‘See you,’ he said as he went in through the door. He didn’t look back.
They saw each other a few more times before Hortensia returned to Brighton, her address securely written in neat lines in Peter’s address book; his, put to memory in her mind. They wrote to each other and where before even their most friendly of meetings had maintained an air of formality, the letters were flirtatious, loose, even steamy. Peter had noticed a mole, black like the ink of his pen, just beneath her left collar bone. Distracting, he confessed. And two letters later he wondered about it, what it felt like to touch. Hortensia was initially more practical. She wanted to know whom he had exchanged letters with previously. Was he courting another? Her suspicions were there without having to be conjured – no doubt the result of growing up in the fog of Eda’s endless sense of present or coming injustice. As the year went along, the frequency of Peter’s letters, his jokes and his passion gave Hortensia the courage to allow love to bubble up, to scatter and pop along the surface of her life. He asked that she draw him pictures – their ready joke about forms, lines. Peter sent Hortensia scribblings of chemical compounds, which he would name and explain to her. Why the fascination? she once asked. His answer was cryptic in its brevity. He liked to study ‘combination’; he liked to dwell upon the science of it. She enjoyed this about his mind, the intensity with which it considered these scientific details that remained abstract to her. He seemed to apply the same intensity in studying her and, late at night, this thought made her skin hot.
The following year, in May, Kwittel died. Hortensia attended the funeral but returned to Brighton and stayed through the summer, unable to face London. She felt guilty, but couldn’t find the courage to return to a home without her father sitting inside it, reading. Peter drove down to see her. He came to comfort her, to hold her.
Marion hadn’t got around to the library. She’d told herself that Beulah Gierdien was in the unfortunate position of needing something from Hortensia James, which she would never get. The spite that had initially motivated Marion’s need to vindicate Beulah’s request had diminished. In its place Marion found herself curious about Hortensia, about her strange regard for history, her solitary life.
At the end of the last committee meeting Marion had stressed to Ludmilla the importance of keeping her informed. It was that self-contained Scandinavian quality of Ludmilla’s that had made Marion nervous, made her worry that her committee meetings would be sidelined.
Instead of an update, Ludmilla called and asked if Marion had been to the library already – if not, could she please look up some details for them. She was interested in the history of the Koppie and its surrounding lands, since it was looking possible that the case would settle out of court and the Samsodiens would be granted a parcel of land, within Katterijn, as compensation. I doubt we can stop them, but you never know, Ludmilla had said, and Marion had the uneasy sensation of feeling both nauseous and flattered. She agreed to go.
When Marion told Hortensia she was going to the library, she also thought, in a rare moment of care, to ask if she could get her a book.
‘From that sorry excuse of a library, with countless Wilbur Smiths pouring from every crevice and not a single book by Walcott, Lamming or Aidoo?’ She sucked her teeth. ‘Ignoramuses.’
Marion took that as a ‘no’. She gathered her book bag and walked, enjoying the sun on her neck, the fact of not needing a scarf. She missed Alvar, but when she’d raised with Hortensia the possibility of having him at No. 10 – out of the question, she’d said, shaking her head for extra emphasis.
On account of its three gables, Marion assumed the library building had once been a wine cellar although Beulah’s note said ‘stables’. Its foundations dated back to the eighteenth century. The thatch roof had since been replaced by slate, but the entrance still had the original stone floor.
‘Agatha.’
She was a woman with the requisite brown bun on the top of her head, a white-bone comb holding it there, and thick glasses that made her eyes look like large black-and-white buttons.
‘Afternoon, Marion. Returning?’
Marion pushed her stash forward. The Jilly Cooper was forgettable. Her cheeks grew warm as Agatha scanned the three Wilbur Smiths. She hadn’t had the strength to challenge Hortensia on that.
It was midday on a Tuesday, the Katterijn library was empty, but then again Marion had rarely seen it full.
‘Here are the magazines you requested.’ Agatha moved a pile of glossies along the counter. ‘You taking out some more? I can keep these here for you.’
‘Thanks, Aggie. I’m actually here for some research, but … you know, I was also wondering, where do all the books come from?’
‘The collection? Donations, really, Marion. And some funding from Council.’