The Man Who Gave Away Books
Not likely to be published. Not by anyone with a full set of marbles, anyway.Monday, September 01, 2003
The First Book
The last written page curved downwards under his hand and came to a gentle and final rest on the others. The cover followed slowly, and settled. The cover bowed outwards slightly under the weight of past hands. He had bought it from the charity shop next to the post office, because he recognised the white and orange frame to the titled spine from many years ago.
His mind emerged from the final words and joined him on the bench on the green, underneath the shade of the row of poplars. The grief of the story began to fade, but the vivid images in his mind remained. There was a bright pale sunlight and an unfulfillable longing for the future.
He stroked the hairs of his moustache into line and slipped the book into his jacket pocket. The sun was just as pale as that imagined Spanish seascape from that beach, but the jacket was becoming necessary if the old man wanted to read outside in the British October. He stood up. There was something he needed to pick up on his way home.
Pete was squatting in front of the sweets shelf in front of the counter of the newsagents when the old man came in. He was restocking the mars bars, slowly and methodically placing them so that the older ones were on top and would sell before the new ones. The new wrappers had some kind of competition on them to do with the World Cup, so as soon as the first of the kids found out they would sell first, but he had to do it anyway. That what he was paid for.
“Good evening,” said the man, patting his pockets as he walked into the shop.
“Hi,” said Pete, standing and taking the box of mars bars with him back behind the counter.
“It’s lovely out there you know,” said the old man, pulling out his wallet.
“Really?” said Pete, flatly.
“Yes.”
The old man opened his wallet and eased a note out of the long pocket.
“I’ll have a packet of the Old Oak, please,” he said, pointing at the bag of pipe tobacco in the beige plastic rack behind Pete.
Pete slid it along the counter towards the man and waited.
“How old would you be now?” asked the old man.
“Twenty one,” answered Pete automatically. What?
“Oh. Back from university, eh? Didn’t see your picture in the paper,” said the old man, and he reached out and tapped the straight pile of local newsletters. “Usually in there when someone from round here makes something of themselves off in the real world.”
Pete looked glaringly at the old man.
“How did you do?” continued the old man, amiably. He smiled.
“I was asked to leave before the final exams,” said Pete, with no idea why he was bothering. He recognised the man from always being around the village, but no more. It wasn’t like he knew him or anything.
“That’s a shame,” said the man. “Why was that?”
Pete almost told the man to pay for his baccy and get out.
But he didn’t.
“I’d spent too much time doing things for the theatre society,” said Pete. That wasn’t what he’d told his parents, but it was the truth.
“Oh, really? Well, never mind, eh?”
“That’ll be four pounds twenty, please,” said Pete, pointedly.
“Of course, of course,” said the old man, handing over the note.
“What were you studying? Theatre studies, was it?”
“No,” said Pete, giving the old man his change. “Physics.”
“Right right,” said the man, putting the change into a pocket in his wallet. “Still, you’re young, and the world is your oyster, eh?”
Pete didn’t say anything and the man busied himself with his tobacco and left the shop.
The air had bite in it as the old man walked down the hill to the thatched roofed village pub. There were a few unfamiliar cars in the gravelled car park, and he decided to go straight home. That young Peter Jenks was not happy. The old man turned past the tin chapel into his street and took out his keys in readiness. He might have to put the heating on for the first time tonight. There was more Autumn in the air than was shown in the green of the trees behind the row of bungalows.
He brushed his brown brogues on the mat and hung up his jacket, taking out his tobacco and the book he had finished that day. He sat down in the large armchair in the living room and tapped out his pipe. The book, faded orange and cream, sat on the glass surface of the coffee table as he thumbed the leaf down into the bowl, and the smoke curled and twisted to nothing underneath the ceiling as his thoughts rested between its pages and hung, silently, behind the counter of the village newsagent.
When he came on shift the next day at two o’clock, Pete was surprised to see the old man leaning on the flint-topped stone wall outside the shop. He was smoking his pipe and got up as Pete approached.
“Ah,” said the old man. “Young Peter.”
“Yeah?” said Pete, a little freaked out.
“I’ve got something for you,” began the old man. “I was just thinking last night, and I thought, well, I thought you’d like this.”
The old man held out the book. Pete looked at it for a second and then up into the face of the old man.
“Why?” asked Pete.
“You just...ah...struck me as being the type of chap to appreciate it,” said the old man. He hadn’t imagined it being like this. He stopped himself before he started thinking that young people today were different to when he was young. We’re all human, he thought.
Pete took the book. He turned it over slowly and with another quick glance at the old man, began reading the back.
“Right, well I expect you’ve got to start work, so good day to you,” said the old man, and he lifted his pipe towards Pete for a second and walked away.
You had to say one thing for the village, thought Pete. It kept the old crazies away from society in an environment where they couldn’t do any real harm.
He slung the book into his grey steel locker in the staff room along with his coat.
When Pete finished his shift at eleven o’clock, he walked home with the book in his pocket. As usual, there was nothing on TV, and he hated going to sleep with the feeling of work still on him. He threw the remote control down onto the sofa, left his parents’ living room and pulled the book from his coat pocket. He began to read as he climbed the stairs.
The last written page curved downwards under his hand and came to a gentle and final rest on the others. The cover followed slowly, and settled. The cover bowed outwards slightly under the weight of past hands. He had bought it from the charity shop next to the post office, because he recognised the white and orange frame to the titled spine from many years ago.
His mind emerged from the final words and joined him on the bench on the green, underneath the shade of the row of poplars. The grief of the story began to fade, but the vivid images in his mind remained. There was a bright pale sunlight and an unfulfillable longing for the future.
He stroked the hairs of his moustache into line and slipped the book into his jacket pocket. The sun was just as pale as that imagined Spanish seascape from that beach, but the jacket was becoming necessary if the old man wanted to read outside in the British October. He stood up. There was something he needed to pick up on his way home.
Pete was squatting in front of the sweets shelf in front of the counter of the newsagents when the old man came in. He was restocking the mars bars, slowly and methodically placing them so that the older ones were on top and would sell before the new ones. The new wrappers had some kind of competition on them to do with the World Cup, so as soon as the first of the kids found out they would sell first, but he had to do it anyway. That what he was paid for.
“Good evening,” said the man, patting his pockets as he walked into the shop.
“Hi,” said Pete, standing and taking the box of mars bars with him back behind the counter.
“It’s lovely out there you know,” said the old man, pulling out his wallet.
“Really?” said Pete, flatly.
“Yes.”
The old man opened his wallet and eased a note out of the long pocket.
“I’ll have a packet of the Old Oak, please,” he said, pointing at the bag of pipe tobacco in the beige plastic rack behind Pete.
Pete slid it along the counter towards the man and waited.
“How old would you be now?” asked the old man.
“Twenty one,” answered Pete automatically. What?
“Oh. Back from university, eh? Didn’t see your picture in the paper,” said the old man, and he reached out and tapped the straight pile of local newsletters. “Usually in there when someone from round here makes something of themselves off in the real world.”
Pete looked glaringly at the old man.
“How did you do?” continued the old man, amiably. He smiled.
“I was asked to leave before the final exams,” said Pete, with no idea why he was bothering. He recognised the man from always being around the village, but no more. It wasn’t like he knew him or anything.
“That’s a shame,” said the man. “Why was that?”
Pete almost told the man to pay for his baccy and get out.
But he didn’t.
“I’d spent too much time doing things for the theatre society,” said Pete. That wasn’t what he’d told his parents, but it was the truth.
“Oh, really? Well, never mind, eh?”
“That’ll be four pounds twenty, please,” said Pete, pointedly.
“Of course, of course,” said the old man, handing over the note.
“What were you studying? Theatre studies, was it?”
“No,” said Pete, giving the old man his change. “Physics.”
“Right right,” said the man, putting the change into a pocket in his wallet. “Still, you’re young, and the world is your oyster, eh?”
Pete didn’t say anything and the man busied himself with his tobacco and left the shop.
The air had bite in it as the old man walked down the hill to the thatched roofed village pub. There were a few unfamiliar cars in the gravelled car park, and he decided to go straight home. That young Peter Jenks was not happy. The old man turned past the tin chapel into his street and took out his keys in readiness. He might have to put the heating on for the first time tonight. There was more Autumn in the air than was shown in the green of the trees behind the row of bungalows.
He brushed his brown brogues on the mat and hung up his jacket, taking out his tobacco and the book he had finished that day. He sat down in the large armchair in the living room and tapped out his pipe. The book, faded orange and cream, sat on the glass surface of the coffee table as he thumbed the leaf down into the bowl, and the smoke curled and twisted to nothing underneath the ceiling as his thoughts rested between its pages and hung, silently, behind the counter of the village newsagent.
When he came on shift the next day at two o’clock, Pete was surprised to see the old man leaning on the flint-topped stone wall outside the shop. He was smoking his pipe and got up as Pete approached.
“Ah,” said the old man. “Young Peter.”
“Yeah?” said Pete, a little freaked out.
“I’ve got something for you,” began the old man. “I was just thinking last night, and I thought, well, I thought you’d like this.”
The old man held out the book. Pete looked at it for a second and then up into the face of the old man.
“Why?” asked Pete.
“You just...ah...struck me as being the type of chap to appreciate it,” said the old man. He hadn’t imagined it being like this. He stopped himself before he started thinking that young people today were different to when he was young. We’re all human, he thought.
Pete took the book. He turned it over slowly and with another quick glance at the old man, began reading the back.
“Right, well I expect you’ve got to start work, so good day to you,” said the old man, and he lifted his pipe towards Pete for a second and walked away.
You had to say one thing for the village, thought Pete. It kept the old crazies away from society in an environment where they couldn’t do any real harm.
He slung the book into his grey steel locker in the staff room along with his coat.
When Pete finished his shift at eleven o’clock, he walked home with the book in his pocket. As usual, there was nothing on TV, and he hated going to sleep with the feeling of work still on him. He threw the remote control down onto the sofa, left his parents’ living room and pulled the book from his coat pocket. He began to read as he climbed the stairs.
The Explanation
This project is being published (at the push of a button, for the people...etc etc) online because of the pure and simple reason that no distributor of words in print would publish it. Not if they respected their own profession, anyway. It's also a rather casually written piece, mostly for the above reason, but mostly because it is only being written for pleasure...mine mostly, but also hopefully yours, o intrepid visitor who hath found this I know not how.
This is The Man Who Gave Away Books.
This project is being published (at the push of a button, for the people...etc etc) online because of the pure and simple reason that no distributor of words in print would publish it. Not if they respected their own profession, anyway. It's also a rather casually written piece, mostly for the above reason, but mostly because it is only being written for pleasure...mine mostly, but also hopefully yours, o intrepid visitor who hath found this I know not how.
This is The Man Who Gave Away Books.
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