reading this very book, years ago, when I
was little more than a girl.”
“Did you enjoy it?” asked the man. “Very
much. I don’t know why I picked it up. I
had never heard of the author. It wasn’t
a popular novel. It is not a particularly
original story or that clever but…” The man
leant forward. “But what?”
“It’s a charming story. Honest and clearly
written with love.” She looked down,
embarrassed by her own candour. “I quite
agree,” said the man softly. “Now how
much do I owe you?” Phyllis looked up
slowly and shook her head. “Nothing. We’ll
let it pass this time.”
“Are you sure?” She nodded. “The date is
hard to read. We’ll let it pass.”
The man thanked her, placed the tall hat
upon his head and left. Phyllis watched him
go as tears, silly nostalgic tears, pricked the
corners of her eyes. She had entirely failed
to notice that her headache had already
vanished.
Two days before Christmas, whilst
sorting through the last of the returns
before the library closed its doors for the
festive period, Phyllis was struck once
again with a rushing giddiness. A number
of her colleagues, the unimaginative and
predictable ones, had bought her boxes
of Turkish Delight for Christmas and she
actually had to push several unopened
boxes aside before she could find a sticky
pink sweet in which to seek solace from
this abrupt bout of nausea. “Sorry. Are you
still open?” Phyllis looked up. The man in
the strange coat and tall hat was stood on
the other side of the desk. “Yes, but only
just,” she said, not overly sure whether she
was referring to the time or herself.
The man slid a book onto the counter. The
book was a large, old and battered volume.
The colours on the cover had faded into an
indistinguishable mass of browns, although
the black ink of the title remained fresh
and sharp. “Not seen this one before,” she
said, opening it. The sheet for date stamps
was as yellow and old as the book itself.
There were only three dates in it, spanning
a period of twenty years. “I don’t think
many people have shown much interest
in it,” the man offered. “A shame really.”
The most recent date on the sheet was two
weeks ago. “It’s overdue,” said Phyllis.
“Yes,” said the man. “Sorry. I wanted to
give it my full attention but I find I have so
little time for reading.”
“Busy time of year for you, is it?” nodding at
his funereal clothes and then remembering
that he had previously said something
about being a librarian himself. “Very busy.
Although that’s no excuse for lateness.
What do I owe you?”
Phyllis put the book on the recently
returned trolley, her gaze lingering on its
worn and faded spine. “We’ll forget about
it for now,” she suggested. “It’s Christmas
and I doubt anyone will be looking for it.”
“Are you sure?” the man asked. His eyes
sparkled warmly but there was a cryptic
tone to his voice. “Let’s not make a habit of
it,” said Phyllis. “There are rules after all.”
“There are indeed,” he agreed sadly.
He looked out through the library’s
entrance doors at the grey street and
swirling lines of sleet. “Well, you take care
of yourself, Miss Corby,” he said drawing
his coat tightly about himself as he made to
leave. “And have a merry Christmas.” “You
too,” she replied as he went, wishing she
could remember the man’s name and then
wondering how he knew hers.
Phyllis mused on this as she rolled the
almost melted piece of Turkish Delight
around with her tongue. By the time the man
reached the street, her headache had gone.
In late April, just after Friday lunchtime,
Phyllis felt a violent wave of vertigo wash
over her. It was so powerful that it seemed
to take on the physical form of a rushing
column of white light. She gripped the
counter fiercely and fumbled for the Turkish
Delight. Her hand caught the edge of a box
and scattered pink sweets upon the floor
at her feet. She let out a small, restrained
groan and closed her eyes. “Are you all
right?” She knew the voice. She knew it
“Phyllis put the
book on the
recently returned
trolley, her gaze
lingering on its worn
and faded spine”.
would be him, even before he spoke. She
opened her eyes. The column of light had
receded but not gone.
The man was still wearing the huge,
ancient coat but as a concession to the
warm weather outside, he had ditched
the tall hat in favour of a pair of roundlens
sunglasses. “Hello,” she said weakly.
“Not seen you for a while.” “I’ve been
busy elsewhere,” he replied. “But I had to
come in.” He placed a book on the counter.
Phyllis released her grip on the counter and
took the book gingerly. Her eyes were slow
to focus on it. “Ah,” she said. “I know,”
he said. “Overdue.” “Yes. And someone
was asking after this the other day.” “It’s
a wonderful book.” “It’s the only copy we
have.”“And that alone makes it special.”
Phyllis nodded. “I’d like to let it pass
but…”
“I know,” he said, nodding back at her.
“There are rules.”
“I am sorry,” she said.
“No. We couldn’t go on like this forever.
How much do I owe you?”
“Twenty pence.” He produced a rather
dainty clasp purse from within the folds of
his coat, and from that a tiny, silver coin. He
gave her a flash of his gentle, unassuming
smile. “It’s not the end of the world then.”
“No,” she said and slipped the coin into the
cashier drawer of the desk. “Not really.”
Moving, her foot came down on a piece
of dropped Turkish Delight, momentarily
gluing the sole of her shoe to the carpet.
She tutted to herself. “Do excuse me,” she
said and carefully crouched down to gather
together the dozen of so sweets arranged
around her feet. They were flecked with dirt
and strands of fine carpet hair. “Inedible,”
she said, partly to herself, partly for the
customer’s benefit. “And that was my last
box.”
Only when she stood up did she see that
the man had gone. At the bus stop, as
Phyllis waited for the number 35 that would
take her home to Stirchley, the headache
that had not entirely subsided all afternoon
flared up into a blinding, silent field of light.
She reached out for support that was not
there and fell. “You all right, love?” said a
bearded fellow. “Call an ambulance,” said
a girl.
Phyllis tried to push herself up but
was simply unable to. Her muscles had
rebelled. The lines of communication had
been severed. Hands helped roll her onto
her back. Something soft was placed
beneath her head: a rolled up coat, thick
and scratchy. “Shouldn’t we give her
something?” said a woman. “A bottle of
gin!” shouted Phyllis but the words never
emerged, only a thin, meandering moan.
A figure loomed large over her. “Hello,
Miss Corby.” She fixed her eyes on the
man from the library and she abruptly
recognised him. “I didn’t realise who you
were before,” she said. “Very few people
get to meet me in person,” he replied. “Is
it my time then?” she asked. The man gave
her a sad, guilty look. “Overdue, actually. I
didn’t want to but…”
“There are rules,” said Phyllis. “Quite. I
don’t make a habit of this.” He reached
down, took her hand and drew her upright.
Phyllis stood beside him on feet she had not
used in decades. She looked at the thing on
the ground. “I’ve got Turkish Delight stuck
to the bottom of my shoe. Look.”
“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “it’s not
the end of the world.” Phyllis raised an
eyebrow. “Really?”
“In fact, I would like to offer you a job. I need
someone on the Returns desk. Someone
who understands.” The eyebrow rose
higher. “You told me you were a librarian.”
Death smiled. “Of a sort.”
To view a Ceros magazine you need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser and have the flash player 8 or higher installed. To install the latest flash player, click the icon above, install the flash plugin and then click here to refresh this page.