He did this a lot, he remembered. He probably read the whole library out there. Books for kids, books for grown-ups. Ageless tale after ageless tale.The Three Musketeers, Treasure Island, Frankenstein, The Moon and Sixpence, The Secret Garden, Rebecca, Moby-Dick, The Call of the Wild, Cold Comfort Farm, Kafka’s short stories, and a strange and exciting science-fiction novel calledThe Invention of Morelthat he had picked up because the author was from Argentina and he wondered what imaginations were like so far away.
Stories were his playground. They were his freedom. Through them he could imagine himself a rich man, an adventurer, a hero, a villain, or simply incredibly well-fed. Depending on the tale, he could picture himself surviving hardship or living in greatness. They gave him room to exist beyond the red bricks and restricted life of Glossop Road.
The Ghost remembered them all. Sometimes, like today, it wasa book he had first laid eyes on in Bagdale’s, and sometimes just something he had happened upon while at the library.
‘Oh, Wilbur,’ sighed the Ghost.
Wilbur looked up from the page to have a little break to think about something. He was casting his eyes further along the pavement, seeing in the distance the glimmer of smashed glass from a beer bottle. Then he went back to reading again.
He had been encouraged by his English teacher, Miss Graham, to view books as a means to an end, towards opportunities in his life. But for Wilbur, reading was more than that. He didn’t read because he wanted a good job. Though he absolutelydidwant a good job, when the time arrived. But no. He read because stories gave him room to grow beyond the world he was given. They helped him feel as if the lives he read about intertwined with his own, like threads in an ever-expanding rope. Stories made him strong.
Whenever the weather was warm or even mild he would sit outside on the street reading. He wasn’t and had never been the most social of creatures, but he had always liked to be out in the world rather than retreating from it.
Sometimes, if boys were playing football out in the street, he would get a jeer or two, but generally he was left alone. Everyone knew who his brother was, and Dougie was nineteen now and would gladly and enthusiastically punch anyone in the face who disrespected his family. He would possibly even bite them too, as he was something of an animal.
Wilbur the Ghost walked over.
Once there he stood for a little moment, then crouched down beside himself with ease. He had the hip mobility of a twenty-nine-year-old once more.
‘You loved that book, didn’t you?’ he said to his young self. ‘What’s this? Your second or third time reading it?’
Obviously there was no response. The consciousness of young Wilbur was on a different plane to the consciousness of his spectralform. But remembering how his baby self had followed him with his eyes, he held out hope and placed a hand in front of young Wilbur’s eyes. And waved it.
‘Come on. Look. Can you see me? You saw me once, little lad. Can you see me again?’
But no. Not a glimmer from those studious eyes.
Two girls were walking along the pavement. They were in uniform but not that of Willow Park. About the same age as Wilbur or a smidge older. They were from De la Salle, the grammar school on the other side of town. This wasn’t unusual. Glossop Road ran all the way into town and was often full of young folk from all over the city after school hours, heading to browse shops or sit in the Milk Bar listening to rock and roll.
The girl on the right had red hair and freckles and a scrunched-up expression that seemed to indicate a hard and humorous attitude to life.
The other girl was holding her satchel in front of her. In contrast to her friend there was a calmness to her. This was the first time he ever saw her, the first time he noted her smile or the intelligence of her eyes.
It was Maggie.
He remembered this day. And it was, he supposed, why he was stopping here. There were days in life that rolled by and were never really thought of again. And then there were days that were so beloved or important that they contained inside them everything that came after. Russian doll days, that were always inside the expanding future.
And so now he was watching it all once more, in vivid detail.
The girl with the red hair – named Doreen Taylor, he would later find out – nudged her friend to point out the amusing sight ahead of them. The strange skinny boy reading outside on the street. And he could see now what he had never seen the first time. The moment Maggie Shaw first laid her eyes on him. Her expression seemed to contain amusement, curiosity and sympathy.
Then Doreen spoke up.
‘Flippin’ ’eck, Maggie, there’s a boy sitting out in’t street thinking it’s a library.’
‘Don’t worry ’bout her,’ said Maggie, needling her friend. ‘She’s never read a book.’
‘I can tell.’ Wilbur suppressed a slight smile.
Maggie laughed.
Doreen lost her humour. ‘Cheeky wazzock.’ And she elbowed Maggie towards the wall a little.
‘So what are you reading?’ said Maggie, tilting her head to see the cover.
‘The Old Man and the Sea.’
‘What’s that about, then?’
