Poetry and other squiggles: August 2017

There's a pool of gold upon the floorboards in my new old house, where the afternoon sun comes to rest each day, along with my new old cat, Miles. Next to the cat is the box I haven't unpacked yet. Miles is making love to the corner of the box, purring along to the sussuration of the ocean beyond. He has adjusted remarkably well to losing his previous owner and acquiring a new one within a fortnight. I finish my coffee and place the empty mug upon the windowsill.

The last box. I use my one remaining false nail to pierce the tape on the top and fold back the creaking cardboard arms. First, the high heels. Bin. I would not inflict the pain of these upon anybody, I have decided. Then the suits. Charity bag. Perfect for the career girl which I vowed never to be again. Then the hair straighteners. Ditto charity bag. Bookshop owners weren't required to have poker straight hair. Lastly, the folder I had been looking for in the first place. Deeds to the property. On the kitchen table. The last box now only needed to be flattened and shoved into the garage under the car with the others.

Bookshop owners who lived around the corner from their workplace didn't need to face traffic jams every weekday morning. Bliss. I was getting used to this sole heir and beneficiary business. A fortnight ago I was in the midst of a duel with the demon known only as 'Mail Merge', and being leered at by pasty golf enthusiasts in the reception room of my former employers; Davis, Davis, & Davis. Lawyers. Mindnumbingly dull work which paid my rent and fulfilled no other function.

I got the call on a Thursday afternoon. My Aunt Ita had passed away suddenly and I was her emergency contact. Could I come to identify the corpse? I made my apologies to the boss man and drove the one hour trip to the seaside hospital. My father phoned. We met for dinner over a copy of Ita's will. We toasted to her peaceful rest and drafted increasingly sarcastic letters of resignation, including my favourite;

Dear Daviseses,

I regretfully announce my resignation from your so-called firm. I'll not be back after the 26th so you'll be in need of another filing monkey.

Best,

Constance 'coffee girl' Baxter.

Aunt Ita had owned and run Baxter's Books for thirty years. I had worked there every summer since I was fifteen, but I never thought she'd make me her heir. Maybe she thought I'd just sell it and use the money for something else. But I couldn't think of anything better than books. Books had always been my best friends. Maybe Ita knew that. Books were her best friends, too. Apart from Miles, that is. Miles gently kneads the ball of my upturned foot, reminding me that it is time for dinner. We order Chinese takeaway and watch the sunset from the balcony. Miles is particularly fond of prawns. We get an early night.

The next morning, I breakfasted on Vegemite toast and bracing Russian Caravan tea, a far cry from my usual hurried latte and half a muffin in the lift. I began my new life with a leisurely shower, and skipped the hairdryer, allowing my black-rapidly-becoming-white curls to explore their new surroundings as I laced up my sneakers and strolled the two hundred or so metres to the bookshop. I turned the key, stepped inside, and deactivated the security system. Inhaled. The precious woods smell of paper and leather and the hothouse flower smell of my recently departed Aunt. Home.

Lights on, float counted, signs out to attract passersby. I dropped a record onto the turntable and flicked the needle into place. Soft jazz and a second cup of tea. I took up residence behind the giant, lumbering, much abused, and ancient butcher block-turned-desk that served as the counter. My Aunt's ample behind had bullied the leather armchair opposite the till. It was smooth and comfortable with wear and accepted me as its new torturer without complaint. Nothing to do but be polite to customers, read, and the odd bit of tidying up.

Aunt Ita kept a sheaf of instructions for what she had always called the 'necessaries of bookshop tending' in the desk drawer. Supposing that now might be the time to begin accepting responsibility for my newly independently moderately wealthy existence, I unearthed said sheaf and peeled open the file. An envelope slipped onto the counter. It was heavy and coloured forest green.

My favourite. The colour of Miles' eyes, Ita thought. My name was inked on the front in her small, neat print. Intrigued, I opened the envelope to reveal a letter. One page of creamy, heavy paper, and what looked to be at least a thousand dollars in cash. Bloody hell. I opened the page and read:

Dear Constance,

do be an absolute brick and keep the shop open, won't you? You will, I'm certain. I never really saw you as an office type, anyway. And Miles adores you. You will have found some readies enclosed in case this letter finds you at an unfortunate time of your life. There's more where that came from in the bank, and the shop does turn quite a tidy profit, despite the naysayers declaring print passe. I expect you'll enjoy the house as well. The back door sticks a bit in winter so make sure you leave the spare set of keys under the hydrangeas.

There is only one item in the house which you cannot keep; the black and white photograph above the laundry sink is promised to your father. He may not remember but he bought it for me when I first got the shop and I'd like him to have it. I didn't see the point in drafting a new will just for a photograph, so I trust you'll pass it on when you next see him. As I write this, I'm sitting in the shop after an appointment with my doctor. She has informed me that I have a brain tumour. I may have months or years, but I thought best be prepared. I have had a thoroughly brilliant life.

Chin up, my darling, and remember; Nullus Anxietas!

Love,

Aunt Ida.

P.S. Tobacco's under the potted fern. Whiskey in the third drawer down if you're that way inclined.

I let go of the letter and was about to search the shelves for a Latin reference book when a customer walked through the shop door. The bell above the door jingled cheerily as he asked where he could find the Discworld series.

'Back right hand corner' I replied, directing him with a sweep of my hand.

'No worries' he smiled back.

I slapped my palm upon my forehead. No worries, indeed. Cheers, Aunt Ida.

Poetry and other squiggles

Thursday 10 August 2017

Kinbaku

Foxes

Fantasy

Nullus Anxietas - inspired by Sir Terry Pratchett.

Shadow Love (Bowie #2)

Hot Tramp (Bowie #1)