“Can I go read?” asks Snowdrop, tugging his sleeve. “I’ll join you in a bit, I just want to see if my favourite book’s there …,”
Rowan waves a hand, trying to make the point that he couldn’t care what she does, provided it doesn’t cause him any headaches. She scampers off as if she’s won a trolley dash through a sweetshop.
Alone, Rowan considers his options. He could dictate an email to his agent, explaining what he’s working on and cautiously enquiring about a deadline extension. He could make a list of the few vague bits of intriguing information that he’s learned about Violet Rayner and see whether it looks as thin written down. He could slip away, hit the pub and do some serious research on what kind of glass his problems look better when viewed through the bottom of. He gives a little growl to himself, aware that Snowdrop has high expectations. Sulkily, he moves into the warm and towards the desk. A harassed-looking woman with greying black hair is attempting to repair a damaged paperback. She has strips of sticky tape hanging from the arms of her spectacles: a time-saving efficiency that Rowan admires. She’s maybe 60, and very neat; cardigan and polar neck: a gold locket and polished, unpainted nails. She looks up as he approaches. Looks down again, then jerks her head up as if a hand has taken a fistful of hair and yanked it.
Rowan gives a good smile. “Local history,” he says, by way of greeting. “Newspaper cuttings. I’m not quite sure what I’m after.” He stops. Composes himself. “Sorry, that was all a tad garbled. I’m just visiting, so is there a temporary password to use the computers?” He holds up his mangled hands, feebly. “And somebody who could occasionally feed me crisps?”
The woman behind the counter is giving him a peculiar look. “You’re a writer,” she says, a little Geordie in her accent. “Serendipity’s brother.”
Rowan rolls his eyes. “I’m thinking of wearing a sandwich board with that written on it. You know Dippy?”
“Oh yes, she’s a marvel. Helped with the fundraising for the youth project and always brings us a treat when she pops in. She and her partner sometimes come to our book group.”
“It’s wife, actually,” says Rowan, quietly, as if correcting a faux-pas.
She recoils, mortified. “Oh, yes, yes. Goodness, I do try and stay up to date …,”
Rowan grins, letting her know she’s off the hook. She breathes out, relieved. “She said you were a bit of a devil.”
He smiles, delighted. “I’m presuming she described me as a walking disaster area, yes? Hence the instant recognition?”
“Oh no,” says the librarian. “No, it’s from the photo in your book.” She casts a critical eye over him and registers her disappointment. He feels like a first edition hardback that’s been dropped in the bath. “It’s still a relatively good likeness,” she says, and he appreciates the lies.
“You’ve read it?” asks Rowan. “What are the chances of that – meeting my one reader …,”
“Well, I’ve flicked through it,” she replies, apologetically. “I ordered it in recently, you see. It wasn’t one we stock but we can order almost anything. We had it when it first came out – just the one copy, but that wasn’t returned and we didn’t restock.”
Rowan isn’t quite sure what to say. “Well, if they didn’t return it they must have enjoyed it. That, or thrown it off a cliff in disgust …,”
“Perhaps,” smiles the librarian. “It’s funny how things come and go in waves. Whatever the reason you’re definitely experiencing a new surge in popularity up here. I’ve ordered two new copies in the past week. There’s a waiting list.”
Rowan gives a little bark of laughter. “That’s Snowdrop, I’m sure. Or Serendipity’s. Any decent feedback?”
The librarian nods. “If you’re still here next month you can ask Eve what she thinks. That’s Mrs Cater. She has a copy. The other just whizzed out the door before lunch.”
“Cater,” he repeats. Something stirs. “Detective?”
“She was,” nods the librarian.
“Maybe I should say hello. Do you have an address?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give that out,” she says apologetically. “Ask your sister, they’re acquainted. Of course, round here, so’s everybody.”
Rowan wonders if it matters. He’s new in town, after all. Word gets around. Surely it would be natural to look for more information.
“You should come and talk to our creative writing class,” says the librarian, eyes opening wide as if she’s just had an extraordinary idea. “We’re meeting Thursday night for a chat on setting and place but I know they’ll drop that in a flash for a chat from you. The evenings when we have a speaker are always very well attended.”
Rowan makes a face. “I doubt I’d be able to get enough books sent up from the distributor to make it worthwhile,” he complains. “And I’m trying to only do paying gigs. I doubt you’re about to offer me a few hundred quid to do it, are you?”
The librarian shakes her head. “Sadly not. There are some lovely baked good though – we all chip in for the buffet. There’s always a bottle open and we’re enthusiastic. We’ve published two anthologies, short stories and poems. We had one gentleman, a crime writer from Preston, he was drunk before he even arrived. He was very indiscreet about his day job. Solicitor for the Crown Prosecution Service! He was quite the scamp. We had a wonderful evening. I ‘ve asked Jo to sound you about it but when I didn’t hear back I presumed you weren’t up to it.” She glances at his hands. “Sore?”
“Only when I breathe,” mutters Rowan. He’s conflicted. He doesn’t feel qualified to give anybody advice, but he knows it makes him feel good when people are interested in what he has to say. Most importantly, he might get to meet some new people. Every new acquaintance is a potential lead for whatever story might suddenly take the bait. And he’s willing to admit to himself that Violet Rayner is starting to intrigue him. He remembers what Dippy had told him – she’d written a story. She was starting to remember. Perhaps if he went along he might be able to charm a copy of whatever it was she’d written. And it would help him seem less like some nasty outsider and more like a known quantity.
“You do know I’m not really a creative writer, yes? It’s factual.”
“I thought some parts were rather beautiful,” says the librarian, smiling. “I’m Julie, by the way. I’d shake your hand but I’m frightened what I might take away with me.”
“Can I bring Snowdrop?” asks Rowan, giving a polite nod in response to the sudden camaraderie. “She’s likely the only person who can stop me swearing or offending anybody.”
“Of course, of course,” says Julie, pleased. “Our members brings her little girl when her husband can’t have her. She sits with her toys and we pass her from knee to knee. It’s all very friendly. Of course, Catherine always feels like she’s being a burden and she apologises about fifty times a night, but that’s her way. Wonderful poet, you’ll like her.”
Rowan chews his lip. Sometimes, he knows, a story will keep jumping up and down until it attracts the attention it craves. He’s starting to wonder some hidden truth is clamouring to be exposed. “Catherine? Rev Marlish’s daughter?” he asks.
“Oh, you know the family?” asks Julie, surprised. “Excellent. And you can see what Ms Cater thinks of the book, too…,”
Somewhere, at the very rear of his consciousness, Rowan begins to compose the opening lines of his email to his agent.
Sorry for the radio silence, but I think I may be onto something …