It's only eleven, and Jill is working until six. At least she'll be able to finish Brodie Oates' novel sooner, and surely then she'll have ideas. She hurries to clock off and open it while the microwave rotates her carton of last night's vegetable chili with a series of muffled metallic creaks. The cover of the book is blank except for the author's name and Dressing Up, Dressing Down lettered in various fabrics: no photograph, just "This is the author's first publication" on the back flap. She hasn't finished the opening paragraph of the final chapter when she glances around to discover who's peering at it over her shoulder, but of course the cold breath on the nape of her neck belongs to the air-conditioning, which also fumbled at a corner of the page. She feeds herself straight from the carton with a fork while she reads. How much of a joke is the ending supposed to be, and on whom? When the man alone in a room removes all his costumes he turns out to have been every character: the Victorian detective whose quarry, the jewel thief, proved to be himself in drag; the sergeant in the First World War who was revealed as his daughter; the mysterious Berlin nightclub singer, her child and a hermaphrodite; the sixties private eye who couldn't decide what sex he was and who discovered these were all his relatives by taking psychedelics and communing with his genes halfway through the book, which then started rewinding itself … Jill forks up the best mouthful, which she has saved until last, but it's a lump of foil disguised by sauce. She spits it into a sheet of kitchen roll and drops that in the pedal bin, then returns to staring at the book.
The meaning has drained out of the title by the time a mouth behind her licks its huge lips. Whoever was about to page must have decided against it, because the speaker falls silent. Surely the title has to suggest a promotion—the initials, even. "May sound like a DUDD, but it's not," or, if she's to be more honest, "Is this a DUDD? Judge for yourselves" … "Did B. O. write a DUDD? Buy it and find out" … A moment's thought exposes how bad any of these ideas would look, but now the syllable seems to be stuck in her head: not even a proper word, just a lump of less than language. It thumps in her skull like a drum or the start of a headache. Dudd, dudd, dudd, dudd … She's glad to have it interrupted by the sight of Wilf, except that he stands in the doorway as if he's waiting to be told what to do and assumes she knows. A beaky frown multiplies itself above his patient greyish eyes and long blunt nose before he rubs his broad not unattractively bony face. "So," he says, "er …"
"What can I do for you, Wilf?"
"Do you think I could slip away about now?"
Jill has to glance at her watch to convince herself what he means. How has she managed to spend an entire hour upstairs? She hasn't even had a coffee, which might have helped rouse her brain. "Sorry, of course, you head off," she gasps as she springs to her feet and makes for the stairs so fast she almost forgets to clock on. At least that means her mind is on the job, she tells herself. At least she's giving all of herself to the shop that she can. Surely that's as much as anyone could ask.
Madeleine
"Look at all these books. How many books does Dan think there are? Are there lots of books?"
"Lost"
"Not lost, Dan, lots. Dan isn't lost, is he? And these books aren't. Most of these books are on their shelves. These here are shelves. Shelves are where the shop keeps books. Does Dan have shelves at home?"
Shouldn't the boy's father know? He must think talking primers aren't supposed to. He's with his son in Tiny Texts and talking louder than the music even Mad knows is Handel on the speakers. She's in the next bay, Toddlers' Texts, where some of the books are indeed strays thin enough to be waifs and a Teenage Text is sprawling on top of a shelf of simplified fairy tales. Sometimes she thinks the only T to describe her section is Trouble. "Shells," Dan shouts and giggles just as loud.
"Shelves, Dan. Shall we find Dan a book now? Which book would Dan like?"
"These ones," Dan says, trotting out of the bay in a straightish line. "Nice."
Mad has to suppress a snorty laugh, because he's bound for Erotica. Ross catches her eye across the Psychology section but seems unsure whether to expect to share a grin, although they agreed to stay friends. When she responds with a wink he looks away quickly without finishing his grin. He's making for the little boy, who has pulled Sensual Discipline off a low shelf, until the father arrives and snatches the book. "Not nice," he says, slapping erotic portfolios on the top shelf with it, and stares at Ross followed by Mad. "Not nice at all."
She could fancy he has sensed some trace of their relationship, but they've nothing to regret. They aren't going to let any awkwardness develop at work. She's forgetting the solid silky feel of Ross inside her, and the shower gel his penis tasted of; she has already forgotten how his tanned square blond-topped face looked at no distance at all. She gives him a smile she doesn't mean to be too secret and returns to loading her trolley, which she hopes she's not off more than usual, with misplaced books. Dan's father chooses a book with small words in aloud and marches his son off in step with Handel, and Mad wheels the trolley into Tiny Texts, where she lets out an oh that's close to an ow. Half a dozen shelves are in a worse state than she found when she started tidying.
Ross parts his lips as he ventures over, and she remembers the trace of a flavour of minty toothpaste. "Sorry," he murmurs as he observes the disorder. "I didn't see him doing it. I wouldn't let a kid of mine do that."
"You never mentioned you had any."
"I've not. You know me, I'm cautious." A memory seems to discolour his tan while he adds "I meant if I had."
"I did know that, Ross." If they were still together he would have realised she was teasing, but now she wonders how much they need to be wary of saying. "I'd best get on," she says. "I've still got books to bring down."
She hopes hearing Dan's father hasn't turned her monosyllabic. Once Ross retreats to his territory she tidies the shelves yet again before clattering the books on the trolley into order and filing them where they ought to go. She's at full speed now, which is the way she likes to feel. When she badges herself into the concrete lobby where the shop takes deliveries, however, the lift stops her dead.
Is it the slowest object in the building? She has to jab the button twice to summon a descending rumble beyond the metal doors. They twitch as a muffled female voice that reminds Mad of a secretary says "Lift opening." Two trolleys have been going for a ride in the cage as grey as fog, but there's room for her and hers. She thumbs the Up button to be told "Lift closing."
"Go on then, there's a good lift."
She could imagine that it waits for her to finish speaking before it shivers its doors and drags them shut. As it shudders upwards the trolleys nudge one another with a sound like someone very young fumbling with a drum. "Lift opening," the voice says as the cage settles at the top of the shaft. The doors fidget, unless they appear to because Mad is staring hard at them. Frustration sends her through the gap the instant it parts wide enough; frustration makes her almost stamp as she and the trolley reach her stock racks. When she began her shift they held no more than an hour's worth of books, but now they're stuffed.
Stamping won't clear them, nor staring either. New books come with the job every day. She sets about loading the trolley so fast she doesn't understand why she's overcome by a shiver. Perhaps the air-conditioning is playing tricks—no, somebody behind her is. She twists around to find Woody watching her from the doorway to the staffroom at the far end of the aisle of metal shelves. The door must have let in a draught as quiet as he was. He fingers the squared-off tail of his flattened turfy hair as if it conceals a switch that raises his equally black eyebrows and the comers of his mouth. "Falling behind?" he calls.
"Only if my underwear's not tight enough." Whoever she might say that to, he certainly isn't among them. "Not for long," she tells him.
He pads past the Returns and Damaged racks and nods at her shelves without taking his gaze off them. He looks more patient than reproachful, but there's a hint of pinkishness about his long cheeks, and an extra fur
row in his wide forehead. "The public can't buy what they don't see. Nothing should be up here longer than twenty-four hours."
"Just these have." Mad gropes for the books that today's delivery pushed into hiding. She keeps her back to him as he says "If you find you need help, talk to your shift manager."
She wouldn't need it if someone had tidied her section in her absence last night. She'd rather not tell tales about workmates—she can deal with the culprit herself. Woody leaves her to unload her shelves, but she's certain she senses him watching her. She has to laugh at herself, if a little nervously, when she turns and finds she's alone in the stockroom. She steps her pace up, though the books make so much noise on the trolley she wouldn't hear anyone behind her. At last she's able to trundle the books to the lift, where she pokes the Down button and dodges out. She can imagine feeling trapped by sluggishness if she rode the lift down.
She retrieves her trolley and hauls the door to the sales floor wide, then speeds her books through before thirty seconds can be up and trigger an alarm. By the time the metal elbow tugs the door shut she's in the Teenage bay, where armfuls of books have to be shifted to make room for newcomers. She hasn't quite stopped feeling watched, though Ross isn't watching; he's at a till, while Lorraine is behind the Information terminal. Woody can watch her on the screen in his office if he wants to, in which case he sees her shelve rather less than half her trolley load before six o'clock brings her dinner break.
She leaves the trolley by the delivery doors—trolleys are never to be left unattended on the sales floor in case children play with them and hurt themselves or someone else and Texts is sued, as happened in Cape Cod—and jogs upstairs. She fills her yellow Texts mug from the ivory percolator and sits down with her Frugo dinner. Soya prawn salad sounded tasty, but there's an underlying grittiness that reminds her of picnic food dropped on the ground. She can only persevere with eating out of the plastic carton while she borrows questions from books for her first children's quiz. When Jill clocks off at the end of her shift Mad asks her if the questions are too hard. "Bryony could answer most of those," Jill says with some pride.
"You should bring her. She might win."
"It's meant to be her father's day with her." Jill's large face is always a little too earnest for thirty, and now the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes don't look as if they have been left by smiles. She passes a hand over her decidedly red hair that's tamed by a cut just short of severe. "I'll see what she wants to do," she says.
Mad mentions that she and Ross are just friends now, and more of Jill's shift overhear. Gavin unleashes a yawn that hefts his heavy eyelids and stretches his long cheeks past his sharp raw nose towards his pointed stubbly chin, Agnes looks uncertain whether to be sad or brave or both on Mad's behalf. Everyone pretends not to be thinking about Ross as he sprints upstairs. Lorraine is close behind him, and breaks the uncomfortable silence. "Can I sling your books off the trolley downstairs, Madeleine?"
She sounds about to break into a chortle. Mad often thinks that, like Lorraine's laugh that goes with the horses she rides and her accent with ambitions to dissociate itself from anywhere near Manchester, her tone seems forced because her glossy pink lips are smaller than her face needs them to be. Lorraine raises her left eyebrow like the top of a question mark composed of golden fur, and Mad stands up to feed the last of her salad and its carton to the pedal bin. "I'm using it, Lorraine. I'll get back to it now."
"You've not had all your break yet, have you? You don't want to show the rest of us up."
"I don't, but I need to catch up on my shelving."
"Tell management to give you more time on it, then."
Mad washes her mug over the sink heaped with them and plates and utensils. She wipes the mug on a Texts towel and stands it in the cupboard above the sink, and turns to find Lorraine still gazing at her. "I wouldn't need so much time," Mad says, "if somebody had tidied it last night and a few other nights when I wasn't here as well."
Lorraine tilts her gaze up as though she's praying silently or observing her eyebrows, a gesture that provokes Mad to demand "Who was supposed to last night? Was it you, Lorraine?"
The subject of the question widens her eyes but otherwise leaves them how they are until Gavin says "I think it was, Lorraine, was it?"
"It may have been," she says, then glares at him. "Remind us all what it's got to do with you, Gavin."
His yawn may be his answer. It's Ross who comments "Weren't you saying staff should stick together, Lorraine?"
"Gracious me," Lorraine says and follows her blank gaze out of the door. "If the boys are going to gang up I think the ladies had better leave them to it."
Nobody wants to appear to be trailing after her, but Mad makes for the route through the stockroom. She's limbering up to be the swiftest she's ever been as she wheels the trolley onto the sales floor and into the Teenage alcove, only to halt as if she's been caught by the neck. Half a dozen books, no, more have been turned with their spines to the backs of the lowest shelves since she went for her break.
Did someone think it would be fun to give her more work? She stalks along the alcoves in search of the villain, but there's nobody. As she retraces her steps more slowly, daring any more books to be out of place, Ray ambles over from Information. His generously jowly pinkish face has adopted the paternal expression it wears whenever he heads a shift meeting. "Lost something?" he enquires.
"My mind if I have to put up with much more of this."
He runs his hand over his reddish neck-length hair, rendering it even more variously curly. "Of what's that when it's playing for the league, Mad?"
She knows football is second only to his family but doesn't see the relevance just now. "Look what someone did while I was upstairs."
He tramps after her into Teenage and peers where she's pointing. Once he has finished sucking his mouth small and wry he says "Well, I didn't see anyone. Did you, Lorraine? You were over here before."
Lorraine is wandering up and down the aisles. She puts on no speed at all to detour into Mad's section. After a pause for raising her eyebrows without widening her eyes she says "There was nobody."
"Don't leave yourself out," says Mad.
"I wouldn't touch your books," Lorraine says as though she feels superior to them or Mad or both.
"Like you didn't last night, you mean."
"Ladies," Ray murmurs. "Can we do our best to get on? We don't want anybody thinking us Mancunians can't sing the same tune."
No doubt he has football chants in mind. Lorraine's fleeting frown shows how she resents being associated with the game and with Manchester, which would amuse Mad more if she didn't have to ask "So why were you in my section?"
"I was looking for a trolley, as you know. Have you finished with it yet?"
"Try putting your head inside the lift."
"Is that all settled, then?" Ray hopes. "I expect you must have overlooked those books before, Mad. It'll only take a moment to fix, won't it?"
They take quite a few, not least because they turn out to be from the opposite shelf. Before she has finished the transfer Mad's fingers start to feel grubby, though she can't see why. Lorraine has strolled away to the lift, but Ray moves the last misplaced book. "You carry on shelving till you've absolutely done," he says. "I'm sure that's what the boss will want."
She would appreciate the proposition more if it didn't make her feel convicted of letting her shelving accumulate. She shuffles the contents of the trolley into order and dumps books in front of the shelves they belong to, then she returns the trolley to the lobby and sets herself a challenge: before the shop shuts, all her books will be where they should be. There are so few customers tonight that soon everyone else is shelving too—Ray, Lorraine, stocky ginger-bearded Greg—and she no longer feels singled out, not least because Woody has gone home. In less than ninety minutes she sends a trolley up and rescues it from the lift, and shortly it's back in there, almost more than full of the last of her books.
&
nbsp; Mad is dancing from foot to foot to keep off the chill of the delivery lobby when she hears a series of thumps beyond the metal doors. She can't help thinking of an ape determined to batter its way out of its cage, which is why the words of the lift sound like a warning. She wishes she weren't alone in the lobby—at least, she does until the lift labours open. She must have overloaded the trolley. Half a dozen books are on the floor.
She wedges the doors of the lift with the trolley and grabs the fallen books. Someone has recently tracked mud into the lift. By the time she makes her escape her hands need wiping on her handkerchief, which she also uses to clean a splotch off the cover of a school story, a mark that resembles a magnified fingerprint with wrinkles instead of whorls. None of the books is damaged, at any rate. The lift boasts of closing as she rushes the trolley onto the sales floor and starts arranging the contents at once.
She heaps books on the moss-green carpet and finds spaces for them on the shelves, and that's Mad for over an hour. If she thought about it she might be surprised how satisfying the task is, but its proximity to mindlessness is part of the appeal—an odd quality when it concerns books. All that's important is to live up to her own challenge, and she has only a handful of volumes to shelve when Ray picks up a phone to broadcast his voice. "Texts will be closing in ten minutes. Please take any purchases to the counter."
Two girls grab three romances each, and a pair of wilfully bald men leave the books they were leafing through in armchairs. Connie has hardly called five minutes when Mad shelves her last book with a sigh of triumph. She's ready to help search the shop while Ray stands guard at the exit. She feels absurd for checking her section twice, darting into each alcove as though she expects to catch somebody disarranging the bottom shelves. Of course nobody is hunched in a corner or crawling on the floor. She's the last to call "Clear," and feels sillier still.
The Overnight Page 2