The Face That Must Die

Chapter IV

“ Edge Hill Public Library,” Cathy said.

The telephone held its breath. For years she’d longed for the chance to say “If this is an obscene phone call I’ll just go and get a chair.” But no doubt it was one of the boys they’d chased out for playing football with a book. “Edge Hill Library,” she announced again.

“ Is Mrs Cathy Gardner there, please?”

Was her mother mocking her telephone voice, or had she genuinely failed to recognise her? “It’s me,” Cathy said.

“ Oh, hello. Happy New Year.” Perhaps her mother had been holding off the conversation while she thought of what to say. “Did you survive Christmas?”

“ Yes, thanks. Just about,” Cathy joked. “Happy New Year.”

“ Did he come?”

“ Yes, on Boxing Day.”

“ What did he say about me this time?”

“ Oh, he just wanted to know how you were.” In fact Cathy’s father had asked whether she’d returned to Lewis, who had left her for good shortly after the separation. He’d known the answer, but had wanted the reassurance, the secret delight.

“ Did he. That was good of him.” Her breathing became curt. Then she dismissed the subject, and said “Have you thought any more about buying a house?”

“ Yes, a bit.” But she didn’t think Peter had.

Did her mother sense that turn of her thoughts? “How are Peter’s studies?

“ All right. He’ll have more time when he’s left the libraries.”

Her mother’s brief dissatisfied sound seemed unhappy – because Cathy wasn’t being open? “I’ve got to go now. There are people waiting at the counter,” Cathy said.

“ Have you? Well, if you must go, you must.” All of a sudden, as though she had been hoping they could talk longer, she said plaintively “I hope you’ll both come to see me soon.”

“ We will, mummy. Don’t worry.” The wire hissed emptily. She was about to repeat her promise when a click left her alone with the long anonymous whir of the dial tone.

As she hurried to serve the queue, she felt dispirited. Was she due for a fit of depression? She felt heavy as a Christmas pudding. Feeling fat was often the first sign. Although she knew that it must end eventually, depression robbed her of all sense of time.

“ Got any love books?” women were pleading. She showed them where the romances were kept separate. “Where’s the football?” a boy demanded. He wasn’t asking for his ball back; she pointed to the shelves where football books were filed, at 796.334 – you learned that classification quickly in Liverpool libraries. An old lady carrying a poodle like a tartan bag returned an overdue book; since nobody was looking, Cathy didn’t charge her a fine. The man who always said “Voters’ list, please” as if instructing a servant tried to look as though he was first in the queue, and Cathy ignored him as long as she could.

She cleared returned books from beneath the counter, and fled as the hordes converged on the book-trolley. In a moment she’d join her colleagues, filing dishevelled books on the shelves. A woman laden with screaming infants screamed at them as she hunted through the newspapers for addresses of vacant flats. Cathy wouldn’t have screamed – at least, she hoped not. She didn’t want to have children in a flat.

Two little girls came to pester her. “Show us some Father Christmas books.”

“ Please.”

“ Please,” they said so soberly that she couldn’t tell if they were making fun of her.

“ I expect all the Father Christmases are out.” But she went to the shelves. One little girl took her hand stickily and said “You know your husband?”

“ Yes, I believe we’ve been introduced.”

Ignoring that, the little girl said “He works here too, doesn’t he?”

“ He used to. But he’s leaving the libraries soon.”

She might as well have announced that Father Christmas had resigned. “Where will he work, then?” the other child said incredulously.

“ I don’t know. Somewhere, I expect.” She hoped so. She pointed at the shelves: “Nothing, I’m sorry. No Father Christmases at all.”

“ Show us some” – the little girl screwed up her face, to squeeze out a problem that would detain her – “some Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeers.”

“ No, you must find your own books now. Someone’s waiting to be served.”

It was the man who came into Sefton Park library: a nondescript man, except for his limp. He stared, as though she had no right to be here – as if she arranged where she was sent on relief! “Can I help you?” she said.

He seemed to be debating whether to retreat, like an embarrassed man faced with a girl assistant at a chemist’s. If he wanted the librarian, let him ask: she was upstairs at her tea break. He controlled himself visibly and said “May I see a list of names and addresses for this area, please?”

He sounded too polite, as though concealing a dislike of her. “You want the voters’ list,” she said, glancing at the table where the rude man sat. “Are you looking for a particular street?”

Never before had she seen such intense distrust peering from anyone’s eyes. She felt almost guilty. When he spoke, she could tell that he still didn’t trust her. “Aigburth Drive,” he said.

“ Why, I live there,” she would have said to many people – but she didn’t feel like saying so to him. She felt wickedly delighted that he’d come to the wrong library. “You want the voters’ list at Sefton Park,” she said.

His eyes pinched narrow. Surely he didn’t suspect her of lying. Maybe she was being paranoid, imagining suppressed violence in his voice as he said “You must have it here as well.”

“ I’m afraid not.” His continuing disbelief angered her. “If you’ll just come over here,” she said, “I’ll ask that gentleman to let you see our list.”

The rude man raised his head, hostile as a feeding animal. “No, no thank you,” the limping man said hastily. “It’s all right. Thank you for your help. You’ve been very helpful.”

He limped out. The doors swung back and forth, back and forth, closing their gap. What a weird character! Her anger faded quickly but not, she was pleased to find, before it had burned away the threat of depression. She joined her colleagues, who were muttering at stray books on the shelves. In an odd way, the incident of the limping man had cheered her up. She always enjoyed mysteries.