Ideas Above Our Station

by M Y Alam

  7. Paradise Lost

  Ernest’s fame spread throughout the borrowing populace. Performance was expected of him. Library membership was up as people came to demand obscurities. ‘Admiral’s Tectonics,’ they would say, ‘the rare brown-paper 1942 edition,’ or ‘Ways to Win at Sumo Wrestling,’ or ‘Have you got the one with the green cover? I think it’s about bats. Or engines. It’s this big.’ This last demand elicited something strange from Ernest: a gargling, derisive laugh. The startled customer left piqued; astonished staff began to murmur. They could not remember the last time a sound like that had been heard in the library. Only when its echo had been swallowed wholly did anyone feel able to continue. Ernest left the counter, muttering.

  Ernest’s efficiency slipped. Constant demand seemed to have bettered him. Everyone noticed the descent into sluggish incompetence. Customers began to complain, sometimes loudly. ‘I have come X far for nothing,’ they would say. Ernest viewed them with contempt. He would deliberately avoid fulfilling requests, vanishing into the depths of the reserve shelves to nibble on biscuits. Discontent spread among the staff. They knew something was afoot, but not precisely what. Several of Ernest’s more senior colleagues started picking on him slyly in unobserved moments. They treated him like a child and gave him simple orders in hectoring tones. When Ernest failed to comply, and often when he did, they became aggressive. ‘Upstart,’ they called him, and ‘whippersnapper’. Never before had it occurred to Ernest that a library could be a dangerous place.

  8. Free Will and Determinism, or On Liberty

  Ernest found an increasing number of excuses to be alone in the dark, stuffy storage bays away from the counter. He still knew where everything was; the shelves there were regimentally kept, not at all like the jumble sale the public area resembled. After one particularly bitter embarrassment he strode in with a stack of returned books and distributed them at random. The act awoke in him a trembling pleasure. He treated himself to a biscuit.

  The head librarian took to following Ernest round as much as routine allowed. His disappearances had been noted. Ernest’s trivial revenge necessarily spread to other, less visible, activities: failing to process orders on time; not renewing books, thereby landing innocent borrowers with unwarranted fines; reinserting deleted items into the shelves but not the system, throwing the place into chaos as the discrepancies mounted and people attempted to borrow books that did not officially exist; and, as opportunity permitted, he continued his disordering of the bowels of the building, leaving no obvious sign of his passing but a dainty trail of crumbs.

  If anyone had stopped Ernest, and asked him why he had changed, he would have shrugged. He did not know how to explain change.

  9. When Words Collide

  Ernest’s behaviour at the library became intolerable once it was discovered. While locking doors the caretaker saw him tear pages from one book and insert them into another. The head librarian was not impressed. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything,’ the caretaker told him, ‘but it’s Health and Safety. There shouldn’t be nobody about by that time. There might be a fire.’ It was an observation that tarnished Ernest’s fondness for caretakers.

  The head librarian approached Ernest about the matter of his employment. ‘About the matter of your employment,’ he said. ‘You no longer have any. It is not required that you attend the library tomorrow.’ Ernest was sallow and had crumbs on his chin. ‘You respond badly to pressure,’ said the head librarian. Ernest’s reply is not recorded, but the head librarian bore ever thenceforth a look of surprise. That night Ernest drank a bottle of whisky and rode his bicycle into the pond. It had grown thick with slime. He woke the next morning shivering wet and bedecked in a tangle of weeds. He chose not to remove them.

  10. La Bête Humaine

  Soon after a policeman arrived. No one had seen Ernest for days; his mother had uncharacteristically missed church, and not just once. The Ladies had organised an exploration. As the bobby rapped on the door, they huddled at the gate and peered intently as though their combined efforts would penetrate it.

  Time passed. People gathered.

  A second policeman was sent for. Together they broke down the door. Five minutes later one emerged and cordoned off the premises. Ernest was escorted to a car and driven away. Those who caught a glimpse of him did not recognise what they saw. It was said he had become transparent, sprouted mould, grown scaly.

  11. How Our Mind Tangles Itself Up

  The policemen had found Ernest cross-legged on his bed staring and mumbling out of the window. He was counting chimneys. They made notes on what they found:

  - Forks, bicycle parts, hair products, various household items & such arranged neatly in rows across all the floors. Books alphabetical, furniture by size, &c. Ties in a way we cannot fathom.

  ·- Labels everywhere, all numbered & some with letters.

  ·- Lists made of all the above, cross-referenced.

  ·- Mother, deceased.

  She was given A Good Christian Burial, and the Ladies mourned; Ernest did not attend. The idea had been deemed a bad one by the authorities.

  12. Paradise Regained

  Ernest was taken to a secure institution where, the doctors said, he would be safe and cared for. He was placed in Room 143, and had regular exercise.

  It would have pleased him, had he the faculty for it, to know there was a place for him in the world.

  In Attendance

  Paula Rawsthorne

  I never really planned to bury myself alive, but now that I have, it somehow feels right. I suppose it wasn’t such a big step. No one seems to have noticed anyway.

  I realise that this job is a godsend but since becoming the attendant for the Ladies public convenience under City Square, I’ve become invisible. There’s always customers, caught short, desperate (well they’d have to be to come down here) but I can go days without anyone seeing me. I can be polishing the mottled mirror that they’re preening themselves in and they just look right through me. I could be doing a naked sword dance, using crossed mops and still they wouldn’t flicker. I know in your fifties you can’t expect to be turning heads but it’s not that; they’re worried you see; worried that if they make eye contact they’ll have to tip me. What do they think I am; a beggar, some kind of gypsy? This is a council run facility. I get a wage. I’m a trained cleansing technician.

  It suits me fine. I’ve never been one for small talk. Marty was the talker in our house. He could talk for hours. What he didn’t know about current affairs wasn’t worth knowing. He used to get so worked up about the state of this country – believed it had gone to the dogs ever since Mrs Thatcher was betrayed by her own. He’d say, ‘Now there’s a woman with balls.’ He’d lost both of his by the end but it still didn’t save him.

  Apparently they sent letters but anything official looking I tended to put unopened in a drawer. Always think that if it’s that important they’d send someone around. Well they did eventually; a very presentable young man from the housing office talking about rent arrears and payment plans. I had no idea I was so behind. Truth is Marty dealt with all that side of things. We had a nice little system. I’d hand over my wages from the cleaning jobs and he’d pass me back the housekeeping. I didn’t need any cheque book or cash card; if I wanted a little extra I’d just ask. It wasn’t a problem most of the time.

  Anyway I did the right thing. What did I need with a two-bedroom house? Rattling around, with all those shadows jumping out at me. He really was very nice that young man; asking me was I sure and where did I have to go? Told him that I was going to live with Rachel, my daughter – she insisted, wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said, ‘That’s nice, you don’t get that much nowadays.’

  I gave the lot away, just kept the essentials. It’s been such an eye-opener how little you really need. I phoned some charity in the Yellow Pages and they came with a big van and took everything – well it was easier than trying to sell the stuff. I saw a couple of curtains twitching but no one
enquired; why would they? I was never a great mixer. Marty would say, ‘Why do you need friends when you’ve got me?’ He was such a looker when we first met. He could have had any girl he wanted but he chose me. Said I wasn’t pushy like the others, they all had too much to say for themselves. He said that he could tell we’d make a great team. My parents thought he was wonderful. They couldn’t believe my luck.

  I tried my best to get hold of Rachel when her dad died. I even went to see the ‘in-laws’. They kept me on the doorstep which was a relief. You could tell by the hallway that the house was filthy and they had the cheek to look at me as if I were dirt. I knew they wouldn’t help. They said, all high and mighty like, if Rachel ever wants to make contact it’s her decision and they won’t be giving me any information. They wouldn’t even show me a photo of Jessica. She’s my grandchild too. There’s not a day goes by I don’t think about her, hoping she looks more like Rachel than him. One of Rachel’s friends let it slip; that’s the only reason I got to know. She’ll be eight now. I wish I knew her birthday though. Every year, around the time, I’ve sent a card, care of the in-laws. I’ve never kidded myself that they’d pass them on. Scum – that’s what they are. No wonder their son turned out the way he did.

  Even on the day of the funeral I hoped she might turn up; maybe seen the notice in the paper; but no. There wasn’t a big turnout, just a few of his colleagues from the taxis and a couple of his drinking pals. The vicar was a sharp bloke. He said some lovely things about Marty at the service. Nobody would have guessed that he’d never met him. Marty wasn’t the spiritual type. He used to say, ‘God and religion are for the feeble-minded,’ – I didn’t like to disagree. Anyway it won’t do him any harm.

  I don’t get regulars, only the druggies and lunatic bag ladies and I chase them out straight away. But there was one young woman, came in a few times; a lovely looking girl, glossy hair, beautiful nails. I gave her change for the Tampax machine once. Then, as she was leaving, she smiled and handed me two of those thick glossy mags. Well I was quite overwhelmed, but my God, what a load of rubbish. Packed full of filth – is nothing out of bounds these days? If you’re not doing it every which way, five times a day, there’s something wrong with you. Luckily life was a lot simpler for me. Marty never bothered me much after Rachel was born.

  I complained to Pauline about the lighting months ago. She was on one of her flying visits. She always comes in panting, ‘Those steps will be the death of me.’ I showed her all the strip lights on the blink. Their flickering is enough to send you into a fit and the noise; my God, it’s like a swarm of kamikaze bees flying into a live wire. Even after I turn the damn things off I still hear them. But it was the usual story. She says, ‘I’ll send someone from maintenance, just try whacking the starter with the mop handle for now.’

  Tells me that the council haven’t got the budget to refurbish, but not to worry. ‘It’s an important city centre facility and it’s not on any closure list.’ Next thing I knew she was in the office (well they call it an office but it’s more like a store cupboard with windows; somewhere to survey my kingdom from). She starts rifling through the supply cabinet, checking up on me, and that’s when she found them. ‘Are these all your clothes in here, June? What do you need them for, costume changes?’ She really tickled herself. All her chins wobbled with laughter. I just said something about going to the launderette but then she pulled out the blankets. ‘And don’t tell me you get cold, this place is like a bloody furnace.’ At least the heat means she never stays long. Day after day, night after night, long after the rusty hand driers have stopped belching out their stale air, those radiators are still red hot. No one’s able to turn them off; beyond their control apparently. So I’m left living in a sauna full of bleach fumes.

  It doesn’t matter how much I scrub this place, it won’t be up for any awards. It’ll always have that grubby look. Decades of ingrained dirt that’s seeped into the tiles and yellowed the grouting; an ocean of hard water that’s eaten into the taps and left trails of green down the sinks and toilet bowls. Apparently they replaced the cubicles in the eighties. Looks like it too; cheap, grey Formica boxes creaking and leaning like a row of drunks. On top of everything it’s no good for the handicaps and the baby-changing unit has never been touched. Well you wouldn’t chance leaving your pram up top, some yobs would be joyriding in it before your back was turned.

  Still I do my best, make sure I get right behind the pedestals and in the corners. But it’s the young ones, they always hover and the mess they make, like spraying cats. They ignore my signs – go chucking their sanitary products down the toilets. I don’t think half of them can read, they certainly can’t spell by the look of the graffiti I scrub off.

  I don’t know what’s gone wrong with young women today. I had a group of girls in just before closing the other evening. They’d obviously been drinking, the bride-to-be tottered over to me in her high heels and L-plates, squints at my badge and says, ‘June, were you in that film Strictly Ballroom?’ Suddenly the gang of them were bent double, cackling. The blushing bride slid down the wall in hysterics, thong on display, boobs escaping from her angel outfit.

  People are so ignorant. What do they think I should look like, Mrs Mop? Headscarf and slippers with a fag hanging out of my mouth? I always made sure I looked my best for Marty. He didn’t want to come home after a long shift and find me looking like something that the cat’s dragged in.

  When the whole hair thing happened it was a shock to both of us. I could tell he was repulsed – well what husband wouldn’t be? In less than four days every strand had fallen out, and I’m not just talking about my head. The doctor did some tests – said that he couldn’t find any ‘physiological’ cause and had I been experiencing any stress recently. Said he could refer me to a counsellor; kept on at me until I cried. Well I said to him, ‘I hope you’re not implying that I’m not right in the head?’ Then I walked out, my head held high. I haven’t been to a doctor’s since.

  I got it on the NHS: Monroe blonde and piled high. I pencil in Garbo eyebrows, choose my lashes and let my make-up bag do the rest – simple yet glamorous. I tend to leave it all on now, just touch it up in the morning before I open. Truth is, the last time I stripped it off, some jaundiced ghoul was staring back at me; hollow cheeks and dead eyes held up by bags the size of life jackets. Marty will be turning in his grave.

  At first I did okay. I’d go up top quite the thing – sometimes even for a stroll in the evenings. But then I started to worry that I might be spotted going back down. I could get into a lot of trouble. I’d be sacked for starters and if the local rag got hold of it they’d twist everything; make me out to be some nutter. So I realised that there wasn’t much point going out. It’s not like I have places to go or people to meet and I’ve got tons of cup-a-soups, tea bags and powdered milk. Pauline goes on at me every visit, says I’m wasting away. She keeps bringing me those build-up drinks and asking if everything is all right at home. I said to her once, ‘We haven’t all got appetites like you, Pauline.’ That shut her up.

  Me and Rachel were inseparable once. She was never so close to Marty but then he didn’t have the time to spend with her although he always made sure he was around for bath and bedtime. It was their special time together; he used to shoo me away. He was good like that, some fathers don’t do a tap. But she was always a mummy’s girl, clingy even. She’d get all worked up, want me to do everything. Marty got terribly upset; used to say that she didn’t love him. It got so bad I had to bribe her. Promised her all sorts if she didn’t make a fuss. Sometimes she’d take the treats and start creating regardless and I’d tell her, ‘Rachel, a deal’s a deal.’ She calmed down eventually. Kids go through funny phases don’t they?

  It may feel like a catacomb down here but the noise is enough to wake the dead. If it’s not the pipes banging and the taps dripping it’s them. They know I close at seven o’clock, but night after night I hear them stumbling down those steps, all tanked up, cursing a
nd kicking the door. More often than not they just drop their knickers and do it in the doorway. Animals – the stench in the morning – I shouldn’t have to deal with that.

  Anyway, I’ve got the office quite cosy. Big vase of silk flowers, a few photos, though there’s no decent ones of Rachel. She was always hiding that beautiful face behind a mop of hair. No matter how I went on at her, she never took pride in her appearance. The folding chair suits me fine. I tend to doze rather than sleep. My mind keeps kicking me awake. It’s full of nonsense – always flitting from one ridiculous thought to another; never finishing what it starts. That’s why I put up my postcard: ‘A view over Buttermere’. Not that I’ve been there. We had our week in Torremolinos every year without fail. Marty loved it there. Said you wouldn’t know you were in Spain.

  What I do is get really comfy, blankets padding my chair, cup of tea in hand and that Classic FM on the radio. I put the volume up as loud as I dare until it turns this cave into the Albert Hall. Then I concentrate on that postcard until I swear I’m there, on top of that mountain, leaning against the wind, arms outstretched. The air so crisp that it slices right through me and the view. There’s not a cracked tile or bleached loo in sight; just a huge mirror-lake surrounded by a crown of mountains daring me to reach out to them. Then this sobbing starts butting in. But I’m determined not to be distracted and I’m still there, filling my lungs with that priceless air and I’m overwhelmed by the urge to launch myself off that peak and let the wind carry me across the lake, and I feel so alive, so powerful. But that appalling sobbing just won’t stop. Instead it gets louder and deeper until it’s swamped my view, drowned out my heavenly music. Until all I can feel is my soaking face and snot streaming onto my heaving chest and I sit there exhausted and terrified as all those thoughts come flooding back again. It’s always happening but I just can’t help looking at that postcard. Marty would be ashamed of me – he couldn’t abide emotional women.