Without removing the binoculars, Bess acknowledges my company by saying, "Mrs Kavanagh is digging another hole in her front yard. Haven't seen her husband since the winter."
I don't respond. The notion is utterly ridiculous and we both know it. But Bess pursues it anyway to get a reaction, or for entertainment, but most likely for both.
She adjusts the focus. "She dug one two days ago, but there's nothing growing out of it. It's just a mound of dirt. Much easier to dispose of parts, I s'pose, than an entire body at her age."
Of course I'm entertained. She isalwaysentertaining, but I play my part anyway by clucking my tongue. "I think my eyeballs just got friction burn off the back of their sockets."
"Still, her roses could do with the fertiliser. Waste not want not."
The whole thing's a marginally good distraction technique. But she's only delaying the conversation I need to have with her. I pull in a slow lungful of air through my nose. My exhalation has a hint of sigh to it. "Bess?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think next time there's inappropriate behaviour in the library you could have, I don't know, a conversation with the patrons?"
I wait for her to point out it's not her job to police my library, and yet she is called on to do exactly that whenever I'm absent, so she'll do it her way if she damn well wants to. This, unsurprisingly, is not our first Bess-metes-out-vigilante-justice-in-the-library rodeo.
Instead, she says flatly, "Doesn't make for good sport."
Good sport.I want to be mad, and I know my role as library manager is to be mad, but I just can't find it within me to be anything other than mildly irritated and somewhat amused.
She lowers her binoculars and I see her extraordinary face for the first time in twenty-four hours. It's like being bathed in the first rays of sunrise, which might be a bit of a cliché, but it absolutely has that effect on me. She has almond-shaped eyes, accentuated by flicks of eyeliner in each corner. They are light hazel and utterly heart-arresting when they fall on you.
She reaches for the thermos by the side of her recliner and her light-brown hair slides off her shoulders to obscure my view of her face. I won't go as far as adding another cliché such as "and it's like the clouds shrouded the sun", but I am tempted.
The ice cubes tinkle as she unscrews the top. Pouring a drink into the thermos' lid, she hands it to me and holds her glass for a clink.
Her eyes meet mine and my heart arrests. But only for a breath before I re-assume my role and pull my cup out of clinking range. I throw in some eye narrowing for good measure.
She shrugs. "Suit yourself." She takes a sip from her glass then plucks a crisp from the open packet on the table between the loungers.
I thumb the TikTok app open on my phone and hold the screen out for her to see. "Today's stunt wouldn't have anything to do with this, would it?"
The video shows an interior of a plane. The plane Bess was in during her recent return journey from visiting her parents after their latest attempt to reboot their marriage by moving to The Isle of Mull in The Inner Hebrides.
The camera jerks and there's a chorus of startled screams.
A woman clutches the armrest with white knuckles, her eyes screwed tightly shut.
The man next to her crosses himself.
The footage continues to jump, people continue to loudly express their fear, and the camera swivels around to Bess' face.
She does not look impressed.
She says, "This is the worst turbulence I've ever experienced in my thirty-odd years of flying, and you know the thought that's most pressing in my mind right now? It's not 'I'm too young to die', or 'If I get out of this alive, I'll stop my selfish ways and volunteer at an animal shelter'. No. It's 'I'll be really pissed off if we crash and I don't get to finish this book'."
She thrusts the cover at the camera, the title and author big and clear. "The only romance I allow in my life is through the medium of fiction. This book is really bloody good and Ineed to know how it ends." She says the last words through the gritted teeth of frustration and impatience.
Bess pulls the book out of shot. The camera shudders violently and an oxygen mask appears in front of her face.
The chorus of screams ratchet up a notch in volume and pitch.
Turning her head towards the aisle, she shouts, "Shut upeveryone, I'm trying to read!"
The video ends.
Neither Bess nor I say anything for a moment.
