The Man Who Wanted To Smell Books. Elspeth Davie
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while sitting too long with the passive Mr Abson. But after a while she turned to him again, speaking, however, in a more patient and relaxed tone.
‘How late do you mean, Mr Abson?’
The man gave his peculiar half-sigh. That is to say, he drew in his breath, held it for a while, and expelled it almost without a sound. But, halved like this, it was also irritating, as though he had no wish to give generously of his feelings – even feelings of desperation – like other people.
‘How late, then?’ Mrs Imrie repeated.
‘At night. When I go to my own room. In bed probably. I go over things when I’m in bed. I suppose that’s what I usually do.’
It was quieter in the room. The girl had stopped combing her hair, or she was combing it very lightly. The woman took up some sewing again. ‘You mean things don’t strike you right off? Even funny things you see or hear?’ Mr Abson turned his eyes towards the window, but said nothing.
‘I suppose that means you don’t sleep well.’
‘Not always.’
‘I’m glad I’m not troubled like that. With me it’s when my head touches the pillow. Or when would I ever get my work done next day? I’ve no time to think day or night, it seems!’ She sewed steadily for a bit, and once she whispered: ‘The whole roof caving in ..!’
After a while Mr Abson gathered up some papers from the table into a brief-case and prepared to go into the other room which was officially his for the evenings if the family were not entertaining visitors in there. They had only a very hazy idea of his job for he had not talked much about this. But they knew his firm made tiles and pots and mugs, and they associated him with a peculiar foreign jar they had once seen there – long, black and white, narrowing at the top to show that nothing was to be got out of it and nothing put in except perhaps a bare twig or two. And yet with a mournful, drooping lip to it.
‘Don’t go unless you must,’ said Mrs Imrie. ‘It’ll probably take a bit to heat up in there. Jim and May will be back soon and we’ll have a cup then.’
‘I’ll come back later then, if I may,’ said Abson. He went out and they heard the door of the other room close behind him.
‘Always later!’ exclaimed Mrs Imrie. ‘I’m afraid later’s not much use to me. I’ve got to have the laughs on the dot, and the crying too. And I like a gasp when it’s tragedy – even a blink would be enough. Something. When I told the butcher about them throwing the twin babies out of the window and the fireman nearly gone himself with the smoke, he doubled over as though he’d a pain here – doubled over his knife. Mrs Liddel did more. She wailed out loud.’
‘There was a safety-net, wasn’t there?’
‘Has the world gone quite heartless? Yes, there was a safety-net. And lots of people down below, including that mother – watching her two babies being thrown, one after the other, out of a fourth-storey window!’
‘Anyway, they’re safe. No damage done.’
‘Talk about sleeping! Imagine that poor woman’s dreams when she does close her eyes. Will she ever get it out of her head? No she will not. Some people have reason to lie awake at night.’
‘We don’t know what’s in Mr Abson’s head.’
‘No, we don’t. Whatever it is, it doesn’t show on the face. The strangest thing about buildings when they collapse is the slowness. It’s like a slow-motion picture. A sag here and a bulging there, and a slow, slow puff of dust.’
‘I’ve seen something like it on TV.’
‘The sparks are dangerous. I believe they can travel miles.’
‘And still keep alive?’
‘Seemingly. In a wind.’
‘Surely not miles?’
‘A long distance. You think they’re dead, and the next thing you know there’s a fire blazing away miles from the first place.’
‘A single spark,’ said the girl.
‘But if it’s alive, after all – and travelling fast.’
‘A dark spark,’ said the girl again, brooding on it.
‘And more dangerous for not shining,’ said her mother. They sat in silence for a few minutes till the girl took up her comb again and began on her hair. This time there was a faint cracking and she laughed. ‘More sparks,’ she said, drawing out a strand and letting it float free from her head.
‘Look, leave your hair alone,’ said her mother, ‘and get that comb away from the table.’
Later on, twenty minutes or so before her brother was due back, the girl knocked on the door opposite and opened it. Mr Abson was sitting there with his papers at a small table. The room had not heated up and as she spoke she could see the little white puffs of breath before her in the air.
‘You haven’t put on the light yet. Shall I come in?’
‘Yes, come in,’ said Abson. ‘Have your brother and his fiancée arrived?’
‘Not yet. “Fiancée” is idiotic. Why do you keep using that word?’
‘I took it for granted.’
‘Well don’t. You haven’t been here long or you’d know the number of girls he’s brought home already. We keep off the word.’
‘What is the play they’re rehearsing?’
‘I’m not very interested to talk about them. I don’t know what it is. All I know is he’s a sailor and she’s a school-mistress. Have you noticed how nearly all the women in these plays turn out to be teachers? Last year he was a painter and she taught Algebra. In the end they show they can take off their glasses and everything else the same as other women. But of course only for sailors, painters or murderers. Is that fair? Never for anyone else – never a male teacher, for instance.’
‘Is your brother a good actor, then?’
‘I’m not interested in that. But there’s one thing. I’ve been behind the scenes when they’re taking the paint off.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s strange, frightening maybe. They take a blob of grease and wipe off a pair of round, black eyebrows, or a frown or a luscious pair of lips. They can clear patches of white fright from their cheeks in one stroke – grease off a blush as quickly as you’d wipe round a dinner-plate, and underneath, when they’ve wiped off every mark, their faces are dull … dull!’
‘It’s not that. But undramatic perhaps. Unexaggerated.’
‘No. Dull. When you take off eyebrows, for instance, the surprise goes out of the face. Yours is the opposite.’
‘Mine. My what?’
‘Your face, Mr Abson. When you wipe it off, yours must be exciting.’
There was silence in the room. The man turned his eyes slowly, still keeping his head stiff.
‘When I say “wipe off” I’m not referring to paint, with you, of course.’
‘No? What, then, could I wipe off?’
‘I’ve no idea what it could be.’
‘I take it you find the surface dull –no dramatic eyes or lips?’
‘But underneath – exciting.’
‘Where exactly does it break through?’
‘It doesn’t. But I can infer it, from what you say. At night, for instance, in your own room.’
‘Miss Imrie, if you’re trying to make up for anything your mother said – don’t bother. She’s been good to me. She likes me