An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [25]
Two of the library staff go by while we wait in line to be served. I wave and smile. They don’t wave in return. “What if they never find the book? What will you do then?”
“If they don’t find the book? Let me see.” She pauses. “I’m too old for a tantrum, too gourmand for a hunger strike, too conservative to protest. I suppose I’ll settle for a request to interlibrary loans. Is that a double espresso? The English aren’t a nation of espresso drinkers, are they?”
Even in Norway, where I hardly spoke the language, no one ever singled me out. They didn’t say, “Who’s your family?” or “Where do you belong?” I know they think I’m slow when I don’t respond to their questions: “How ya doin?” or “Where ya been?” or “How ya getting on?” I’ve made a list of them. Somehow, they never sound right when I say them.
“I’m an Englishman with espresso genes.”
We find a place for two between tables crowded with students, backpacks and laptops. She throws her sweater over her chair. Her t-shirt shows a seal with a speech bubble: Have cod, will travel. When I ask her what it means, she launches into a spiel about how the scientists at Fisheries and Oceans aren’t doing enough to protect the fish and how the Greenpeace protestors are corrupting the facts. “You obviously haven’t been here long,” she says.
“Obviously. And you?”
“I’m from the bay. A place called Cliffhead.”
“Population?”
“At last census, there was one goat, three sheep, two horses, seven – or is it six – chickens, three dogs and me.”
“Is it a farm or a zoo?”
“It’s a point of land near Cape Spear,” she says. “Twenty minutes from St. John’s in good weather, no traffic.”
“Main attractions?”
“A pond with rowboat, the highest meadow, widest view, when the fog isn’t around, and the greatest attraction...” She pauses. “My book collection.”
“History books?”
“Lewis Carroll, mostly... as in Alice-Mad-Hatter-White-Rabbit-Tweedledee-and-Tweddledum-Jabberwocky-Cheshire-Cat-through-the-looking-glass-down-the-rabbit-hole-inWonderland Carroll. Two thousand five hundred thirty-four volumes plus two patients at the book hospital. That’s a small collection. Smallwood, our provincial premier, had 18,000 in his library. Judge Furlong’s library...” She gives me a mini history of libraries in Newfoundland.
“Are you a historian or a librarian?”
“I could use a librarian’s skills for managing my collection. I’d like to create a catalogue so I can compare features, document how the editions differ.”
I explain, probably in too much detail, how she could create a searchable digital catalogue. “I’ll get you a copy of the software.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. Nor would my computer. What are your rates like?”
I laugh. “Exorbitant but I have a special promotion on now. Free lesson.”
“You need to see the collection first. Cliffhead is not that far from town. Do you know the route to Cape Spear?”
So far I’ve only dared explore the distance between campus and my flat. Henry took me to Signal Hill the first week I arrived. The panoramic view was hidden in the fog. Henry watched the couple necking in the car parked beside us. “He’ll be sliding his hands up her sweater any minute,” he said. They noticed him, scowled then drove off. We sat in his car with the engine purring, the heater on tropical and the radio humming in the background while we watched seagulls pluck leftover French fries from fast-food containers in the parking lot trash bin.
“Why don’t you send me the directions by email.” I take my card from my wallet and hand it to her.
She checks her watch then stands. “I’ve got to head to a meeting,” she says. “I’m glad I ran into you.”
“I’ll order tea next time, fit in with the ex-pats, be more British.”
“Don’t be more of anything,” she says. She grabs her bag and reaches over to touch the side of my head. “Take care of the bump.” She nudges around the table then slips into the crowd of students.