Henry
spend the last night of the world with me
I can’t sleep. The Borges story, Frederick, Rachel lying beside me, knowing exactly what I’m thinking – it all keeps me awake. I walk around for a while, and try to read. When I do finally sleep, I dream of the bookshop, the shelves and the fiction couch, the stairs and the roof, every inch of the place, grown over by a wild garden. The ivy stems are so thick and strong that I can’t pull them from the shelves. They’ve grown into the wood. Frederick helps me in the end, cutting through and breaking off bits, cutting at the ivy with scissors so small they take forever.
I wake knowing that the shop Frederick talked about tonight, the shop that he and Elena owned, was this shop. He owned a florist, and that florist was here, and it’s ours now. ‘He let it go with the Walcott,’ I say, but Rachel’s not here.
The Broken Shore
by Peter Temple
Letters left between pages 8 and 9
14 February 2016
Dear George
I was talking to Henry today, and he told me that it’s the end of the world. Did you hear? I know how much you love Bradbury, and I wondered if you’d like to spend the last night with me? We’d ignore the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. We’d go strictly as friends, keeping each other company while we wait for the end. What do you think?
Martin
Dear Martin
I’d like that a lot.
George
Henry
the day pours in – sunshine and dust
The last day of the world dawns bright and sunny but the feeling of the dream is still with me. I had it yesterday, all day.
Yesterday, I kept waiting for Amy to walk into the shop, and I was relieved when she texted around midday to let me know she wouldn’t see me till Valentine’s Day, when she hoped we’d meet at Laundry. Actually, I texted back, I promised Rachel a do-over. We’re having another last night of the world, so I’ll see you on the 15.
Have you told her? Amy texted back.
About?
About us!
No chance yet, too busy, but I will.
I looked across the shop at Rachel, working in the Letter Library. I thought of the dream, I thought of George, and how Cal had missed out on her, I thought of how much she wants us to have a last night, and decided I’d tell her about Amy and me after the world has ended.
Frederick and I had a game of Scrabble to pass the time after I decided, and I told him that I’d always look for the Walcott. ‘Even when this place belongs to someone else, I’ll keep looking.’
It occurred to me that Frederick is one of my closest friends. Age aside, he and Frieda are part of my every day, and I’ll miss them when they’re not.
‘This was your shop,’ I said. ‘Before mine.’
‘It was,’ he says, studying the board.
‘So I’ll come in and visit the next owner, the same way you visit us.’
He made his move, and ended the game. I wasn’t winning after a 70-word score.
‘Henry,’ he said before he left, but he didn’t finish his sentence. The way he spoke, the tone of his voice, made me feel we were in the dream together again, tearing at leaves.
I get in the shower this morning and try to steam yesterday and the bad feeling out of my system. I can’t. It’s there when I get out and it’s there when I get dressed. It’s there all the while I’m shaving.
George knocks, and walks in while I’m finishing up. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day,’ she says, and reaches for her toothbrush.
‘What happened to your reliable pessimism?’ I ask.
‘I have a friend to be with at school for the first time in six years. I actually no longer care what Stacy thinks. I actually no longer care about her calling me a freak. I have someone to spend the last night of the world with, and I almost have a boyfriend. I have no need for pessimism,’ she says. ‘Did you give that letter to Rachel?’
‘Yes.’ No. ‘Shit.’
‘Shit?’
‘Nothing. Forget it. Everything’s fine.’
‘Everything is fine, Henry,’ she says.
Before I can set her straight, there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Martin. ‘Your dad sent me to get George. He has to leave and he needs you to take over.’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ George says, and turns to me. ‘What’s wrong, Hen?’
She hasn’t called me Hen since we were kids.
‘I got back with Amy,’ I say.
‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘That’s brilliant. You can go overseas.’
‘You don’t care that we’re selling the shop? You don’t want me to stay and run the place so you can hide out here and be happy?’
‘I love this place,’ she says. ‘I do want to keep it, but, if we can’t, then, it’ll belong to someone else and we’ll visit. Don’t feel guilty,’ she says, and walks out of the bathroom.
I look at myself in the mirror. I should be the happiest guy in the world, and all I can think about is how shitness is again gathering momentum.
Rachel’s standing out the front when I arrive at the warehouse. She’s wearing a lemon cotton dress, and I find myself wondering if she’s got bathers on underneath. It’s brave of her to come with me to the beach, and it’d be even braver of her to swim. But Rachel is brave. Please don’t ever go away again, I’m thinking as she opens the van door and steps in.
The Lucksmiths are playing on the radio. I need to tell Rachel that Cal is the mystery writer, but I decide to leave that until after the end of the world, along with the news of Amy. I decide to let both of us enjoy this day. Rachel looks happy. I’m happy with her. She wants a do-over and I don’t want to ruin it.
‘You’re sure you’re okay with where we’re going?’ I ask.
‘Stop worrying, Henry. It’s going to be fine, or it won’t be. But I’ll be okay.’
I look over at her for a second. She’s a hybrid now. The old Rachel and the new Rachel and possibly some other Rachels from the future all tucked into one body. She rolls down the window and the day pours in – sunshine and dust. I turn up the music so it fills the car. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I don’t feel unhappy.’
‘I’m glad I could inspire such emotion.’
We reach the outskirts of the city. The concrete drops away and the trees start up and the sky gets bigger, stretched to a pale blue. The road vibrates softly through the car and hums Rachel to sleep.
When she wakes we’re in a small town. She looks around and smiles, smelling the loose blue air of the ocean. Wrapping her arms around herself, she follows me into the second-hand bookshop.
The owner isn’t here, the girl serving says. And he hasn’t left a note about the Walcott. ‘We emailed,’ I tell her, and she says he hardly ever checks his emails. ‘I keep the database up to date, though, so if it’s online that we have one, it’ll be in the poetry section.’
I walk towards it, and start looking through. ‘I don’t think it’s here,’ I say, searching in the Ws. Rachel’s kneeling at my feet, pulling out books, checking the titles, reading the backs. She looks inside them too, flicking through to check for notes, for history. She looks up and catches me staring, so I quickly pull out some books and act like I’m searching. She goes back to her searching too.