, which one was he? So many faces and names shot through my mind. There were more people here than in any of the other towns I had passed through.

  “Which one’s Simon?”

  “Head of the Enforcers.” I must have continued to look blank, because she added, “Average height, bald, big bloke with the huge tribal tattoo on his right arm. He never smiles, always scowls. He’s not around a lot of the time, goes to Blackwood a lot.” She paused, and then made me chuckle by adding: “I think he used to be ginger, he’s got ginger eyebrows.” As if that fact would suddenly jog my memory.

  We were nearly there, and I looked up at the Victorian Gothic building, the tall and narrow arched windows and ornate stone pillars a stark and cold contrast to the brightly coloured cottages and houses surrounding it. It reminded me more of a church than a council building. I was used to cheap and lacklustre architecture in my hometown: flat roofs, symmetrical and boring windows, pre-fabricated with the same bolt-together fascia panels. This was beautiful, carved stone with hand chiselled designs around the frames – and yet I found it strangely grotesque.

  As we reached the steps I considered a prayer, something to invoke good luck, but I brushed the thought aside as quickly as it came. There was no one listening, no divine entity to intervene or jump out and say ‘Surprise! Only kidding, this is all a horrible nightmare, time to wake up!’ And besides, there was no time.

  The lobby was surprisingly bright and modern, black and white framed photographs of the bay, the boats and local surfers covering two walls while on the third was a brightly painted mural of an underwater scene: many mermaids, disproportionate fish, smiling shells, strange plants, a whale and a seven-legged octopus filled the wall from ceiling to floor. I read the plaque underneath: Octopus Group, Jennington School.

  Hayley held open the door and we took two seats near the front, tucked away in a corner by a large cupboard. More people entered, filling up the empty spaces, laughing and joking and greeting each other with air kisses and hugs. Rows and rows of bodies, turning and smiling at each other, some chatting, others laughing, and a few, like me, that just sat staring.

  Calm, I needed to be calm.

  “Oh, I’ll be back in a bit.” Hayley jumped up and waved towards the opposite side of the room. “Mrs Brooks is here and she promised me two chickens if Glen managed to find a bottle of Dom Perignon. No prizes for guessing what my wonderful husband brought back last week.” I smiled and watched as she accosted a middle-aged woman dressed head to toe in Versace. I’d seen the same outfit on a picture of a supermodel once in a magazine; it looked better on Mrs Brooks.

  “Kate, lovely to see you here.”

  I shrank back in my chair and grabbed my stomach protectively. It was Mr Henley. I exhaled slowly and forced a smile.

  “I’m sorry, ducky, did I scare you?”

  “No, no. I was just daydreaming.” I swallowed and counted, forcing my heart to slow down. “Sorry, Mr Henley,” I added for good measure.

  “Ducky, I’ve told you – call me Roger, and don’t apologise.” He coughed and loosened his gaudy cartoon-adorned tie. “Here to discuss the library?”

  “Yes. Do you think there will be any objections?”

  “Not from me. I think it’s a terrific idea, simply wonderful.” He grinned. “Are you liking it here, Kate?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Hurry up, Hayley, please, hurry up.

  “And how do you find it with Mr and Mrs Stenton?” He brushed his hand over his thinning hair and smoothed his wayward eyebrows down.

  “They’re lovely.” I looked over to Hayley again and she threw back her head and laughed with a group of her friends. She was so animated – her hands flying around and her face open and grinning. I could hear the jingling of her bangles from where I sat. “I couldn’t ask for better hosts.”

  “We’d best look at getting you a place of your own soon, eh? Somewhere for you and the little one to make home, leave Hayley and Glen to host another newcomer maybe?” I forced myself to nod in agreement. “Good, good. I’ll mention it to the workmen, get them to hurry up with those cottages. I know you like being near the water.”

  He continued to talk and I smiled politely at his ideas for my full integration into the community. The baby shifted and there was a wave of nausea; I just wished he would leave me alone. Perhaps he thought that if I addressed him in the meeting it would then mean I wanted to be friends. I didn’t want that. I just wanted to be alone.

  After ten minutes of inane conversation Mr Henley left, promising to discuss books with me soon, and Hayley returned. The room was full now and the four other seats around Mr Henley at the council table were soon occupied. I spotted Simon sat at the end, with his ginger eyebrows and scowl: I recognised him now. Dr Bennett sat closest to me, smelling strongly of whisky and peppermints, looking distracted and strained. There was a man I didn’t know between Simon and Mr Henley: he was young, Indian, perhaps thirty, attractive and impeccably dressed in chinos, shirt and cravat.

  “Who’s he?” I whispered to Hayley.

  “That’s Mr Henley’s husband, Deven.” My face must have betrayed my surprise as she giggled and then smothered it with a cough. “They married a few months ago. He was a newcomer, like you, and he hosted with Mr Henley and his daughter. It was a gorgeous ceremony.”

  “The man in black, the one just sitting down – who’s he?”

  “He’s a floater. When we have council meetings the other safe community at Blackwood sends a representative. We do the same with them. Keeps things nice and calm between the towns. I don’t know this one though, he must be new.”

  As the council took their place I sat upright and smoothed my top. No one seemed to pay attention.

  “Quiet, the meeting is in progress,” Simon shouted, making me flinch.

  The room settled down. Mr Henley stood up, clearing his throat and holding two pieces of paper in front of him.

  “Thank you all for coming. This is the sixty-ninth official town meeting to date and I’m pleased to see so many regular faces, and I’m overjoyed to see new ones too. Welcome!”

  His jovial persona was replaced by one of firm authority and direction. He introduced the other members and listed the agenda. Volunteers were wanted for clearing the northern sector of the town, which had been closed off since they began settling here eighteen months ago. Several hands rose. Mine didn’t. They’d be clearing bodies and rubble, so the volunteers were to be well rewarded: they would automatically be moved up the housing list and put into the lottery for one of the six eco-houses recently renovated. Those who were unsuccessful would be first in line for the next batch. Running water, electricity and heating. Hayley and Glen had a self-sustaining eco home but without the running water and, regardless of my conversation with Mr Henley, the cottages wouldn’t be finished any time soon.

  They then discussed the possibility of removing security from the boundaries of the town. My sickness was back: without the security, anyone could enter. I wasn’t the only one who felt that way: various members of the audience stood to argue their points, and Mr Henley occasionally had to break in when things got too heated. After two hours it was agreed that the security would remain for another month – but that Simon would review the shift patrols daily and look to decrease the number of Enforcers. I held Simon’s gaze several times during the argument. There was something in his expression I couldn’t pinpoint but the way he looked, the way he never smiled and was so devoid of emotion, brought back my nightmares, dragging them from the night and into the day.

  It was lunchtime before the council reached the issue of the library. I wa
s desperate for the bathroom and the mixture of perfumes and smells in the room had given me a headache. Mr Henley called my name. Standing, I twisted the ring on my finger and started to speak. It was too hot and sweat clung to my neck and back.

  “I’d very much like to restore the small library on Two-Gate Road. The building itself is structurally sound, but the place was ransacked by looters and those that needed paper to burn for warmth.” I was careful not to insult those that had burnt the books; I didn’t doubt some of the arsonists were present. “With this new start, this new community we’ve built, it seems a shame to ignore such an important aspect of education and community spirit.” I paused and watched several people nod enthusiastically. “I’d like to request for the Wanderers to consider bringing back books, and if everyone in the town sorts through their books and considers donating to the library, we can start up a new lending scheme. I’ve made a list of the classic reads, if we start from there we can build a new collection.” My small speech had exhausted me. I glanced at the council nervously and sat down.

  “Thank you, Kate.” Mr Henley smiled at me. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  His husband nodded in agreement and smiled at me. It was a patronising smile, I recognised that much, but that was two votes. I just needed one more on the council to agree.

  “Library, a bloody library.” It was Simon who spoke and I looked up at him, still twisting the ring on my finger. “We have houses that need repairing, people who need supplies, food and running water and we’re sitting here talking about books.” He sipped at a glass of water. “Books are heavy, each book could be valuable space for food or medicine or another necessity. My Wanderers are already overstretched and now you want them looking for books?” He shook his head. “I can’t agree to this. If, perhaps, we were to readdress the security issue again, I would reconsider, but as it stands – I simply don’t have the men available.”

  Two – one.

  “I am in agreement with Simon. I’m sorry, love.” It was the doctor. “Once the town is back on its feet then you’ll have my support. I’m a lover of books, but the Wanderers are better placed searching out supplies and medicines.”

  Two – two. It depended on the stranger, the man from Blackwood. I looked at him and crossed my fingers. I need this, please.

  “It’s a tricky decision, and I understand I’m now the one to make the casting vote?” He looked at Mr Henley for confirmation, who nodded. “In that case I have to agree to this. The library is an excellent idea. Simon, you know we started a similar renovation a few weeks ago. A group of teachers share your young enthusiast’s love for books and reading and won the support of our council. Though we have no library, we do have a lending system. I believe you were there, Mr Henley?” He nodded and so the Blackwood delegate shrugged. “I vote yes. I’m sure you can come to some sort of agreement with the Wanderers. Our towns are of similar size and numbers and we’ve managed.” He nodded at me coolly and I trembled with excitement.

  “Excellent, excellent,” Mr Henley said cheerfully. “Three to two, the library is agreed. We’ll break for lunch and discuss the wind farm and crop harvest rotation for the next twelve months after. Reconvene at two.”

  As people left and the room emptied, I sat staring at my hands and nails. I finally had something, a reason for being here. Something that I could make mine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Over the next nine days I walked more miles around the town than I cared to count. My feet were swollen and blistered, but I was happy. Over six hundred books had been donated to the library just from the residents alone. I had nearly all of Shakespeare’s plays, including The Two Noble Kinsmen. I allowed myself a surge of delight as I stroked the cover. Wistful that it was for the library and regretful that I had to share it, for the memories of Stephen reading it to me during our first summer together in the fields near my college flooded me with love and a yearning for the long-lost freedom from pain and sadness.

  Everyone knew who I was. But, while most smiled and called me Kate, several still called me Katherine. I was the cold, unfriendly outsider; pregnant and alone; the one who refused to attend church on Sundays and refused to go swimming or socialise when invited. It was to these people I tried to smile the most, to relax and to let go. I wanted to show them I could be happy, that my caution wasn’t for lack of want, but for self-preservation – but the more I tried, the more I realised it wasn’t for their benefit but for mine.

  During those nine days I discovered more about the little fishing town now called home. While it wasn’t as big or tourist-focused as some of the more well-known seaside towns, it was just as pretty and twice as rich in the sense that some who lived here had real money. I’d known it from the clothes of the long-term residents, but now I passed garaged Rolls Royce and Aston Martin cars, eyed the huge eight and nine bedroomed properties with marbled floors and chandeliers as I knocked on doors in search of books. I don’t know what happened to the people who lived in these houses before; I’d never seen them and now ‘millionaire’s row’, as it was known, housed groups of resettlers and refugees. The largest house was used as the Enforcers’ social club and it sat at the top of a cliff overlooking the water. There was no doubt that the views were breathtaking, but the climb was agonising and in the winter the country path-cum-road down to the main town would be treacherous. As I trudged upwards in search of more donations, I decided that I was happy to stick with Glen and Hayley, and eventually I would be happy in my small house by the beach.

  I stared back down the path to the town, surveying the houses and buildings below, becoming aware of how far the town extended now. I could see the church and the council building, and then the older, smaller houses surrounding them in a semi-circle. The beach to the east with the small scattering of houses framing the large cove was mirrored by the western sector. From where I stood I could see the extent of the devastation to the new housing estate where most of the work was now focused to remove the last reminder of destruction from this tranquil place.

  Tranquil. A peculiar word to use when the underlying unrest from the other residents bubbled, especially those who lived here before the resettlers, like me, arrived. None of the houses on Millionaire’s Row had their original driveway gates: those gates were now welded to the walls and perimeter of the town. A temporary measure, apparently. The desperate attempts of those permanently resident in the town to stop outsider looting. And that many residents believed that the town would be a better place if the gates were closed for good to newcomers. Community spirit they called it, and they pushed for the traditional family values, for religion and a woman’s place: for a small community built on trust and friendship.

  With a sudden longing I stepped off the path and carefully slid down the embankment into the overgrown woodland that led back to the town.

  On the tenth day I sat in the library, covered with a huge blanket and surrounded by piles of books, with a flask of Hayley’s homemade soup and a lunchbox of bread, when Glen’s voice echoed in the huge expanse and dragged me from my ledger.

  “How’s it going?”

  I stood up, rubbing my lower back through the thick jumper.

  “Good, there’s so many. I think I’m about half way through, though.”

  He walked over, his gun resting in his hip holster. He hadn’t checked it back yet with the Enforcers.

  “How did it go?”

  “Well, I managed to get these.” Turning his rucksack around, he pulled out three hardback books: all works by Tolkien. “The house I got these from has a stack load more; I thought I’d bring these first and then go back with some others and bring the rest. Looks like the person who lived there was a lover of sets. Dickens, Shakespeare, Brontë sisters, they’re all there.”

  I ran my hands over the jacket covers and pulled the books close, holding them against my chest as though they were a shield.

  “Thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say and he nodded once and turned to leave. �
��Glen, thank you. Seriously.”

  Puzzled, he turned back and nodded again. “It’s okay. I have a meeting with Simon in a bit. Whatever you’ve done to piss him off, it must have been monumental. He’s still seething about having us look for books as well as supplies.”

  I sat back down and drew the blanket over me again. “I haven’t done anything other than petition the council.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll calm down soon. He’s a moody arse on the best of days.” He ran a hand through his short blonde hair. “It’s Hayley’s birthday on Tuesday, I thought it might be nice if we had some friends round, made her a cake? I’m a bit shit with baking, but could you…” He looked both hopeful and sheepish.

  Tuesday: three days away. Plenty of time. I nodded with a smile.

  We agreed on the plan; Glen would make sure the ingredients were hidden in the outside storage cupboard by tomorrow night and he’d take her for a walk on her birthday, giving me time to bake.

  After he left I stared at the ceiling for a long while, trapped in my own memories, remembering celebrations, remembering gifts. I hadn’t realised that I was twisting the ring until the dull throb of pain grew stronger, and glanced down. My already-swollen finger was now a dark red. I let go and picked up the first book Glen had brought: The Hobbit. I didn’t want to log acquisitions any more, I wanted to read. I needed to read and lose myself in a different world, to pretend I wasn’t me.

  Chapter One: An Unexpected Party.

  I don’t know how long I read for, but as the light crept away and the shadows grew, I had to close the book and leave.

  It was pitch black and several times I kicked large stones and rubble into the water. I heard the faint whistles and laughs from the workmen growing louder. Then the loud drone of a generator drowned their chatter, although Old Tom was singing to himself as he dug the foundations for a garden wall.

  “Evening, Katie,” he called.

  “Evening, Tom.” I stopped and leaned against the side of his cement mixer, rubbing my lower back. His wiry old frame relentlessly shovelled up the sandy mud. He was dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. “It’s getting cold out, Tom. You warm enough?”