A Book In A Month - Chapter 9

Jane and Clara settled down for a twenty minute break, it was an eagerly anticipated chance to chat about Friday night and Saturday. It made a change from their recent one track conversations about Clara's family history. They discussed the group of friends with whom Keith socialised. Each person was analysed, looks, style, character, dance moves, job. Clara and Jane both agreed that although they were a great bunch of people, friends, there was no one that either of them fancied. Their conversation was brought to an abrupt end by a firm knocking on the door. The two women had met up in Janes' consulting room and it was Jane who jolted, imagining she had a client waiting to be seen and whom she had forgotten all about. Of course, Liz would have buzzed a client through, Jane knew that and relaxed, 'Who is it?' she called out. Keith opened the door, looked around it coquettishly, saying, 'Can I join you?'

The girls had mixed emotions about letting Keith into the room. On the one hand, he was fun, a friend now. On the other hand, they wanted to discuss the weekend, which meant talking about Keith, as well as his friends. They could not do that with him in there. Jane put the kettle on and swilled out a grubby cup, 'Tea or coffee, Keith?' She asked. He waved a tea bag of herbs which she took from him, 'Bloody hippy,' she said with a friendly smile.

With only ten minutes of their break left, they spent the whole time giggling like children about their antics over the weekend. By the end of their short break they had agreed to do it all over again on the coming Friday night. The same Friday that Clara was going to meet the archivist. She hoped she would get back from the meeting in Bristol in time to cook her father his evening meal and make herself look ravishing for her night out.

*

John was drinking his strong, instant coffee, from his strong, stained mug. He looked into the mug, the rim had several small chips in it. He had never noticed them before, bloody glasses, he thought. I never noticed all this dirt and decrepitude before. Decrepitude, he repeated internally, that's a good word. D E-C R E P-I-T U D E. Not many words that good in my head. I can't be as senile as I thought I was. He sipped from his cup and looked at the map. He was sitting at his dining table. Bird book open quite near the back. The bird book was resting on the fully open map of India. Beside the book was the notebook and pen that John had been updating all day. Now he had finished. All entries that had been made in the bird identification book, had been transferred, via the notebook, onto the map. John had joined up each bird sighting, date by date, linking together the stages of journeys that the owner, possibly Simon, had made. The trips followed their datelines always beginning and ending in New Delhi. There were dozens of journeys, overlapping each other, interweaving amongst each other. Had John dropped a fist full of string onto the map, it would have looked little different. It was a confusing sight.

The thing that stood out for John, was a period when every northern journey included birds spotted in Dhaka. This was around the time of independence, John noticed. The visits ended just before 1947, but for just over a year, the person making these journeys always went to the Dhaka region when within about a hundred miles of the place. He could tell the bird watcher had deviated from the target of his journey, because the direction of travel would change abruptly and then head back in the general direction of the original journey, like a boomerang taking flight, and returning in a predictable arc.

If this was Simons' book, then he either had a regional office in Dhaka, or there was a fantastic bird sanctuary there. A few other places also featured heavily, but none as much as Dhaka and none showed a consistent change of course. The traveller did not appear to change direction in order to go to the other popular towns and cities. Dhaka was special to this person, either for work, or for pleasure. He wondered if Clara would spot this anomaly. Perhaps Clara would turn up some information at the archivists that would point at an explanation. Perhaps, thought John, Perhaps.

|John decided that he needed to know more about Indian history. Clara could research the family history and he could put it into historical context. He was old enough to remember some of it first hand. He was surprised at his interest in India, his wife's family, this project. He knew Clara was pleased that his resistance was being gently eroded, like a rock on a beach being washed into the sea, grain by grain. He knew why he was resistant to this part of his past. This knowledge did nothing to help him prevent him yielding. He stood up and readied himself to step out into the harsh glare of the bright outdoors. John was going to the library.

Libraries are often thought of as places to go in order to get in out of the cold. Today was not one of those days. Even though it was a typical English winter, the sun shone, hotly, from a flawless blue sky that was so deep and never ending that John wanted to swim up and into it. He knew that, once up there, he would be able to glide, turn somersaults and barrel rolls and perform swallow dives, pulling up and out at the last moment. 'It's about time I went down the local pool for a dip,' he muttered, perhaps a little too loudly for a passing woman who side stepped sharply to avoid walking too close to the crazy old man. To John it was patently clear that today was not the best day for sitting in the library, but he was a driven man and could not help but place one foot in front of the other until he had passed through the huge oak doors and into the lobby. He pressed the button to summon the lift and waited. A woman joined him, waiting patiently beside him, she said, ' You would think it had to come from the moon.' She looked at John with a smile, he smiled back; until they made eye contact. 'Oh, it's you,' she said, 'Well I never.'

'Ah yes, sorry about the other day,' John was staring straight at the woman from the coffee shop, 'I feel a bit of a fool, to be honest.'

The lift arrived and they both stepped in. 'And so you should.' the woman replied. John could see she was serious, so he farted, silently, with the abiding hope that it would be deadly. The lift doors opened and in an attempt to get the air moving, he swept out ahead of her. Setting course for the reception desk, John was chuckling which gave the librarian cause for concern. She assumed he had a learning difficulty, or mental heath issues and asked him if he needed any help. John was offended by her patronising tone and told her so. Immediately the woman from the lift joined in, explaining that he was probably the rudest man she had ever met and should not be allowed out without his carer. Before John could say a word, the librarian leapt to his defence. John had as much right to be in the library as his new enemy. Until, or unless, John broke a rule of the library, he was welcome to stay.

The woman waited at the desk and glowered at John as he was shown to the section that housed the books on India. The librarian returned to her desk to help the indignant woman, who resumed remonstrating with her about John's behaviour. John pulled out all the books that looked promising from the shelf and took them to a table, where he began his research. He knew he was in for the long haul and was hoping that that woman would not come to any book shelves near him. He did not want to be distracted.

He began to read. He took notes in a school exercise book that had belonged to Clara when she was still a student. He had torn out the few pages that had held her work, this was far more important. Would Simons' life match with the twists and turns of India's history?