The Midnight Library - Matt Haig Page 0,91

there, witnessing it all as if for the first time. Maybe in one of those houses was another slider, someone on their third or seventeenth or final version of themselves. She would look out for them.

She looked at number 31.

Through his window Mr Banerjee’s face slowly lit up as he saw Nora safe and sound. He smiled and mouthed a ‘thank you’, as if simply her act of living was something he should be grateful for. Tomorrow, she would find some money and go to the garden centre and buy him a plant for his flowerbed. Foxgloves, maybe. She was sure he liked foxgloves.

‘No,’ she called back, blowing him a friendly kiss. ‘Thank you, Mr Banerjee! Thank you for everything!’

And he smiled broader, and his eyes were full of kindness and concern, and Nora remembered what it was to care and be cared for. She followed her brother inside her flat to start tidying up, catching a glimpse of the clusters of irises in Mr Banerjee’s garden as she went. Flowers she hadn’t appreciated before, but which now mesmerised her with the most exquisite purple she had ever seen. As though the flowers weren’t just colours but part of a language, notes in a glorious floral melody, as powerful as Chopin, silently communicating the breathtaking majesty of life itself.

The Volcano

It is quite a revelation to discover that the place you wanted to escape to is the exact same place you escaped from. That the prison wasn’t the place, but the perspective. And the most peculiar discovery Nora made was that, of all the extremely divergent variations of herself she had experienced, the most radical sense of change happened within the exact same life. The one she began and ended with.

This biggest and most profound shift happened not by becoming richer or more successful or more famous or by being amid the glaciers and polar bears of Svalbard. It happened by waking up in the exact same bed, in the same grotty damp apartment with its dilapidated sofa and yucca plant and tiny potted cacti and bookshelves and untried yoga manuals.

There was the same electric piano and books. There was the same sad absence of a feline and lack of a job. There was still the same unknowability about her life ahead.

And yet, everything was different.

And it was different because she no longer felt she was there simply to serve the dreams of other people. She no longer felt like she had to find sole fulfilment as some imaginary perfect daughter or sister or partner or wife or mother or employee or anything other than a human being, orbiting her own purpose, and answerable to herself.

And it was different because she was alive, when she had so nearly been dead. And because that had been her choice. A choice to live. Because she had touched the vastness of life and within that vastness she had seen the possibility not only of what she could do, but also feel. There were other scales and other tunes. There was more to her than a flat line of mild to moderate depression, spiced up with occasional flourishes of despair. And that gave her hope, and even the sheer sentimental gratitude of being able to be here, knowing she had the potential to enjoy watching radiant skies and mediocre Ryan Bailey comedies and be happy listening to music and conversation and the beat of her own heart.

And it was different because, above all other things, that heavy and painful Book of Regrets had been successfully burnt to dust.

‘Hi Nora. It’s me, Doreen.’

Nora was excited to hear from her, as she had been in the middle of neatly writing a notice advertising piano lessons. ‘Oh Doreen! Can I just apologise about missing the lesson the other day?’

‘Water under the bridge.’

‘Well, I’m not going to go into all the reasons,’ Nora continued, breathlessly. ‘But I will just say that I will never be in that situation again. I promise, in future, should you want to continue with Leo’s piano lessons, I will be where I am meant to be. I won’t let you down. Now, I totally understand if you don’t want me to be Leo’s piano teacher any more. But I want you to know that Leo is an exceptional talent. He has a feel for the piano. He could end up making a career of it. He could end up at the Royal College of Music. So, I would just like to say if he doesn’t continue his lessons with me, I want you to know that I feel he should continue them somewhere. That’s all.’

There was a long pause. Nothing but the fuzzy static of phone-breath. Then:

‘Nora, love, it’s okay, I don’t need a monologue. The truth is we were in town yesterday, the two of us. I was buying him some facewash and he said, “I’m still going to do piano, right?” Right there in Boots. Shall we just kick off where we left off next week?’

‘Seriously? That’s amazing. Yes, next week then.’

And the moment Nora came off the phone she sat at the piano and played a tune that had never been played before. She liked what she was playing, and vowed to remember it and put some words to it. Maybe she could turn it into a proper song and put it out there online. Maybe she would write more songs. Or maybe she would save up and apply for a Master’s. Or maybe she would do both. Who knew? As she played, she glanced over and saw her magazine – the one Joe had bought her – open at a picture of the Krakatoa volcano in Indonesia.

The paradox of volcanoes was that they were symbols of destruction but also life. Once the lava slows and cools, it solidifies and then breaks down over time to become soil – rich, fertile soil.

She wasn’t a black hole, she decided. She was a volcano. And like a volcano she couldn’t run away from herself. She’d have to stay there and tend to that wasteland.

She could plant a forest inside herself.

How It Ends

Mrs Elm looked a lot older than she had done at the Midnight Library. Her formerly grey hair was now white and thin, her face tired and lined as a map, hands spotted with age, but she was as adept at chess as she had been years ago in the Hazeldene school library.

Oak Leaf Care Home had its own chessboard, but it had needed a dust down.

‘No one plays here,’ she told Nora. ‘I’m so pleased you came to see me. It was such a surprise.’

‘Well, I can come every day if you want, Mrs Elm?’

‘Louise, please call me Louise. And don’t you have work to do?’

Nora smiled. Even though it had only been twenty-four hours since she had asked Neil to put up her poster in String Theory, she was already inundated with people wanting lessons. ‘I teach piano lessons. And I help out at the homeless shelter every other Tuesday. But I will always have an hour . . . And to be honest, I have no one to play chess with either.’

A tired smile spread across Mrs Elm’s face. ‘Well, that would be lovely.’ She stared out of the little window in her room and Nora followed her gaze. There was a human and a dog Nora recognised. It was Dylan, walking Sally the bullmastiff. The nervous one with the cigarette burns who had taken a shine to her. She wondered, vaguely, if her landlord would allow her to get a dog. He’d allowed a cat, after all. But she’d have to wait until she’d caught up with the rent.

‘It can be lonely,’ Mrs Elm said. ‘Being here. Just sitting. I felt like the game was up. Like a lonely king on a board. You see, I don’t know how you remember me, but outside of school I wasn’t always the—’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve let people down. I haven’t always been easy. I’ve done things I regret. I was a bad wife. Not always a good mother, either. People have given up a little on me, and I don’t entirely blame them.’

‘Well, you were kind to me, Mrs . . . Louise. When I had a hard time at school, you always knew what to say.’

Mrs Elm steadied her breath. ‘Thank you, Nora.’

‘And you’re not alone on the board now. A pawn has come and joined you.’

‘You were never a pawn.’

She made her move. A bishop sweeping into a strong position. A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

‘You’re going to win this,’ Nora observed.

Mrs Elm’s eyes sparkled with sudden life. ‘Well, that’s the beauty, isn’t it? You just never know how it ends.’

And Nora smiled as she stared at all the pieces she still had left in play, thinking about her next move.

‘A rollicking time-hopping fantasy’

Observer

‘A novel with enormous heart’

Daily Express

‘Matt Haig is astounding’

Stephen Fry