‘Get me the pages when you have a chance, no urgency.’
No urgency. No hint of the absolutely-no-later-than-the-end-of-the-week deadline that I’m used to. No. This is amaybewe’llput it in October. Maybe we can fit it in around the main centre spread.
‘How does that sound? Darling?’
‘Great!’ I say over-enthusiastically, stepping back as a dog on an extendible lead cocks his leg against the bench next to me. ‘I can get something over to you by the end of September?’
‘Wonderful. No rush, and take care, won’t you? We miss you around here. No, not that one! The font is completely wrong and—’ The call ends.
I don’t know why there are tears already forming behind the brown tint of my sunglasses. It’s a good outcome. And there was no mention of the typos in my email. A small tug of doubt makes me wonder if she even read it properly.
Still. It means that not only do I want to find Michael for me, I also have a purpose to my search. And purpose is good.
I nip into the small cafe next to the entrance area. Automatically, I go to say two skinny lattes with a sugar-free hazelnut shot. That familiar misstep of walking in a life that’s not mine any more makes me stumble over my order.
‘Flat white, please,’ I correct myself.
The cool air of the library greets me. The hushed silence unlocks the tension in my fingers, as they grip the takeaway cup. The microfiche I’d requested has arrived, and I’m led upstairs, along corridors, until I’m inside a small alcove, two large microfiche readers sitting like dinosaurs.
I place the coffee on the windowsill, paint flaking away, ring stains from other readers patterning the surface. I tuck myself into the chair and begin scrolling through, starting with 1984. The white light behind the screen flickers, the first headline snaps into view: MINERS’ STRIKE HITS FIFTH MONTH.
The machine hums as I turn the dial, the reel speeding by quickly like a film roll: riots, Thatcher’s face appearing and disappearing. Other photos flash by, and for a second my heartjumps: a man holding a paintbrush, dark hair, pale complexion, a spark of mischief in his eyes. But then I read the caption:Phillip Baker shows off his new business… Just another face amongst the others lost to the past. I find one photo of a local band in Yorkshire, but no mention of Michael. After three long hours, the coffee cup is empty, and my eyes are dry and tight. I return to the desk and request a list of all newspapers from Yorkshire from 1980.
‘I don’t suppose you know if there were any weekend supplements back then?’ I add to the man behind the desk. He has a kind face, soft eyes, like he’s permanently happy with his lot in life. He laughs softly, bushy eyebrows raised. His hair is dark despite his years, neatly clipped and styled.
‘And there was me thinking I looked young for my years.’
Heat rises in my cheeks.
‘I… I didn’t mean to?—’
He gives another soft laugh, blue eyes glinting. ‘I’m just messing with you. Yes, they did. My mum was a sucker for The Weekend glossy inTheGuardian. Used to circle all the book recommendations while the viccy sponge was in the oven. After, off we’d pop to the local bookshop. And if I’d been good, I would be treated to aBeanoand the first slice before my little brother got his sticky mitts on it.’
‘She sounds like a legend.’ I smile, imagining this man in his youth, and a mother who smelt of baking and the fresh pages of a book.
‘She was.’ He takes in my expression. ‘Cancer.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t be, she wouldn’t want that. Ray of sunshine, she was.’ He begins tapping on the keyboard, glasses perched on his nose. ‘You might want to check out the smaller press too?’
‘That would be great.’
He turns to his computer and begins searching and writing down a list.
‘Is there any chance I could get copies of them too? From 1980 until May 1985?’
He lets out a low whistle. ‘It’ll take a while. I can but try.’
‘Anything you could get would be really helpful.’
‘Leave it with me. Shall I give you a bell when they come in?’
‘That would be great, if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. Love a quest myself.’
I glance at the clock. Shit. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be going to Spencer’s to babysit Georgia.
