‘My son, he reads Terry Pratchett. Have you read any Terry Pratchett? I couldn’t get on with it.”
I daren’t look round so I don’t know what she looks like, only that her voice is older than mine and that, though she fills her sentences with questions, there are also no pauses. The person she is talking to has to wait patiently for her to take a breath before they can, politely, answer her questions, usually selecting the most recent one. Even then they have only the time it takes for that in-breath and so they select few words.
“I’m more a thriller reader myself. I like …”
But the breath has been taken and she continues “He reads all that fantasy stuff. I don’t get on with it. I tried that Gormenghast. Have you read it? Well, I don’t know what that was about.”
“No, my partner has read it. I’m more into thrillers like …”
But she’s recharged again, “One minute he’s sitting on some castle walls, then they’re all a ruin. I mean, what was that about? I didn’t get on with it. I tried that Alan Garner. Have you read any of him?”
I glance quickly towards them. The other person is a young man, I see his name badge, he works here. He has an armful of books (they are neatly lined up into the fold of his elbow) and, this time, he does not answer immediately. He holds a book in his other hand, placing it on a shelf. I daren’t move, they are only feet away and the distance is such that I feel the threat of inclusion plucking at me. I imagine if I turn my head, if she catches my eye, I will be enfolded into this conversation, the questions will be directed at me as well and I will have to time some suitably brief response into those pauses, negotiating it alongside the other man. Briefly I’m tempted to do so, just so I can add “I like a good historical novel”, picking another genre deliberately. I wonder if we can start to gather other browsers into this net, collecting different genres – how many can we fit into those gaps? I suspect it would only spur her on. I take the lesser path and remain focused on the books in front of me. I am standing in a corner, hemmed in by the right angle of the shelves, a display table at my back. The woman has blocked my exit, to get past her would mean having to engage.
“I don’t get on with Alan Garner” she says. Her voice is full of glee, this is the word that jumps at me, she is enjoying this, there is no other sense of anything attached to her words, they are light and quick, she speaks just too loud for a bookstore. The assistant puts another book on the shelf. Out of the corner of my eye I can see his hand place it quickly into its correct position.
“I mean elves … or dwarves is it? … living under the hills. Well, that was a bit too much for me. My son said I should try … now what’s it called, something about an Ocean. Its got a local connection”
At the same time as the assistant answers, I hold the same response in my mouth, just catching it before I say something and thus submit myself to their conversation.
“The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Neil Gaiman” he says.
“Yes, that’s it. It sounded a bit odd though. Not sure I’d stand it either. But I’ll have a go. I’m reading Magician at the moment. But that’s a big book. Have you read it? I’m not sure about it, there’s this bit when he’s standing on a tower and time goes a bit weird”
She breaths. He says “No. Its very popular though. I like thrillers …”
I begin to wonder whether the assistant has slipped into an automated response, a routine born of many similar conversations that are perhaps daily occurrences for him. Though I detect a sense of mischief in his answers. He has run out of books, his arms are free now and I can see he is standing patiently and attentively while she carries on. Her back is to me so I risk a glance, taking in quickly that she is short and the coat she is wearing gives her a roundness that is strangely satisfying and suggests that she wears many layers. Her woolly hat is grey, the bobble loose and, of course, it waggles with her every word. In recalling her now I see a shopping trolley, the kind that is pulled along behind, though I cannot say for sure whether this is just a later addition of my imagination.
The assistant has slowly moved to the end of the shelves and she follows, still talking. A gap opens up between them and the display table so I seize my chance. I pretend to study the books on the table as I pass, it is a deliberate ploy to avoid eye contact. I’m glad, for once, of my face mask because I suspect there is a smile pushing at my mouth. I don’t want to appear as if I find the woman amusing, it would be too easy to slip into condescension. The woman is enjoying herself. She is having a good chat with the shop assistant about reading and books. I wonder what her experience of the past year of covid and lockdowns has been. It is tempting to imagine her living on her own, that this moment in the bookstore is a welcome contact with other people. But of course I don’t know this. Perhaps she is surrounded by friends, neighbours, family (her son certainly seems to be around, ready to steer her choice of reading) and perhaps she talks like this every day with someone, perhaps her days are full of such conversations.
I have escaped and I am browsing again. It happens to be the fantasy section, though I have drifted there. Other browsers negotiate their ways around each other quietly. From deeper in the store a ‘couldn’t get on with it’ floats to me. I wonder which book has been judged this time.
When I eventually take my book to the counter, it is the same young man behind the till. He is tall, slim, his hair mops over his eyes and so, between that and his face mask, it is hard to get much more of an impression of him. He serves me quietly and quickly. As I am putting my book into my bag, he looks towards the front of the shop and says “I wonder whether she ought to try something other than fantasy? Perhaps a good thriller?”. I smile broadly but of course my own mask will be hiding all but the narrowing of my eyes, which I try to make even more obvious.
