The Dumb House (11 page)

That sudden memory changed my life. I realised, in that moment, that my true vocation had begun there, in Weston Library, amidst the shelves of books on fish breeding and polar exploration. It was an entirely sentimental impulse that decided my fate, an unwarranted nostalgia, but this was the path that led to Lillian, and to the twins. I can say to myself that, if this had not happened, something else would, and it's true, but what matters is the course of destiny, the inherent order in things that drives us forward, so we make one choice rather than another and
each choice, no matter how trivial it seems, has the potential to be decisive.

I began going to the library once a week. I would set myself up in the reference room and make copious notes, searching the shelves at random, looking for some connection that would reveal the secret, knowing there could be no systematic way to study this question, that any method or plan would impose its own artificial logic on the very information I was finding. I knew, if I had a specific idea, or a methodical approach to the subject, I would miss some things and allow undue weight to others, so I read almost indiscriminately, pulling out encyclopaedia volumes, reference works, books on history and mythology, making photocopies, spending whole days deciphering obscure commentaries on the Old Testament or sympathetic magic. When I found a reference to a text with which I was unfamiliar I would ask Miss Patterson, the one full-time librarian, to order it for me. Miss Patterson was my immediate friend: a slight, middle-aged woman who looked younger than her years, she always dressed immaculately, in classic twin sets and simple strings of pearls or semi-precious stones. Her hair was very black, but touched here and there with a premature grey, and that, combined with her gold-rimmed spectacles, gave her a studious, slightly quizzical appearance. Sometimes she looked like a young grandmother, who had just set aside her knitting to put away a few books; on other days, it was as if she were a young woman disguised as an old lady, concealing a firm, well-rounded body, a lithe energy, behind the appearance of respectable womanhood. Generally, she treated those who came in as visitors in what was essentially a private space: she was courteous but distant, she answered questions patiently, and with an impressive thoroughness, but her clients
were never allowed to feel entirely welcome. She treated every enquiry as casual. Nothing was to be taken too seriously.

With me, it was different from the beginning. I would sometimes become aware of her approving gaze as I sat in the reference section; she seemed to believe I was engaged in something important, that her library was now graced with the presence of a real scholar. Sometimes, when I was making an enquiry, or requesting an inter-library loan, she would ask how my work was going. Though I had never imparted to her the purpose of my research, and though she knew nothing more than the titles of the books I had ordered, she took an active interest. I think all she wanted was for me to tell her something, to take her into my confidence, to let her participate in some small way, but my answers were always non-committal, and I was careful to give no sign that her interest was welcomed. Still, my days at the library, and even these snippets of small talk, these moments of obvious admiration, made me feel I had a purpose, that I was getting somewhere. Sometimes, driving home, I would become aware of an odd feeling of pleasure, of satisfaction. Somehow, no matter how little I had actually learned, these hours of research made my work seem real, almost professional.

The drive to and from the library was the only outing I had all week. I would go in on the main road, but I would take the back way home, over the hill, where there was less traffic. In the evening, as the air darkened, I felt connected to the earth, as if the car were plugged into a current of oakroots and gas. My headlamps scanned the twilight, catching the shape of an owl in a thorn, or picking out the eyes of a fox on the road ahead, and I would feel included in something, in some ancient, pagan existence that had been disguised over the years, mopped up in corrupted place names, built over with chapels
and supermarkets and wafer-thin housing estates. I sensed the joy and malevolence of this existence. I thought of it as multiple and hooded, a manifold spirit, like the
genii cucullatii
I had read about in a book on pagan Britain: those dark creatures of the verges and borderlines the Romans had adopted as companions to Mercury, the subtlest and least predictable of their gods, the unreliable carrier of messages. I wanted to know what they meant, those Hooded Ones. I wanted to understand how they worked, what gave them their power, what set them apart from other deities, so they were capable of anything, and seemingly immune to retribution or even judgement. If spirits existed, in any form, I thought, they would have to be like these: impersonal, neutral, rooted in the physical, utterly remote from human concerns.

The girl was sitting in the far corner of the reference section, with a pile of books – maybe twenty or more – spread around her on the table. At first I assumed she was a student, in her heavy knit sweater over a thin summer dress and her large, clumsy-looking work boots; her hair was long and wavy, and she was pretty in a pale-skinned, red-mouthed way, reminiscent of a thin child in poorly-applied make-up. But I could not help noticing, as time passed, that her approach was even less systematic than mine. She wasn't looking things up, or cross-referencing; she was simply turning the pages, gazing at the pictures, abandoning one book suddenly for another, quite unrelated volume, crouched over the table with her head down, her hair hanging over her face, or suddenly sitting up and looking around, as if she had just become aware of her surroundings. Once she caught me watching her and I turned away quickly. I could tell she was still watching me – I had a strong sense of her vague and aimless attention coming to focus upon me, and when I looked back at her she was still looking, quite
unself-consciously, as if I were just another picture in one of her books. I turned away and pretended to work. When I glanced at her again, she had raised her knees so they rested on the edge of the table, and she was sitting back, sucking her forefinger, looking at a large-format book of black and white photographs. I could see she had no writing materials, no notebooks or sketch pads, like the other students who very occasionally visited the reading room. On closer observation I could see that her dress was a thin, billowy, almost see-through cotton, printed in blue and white with stylised cats or kittens, like something a child might wear. Her hair was clean, but her fingernails were dirty. She became aware of me watching her again, but this time she kept her eyes fixed on her book. It was as if she was letting me look at her, as if we were playing a game, making up the rules as we went along. From time to time she would flick through the pages of her book, then stop when she found a picture she liked. She would study it closely for a while, sometimes for ten minutes or more, then she would move on. There was no common theme in the choice of books that I could see. They were all large-format picture books, but the subject-matter varied – volumes on fashion, collections of photographs by Cartier-Bresson and Richard Avedon, monographs on the paintings of Stanley Spencer or Vermeer, a history of
Time-Life
magazine, books on birds, aviation, fishing, plantlife and travel, books of cartoons and recipes.

She was prettier than I had first imagined, almost beautiful, but there was something disconcerting about her. She could have been twenty, but she could as easily have been thirteen. While she allowed me to look at her, I had the idea that something was building silently between us, a kind of pleasurable tension, an expectancy, as if it would take only the slightest of signals for something to begin. There was something exciting about
this, and dangerous too, like flirting with a child. For one long, dizzying moment I thought she was about to look up, to turn to me and speak. But nothing happened. Perhaps she was waiting for me to speak, perhaps I was imagining the whole thing, but that day, I had no opportunity to find out. I was still casting around, trying to think of something to say, when Miss Patterson appeared with a pile of books in her arms, and I quickly returned to my research – though not before she had caught my eye, and let me know, by her look, that she had read, or thought she had read, what was in my mind.

A few minutes later, a man appeared and stood across the table from the girl. When she looked up and saw him, her face was transformed to a white mask of fear and dismay. The man was dishevelled and unkempt, in black tennis shoes and a crumpled, powder-blue suit that must have come from a charity shop. His hands were thrust into his jacket pockets, as if to hide something, and he looked as if he hadn't washed or shaved in a couple of days. I could see Miss Patterson was gathering herself, waiting for something to happen that would give her an excuse to eject them both, but there was no need: as soon as she saw the man, the girl stood up, leaving her books spread out on the desk and, when he turned to leave, she followed, her arms hanging by her sides, her head bowed. I remember I was disappointed that she did not look back. Miss Patterson watched them out, then, as soon as the main door had closed behind them, came to my table.

‘Dreadful people,' she said.

I nodded.

‘I hope they didn't disturb you.'

‘Not at all,' I answered. ‘Who are they, anyway?'

‘I don't know the man,' Miss Patterson replied. ‘The girl's
been in a few times. I imagine she only comes here to keep warm.'

She shook her head.

‘I don't think she can even read,' she continued. ‘She just looks at the pictures. I asked her once if she wanted to join, but she didn't even answer.'

‘Perhaps she's shy,' I ventured. I wanted to bring the conversation to an end, so I could leave, and perhaps find out where the girl had gone.

‘No.' Miss Patterson looked determined. ‘Did you see the way that man looked at her? I think she was hiding from him. That's why she was here. She wanted somewhere warm to go, where he wouldn't find her.'

I nodded vaguely and began gathering up my things.

‘Are you leaving already?' Miss Patterson asked, almost in alarm.

‘I'm afraid I must,' I answered. ‘I have an appointment.'

She smiled tightly and nodded.

‘We'll see you next week, then,' she said, and returned to her desk.

Outside, it was brighter than I had expected. I was sure the girl would be long gone, and I was kicking myself for having allowed Miss Patterson to detain me. Then, on the pavement, in front of Trinity Church, I saw them, the man and the girl and two other men, standing in a tight huddle, like a group of conspirators. The man from the library was talking and the other men were listening and nodding in agreement; they seemed to defer to him and I concluded that he was the leader of the group. Only the girl appeared to be paying no attention to what he was saying. The other men, who were both taller and slightly younger than the man from the library, were dressed in
similar clothes and looked even dirtier and more unshaven than he did. After a few moments, they seemed to reach an agreement. One of the younger men handed a banknote over to the leader, with obvious reluctance. The older man pocketed the note, took the girl by the arm and led her across the road to the King's Head pub. The others tagged along behind them. I waited till they were inside, then I crossed the road and followed them into the bar.

The man who had come into the library was ordering drinks. Close to, he looked shorter: thin and wiry, around thirty-five, I thought, with a slight curve to his shoulders and long, greasy hair. His hands were grimy and chapped, but this did not disguise how small, or how oddly feminine they were, narrow across the palm, with delicate tapering fingers, and tiny, birdlike knuckles. The other men had taken seats at a table by the window, one on either side of the girl, who sat with her head bowed, her hair hanging over her face, her hands clasped in her lap.

When his drinks arrived, the man turned to me and raised his glass of lager. His voice was the most unpleasant I had ever heard: slightly high-pitched, calculatedly soft and insinuating.

‘I don't know whether to drink this, or just look at it,' he said.

I nodded, but I did not speak. He smiled and shook his head slightly, then moved away, carrying three pint glasses between his hands, spilling a trail of drops across the wooden floor as he went. I noticed there was no drink for the girl.

I ordered a coffee and sat down at a table near the bar.

A moment later, the man was up again and walking towards me with a faint, fixed smile on his face. I thought he was going to speak again, perhaps even to ask for money, but he passed by and began feeding a handful of coins into the fruit machine, a few feet away. The man who had handed over the banknote
got up and stood beside him watching, but the first man didn't seem to notice, he was so intent on the game. He seemed to be having some luck: with each stage of his success the machine sounded a peal of bells, then warbled out a fairground organ version of ‘We're in the money'. Then, when a crisis loomed, it hurtled through the opening of the William Tell overture, and spat out handfuls of chunky gold tokens, which the older man scooped up greedily and fed back into the machine. His companion began to grow restless.

‘Come on, Jimmy,' he said. ‘You're going to lose it all again.'

Jimmy shook his head, but did not look up from the machine. He pressed a button several times with his hand, and William Tell sounded, followed by a deluge of tokens. He turned to his companion and grinned.

‘The milky bars are on me,' he said, as he scooped up his winnings and made his way back to the bar.

I glanced across at the table by the window. The girl was still sitting with her head down, hands clasped, listening to something, some voice or sound only she could hear, far in the distance. The third man, who was younger and better-dressed than the other two, asked her if she wanted a drink, but she seemed not to hear. In all the time I had been in the pub, she had kept her head down, yet I was certain she knew I was there. Watching her, I imagined it was me she was listening for, as if my thoughts could travel across the lit space of the pub, and reach her without the others knowing – and for a moment, I thought she really could hear my thoughts, that she had listened in to me when we were in the library, and she was listening in now, as I sat watching her, only she was unable to acknowledge the fact, afraid of what her companions might do. Jimmy and his friend were still at the bar; Jimmy
was ordering lager and whisky, offering to buy the barman a drink, laughing and spilling coins on to the polished wooden counter. It might have been the noise of the tokens, spilling out of Jimmy's pockets, or perhaps it was something the young man beside her had said but, all of a sudden, the girl looked up and saw me, watching her across the room. I sat perfectly still and held her gaze. I was trying to tell her with my thoughts that she could leave these people and come with me – and I was sure she understood, because she smiled slightly, sadly, and shook her head almost imperceptibly.