Rising from tairs, I stepped into t need t sco find my antly tips along t along s oe: tory of Map Making, tes from tings of t. Petersburg Cartograp contains ion me anyips where I was.
e see feomers in Lea’s Antiquarian Booksellers, a scant ivity in September s come to buy copies of t texts; anoter tory. At otimes of t see-g a client. Every summer brings tourist en track, is prompted by curiosity to step out of to tant, blinking as . Depending on ing ice cream and cs on t stay for a bit of sranquility or not. More commonly visitors to t us from a friend of a friend, and finding tour. ticipation on tep into t infrequently apologize for disturbing us. t and as amiable as t mostly it is just Fathe books.
? you migomers come and go. But you see, terms, just a sideline. takes place elseions a year. t collectors, and collections. If you o c tions or book fairs t tends frequently, you ice en ly spoken, quietly dressed individuals, quiet. Does ioned. Fat doesn’t do to build up on to already , e of ttle green notebook. te some time. But later—a fe anotion or book fair, seeing a certain otentatively, en t, it ends t sometimes, folloions, tters. Fat deal of time composing letters. In Frencalian, even occasionally Latin. Nine times out of ten teous t sometimes—imes a year—to a journey. A journey in y-eigimes a year. this is our livelihood.
tself makes next to no money. It is a place to e and receive letters. A place to international bookfair. In t is an indulgence, one t my fatitles o. Yet in reality— my faty and mine; I don’t pretend reality is t of t is a repository of books, a place of safety for all tten, t at present no one seems to . And it is a place to read.
A is for Austen, B is for Bronte, C is for C in tization at time as augo spell. I learned to e too: copying out names and titles onto index cards t are still ty years later. t ter scer e university. It was my life.
My fat a book into my ead, me roam and graze, making my oe selections. I read gory tales of oric nineteentury parents t able for c stories t ; I read accounts of arduous travel treacaken by spinsters in crinolines, and I ;ad iquette intended for young ladies of good family; I read books ures and books ; books in Englis understand, ories in my words. Books. Books. And books.
At sc all to myself. ts of arco my essays, but my teacook takes, to eradicate times a ory lesson ouc random seams of knoimes I stayed mum, dumbstruck by tary collision of t irely apart.
In beto o our more distant clients. At ten I ted to o t office. At eleven I relieved my mot against ty in in “old books,” so idious feater, igrying not to inime to time tir up a cloud of imaginary dust, and sably sockings on te t, able malevolence of books, o be positioned beo do ting. It o come out to ter t.
me looking for lost books. e designated items lost o t missing from tful position on t olen but, more likely, t in tminded broo ceiling housands of volumes.
‘And , cization,“ Father said.
It ake forever; I rusting it to me. to tell trut tered, for in undertaking it, it was serious.
It took me a tember, ed, every lost book urned to its only t, but—and in retrospect, t seems important-—my fingers act, albeit briefly, he shop.
By time I eens, I ance t on quiet afternoons le real o do. Once tock sters ten, once o to read.
Gradually my reading green I found myself meandering on teentury literature, biograpobiograpters.
My faticed tion of my reading. migeresting for me. stle books, in manuscript mostly, yelloied ring, sometimes simply read tite for food gre. It ion.
I am not a proper biograp I am all. or my oen a number of s biograpudies of insignificant personages from literary ory. My invest ing biograpime and y. I like to disinter lives tat of print for decades pleases me more t anything else.
From time to time one of my subjects is just significant enougo rouse terest of a local academic publisions to my name. Not books. Not says really, a feapled in a paper cover. One of my essays—“ternal Muse,” a piece on t te in tandem—caugory editor and ing and teentury. It must captured ttention of Vida inter, but its presence in tion is quite misleading. It sits surrounded by ters, just as t I am only a dilettante, a talented amateur.
Lives—dead ones—are just a to sell t—but to look after ten I take out a volume and read a page or ter all, reading is looking after in a manner of speaking. t old enougo be valuable for tant enougo be souger by collectors, my co me, even if, as often as not, tside. No matter ents, t touc t enougo e them down.
People disappear ually tural. Yet for some tion to tion. For in te tinue to exist. e can rediscover tone of voice, tten you. ter you. All t ure s is a kind of magic.
As one tends tend tten dead to resonate inside my , ters, irred by touc must be very lonely being dead.
Altouce preoccupations, I can see nonet I ting off tial. I am not given to acts of self-revelation; it rato overcome my ual reticence, I ten anyto avoid ing t matters.
And yet I e it. “Silence is not a natural environment for stories,” Miss inter told me once. “t t you.” Quite rigoo. So ory.
I en matters is t it to keep. It was mine.
My parents t evening. t go out often, and door to sit in Mrs. Robb’s kitc-door ly like ours but reversed, and t all made me feel seasick, so rolled around, I argued once again t I at a babysitter. I time my fato be persuaded Mrs. Robb eight.
t t seven o’clock, and I celebrated by pouring a lass of milk and drinking it on tion at my o Lea, old enougo stay a sitter, after t unexpectedly bored. to do off on a erritory of my neairs toilet. Everyt as it icular reason, I t rouble blos’ oo insubstantial to rest, and ture, s brittle delicacy, cicks if a . Yes, t in no time. I began to wisress.
Upstairs I peered into t o see ed to t, to t, I studied my reflection from all angles, o see someone different. But it myself.
My o kneead, I pus room. table paid lip service to t you could brus dressed some bes ty. ts ss and blankets tigucked in and smooting. t of t room, but was w.
Perplexed, I backed out of tood on the landing.
t. te of passage. Staying omorroo say, in t nig go to a sitter. I stayed ed t it o make of it. I’d expected t I o fit tomatically, t I my first glimpse of tined to be. I’d expected to give up its co ss secret, adult side. Instead, cloaked in my ne younger t o grow up?
I toyed o Mrs. Robb’s. But no. tter place. I craher’s bed.
t t one scase, as gray in daylig my mot never ted flaps, bund a angled skein of Cmas-tree lig of tree angel. t time I mas. No. as t a kind of growing up?
riggling out from under t tin. “ from under tin—it ure of Scottisoo tigo open. Absently I tried t gave ronger fingers t I felt a pang of s and various, differently sized pieces of paper. Forms, part printed, part ten. ure.
For me, to see is to read. It s. My parents’ marriage certificate. tificates. My oificate. Red print on cream paper. My fature. I refolded it carefully, put it o t. It ical. I ificates?
t. Same fate of birt name.
o me in t moment? Inside my o pieces and came back togetly, in one of tions the brain is capable of.
I win.
Ignoring tumult in my head, my curious fingers unfolded a sec-id piece of paper.
A deatificate.
My twin was dead.<kbd>ｈｔｔ<a href="p://w" target="_blank">p://w</a>ｗｗ.９９liｂ?ｎeｔ</kbd>
I kne ained me.
tupefied by t surprised. For ire oo familiar to tered quality in to my rigion of ligo me t set empty space vibrating. My pale shadow.
Pressing my o my rig to s ure, one t o me in pain, in perplexity, under duress of any kind. too familiar to be pondered until nos meaning. I win. here she should have been. By my side.
art turning again on its slo, So t’s it. Loss. Sorro me apart from ot me company—all my life, and no I ificates, I kneer.
After a long time tcairs. Pins and needles in my calves, I as far as t ttom of tairs.
‘Is everyt, Margaret?“
‘Yes.“
‘ everything you need?“
‘Yes.“
‘ell, come round if you need to.“
‘All right.“
‘t be long now, your mum and dad.“
S.
I returned ts to tin and put tin back under t t of t tact as my eyes locked togetingled under he bones under my skin.
Later, my parents’ steps on tairs.
I opened ther gave me a hug.
‘ell done,“ he said. ”Good marks all round.“
Motired. Going out ed one of her headaches.
‘Yes,“ she said. ”Good girl.“
‘And so, , s? Being home on your own?“
‘It was fine.“
‘t it op op of my ime for bed. And don’t read too long.“
‘I .“
Later I s going about tting ready for bed. Fato find Moter. so frequently did, “You’ll feel better after a good nig room closed. A fes later t click off.
I kne t sical people instead.
I win.
My twin was dead.
did t make me now?
Under t t on my torso. ter be of ts ancient ory. I ‘as as cold as a corpse.
itter still in my t upstairs to my flat, aircase narro eacories of books. As I , turning out ligo prepare pe letter refusal. I ell Miss inter, terest in contemporary ing. I er’s books. I ervieer in my life. I ease rutold, nervous of the living.
It probably necessary to put t last bit in tter.
I couldn’t be boto make a meal. A cup of cocoa would do.
aiting for to , I looked out of t glass . e pressed co cold, glassy c not for to tell us apart.