by Tracy Ryan
During breaks, though library staff had their own private tea room, they sometimes went down to the public café to buy cream buns or chocolate bars. Pen preferred to sit in there for her breaks because they had real coffee, and benches where you could sit and read and nobody would bother you. Observe the comings and goings.
Only today, she had her back to the room because the last spot left was facing the wall, on a high stool. So the warm ‘Hello’ took her by surprise.
She turned. It was Kathleen Nancarrow.
Pen swallowed, mute.
‘Weren’t you in my winter-school group?’ Kathleen smiled. ‘We had a long chat afterwards, didn’t we. Are you taking another course?’
She was leaning against the jutting table, idly scooping the creamy foam from her coffee with a teaspoon and licking at it. She wore a crisp, white collared shirt with darts at the waist, over soft black tailored pants. She smelled of tropical fruit, some kind of fresh perfume.
Pen shook her head. ‘I didn’t think you would remember me.’
‘Of course I remember you. You were very keen. Pen, isn’t it?’
Pen turned slightly back towards her book, torn between the urge to hide in it again, and the wish to seize the moment, say something outrageous, since now she had her chance. But Kathleen reached forward and turned the book over.
‘Oh, Highsmith,’ she said. ‘I haven’t read this one. You know she was very popular in France? She even lived there for a while.’
‘I don’t know about her life,’ Pen said at last. ‘But I like her stories.’
Kathleen nodded. ‘Mmm. Have you read any Simenon? You’d probably like him too, if that’s your bent. And you could read him in the French. I use him in teaching, his prose is so clean and precise.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you come out and sit with me on the terrace? It’s so dark in here, and such a lovely day – you don’t want to stay in the cold.’
Pen’s heart was thumping. ‘I have to … go in a minute,’ she said. She almost said ‘go back to work’, but she really didn’t want Kathleen to know she was working there. It would spoil … what? What sort of plan did she have in her head, anyway? Pen was confused. She had expected to watch this woman from a distance, to keep the silent upper hand – not this sudden collapse into real contact.
The terrace – sunlight, the moat full of koi swimming back and forth in their shrunken world, flashes of gold and red in the murk – and the great lawns, from which anyone might see Kathleen and Pen sitting together. It was too much, too soon. Not this way. Yet to let the chance pass …
‘Maybe we can … catch up some other time,’ Pen said boldly. For a minute she thought she’d been too bold: Kathleen gazed coolly at her. But then came another warm smile.
‘Yes,’ Kathleen said. ‘Why not?’ Then digging about in her purse, she handed Pen a card. ‘You could always give me a call.’
The hardest thing was not having someone as witness to it all. Not even to write it down … Somebody’s nose to rub in it, someone to whom Pen could say, See? I’m not stupid, I can take charge, deal with things. I am not a victim. To sit all day in the Circulation section idly discharging trolley-loads of books, and not even lean on the relief of gossip: You wouldn’t believe what happened this morning … Imagine Derrick’s face if he knew – and immediately Pen realised she must hide the card, she couldn’t take it home with all Kathleen’s details on, or the game would be up.
In fact, keeping the card anywhere at all might be a problem. You would have to be one step ahead with everything.
So she memorised the mobile number and threw the card away.
‘Sorry, what was that?’ Maureen leaned over.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Pen said, flustered.
Maureen gazed at her. ‘Are you sure? You all right? You look like you might have a temperature.’
Pen stood up and stretched. ‘I might just go and get some water,’ she said.
In the ladies’ room upstairs she splashed her face and ran the cold taps over both hands. It was true she looked unwell, she thought, peering into the mirror – could sick feelings show on the outside, were they that legible?
‘Too much reading,’ she thought, ‘too much time alone.’
Pen stared at her own pale features and thought of Kathleen’s, of that radiant face stilled to oblivion, extinguished, the way she had imagined it when they had talked that first time at the tavern. Her pulse raced in panic.
‘This is ridiculous, I am not a murderer,’ she told herself. ‘I have never hurt anyone or anything. Just because something crosses your mind doesn’t mean you would ever do it.’ You couldn’t help what you dreamt, for instance, and plenty of harmless people had extreme fantasies – that was clear from the sort of thing that they endlessly churned out on telly and at the movies.
She slapped her cheeks to bring back some colour, and rubbed herself dry, pulling a huge wodge of paper towels from the dispenser.
‘I don’t have to ring her, anyway,’ she decided. ‘I can just let it stop there.’
That evening as she walked in, the house was overly warm and filled with the smell of cooking.
‘Surprise,’ Derrick said, and hugged her. ‘I thought I should take over the kitchen for once. Seeing you’re home later than you used to be.’
Pen stiffened, but a glance showed he was speaking innocently – it was not a reproach, it was goodwill. The dining table was laid with cloth and cutlery, something steaming under tinfoil on a cork mat at the centre. Pen lifted the cover and saw a deep-layered lasagne dripping at the edges.
‘Impressive,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. It wasn’t the weather for hot, heavy pasta, but Derrick had such a puppy look on his face – the sort that meant pat me for having tried – that she bit her lip and did not say it.
‘I have to confess,’ he began, as they sat to eat, ‘I cheated.’
Pen blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ Even used trivially, the words chilled her.
Derek grimaced. ‘It was bought. From the deli counter at the organic store.’
Pen sighed. ‘Don’t feel you have to do extra just because I’m working more. I’m still on top of things, you know.’
‘I know,’ Derrick said, placing his hand over hers. ‘It’s only because I thought you’d like to come home to dinner yourself for once. I know you’re on top of things – you’re a wonder. I’m very proud of you.’
She looked at him with detachment. The words, once swallowed willingly – once taken as further proof of their solidity, their permanence together – glanced off now, even felt patronising.
He must have sensed this, because he added, ‘No, I really mean it. I know I’ve probably left a lot of this stuff up to you, not because you’re ‘the wife’, you know, Pen, but because you were at home more than I was. But I want you to know I have appreciated all that. And I’m thinking … well, for instance, when you’re on night shifts and so on –’
Pen placed her other hand on top of his. ‘Derrick, it’s no big deal. And it’s not as if you imposed on me. I’ve made my own choices, haven’t I? Stop worrying, darling.’
He smiled. ‘Okay.’ Then anxiously watched as she ate. ‘Is it good?’
Pen nodded.
‘Did you have a good day?’
She nodded again, and tried to listen as he went on to tell her about his day, the various staff dramas, the new student exchange program and how hard it was proving to find host parents for the incoming European kids. Already there were two boys signed up from Germany.
‘I suppose if all else fails, we could board them here for a little while.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Pen? I was saying, if the host families aren’t ready in time, we could put one or two kids up here. Just short-term.’
Pen was startled. ‘No, Derrick – it’s not a good idea, with the work to be done around this place. I’m sure we don’t need the stress.’
‘Fair enough.’ Derrick cocked his head sideways. ‘You okay, darlin
g?’
‘Yes. Well, I’m pretty weary, but yes, I’m okay.’
Thinking of her day, Pen started to laugh softly.
‘Like the Wicked Queen in Snow White,’ she thought, ‘plotting how to be rid of her rival.’ How astounded Derrick would be, could he really get inside her head. ‘I’ve been talking with your ex, your amata, your femme fatale, your nemesis. Your brightness and bane.’ It was too absurd.
And yet it seemed more real, the scent of that fruity perfume; more substantial, than this hard table, this dense, rich food, this flesh-and-blood husband sitting opposite her. He was pale as ever – but now he seemed ghostly. To her shock, she thought, ‘I wonder what Kathleen could have seen in him.’ And then felt immediately guilty for the notion.
It was worst of all when they went to bed that evening. Pen could tell Derrick was in the mood, charged with feeling from the special effort he had made to spare her the evening chores, the need to build closeness out of that. It was ordinary enough. But her body seemed a leaden weight beside him; she could not will herself to reach over and touch him, and when he slipped one hand across her breasts, she shuddered. Of course he noticed it.
‘Are you cold?’ he said. ‘It’s such a mild night.’
Pen shook her head but could not speak. His hand crept further down, but still she made no response.
Derrick pulled back slightly, watching her sideways. ‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head again. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’
He gave a little smile, and said, ‘But there is, Pen. You can’t be married ten years to someone and not know when something’s wrong.’
Pen thought, ‘Is that so?’ But aloud she said, ‘It’s all right, darling. Truly. I’m just a bit tuned out – overstimulated from work, maybe.’
Derrick laid his head on her shoulder and whispered, ‘Just relax. Don’t worry about anything.’
Now he went on stroking her and kissing her, trying to bring her into sync with his own body, and Pen capitulated, knowing otherwise he would not let it rest till he got answers out of her. But inside, detached from whatever was happening at skin-level, she fumed and raged.
It was like a boat coming unmoored, ever since Kathleen had resurfaced – nothing was going to stay put, stay on course. It was like being adrift and knowing you had to cross the water without guidance, without instruments to navigate your way. Even into this tiny, private space, where things had always been secure, always known, the woman had intruded.
Seeing Derrick from a distance like that, dull and unfamiliar – such a thought would never have crossed Pen’s mind before Kathleen. And Pen herself had made it worse, digging deeper, tracking Kathleen down. If she had only left things alone when she found the letter …
But since she had not, she must carry through. Things would never go back to normal until Kathleen had been dealt with.
Wiped, that was what Pen’s father used to say, when he washed his hands of someone, shut them out of his life. Dad was always falling out with people, and was always the one to make the final break, to stay in charge. Quick to make friends, and quick to drop them. Always the dumper, never the dumped.
The problem was how.
Pen had never wished anyone dead before, and she wasn’t even sure she did now. It wasn’t death she wished upon Kathleen: it was non-existence. If only she could not-be. It wasn’t even pain – Pen didn’t wish suffering upon anyone, not even in revenge for Derrick’s suffering so long ago. And yet she kept thinking of the old clichés: drinks spiked with powder, pillows held over faces. What shocked her was not that she thought of these, but that she wasn’t shocked. She was calm and cold.
Derrick came, finally, and sighed – aware that Pen was disengaged, but unable to stop himself. It made him unhappy; his breathing, in the dark, sounded ragged. Pen leaned over as he rolled away, and put her arms around him.
‘I love you, darling. Sleep well.’
And she lay there like that, holding on to him, until they both slept.
The next morning, under a brisk shower, was like waking up after some sort of trauma, where you don’t know who you are or why. Pen rubbed herself dry so hard she was bright red, and stumbled out to the kitchen, where Derrick already had everything under control. Bless him.
‘I made waffles,’ he said, as if compensating for something, and she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the cheek. Then sat and ate them slowly with him, even though it meant they might be late for work.
She watched him chewing, warmed under his occasional familiar glance. Everything was normal, surely it was. What on earth had she been thinking? ‘Insanity,’ she told herself, ‘all those night-time thoughts, that desperation.’ Weariness from her long days, her overly vivid imagination.
It was time to call a halt.
She couldn’t easily quit the library without good reason, and even if she did there was no longer a job to go back to at Derrick’s college. But she could draw a line under the rest of it. She didn’t have to see Kathleen again. She could stop going to the library café, lie low, keep herself to herself.
As if sensing her thoughts, Derrick said, ‘Is everything okay, the new job and so on? You don’t talk about it much. I thought maybe you –’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Pen interrupted. ‘I really like it. Really.’
Derrick gazed at her. ‘I thought maybe we should get some help in with the redecorating,’ he said at last. ‘Because you’ve got a lot more on your plate now, and I’m pretty busy too, and it’s not going to get done on schedule.’
‘There’s no hurry, though, is there?’ It was literally the last thing on Pen’s mind, though the house was in a state, half-undone, ready for remodelling, in suspense almost. The thought of it made her nervous. ‘We don’t want strangers coming in, nosing around. Let’s just do it ourselves, as we said.’
‘Nosing around?’ Derrick said. ‘I can’t see why they would. What’s to see, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ Pen said, a little sharply. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just don’t like the idea.’
‘Well, if you can stand the mess, and the delay,’ Derrick said. ‘I just have this sinking feeling we might never get it finished. And it’s important, you know? It’s something we planned together.’
He was almost wistful, Pen thought. At times like this, she could believe that he did love her the way she’d always supposed. That there had never been a Kathleen before her.
Pen collected up the plates and took them to the sink.
‘We were going to try to be more open, more sociable, Pen. And it’s just not happening. But you don’t seem to care much either way,’ Derrick said.
Pen closed her eyes. ‘Of course I care, darling,’ she said brightly, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have faith. We’ll get there.’
Four days later, on the desk in Pen’s cubicle, there was a little French paperback.
L’Homme qui regardait passer les trains. The man who watched trains go by. By Georges Simenon.
It could be a coincidence, she thought. But as French literature was not part of her library duties, it seemed unlikely anyone had put it there for work reasons.
There was only one person who would have left it there. Have you read any Simenon? … I use him in teaching, his prose is so clean and precise. The rhythms, the intonation, seemed burned into Pen’s inward ear.
Pen sank into her swivel chair and turned the flyleaf. Inside was a post-it note: ‘Thought you’d enjoy this. KN.’
The confidence of those initials, as if there was no way they could be mistaken. And the discreet understatement: no pressure, just an assumption of connection.
Pen pulled out the post-it note and shredded it. The book itself she thrust into her desk drawer. Was it a gift, or a loan? Either one required acknowledgement.
This she had not expected. She had thought the decisions would be all on her side – she was the one, after all, with the undeclared interest. Not that Kathleen would seek her out. It was not su
pposed to be this way.
She could, of course, pretend she had never seen the book; someone might have removed it, mislaid it, or taken it away to read …
Maureen popped her head around the cubicle wall.
‘Oh, did you get that book?’ she said. ‘Came in yesterday evening – night shift left it with your name on, so I brought it up.’
Pen nodded. ‘Thanks.’ No need to say more: it was only a book, after all, and this was a library. It could have been something she’d ordered for herself.
But how did Kathleen know she worked here? They had only met in the café, which was open to anyone. She must have asked around, or looked her up – the staff directory online, maybe. She might still have Pen’s surname – only the maiden name, thank goodness – from her winter-school register.
Pen was spooked. It was one thing to be the observer – another thing entirely to be the observed. She didn’t like it one bit.
All day the book turned this way and that in her imagination, like a restless sleeper. She opened the drawer; she closed it again. She was torn between curiosity – why this particular book, was it a message? – and annoyance at the incursion into her private space.
And she feared that she might even start to read it …
After work she had to call in to the foreign-language bookshop in the city centre, to collect some items Derrick needed for school. She had to drive around and around the block on William Street waiting for a parking spot.
When at last she got out of the car, she saw that the shop was no longer there. We have moved to Hay Street a sign said, and gave directions.
‘Bugger it,’ Pen muttered, and stood contemplating whether to walk or to shift the car. Turning, she saw a dingy doorway that said Internet Café. There were all sorts of shiftless types hanging around, moving up and down the dark staircase that led to the basement premises. She made double-sure she’d locked the car, and headed down the Mall. On foot would be quicker, given the trouble she’d already had parking – and it was near closing time.