15. Bedridden books

The second morning was better. And worse. Better because Ann knew that she was at the critical point. From here on, exercise would become easier until it was pleasure not pain.

Worse, because for the moment, it was pain.

She’d been here before. The aching muscles, the complaining joints, the burning lungs. All signposts on the road, and as Ann climbed the long hill up Monash Drive, she took it steadily, imagining one of those curvy athletes from the Thirties jogging along in front of her. She’d gradually catch up, lose the kilos, become the woman she’d been not too long ago.

And then, she’d be imagining one of those hard bodies from the same Olympics jogging ahead in firm masculinity. She’d catch him. And keep him.

She thought of Tom for a moment, tanned and taut and terrific. But Tom was gone and Ann was here. Maybe her clock was running out, but Ann wasn’t sure she wanted a family. Not children, anyway. Someone to share her life, her flat, her bed. Someone that wasn’t a cat.

These were good, positive, motivational thoughts, and they carried her up the hill. The current pains of her body would, in due course, give way to other sensations. Her burning thighs, for example, not to mention the tightness of her chest.

Just listen to me, she thought. She’d be reading romance novels next. Or worse, writing them.

“Softly, yet firmly, the eager lips of the Greek tycoon sought those of the bookseller. Slowly, gently, her reluctance melted. She sighed as his tongue met hers in bilingual embrace.”

Ann groaned in disgust at her thoughts. There was a certain sort of woman who bought romance novels. She had a bookcase set aside near the front door, and the old dears bought them a dozen at a time. And sold them back to her at half price. A nice little money-spinner.

The rest of her circuit was downhill or level, and she relaxed, even walking for a few hundred metres occasionally. The building site, when she turned onto Constitution Avenue, was looking even more desolate. Piles of earth were appearing as yellow-painted machines tore into the ground. The magpies were enjoying it all. For the time being.

She had given in to temptation yesterday. Sometimes it felt good to succumb. She didn’t expect a result, not today, not yet, but maybe…

Quint was again visible in his window, staring dolefully out. Again she waved, but this time he waved back, smiling at her. Good old William – he had his moments, but he was a rock, when you knew how he worked.

A final rush up the little hill, almost burning up as she reached Legacy Park, and then she was warming down, slowing up, bending to pick up The Canberra Times from the front yard, opening the door and ignoring Grace’s hungry miaows.

Shower and coffee before she dared open the paper to the Letters page. And there it was! Her impulse acknowledged, printed in black and white, just like the magpies she wrote about. Trivial, she knew, but who else would stand up for the birds?

She read it again when she arrived at it in legitimate progression. It still sounded clever and sincere – the effort of a concerned member of the community.

She lingered over breakfast. Wednesdays she opened late. It was her day for bookscouting on her own accord, and today she was on a winner. One of the suburb’s oldest residents was moving out of her house to a retirement unit and she wanted to sell her library of books. It was a familiar story: how to fit a lifetime accumulation of possessions crowding a big old family home into the small bedroom and lounge that made up a retirement flat. It couldn’t be done.

Ten o’clock, and she walked up to a split-level Sixties house in Spanish Mission trim, patches of exposed bricks, wooden beams and red tiles. Once it must have been the coolest house in Canberra, now it just looked tired.

But it had a fantastic view over the lake through mature trees. Galahs clustered around a feeding bowl, while king parrots waited their turn. And a silver-haired old lady opened the door and smiled her inside.

“Ann Ounce,” Ann said, mentally chiding her stepfather for her whimsical name for about the millionth time. “You dropped in last Thursday to make a time to view your library?”

“Of course! Violet Campbell, but you wrote my name down.”

“Any relation?”

“Robert Campbell was my great-grandfather,” Violet stated. “They say I’ve got his eyes. And some of his books.”

Campbell the suburb was named after Campbell the squatter, who had first farmed here. The military college of Duntroon was the old homestead, named after Campbell’s Scottish birthplace.

The Campbell eyes were twinkling, and Ann warmed to the old lady. It was never easy selling a lifetime collection of books. Many would be old friends, others would have memories attached, and some would be the childhood possessions of sons and daughters, far too precious to throw out.

“I’d be especially interested in the older books, Mrs Campbell. Have you done any sorting at all? You know, pulling out the ones you want to take with you?”

“They can all go. Might as well say goodbye to them now. I won’t be around forever, you know.”

Ann privately doubted this. Violet must have been well over eighty, but she seemed as trim and agile as any schoolgirl, bright and alert. So many old people lost heart, especially when their spouse died, and they just marked time until it was their turn.

“Nonsense! You’ll be getting a telegram from the Queen before you know it. I hope I’ll be as energetic as you when I’m your age!”

“Oh, I’ve got a while to go yet, dear. I’m ninety-two, would you believe it?”

Ann shook her head in disbelief. “And still living by yourself! You’re a wonder!”

“My son comes in now and then. He’s a good boy. He gives me a hand around the house.”

Any son of Violet’s would be a senior citizen in his own right, Ann thought.

“I see so many retired people,” she said, “and most of them can barely get up in the morning. Sick or crippled or bedridden…”

“Oh, I’ve been bedridden! Hundreds of times. And once in a taxi!”

“Ah,” Ann sighed. “I’d best take a look at these books.”

“Oh, they’re just through here. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve already got the kettle on for this nice young man.”

Ann nodded. There, sitting at a heavy old table, surrounded by piles of books, was Quint. This was going to be tricky.

Copyright © 2009 Peter Mackay