The Liminal Space

by Jacquie McRae

  First published in 2020 by Huia Publishers

  39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 12280

  Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand

  www.huia.co.nz

  ISBN 978-1-77550-618-8 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-77550-626-3 (EPUB)

  ISBN 978-1-77550-626-3 (Kindle)

  Copyright © Jacquie McRae 2020

  Cover illustration copyright © Catherine Marion 2020

  This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

  Published with the assistance of

  Ebook conversion 2020 by meBooks

  For Sam, Dylan and Mitchell

  Thank you for enriching my life

  The liminal space:

  The transitional space between one point and the next.

  The place where possibilities live.

  William

  WILLIAM

  I walk to the library most days. The quiet there is different from the quiet at home; it’s softer somehow, and not nearly as provoking. I don’t need the books from the library, as sixty years of collecting have them scattered like birdseed around my house. My mother used to say that books were my hiding place, but for me, they are portals into other worlds. Stories have helped me understand who I am. Many have given me hope and shown me kindness when people around me have not. Books line my walls and spill from tables into small clusters onto the floor. When the books overflowed to the garden shed, I employed a local builder to construct some shelves. He presumed I was opening a second-hand bookshop and spread the word around the village. Soon after he finished, I would find people wandering among my shrubbery or popping out from behind a mulberry tree in their search for the shop.

  The villagers excel at embellishing stories, and the fact that no one ever found the shop didn’t deter them from adding to the story. They can dress a tale up so fine that it’s hard to see the plain. The story of my arrival in the village of Radley is a classic example. Twenty years on and I still hear snippets about it in the market square. The most popular story has me turning up barefoot in the village, wearing ragged clothes and owning not much more than a mangy dog and several boxes of books. Rumour has it that I used to be a doctor with a practice in London, and I moved to the country when my wife died. I don’t feel the need to tell them that I’ve never had a wife or a practice in London, and the closest they got to the truth was that, a lifetime ago, I did indeed use to be a doctor.

  A warm clove-like smell from a vase of lilies greets me as I push open the library doors. The church owns the manse where the library is housed. The flowers from the service on Sunday get pride of place in the library on Monday. The vases are huge, and by the middle of the week, when the flowers are past their best, there’s often a salty ham smell in the air, but it’s still one of the nicest places to be in the village.

  Emily steps out from behind a bookshelf in the romance section. To me, she appears white-petalled and yellow-centred, like the wild daisies that grow in the woodlands.

  ‘Hi, William. Colleen put some books under the counter for you. I’ll grab them.’

  She reaches her thin little arms under the desk and taps around beneath it, like a house sparrow looking for crumbs. She struggles to lift the pile of books. I take them from her and shuffle through them as I wander over to the couch in the alcove. The couch is lumpy and uncomfortable, but at this time of day, the setting sun pours its warmth and light through the arched window directly onto it. It also acts like a crow’s-nest, and I watch as Emily flits between the shelves.

  From my vantage point, I see them all. From the broken people to the ones just looking for a way forward. I eavesdrop on their conversations and watch their eyes and the corners of their mouths for signs of how they’re feeling. I want to yell out to them, tell them that they’re not alone and that we’re all afraid of something. I don’t. I keep my head bowed and pretend to be reading the book resting on my lap.

  EMILY

  I leave work at the library early so I can buy chops, grill them and still have time for them to rest before serving. Rob likes to have his dinner on a tray in front of the six o’clock news. Maggie waves out to me as I rush along the cobblestone streets. You can hardly take a step in this village without bumping into someone who knows you. The lanes are one-way and circle back on themselves, so it’s pointless even trying to hide. Maggie’s been married to Reg, the postmaster, for over fifty years, and her claim to fame is winning the pancake race on Shrove Tuesday. I flick my hand in a wave but keep my head down and walk faster. I haven’t got a spare hour to hear about Reg’s gall bladder.

  Most of the cottages in Radley cluster together, and our front doors open straight onto the pavement. The population grew so fast in medieval times that the builders ran out of dry timber for the new houses and used green beams. They warped when they dried, and now half the houses lean on each other for support. Just like the nursery rhyme, we all live together in our crooked little houses.

  For thirty years, I’ve watched the goings-on in the village from my street-side bedroom window. I saw Mrs Beadle throw Mr Beadle’s clothes out into the street, the night before he went overseas on a new job and then never came back. I witnessed Father John urinate on Mrs Buckley’s prize roses and then weave his way back up to the church.

  I grew up in this cottage with my grandmother. She left it to me when she died, but only because there was no one else to give it to. It wasn’t until I married Rob nearly two years ago and he insisted we move into the master bedroom that I’d ever been inside her room. Until that day, her room and all of upstairs was out of bounds. I still feel like I’m breaking the rules, and some nights I feel like she’s gazing down on me from the timber rafters. It makes me tense up and then everything turns weird between Rob and me. Rob’s so practical. I can’t imagine explaining to him about the ghost of a disapproving grandmother.

  Winter is trying to come early. It’s only October, and already I have to light the fire in the lounge to warm the place up before Rob gets in. I’ve barely got the onions and garlic diced when I hear him open the front door. He drops his keys and jacket onto the hall table. I listen to the sound of his footsteps as he walks across the floorboards, past the kitchen and into the lounge.

  I wipe my hands on the front of my apron and then hang it on its hook. I measure seventy-five mils of whisky into a crystal tumbler and add three cubes of ice. I crouch and check my hair in the reflection on the oven door before taking him his drink. I place it on a coaster on the table beside him.

  He doesn’t look up but reaches out his hand for the glass before stabbing at a button on the remote.

  ‘Dinner won’t be long. We’re having lamb chops.’

  ‘Did you get the sauce?’

  I close my eyes at my own stupidity. ‘God, I forgot.’

  Rob shakes his head.

  ‘Do I need to write you a note or something? It’s not that hard, is it? Lamb—Colman’s mint sauce.’ He sighs and drains the whisky.

  I take his empty glass back to the kitchen. I can’t believe that I’ve forgotten the sauce. It’s like Rob said: Lamb—mint. Beef—dumplings. Chicken—gravy.

  It’s not that hard.

  MARCO

  I dress in a white pleated shirt and a black Armani suit and tie. I check my reflection in the mirror and note that my corkscrew curls could do with another cut. An inheritance from my Cuban side that I could do without. I slap on some Versace and inhale the woody scent before fastening my lucky cufflinks into the buttonholes. The
y need replacing: the luck seems to have dried up. I haven’t sold a property in over a month.

  I choose a posh restaurant in the heart of London to meet my clients for lunch. I want to sell them an apartment on Montague Square. From this rooftop restaurant, which has views along the Thames, I’ll be able to point out their new abode. Punters love that. It’s hard to find properties in this area, and I’m hoping that the small fortune I’ll have to part with for lunch will come back in my commission cheque.

  The minute I see his fake Jimmy Choo brogues step out of the black cab and get a look at the young tart he’s brought with him, I know my time and money are about to be wasted. I cut the lunch short and drag them through the apartment. I know the drill. He pretends to be interested in buying and makes random comments about architectural features. She’s stupid enough to be impressed. They go home and fuck, and I get fucked over.

  I walk slowly back to our office, past the Regency-style buildings to Mountford Street. The floor-to-ceiling glass front makes our office look like an aquarium. It’s not lost on me that inside the space, we act like Siamese fighting fish. Derek is already at his desk, his smirk firmly in place, ready for the fight.

  ‘How’d you go, Marco? Get your sale?’

  He says ‘Marco’ like he’s getting rid of a bad taste in his mouth. He’s always making racist slurs, and if he can get a shot in about Cubans, he will. His grin makes me ninety-nine percent certain that this morning was all a set-up. The one percent of doubt keeps my hands in my pockets, my mouth shut and my legs moving past his cubicle. I spend the afternoon at my desk willing my mobile to ring, and when it doesn’t, I send out emails and look over my colleagues’ advertising campaigns. At five I head for a bar on Oxford Street.

  After a few bourbons, I notice the girl at the end of the bar. I take in her perky breasts, her manicured nails and the fact that she’s downing drinks at the same rate I am. The bourbons have warmed me, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel so bad. I move along the bar.

  ‘Anyone sitting here?’

  ‘No. Be my guest.’ She removes her coat from the stool.

  ‘I’m Nigel. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Funny, you don’t look like a Nigel.’ She raises her eyebrows at me and extends her hand. ‘Marilyn.’

  I shake her hand. ‘You don’t look like a Marilyn.’

  We both smile. I notice the gaps in her front teeth, and see her looking at my Rolex. I spent my first commission cheque on the watch. It cost me more than my dad earns in his village shop in a month. It’s been lean pickings lately, and I’m starting to regret some of my purchases. I thought I’d cracked it and the money would keep flowing. I’m a living cliché, spending my money on champagne, beautiful women and clothes.

  I buy myself and Marilyn one more drink and then she follows me into the men’s toilet. I call it a night straight after and walk back through the city streets to my apartment. Music blares from an upstairs bar. I weave my way past the people, who are milling around the doorway, hoping to get in.

  I climb up the fire escape at the back of my building. I’m not in the mood to see my landlord. My rent’s only a few weeks late, but the impatient cock harasses me daily about it. I’m sure he’s laid a sensor wire under the carpet; it’s been impossible to sneak past his door without him poking his ugly head out. I’ve been selling off my furniture to pay my rent, but I’m fast running out of things to sell.

  I take the last container of noodles from the shelf and pour some boiling water over them. I prop myself up in bed while I eat and try to think of a cunning plan. If I don’t come up with one, I’ll have no choice but to head back to Radley. It’s the place where I spent my childhood, dreaming about the day I’d get to leave. If I timed the traffic right, I could race there in the morning, coerce Dad into lending me some money and be back in the city by lunch.

  JAMES

  Mum and I stand together on the cobbled driveway and watch as Dad reverses his Jaguar out of the garage. He insists on driving us to the train station, although it’s only a five-minute walk through the village and a minute across the overbridge.

  ‘Don’t be silly, James,’ he said when I suggested we walk. ‘How common would it look if we all traipsed through town dragging bags like a bunch of gypsies?’

  He flicks open the boot, and I throw my suitcase in.

  ‘Ready for the start of your life,’ he says, looking at me in the rear-view mirror.

  He takes it as given that my previous eighteen years count for nothing. I spread my lips into something I hope looks like a smile but say nothing. My acceptance letter into Oxford was the sign my father had been looking for that I wasn’t a complete waste of space. He made a big production of going to the cellar and coming up with his oldest bottle of port to celebrate.

  ‘To another lawyer in the family, and the fourth generation of Farndales to attend Oxford,’ he said, raising his glass and toasting the air.

  Mum’s been doing her best to convince me that good times and lifelong friendships are on offer for everyone who attends, but I doubt that’s true for me. My instincts have been telling me not to go—but remembering the look on Dad’s face when I signed the letter acts like a clause on a contract and overrides everything else that’s going on in my mind.

  As the train is about to leave the station, something inside me screams to get off. Through the carriage window, I see my mother in her mustard housecoat and sensible shoes, standing as close as possible to the window and waving at me.

  ‘I love you,’ she mouths, and smiles for the first time in years, it seems.

  It’s the only thing that keeps me in my seat as the train pulls out.

  EMILY

  I glance at my watch as I race up the high street to work. To avoid the mortuary, I go the long way around. It’s over a hundred years since the last body was wheeled into the rock cavern beneath the guildhall. Locked behind steel bars, the spiked metal trolley sits empty, but you know that the ghosts aren’t too far away. My grandmother threatened to lock me in there for a night once, after I embarrassed her in public. She dragged me as far as the door, but I was saved by Mr Noonan walking his dog. I still wave out to him enthusiastically each time I see him; he’s got no idea that he saved my life.

  As I head up the hill, I think about last night and how I could have done things differently. I took my eyes off the chops for a second and they burnt. I had to scrape the black bits off, but they’d already tainted the meat. Rob took one bite before spitting it out.

  ‘Jesus, Emily. Didn’t anyone teach you how to cook?’

  He knows damn well that there was nobody to teach me anything. I picked the meat up off the floor and took his plate out to the kitchen. The front door slammed a few minutes later, and I knew he’d be heading for the pub. I’ve never heard of anyone dying from breathing in whisky fumes, but some nights, as they puff from the side of his mouth, I wonder if I’ll be the first.

  I arrive at the library just as Colleen’s unlocking the doors. She’s been my boss for twelve years and appointed herself my stand-in mother long before that. She has an opinion about everything, especially if it involves me. She refused to come to my wedding because she didn’t like the fact that Rob was way older and that we’d only been dating a few weeks before he asked me to marry him. I reminded her that she was the one who insisted I have a drink at the Swan after my grandmother’s funeral. If it wasn’t for her, I never would have met him. He said later that he’d been waiting there for over thirty years for me to turn up.

  Colleen likes to say that she’s worked at the library longer than Methuselah was alive. She’s prone to exaggerating, but she’s been here as long as I can remember. I was sent here as a kid to collect my grandmother’s murder mysteries and to give her a break from me. While Colleen hunted along the shelves for my grandmother’s books, I’d settle myself in the children’s section. Each week Colleen handed me a book. It became our thing; I had to read ten books from each section before I got to move on to the nex
t. I got stuck in the 900s, and Colleen jokes that history and geography are my specialist subjects, which isn’t really funny, as I haven’t even caught a train to London. Book by book, I read my way around the library, which is just as well, as it’s the only education I got. I was home schooled on account of my easily corruptible genes. I knew about my crazy runaway mother, but I worried as a child that if we ever found out about the other half of my genes, I might not get to leave the house.

  Every time I push open the oak doors and step into the library, something magical happens. I imagine it must be how Lucy felt when she walked through the wardrobe into Narnia. The world you were a part of a second ago disappears and is replaced by a wonderland of books. The library used to be the manse and has housed several ministers and their families, including the one who ran away with the offerings and someone else’s wife. A houseful of furniture, wicker baby baskets, wooden rocking chairs, all got left behind. Some of the children etched their names into woodwork around the house, and I’m often putting books away and coming across a gouged-out Ezra or Bethany. I trace their names with my finger and make up stories about us being friends and sharing picnics by the river, where we chat about everything.

  Each room houses a different part of our collection, and the groups that gather here all have their favourite spot. The ladies who are embroidering the new kneelers for the church like to sit around the AGA in the old kitchen. They often all talk at once and sound like the crows in the garden. The cookbooks sit on shelves that would have once held bottled peaches and pickled onions. The conservation group meets in the upstairs lounge surrounded by bookcases filled with books about nature and science. It has views out over the garden, and you can see the maples that line the path leading to the river. There was a big hullabaloo when the Royal British Legion club tried to pull rank and take over the lounge. Colleen prevented a battle by converting a bedroom into something that resembled a gentlemen’s club. She chose the master bedroom, which had an ornately carved fire surround. She dyed the curtains black and reupholstered two wing-back chairs in a heavy brocade. Memorabilia was displayed in shadow boxes around the walls, and an old wooden drinks trolley was stacked with books about the various wars.