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‘I don’t mind smelling like a strawberry.’ He grins through tears. ‘Aside from Finn, you’re the only person I’ve spoken to in years.’
Years?I take a moment to swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Why?’
He shrugs and his lip wobbles ever so slightly. ‘I’m invisible to them. They pretend they can’t see me, so they don’t have to wonder how I got to be living like this. Then they don’t have to care, I suppose. Sometimes, I feel like a ghost, hovering on the edges of society, forgotten, put out with the rubbish.’
I debate what to say, what to ask, then figure Harry seems comfortable sharing with me so far. ‘Why are you homeless, Harry? Where’s your family?’
Harry casts his eyes to the floor and I know whatever his story is,he’s not quite ready to share it with me just yet. ‘It’s … it’s still so hard to talk about.’
‘I understand. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.’
‘Thanks, Elodie. Forgive an old man his tears.’ He wanders away, head down, and my heart is heavy at the thought of what Harry’s been through, made worse by becoming an outsider in what seems like a tight-knit community. It saddens me that, aside from reporter Finn, no one has made an effort to befriend Harry or offer any assistance. Why?
Chapter 6
Later that day, I start cataloguing our stock. Reluctantly I remove damaged books, those with loose pages and torn covers, and some that are inexplicably water damaged. Does the roof leak? Hard to tell when the lighting in the library is dim at best. The old fluorescent tubes lights are mottled and yellowed with age. But the dimness makes the space warm and comforting so I’m loath to change it. While we don’t have a lot of new stock we do have a huge range of classics still in good shape. Some with beautiful hardbound covers with gold lettering. They deserve to be on show in all their glory, so I take them and make a display table. I go to the office and print a sign –Classics never go out of style!– and laminate it before returning and putting it front and centre on the table.
Once that’s done, I go back to removing damaged books, and I also make a pile of tomes that are out of vogue, Seventies and Eighties style, that haven’t aged well and probably won’t be borrowed in a hurry. I set them up on a table by the front door with a sign advertising the prices – a fire sale of sorts – and even though it’ll only be pocket change, every pound will be put to good use and hopefully these old books will find a happy home and be read again.
I head back and continue to the shelves on the other side and almost bump into Maisie who sits with her feet up on a chair, her head lolling backwards. Is she sleeping?
I prod her shoulder and she snorts as she comes to. ‘Whaaat?’
Maisie is really grinding my gears. ‘Can you nap on your own time?’
She rubs at her red-rimmed eyes. Has she been crying or is it from being in a deep slumber in the middle of a workday? ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I was just watching you do things in your strange new way, and it got me thinking about how it was before you came and how much things have changed and I just … fell asleep. It’s all a bit much some days.’
Is Maisie struggling with the thought of losing her job? Maybe that’s what’s driving her lack of enthusiasm. Or perhaps she misses her former boss Agnes Bitterweather, who didn’t enforce many jobs around the place by the look of it. I try to understand Maisie’s motivations but come up blank because those scenarios just don’t make sense to me. Shouldn’t that be what motivates her? ‘Can you make a start sorting out the children’s books so we can decorate an area for them ahead of the rhyme time sessions?’
Maisie narrows her eyes. ‘You’re doing things so differently to how they’ve always been done. Even the way you catalogue books is strange. Where did you work before?’ She’s not going to let this go. And I don’t know if it’s because I’ve caught her skiving off or if she’s truly suspicious of me.
‘I’ve worked all over the place and I’m changing things because the old ways didn’t work. That’s not me having a go at the way Agnes did things, not at all. I can see from an accounts perspective she tried lots of things to make this place solvent.That’s why we really have to shine – really make a splash to remind the locals the library is here and can be built up again into whatever they need it to be. A refuge for some, community for others, a place to lock out the world for a while with a book in hand. We’re not here simply to lend books; it’s so much more than that.’ I soften my tone, trying to appeal to her. ‘We’ve only got until October 21st to submit the paperwork for more funding. That’s not even three months away, Maisie. I really, really need your help to make this happen. And before we get to that stage, we have to get five hundred and—’
‘October 21st is a Friday,’ a little voice says, interrupting me. Probably a good thing in case Maisie digs in, asking about where I’ve come from, which would be akin to Mars in her eyes.
I turn to the voice. ‘Good guess,’ I say to the golden-haired boy with a cherubic face.
‘It’s not a guess.’
‘Oh?’ I say, confused.
‘Ask me another date. Go on.’ He motions with his hand for me to get on with it.
‘Umm,’ I say, taken aback. With his bright blue-eyed gaze, he stares just past me, as if looking over my shoulder. ‘OK, what about November 10th?’
‘That’s a Thursday.’
I cock my head and take my mobile from my pocket and check both dates. Friday and Thursday. ‘Could be a lucky guess,’ I say. ‘What about the following year? January 9th.’
He grins and stands on tiptoes, rocking back and forth. ‘Easy, Monday.’
We zigzag from years ago to years ahead and he gets every day correct. ‘Huh. What’s your name?’
‘Alfie.’
He grins, as if he knows how impressed I am with his extraordinary skills. ‘You’re a little bit clever, Alfie. Have you got a photographic memory or something?’
He shakes his head. ‘I can calendar count. My mum says it’s my superpower, which makes up for the fact I have no filter. Your hair looks all wrong on you. You’d look better with yellow hair.’
