‘I think it’s about him debating whether or not to take a risk.’
Henry stays with me this afternoon to help and to argue more about Eliot. There are so many comments on the book that my hands are tired, so I read out the comments and Henry types. Eventually we get to the last one and Henry walks back to the counter.
I’m too tired to start cataloguing another book. I proofread what I’ve done today, and make sure it’s formatted. Then I save the database and shut down the computer. Martin’s not ready to go yet, so I pass the time looking through the books.
The one I really want to look at is Mark Laita’s Sea. I noticed it on the first day. It’s one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever seen and I can’t believe someone would leave a copy of it in the Letter Library for people to write on.
I take it off the shelf today. The creatures are hypnotic, glowing off pages in brilliant light. I sit on the floor and look through. I stop when I get to page with the North Pacific Giant octopus, a red spectacular creature, with no eyes that I can see, the end of its body a mouth, open in a kind of blind wonder. I’m staring at that mouth for a long time before I notice a tiny hand-drawn arrow in the margin, pointing to the creature. There’s a word next to that, written in small neat letters, the kind of letters that Cal used: this I love.
I know before I’ve hardly had time for thought that it’s Cal’s handwriting. I know from the way the tail of his ‘e’ kicks upwards, and the way the arrow is drawn, a tiny arch in its back. I know because he loved this octopus, because he loved this book. I know it in a way I can’t prove.
I think about that arrow for the rest of the week, the love next to it, the small arch in its back. By Sunday I decide the feeling it gives me isn’t sadness, exactly. It’s too complicated to easily name. It has something to do with Cal being in a library along with other people who no longer exist in the world. The traces of them are hidden, small lines in books. In a library from which no one can borrow.
The Broken Shore
by Peter Temple
Letters left between pages 8 and 9
16 January – 22 January 2016
Hi Martin
I’m writing to explain some things about last night. I was wrong about you – you’re a nice guy. I liked talking to you in the bathroom. I liked hearing about Rufus, who’s no particular breed that you know of. I like that you chose him because he was the strangest dog at the shelter and you thought no one else would take him. I meant what I said – I’d like to meet him one day. I’d like to meet your mums, too, and your little sister. I think you’d make a great human rights lawyer. I like that you like mysteries. I like you.
And the kiss – what we had of it – was nice.
But, there’s that guy I told you about. I know, for certain now, that he’s stopped writing because he’s gone overseas, so I’m going to wait for him to get back. I’m really hoping that you and I can be friends. It’ll be a long summer in the bookshop if we can’t.
George
Dear George
Thanks for your letter. I still feel like a bit of an idiot but your explanation helps. (My kiss was nice?? That’s hugely flattering, thanks, George.) You have my word that I won’t try to kiss you again and yes we can be friends. I’d like that. I’d like if we could be friends when we go back to school, too. It’ll be a long summer if we’re not friends, but it’ll be an even longer year.
Martin
Dear Martin
Thanks for your reply. That’s a huge relief. I meant the kiss was really nice. It was more than nice. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience, but I think you’re a good kisser. Sure, we can be friends when school starts, but that might cause some trouble for you with Stacy and her group.
George
Dear George
Friends it is, then. You really need to stop worrying about what people think. That’s half your problem.
Martin
Martin
I have a problem? You’re the one who’s hanging out with Stacy, a girl who likes to call people freaks.
George
Dear George
I’m sorry. I wrote that last note in a bit of a hurry at the end of my lunch break. I didn’t mean you had a huge problem, just that you tend to hang out alone at school, and I know of at least one person who’s tried to talk to you (me!) and you haven’t exactly been friendly. I just meant that you’re a great person and maybe the guy you like would have told you who he was before now if you’d been a bit more welcoming.
Martin
Martin
Fuck off and stop writing to me.
George
Dear George
I’m not fucking off. I’m your friend. Friends don’t fuck off. And by the way, friends don’t tell each other to fuck off, either.
Martin
Martin
Fuck. Off.
George
Henry
it’s the closeness of them that’s mesmerising
Martin walks over to me around four on Friday the 22nd. I know it’s 22 January because I’m staring at the calendar and Tom, the customer who pretty much lives in the Supernatural section, is trying to teach me to flip the page over to February with my mind. I stop testing my psychic abilities when I notice that Martin is the closest to angry that I’ve ever seen him.
‘Your sister,’ he says, holding up a note, ‘just told me to fuck off.’
‘She tells me to fuck off all the time. I wouldn’t take it too seriously.’ I share with him the truth that’s universally acknowledged in our family – that we’re shit at love – and he says, ‘I’m not trying to love her. ‘I’m just trying to be her friend.’ He walks away to vent his frustrations on the cataloguing.
I’ve been having a difficult few weeks myself when it comes to girls. Amy replied to the note I left in her mailbox last week with a cryptic text – Thanks. That means a lot at the moment, Henry.
She hasn’t sent anything since and I can’t stop wondering what at the moment means.
I’ve also spent the last few weeks trying to cheer up Rachel, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t do anything obvious, since I’m not allowed to tell anyone about Cal. The only thing I can think of to do is to try to talk to her about it, but she’s told me straight out that words won’t change anything and she doesn’t want to talk.
She’s not being rude anymore. She’s being what I’d describe as obsessive. She was going crazy on the cataloguing before she found Cal’s note on our copy of Sea. Now she’s a step beyond obsessive. She’s working without breaks. She’s searching, although she hasn’t said, for another word from her brother.
Frederick walks over to the counter to check on the state of the Walcott search. I don’t have anything new to report, but while he’s here I ask him a hypothetical question.
‘If you had a friend who was upset about say, a death in the family, but they didn’t seem to want sympathy, what would you do? If you thought they needed to talk about it, but they wouldn’t talk about it?’
‘I think you have to respect their wishes. If they don’t want to talk about it you can’t force them.’ His eyes move towards Rachel and back to me. ‘You might try to make her laugh.’
It’s easier said than done to make Rachel laugh. She used to laugh all the time. I’ve been checking back over the photos taken of us over the years, and in every one there’s a smile on her face. There’s a smile exactly like it on Cal’s face, too.
I stared at one last night for the longest time. Every time I put it down I picked it back up. Cal and Rachel at the beach. It was taken in the summer between Year 8 and Year 9. Her arm is slung around his shoulder, and the shot is taken close up. I can see all the freckles on Rachel’s skin, all the fine sand there too, clinging to the leftover ocean. Cal has his glasses on, and there are spots of water on the lenses. It’s the closeness of them that’s mesmerising. That’s how they were.