Page 1 of Whispers from the Past

Chapter 1

🎵Mrs Robinson by Simon Garfunkel 🎵

Thursday 28th February 2019

Has the post arrived yet? I sent you something.

Susie’s text woke Rose at 7:01am. Has the post arrived yet? Was she serious? Who has post arrive this early? Her message brought a smile to her lips though. ‘Aunty’ Susie has been sending her things in the post for the last ten years. ‘Aunty’ is used in its loosest possible sense. Rose doesn’t have a biological aunt. She doesn’t even have her mother anymore. The label ‘orphan’ seemed only appropriate for children, not women in their 30s but she guessed that’s what she was. Her father had died when she was a baby, so although that pain was there, it hadn’t manifested like the pain in losing her mother. This thought tugged at her like a sore bruise, but it wasn’t a raw pain anymore. Rose had been alone in the world for the last eighteen years, and her mother’s best friend, Susie, had always checked in on her though. She smiled again, wondering what ‘thing’ would be arriving this time. Susie’s love of all things delivered had led to many comical moments over the years. Her favourite was hard to pick, but was probably a tie between the utterly useless shoebox full of miniature trolls the winter before last, and the pleasing tin of hot chocolate that had followed a few weeks later. Many a cold evening had been made better with those hot chocolates, and although they had seemed useless at the time, Rose had great fun leaving the trolls in odd places for children to find in the park by the flat she’d been living in back then. Bleary eyed, she reached for her phone to reply to Susie before she forgot.

No post yet Aunty. At wrk until 4 so will msg you when bk home x

Pushing off the covers, she got herself ready for the day ahead.

Rose was what people called a ‘morning person’. Each day was the promise of something good, something new, something different. But this particular day, she was struggling to believe in the ‘something good.’ Which was why she just went through the motions of her morning routine. She was on autopilot. It wasn’t uncommon for Rose to go through all the items in her wardrobe, discarding outfits that had been perfectly acceptable the day before. But this morning, she settled for the first things that came to hand; acid washed loose jeans and a soft ombre jumper that flowed from a sky blue to ivory at the hemline. She even forced herself to wash and style her shoulder length chestnut hair. When she’d woken up, she didn’t fancy taking her clothes off and getting in the shower, it just felt like too much effort. But her other self, the one who wasn’t moping about what was about to happen, knew that she’d face the day so much better with washed hair. So she’d washed it, blow dried it and even put some product in it. Glancing at herself in the mirror she gave a gentle shrug of approval. Maybe if she didn’t think about it too much, what she was dreading wouldn’t happen. But as Chaucer said, all good things must come to an end.

* * *

As she stepped inside the 1980’s glass doors a couple of hours later, the book filled walls and the comforting quiet of Hounslow Library soothed her soul. The tired carpet should have been off putting, but instead it was utterly inviting; taking you back to a time when life seemed simpler. No matter what was going on in the outside world, a library was a little cocoon of soft inviting words. Somewhere you could bury yourself in another world for just a few moments, if that was all the time you had, or like many of the people who had already arrived; you could happily lose yourself for hours. An involuntarily shudder worked its way through her. Instinctively she reached for her phone and started up her calming app. She had downloaded it weeks ago on a whim, but had found it invaluable in the last few days. As the familiar swirling pattern started up on the screen she took a deep breath in and exhaled as slowly as possible. Rose repeated this a couple more times until her composure was restored.

An abrupt cough brought her out of her musings. Mrs. Robinson was standing beside her with three Lynwood Barclay books in hand ready to return. When they had first been introduced, it had struck Rose quite vehemently how juxtaposed this Mrs Robinson was to her namesake from The Graduate. Rose had read the book and seen the film but it was the West End production with Gerry Hall as the sensual Mrs Robinson that she pictured every time the tiny, unassuming elderly lady in front of her visited the library. The two couldn’t be more different.

‘How are you today, Mrs Robinson?’ she asked kindly.

‘I’m doing much better, thank you dear. How about you? Plans fixed for next week?’

‘Well, as fixed as they can be. I still can’t believe I won’t be working here anymore. But my hours were cut too much. With the library opening times halving, I just can’t stay and afford to eat’. Saying it out loud was harder than she anticipated and a treacherous tear ran down her cheek.

‘Oh dear, don’t cry. Things will sort themselves out’. She was rummaging in her bag for what Rose assumed was a cliched floral handkerchief, but instead she presented her with a small parcel. ‘I’m going away with my daughter for a few weeks, so I won’t see you again before you leave. I got you a small token to remember our reading group by.’

Rose smiled, and her despair abated. Mrs Robinson had set up her own reading group in one of the three small rooms that could be booked for use by library patrons. They were often filled with sixth form students from the local schools working on some project. But every second Wednesday, four ladies would arrive with that fortnight’s book and would spend the afternoon together. She took the small gift and smiled. She was so touched to receive it. After her mum died, the only person she received gifts from was Susie, so any gift always meant so much. In a period of self reflection recently, she’d also realised that she seemed to give gifts more than your average person. That feeling she got when something arrived in the post from Susie, was replicated when she bought things for other people. And she chased that feeling every chance she got. If she hadn’t been so out of sorts with leaving the library, her bag would have been full of little gifts for Mrs Robinson and her book group friends, as well as her colleagues. The fact that she hadn’t even thought about getting them something, showed how miserable she’d been feeling lately.

‘Well aren’t you going to open it dear?’ Mrs Robinson’s question brought her back to the library and gift in her hand. Inside the nearly wrapped package she found a hand-stitched bookmark with the saying;

Have the patience to wait until the mud settles and the water is clear.

As Rose looked up to thank Mrs Robinson, she realised she had turned and was slowly walking further into the library, her gait lighter now that she wasn’t also having to carry a stack of hard backed books. She tucked the bookmark into her bag and made her way through to the small office at the back of the library. The tired space was in need of some serious updating. One wall of shelves was filled with files and folders dating back thirty years. No one needed the contents of those files any more, but no one had cared enough about the little office space to throw them away. The task just seemed too much effort. In the corner of the room nearest the small window were piles of dusty cardboard boxes. When Rose had first arrived, she had excitedly lifted the lid, hoping to find some exciting treasure. Instead she was greeted with thousands of dewey decimal drawer cards for the library; defunct ever since the library system had been computerised. For months she had been meaning to clear out the office. But she had never got around to it. And now, with just a week to go before she was due to start her temp job, she just couldn’t find the motivation.

For the second time that morning, a forced cough from behind her brought Rose back into the moment.

‘Hi there. You must be Rose. I’m Sam, your replacement,’ said a short man with round, John Lennon, glasses. Rose’s face must have been a picture, because he quickly continued. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t the best way to introduce myself. But I am starting here next week, and you’re leaving. So technically…technically…’ he paused to push his ridiculous glasses back up his nose, ‘I am your replacement’. He finished with a gulp of air.

Rose took a second to respond. She had nothing against Sam, although she would now likely always see him as a John, and his short stature and stupid glasses (it was news to her that she could have such a visceral reaction to someone’s spectacles), so she wasn’t going to make this hard for him.

‘Nice to meet you,’ she lied whilst attempting to look sincere. ‘It’s good you were able to come in today, I can show you the ropes.’

‘Well that won’t really be necessary. It’s hardly rocket science,’ he scoffed as he pushed by Rose to drop his Dunlop gym bag on the floor. He carried on without waiting for a response, ‘I’m in the middle of my BA in English Literature. Now that is hard work. Sorry, did you go to university? I forget that people don’t understand all the abbreviations. I’m doing a Bachelor of Arts-’

And with those last few words. Rose had had enough. ‘For Pete’s sake, I know what BA stands for. It was helpful to know when completing my own degree. It also came in handy when applying for my MA too.’

‘Oh. Right. I just assumed that with you being your age and still working at a council library, you’d be rather unqualified.’

Rose nodded to herself and quickly exhaled the breath she had been holding. Not that it was any of his business, but Rose had spent the last 14 years working a number of different jobs. Ironically, this job at the Hounslow Library had been the one that fulfilled her the most. This was the job she had imagined herself lasting longer at. But it just wasn’t meant to be.

Changing the subject, she decided to find out more about her replacement by asking a question she was often asked; ‘So, as you’re doing an English Lit degree, you must have a favourite book. Hit me with it.’

Sam pursed his thin lips and looked up into the corners of the room as he scanned his inner dewey decimal system for his favourite book.

‘I’d say, at the moment, American Psycho’.