Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,22

that appealed to me. The children’s section, labeled as such in big, handwritten letters, was full of the Ladybird books that I’d stopped reading when I was seven, a lot of children’s novels on religious themes—He Loves Us When We’re Good, Jesus and the Snowman, The Twelve Happy Disciples—a few other books with uninspiring titles, and picture books for toddlers. The adult section, similarly labeled, contained dozens of romance novels—He Swept Her Away, A Distant Affair, Search for Passion—the kind of titles I often found stacked haphazardly on Auntie Mabel’s bedside table, and that I secretly skimmed through to find the parts where the heroes and heroines tussled on four-poster beds amid satin sheets, tousled hair, and torn bodices. Many of the remaining books seemed to be Westerns and mysteries. I wasn’t interested in cowboy stories and though I’d read a few Agatha Christie novels and found them engaging, they weren’t among my favorites. Besides, I thought it best not to reduce the mystery inventory even further and provoke a riot among the pensioners.

“Get a move on, love,” the librarian commanded.

I bent down to scan the lower shelves and saw a few titles of more interest.

“Come on, come on, I can’t wait forever.” The librarian tapped her wristwatch.

I pulled out a copy of Jane Eyre and made my way to the little checkout counter.

“I’ll take this,” I said, handing the book to the librarian, who stood with her date stamp ready in her hand.

She opened the front page, ready to stamp the card in there, when she noticed the title. “Ooh, I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t think so at all.”

I looked at her, perplexed.

“You got this in the adult section, didn’t you?” she said with gravity. “You have to be over sixteen to take books out of the adult section.”

“It’s for my mother,” I responded. “She’s got a very bad illness. She’s too poorly to come out of the house.”

The woman shook her head solemnly. “Look, I don’t care what’s up with your mother, love. Rules are rules. Besides, the Brontës were considered pornographic in the nineteenth century, you know.”

Pornographic? It didn’t seem that way in the film my mother and I watched. If the book was pornographic, I definitely wanted to read it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, smiling. “I’ll put it back and pick out something else.” I held out my hand. The librarian kept a tight hold on the book. “I remember exactly where I got it.” I pointed to the shelf from which I’d taken the book. “And I know all about the Dewey decimal system,” I added brightly.

This seemed to convince her, and she handed it over.

I stepped back to the shelf, bent down with book in hand, turned my head to see that the librarian was no longer looking at me, and stuffed it under my sweater. I stepped over to the children’s section, pulled down a couple of random titles, and took them over to her desk, where she stamped the date on their cards, put the cards into her little file box, and said goodbye.

BY THE TIME my father returned that evening, I was more than a hundred pages into Jane Eyre, and if there was anything pornographic in it, it had certainly escaped my attention. I wasn’t disappointed, though, because it was a really good story. The awful tragedy of Jane losing the only friend she had in the world left me brushing tears from my eyes, and next to her terrible experiences in that awful school my own difficulties seemed quite small.

“I’m off to the launderette,” my father announced as he shrugged off his jacket. “We need to get some of this stuff dry.” He gestured toward the sweaters, trousers, and shirts that had been left strewn over every item of furniture. We hadn’t been able to hang the washing outside because it had rained relentlessly ever since we moved in.

I dropped my book. “Can I come?” I began jogging around the living room, grabbing damp clothes in handfuls.

My father frowned over at my mother. “Well, I don’t know … I mean, your mam could probably use your company and …”

“I’m sick of looking at that bloody face of hers; it’s as long as the Mersey Tunnel,” my mother said, waving a limp arm toward me. “A girl her age should get herself outside.”

“But it’s raining.” I pointed at the window, where water drizzled down the glass in thick streams.

“Anybody would think you’d melt.” Suddenly animated,