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Mr Tolchard left the room.
The first book had a shabby, plain blue cover with words in French embossed on the cover. Casey wrote the author's name in block letters at the top of the first index card, and then, tempted as she was to open the book and look inside, she remembered to be obedient.
‘Mordre le bas dur’ was the title, and after much thumbing through the French dictionary, she translated it into ‘Bite down hard’.
She could not fathom what it meant. Bite down on what? An image flashed before her mind, and she giggled to herself. Opening the book, she found it was a lengthy treatise with numerous photographic plates of dentures. She decided the book was about casting dental moulds. She did not think Mr Tolchard had an interest in dentistry and filed it under Medical as a subject.
The next book was older looking, and again there were no pictures. The dust cover had been removed like all the books she had been given to sort.
The title was intriguing: ‘Bottnar Upp’. It took a while to work out the language, and when she did, she was surprised to find there was a Swedish
dictionary.
‘Bottoms Up’. With a silly smirk, she wrote the title down on the card next to the author. Inside were lists of wines and vineyards. It was a guide to wine tasting. She filed the book under Food and Drink.
The next book was thin and did not appear to contain many pages, almost a pamphlet. The title was enigmatically laid out in black writing: ‘Piquer le Feu’. French again, and she translated it to ‘Poking the fire’.
“Oh, come on,” she said with mock annoyance. What could it possibly be about? Another image flashed across her wayward mind. It was so easy to do, like the games she use to play with her fellow students when they were bored with their studies. Innuendo hunting had become a pastime she frequently enjoyed. After a moment of grinning, she opened the book to find numerous photographs of fireplace pokers—antique and ornate brass implements. The book was simply a record of somebody’s personal collection. She filed it under Antiques.
With mounting trepidation, she picked up the next book.
‘Sucer Doucement’. Flicking through the pages of the dictionary, she found the words and laughed out loud.
“Sucking sweetly!” she exclaimed. It was too late, the words were far too tempting to ignore. She squirmed as she remembered the last time she sucked him sweetly. For several minutes she drifted in daydreams and then opened the book. It was a guide to making boiled sweets, bon-bons, and other confectionary. Some authors had a quirky sense of humour, she decided. That one was filed under Food and Drink also.
It was becoming hard to contain herself, especially as she translated the next book from ‘Verbreiten sie Weit’ to ‘Spread them wide’.
The very words had only been spoken to her the previous evening. She quivered at the memory and stayed there for some considerable time, perched on the desk, reminiscing. The book turned out to be about law enforcement techniques.
Trying hard to write down the details with trembling hands, she heard the door behind her open. Mr Tolchard had returned to check on her progress. Straightening up, she stood by the table.
“I’ve come to inspect you, Casey,” he said walking towards her.
“Inspect me? Now, sir?” she said surprised.
“Yes, Casey, now.”
He stood very close to her, and for some reason the proximity reminded her of their first meeting. She had to confess that at the time he was not what she expected. In his mid-thirties and still possessing a fine head of dark hair, he was younger than she had envisaged for a professor turned eminent writer. He had been dressed smartly—as she now knew he always was—with a tie underneath his pullover and polished black shoes. She had felt quite uncouth sitting next to him in fact.
* * *
Meeting Rob Tolchard for the first time was the strangest day in Casey’s life. If anyone had told her she would meet the man of her dreams on the day in question, she would have bitten their head off in disbelief.
She was crying when they met. Sitting on a park bench in faded jeans, on a rather dreary day, with leaves floating about in the air, she had quietly let the tears drip down her cheeks. He was walking by, as many had done while ignoring her, except as he came by, he slowed up and then stopped to backtrack to where she was seated.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
Now to Casey, it was an odd question. Not ‘are you crying’, or ‘are you all right’. It was straight to the point. Why was she crying? She hiccupped and look back at her inquisitor. Tall, dark, and yes, he was a handsome. Dressed in a suit with a camel overcoat, he exuded style while remaining distinctly in a different era. Did men still dress that smart and elegantly? Even his shoes shone brightly in the dull light.
“Um,” she stuttered before attempting to wipe her nose on her sleeve.
A handkerchief appeared from his coat pocket and was thrust into her hand. “Please do not wipe your nose like that. It’s pretty disgusting, and you’re clearly not a child.”
The reprimand should have made her indignant, but somehow she felt ashamed at her lack of manners.
“Thank you.” She blew hard into the soft white fabric. He did not ask for it back. “I feel like a child.”
“Because you’re crying?” he said, hovering above her. “It’s alright to cry. It doesn’t make you immature.”
