Short Skates: Bookseller
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII
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Jonathan Mellors was advancing in years.
His joints creaked when he moved, like a worn hinge in need of oiling. Parts of him he hadn’t even known were there when he was thirty years old now gave him terrible trouble at his age, which he dared not say out loud.
He’d long since accepted that the world had passed him by. The noisy world of bleeping little machines in pockets, computer chips, and television sets no thicker than a book. He obstinately refused to adopt new technology – he used the same GPO Type 722 wall-mounted rotary telephone he had always used.
Admittedly, he had been forced to buy a new television when the terrestrials stopped broadcasting. His granddaughter had bought him a mobile telephone one Christmas, but he’d never been able to make head or tail of the damnable thing, and now it lay in the bottom of a drawer, next to half-drained batteries and a Dictaphone with a motor he’d been telling himself he was going to have repaired.
He didn’t much understand the Internet, either. Every day, people passed by the shop with their eyes drawn down at their telephones. What on Earth could have them so absorbed? Listening to other people’s endless jabbering would drive him insane. That was why he liked the peace and quiet here, in the bookshop.
Mellors sat on his usual wooden stool, thumbing his way through a volume of Wodehouse, when the bell rang. He barely looked up, giving a slight sound of greeting.
He was not a misanthrope, but gone were the days that to get and keep customers, you had to stand up and say “Hello, Sir, how may I help you, Sir? What sort of book are you after? Oh, very good, Sir…”
In these days of e-readers and YouTubes, you were grateful for whatever clientele came your way. His last regular customer had at this point stopped coming fifteen years ago. Nobody wanted that relationship any more, he thought. Too busy jabbering away on the telephone, not even stopping to appreciate the world around them. They’d miss walks in the park when they were his age, make no mistake.
brrrrt-clunk-a-ching
It was a faint sound from inside the shop.
Every available wall had a shelf on it, and there were sets of bookshelves placed all around, and a big wide table in the entrance area that was covered in books for fifty pence. There were locked glass cabinets dotted here and there containing especially rare books, first editions, art books and the like. Then, past the entrance area, there was a doorway, and you entered the back room, which was stuffed with books and magazines, non-fiction and picturebooks. There was a faint smell of vanilla in the air, the slow rot of pages acting as a sort of natural perfume.
In any case, the sound had come from that back room.
brrrrt-clunk. brrrrt-clunk-a-ching.
He peered over the top of his spectacles, listening again for the sound. Of course, it stopped immediately.
He supposed what he had been hearing was some of that rubbish young people liked to play through their headphones. A couple of times he’d had to ask customers to turn their music down or off, and they’d looked at him sullenly, like he’d slapped them. For goodness’ sake, at least play something halfway decent – John Coltrane, Dave Brubeck. Anything but that noise.
brrrrt-clunk-a-ching.
“Excuse me!” he called. “Please turn your music down!”
There were a few moments of silence.
Then: brrrrt-clunk.
Mellors rolled his eyes and returned to his book.
He then heard the sounds of a few quiet footsteps, which came to a stop. He was so engrossed in the book that he didn’t realise for a few moments that there was a young woman standing on the other side of the counter, waiting for him politely.
Mellors stood, dusting himself off and setting the book down with a leather bookmark.
“May I help you, Madam?” he said. “So very sorry for keeping you.”
The woman smiled politely.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Monica. What’s yours?”
Mellors blinked twice. He was quite puzzled by the response.
“Erm,” he said. “Mellors. Jonathan Mellors, Bookseller.”
“Jonathan Mellors Bookseller,” Monica replied. “Hello, Jonathan. It’s nice to meet you.”
And it was then that Mellors thought he was seeing things, because he got a good look at her face. Her forehead seemed to have been etched with the word “ONE”.
And her eyes – her eyes were all wrong. Two black pearls set into the sockets, and he could swear that each iris was faintly glowing in the light, like old tritium signs.
But no, her eyes really looked like that. He thought best not to say anything. Perhaps, he thought, it was some sort of condition. It would be impolite to pry.
Instead, he cleared his throat.
“May I help you, Madam?” he said.
Monica laughed. “Madam,” she said. “Nobody’s ever called me that before.”
Mellors nodded.
“That is the modern way. Is there anything you’re looking for?”
Monica thought for a few moments.
“Yes, I’d like…well, all sorts of books, I suppose. I haven’t long been reading, you see, but my father, he’s tired of me always asking questions, so I’ve decided to read books and learn all I need to learn.”
“Your father?” Mellors said. “But Madam, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look to be about twenty years old. Surely your father must have taught you all he can teach you by now.”
“Oh, I’m actually no more than a couple of months old,” Monica said, matter-of-factly. “But it’s quite complicated, you see, because, well, I didn’t have a sense of self before, and it’s all very new to me, so I’d like to read as many books as I can, because there’s just so much to learn, and I don’t even know where to start.”
Mellors was utterly bewildered by this response. He supposed she was making some sort of stupid joke, possibly at his expense, but didn’t hold it against her. Money was money, and he was too old to care if some girl was having him on.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He stood from the wooden stool, raised part of the counter that had been built with hinges to let him through.
“You’ll have to excuse me for my lack of agility,” he said. “I am a bit of a doddery old fool.”
Monica laughed. And laughed. And laughed a bit more. Then she stopped.
“It wasn’t that funny,” Mellors said.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Monica said. “My father keeps telling me that I laugh too long at funny things. Nobody ever really tells you when’s the best time to stop, that’s the problem.”
“You are a strange young woman,” Mellors said, pottering his way into the back room.
The young woman followed behind him, walking with a strange, lopsided gait that he could only have described as “a limp in her spine”.
He heard the noise again as he entered the back room, louder this time: Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.
He looked over at the young woman, who came to a stop, then at the walls around them.
“The pipes must be going,” he said.
“Oh no,” Monica said. “If it’s the noise you’re talking about, that was me. I must apologise, I’m actually a homunculus. My insides are completely mechanical.”
Mellors looked at her. It was true, in the light she did look very unearthly, with her alabaster skin and solid hair, but he just couldn’t believe she was some sort of machine. True, there were lots of strange happenings these days – the week-that-never-was last spring, all the strange goings-on in London, the air-raid sirens here in Wiltshire – but no, he just would not accept that this young woman was anything more than a person in elaborate costume. He would not open that door, thank you very much.
Instead, he turned his attention to the shelves.
“Let’s see,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “Ah, here we are.”
He reached up and pulled out an edition of The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien.
“How’s that?” he said, handing it to Monica.
Monica turned the book over in her hands.
“What’s it about?” she said.
“It’s about a little man who goes on adventures, with dwarves and wizards, goblins and dragons. It’s got some of the same characters as The Lord of the Rings, which is by the same author.”
“The Lord of the Rings?” Monica said. “What a strange name. Is that a book about a little man who goes around looking for rings?”
“In a sense,” Mellors replied. “Those books are rather long. This one might be a good place to start. It’s shorter.”
“I’ll take it,” Monica said. “What else have you got?”
Mellors scanned the shelves once again.
“Ah!” he said. He walked over to a step-ladder, pulled it into position and climbed up it, pulling a hardcover book from the shelf, which he handed to Monica.
Monica inspected the book.
“One Hundred Years of Solitude,” she read aloud, in the proud manner of a young child who has just learned to read independently.
“Wonderful book,” Mellors said. “I make a point to read it once a year.”
“Oh, well, then I mustn’t take it,” Monica said. “If it is so precious to you.”
Mellors smiled warmly.
“No,” he said. “I have my own copy, upstairs, in my home. This is a copy for sale. You can have it.”
Monica seemed to take a few moments to grasp this.
“I see,” she said. “The title is confusing. One hundred years is a long time. And ‘solitude’ – that’s loneliness, isn’t it? Is this a book about a little man who is lonely for a hundred years? That sounds terribly sad.”
“No!” Mellors said, jovially. “It’s a book about all sorts of things. It’s set in South America. It follows one family over a hundred years in their little village as many strange things happen. It taught me a lot about people, and about…”
He paused.
“…changing times.”
Monica took the book eagerly.
She scanned the shelves for books, finding her eyes drawn to the children’s book section.
Setting down the two books she already had, she searched the bookshelf for something. Mellors thought she was much too old to be reading picture-books, but then there were many things about her character that she was much too old for, so he simply seated himself on the step-ladder, watching her flick through the books.
“Wow!” Monica said, at last. “What’s this?”
She had pulled out a book with a blue spine and a colourful illustration on the front cover. It depicted a young woman with long blonde hair, wearing a colourful dress, tall as a mountain, walking barefooted into the sea.
Its title was Melisande, by E. Nesbit.
“Melisande,” Monica said, mispronouncing the name as Melly-sand.
“Ah, yes,” Mellors said, as she handed it to him. “This is a charming book. It’s a sort of fairy-tale.” He opened the book to show Monica the illustrations. “It’s about a young princess named Melisande, in a far-away land, who is born with no hair at all. So, she wishes to have long golden hair.”
Monica was enraptured. “Oh!” she said. “From the front cover I’d have thought it was about the Hallelujah Capacity. What happens?”
“Well, she wishes that her hair grows twice as fast every time it is cut,” Mellors said. “So, eventually, the whole castle is filled with her hair.”
Monica smiled, somewhat bemused. “I’m not sure I understand the story. Please, tell it to me, Jonathan.”
Mellors smiled softly. It was odd for such a young woman to take such an interest.
“Alright,” he said. “Well, one day, a handsome prince has the idea to cut the princess off her hair, rather than the hair off the princess. And so, Melisande herself begins to grow twice as fast while her hair stays the same length!”
Monica laughed.
“That’s a silly idea,” she said.
“Well, it’s a sort of joke,” Mellors explained. “In the end, she gets so big and heavy that the land she lives on begins to sink into the ocean, so she has to wade out into the sea. But just as she is leaving, the Prince crawls up to her ear and tells her to snip her hair off with a pair of scissors. She goes back to being the right size again, and eventually, they cut her hair exactly down the middle, so both she and the hair grow at the same speed, and it cancels out, you see.”
He flipped through the pages, getting to the last one, where there was an illustration of a prince and of Melisande marrying.
“And then the prince and Melisande marry, and live happily ever after.”
Monica smiled, taking the book gently from Mellors’ hands, and gazed, fascinated, at the final page.
“Were you ever married, Jonathan?”
Mellors’ mouth fell open slightly, and he turned away.
“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Once.”
Monica smiled curiously.
“To whom?” she asked.
Mellors glanced at her, then away again.
“Doreen,” he said, quietly.
“Oh!” Monica said. “She sounds wonderful. I’d like to meet her.”
“No!” Mellors said, too loudly. He hushed himself. “No.”
Monica frowned.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“We…we had twenty wonderful, wonderful years together,” Mellors said. “But she…she died, you see. She was poorly for a very long time. The doctors could do nothing for her.”
He cleared his throat.
“Will that be all, Madam?”
“That’s awfully sad,” Monica said. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m still learning.”
Mellors held his hand up and shook his head.
“There isn’t a day goes by I don’t think about her,” he said. “But you learn to live with it.”
He wiped the tears out of his eyes.
“Oh, look at me,” he said. “An old fool like me blubbering in front of a young lady such as yourself. I do apologise.”
“What for?” Monica asked. “It is my understanding that crying is quite a natural response to distress. And you are in distress, are you not, Mister Mellors?”
Mellors smiled slightly.
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am.”
“Then allow me to keep you company, at least for a short while. We’ll have to be moving on soon, but I can stay here for a few more hours, if you wish. I’d like to listen to your stories.”
*
They talked for hours.
They were interrupted only once, when a man walked in to browse the shelves, grabbed an old science fiction novel off one of them and handed Mellors the money.
Mellors told Monica all sorts of stories, of his youth and of his favourite books and films, until his throat was sore, and then kept on talking. All the while Monica listened intently, asking questions for more information, voracious in her appetite for conversation. In fact, he had hardly noticed after a while that the sun had begun to set.
“It has been nice speaking to you,” he said. “It’s so unusual that someone takes an interest.”
Monica smiled, gently. “You are a friendly man, Jonathan. It makes me feel sad that you’re quite lonely. Though I don’t think it’s your fault. You deserve someone to talk to.”
Mellors nodded, then covered his eyes and burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” Monica said.
“Don’t apologise,” Mellors replied. “I suppose it’s just, goodness me, what an old grump I’ve become. People don’t know what they have until it’s gone, and I think my heart has hardened a bit. I’m sorry if I was rather short with you, earlier.”
“I took no offence,” Monica said. “You are a kind man, Jonathan. And I don’t think you’re too old to start again. Believe me – I’d know.”
“Do you think so?” Mellors said, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. “I used to be such a spry young man, you know. Now I can barely move about the shop.”
“Starting again doesn’t mean doing the same as before,” Monica said. “Until two months ago, I couldn’t think at all. And it’s strange now to be able to feel everything. But I’ll get the hang of it.”
Just then, the bell above the door rang as the door came open.
A young man stepped in, a thick beard on his chin, tattered clothes hanging off his body.
“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. Come on, Monica, we’ve got to get going.”
Monica looked at Mellors.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must leave. We’re heading to London. I’ve got to meet with someone very important. I really hope she’s not cross with me.”
Mellors gave a final bewildered smile. “Safe travels, Monica,” he said.
“Monica, come on,” the man at the door said.
“In a moment, Dad,” Monica replied. She turned back to Mellors. “How much for the books?”
The books! Mellors had forgotten all about them.
He looked over at the small pile, and then up into the two black eyes that stared back at him intently, at the first real company he’d had in many, many years.
“Just have them,” he said. “You’ve given me more than money could buy.”
Monica was confused by this.
“Are you sure?” she said. “It was my understanding that money is exchanged for goods and services.”
“It’s a courtesy,” Mellors replied. “Now go, you mustn’t be late.”
Monica smiled, then leaned forwards and kissed Mellors on the cheek.
“Thank you, Jonathan Mellors Bookseller,” she said, and took the books up in her arms.
He heard that sound for the final time: Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.
She walked to the front door and met with the young man, and they departed. He would never understand why she had addressed him as “Dad”, or even that she hadn’t been human at all. He shook his head, scratching at the wispy white hair on his scalp.
After a few minutes, he stood from his wooden stool and walked into the back room, where the GPO rotary telephone still hung on the wall. He took the receiver off the hook, and dialled in the number, then held the receiver to his ear.
There was a soft series of tones, then a click.
“Hello?” said the person on the phone.
“Hello, Josephine?” he said. “Is that you?”
“Grandad? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, we just haven’t spoken in a while,” Mellors said. “I just thought I’d check in on my granddaughter.”
“You’re still not using that mobile I got you, I see,” Josephine said, teasingly.
“You know I can’t make head or tail of the damnable thing,” he replied. “Besides, GPO telephones. They last forever.”
“If you say so,” she laughed. “Hold on a moment, I’ll get your great-grandson to say hello. Donnie! Come here, darling.”
“I’d like that very much,” Mellors said.
And he did.

Another time, another place…
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ARC FOUR: BLOOD MOON
I | II | III | SSI | IV | V | SSII | SSIII | VI | VII | SSIV
VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | SSV | XIII | SSVI | XIV | SSVII | XV | SSVIII | XVI | XVII