At the weekend I go over to Cricket’s as a local joiner has finished making her little library bookcase. Shaped like a house, it’s erected on stilts so that it sits over the railings, facing the pavement. Now we’ve just got to stock it with books.
‘What about some Steinbeck?’
We’re standing in the front garden surrounded by cardboard boxes, the contents of which have been taken from the bookcases indoors, trying to select what to put on the shelves. Cricket is in a really good mood. In fact, I’d say it’s the most energized I’ve seen her. The project has given her a whole new lease of life.
‘Ooh yes,’ I nod approvingly, as Cricket slots a couple next to some of Monty’s well-thumbed John le Carré paperbacks and the collected works of Voltaire. ‘The Grapes of Wrath is one of my favourite books ever.’ I trace my finger down the raised gilt bands on the spine. ‘Hang on a minute . . .’ I pick it up and flick open the first few pages, then stare at the imprint with disbelief. ‘This is a first edition!’
‘Yes, I know,’ replies Cricket cheerfully. She continues rootling through the box. ‘How are we feeling about poetry?’ She waves a volume of Keats at me.
‘Cricket, this is really valuable! We can’t put it out here.’ I can’t believe I’m actually holding a first-edition Steinbeck. Somebody pinch me.
‘Why not? I’ve read it. Let someone else read it now. As Monty always said, books are meant for sharing, not owning. No point in it just being stuck in my bookcase.’
It’s a good argument and a view I share – I’m always passing along books – but then mine are usually paperbacks that have been dropped in the bath. Not rare and extremely expensive classics.
‘Let’s just keep the first editions to one side for now,’ I suggest, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm by telling her it will probably end up on someone else’s bookcase, most likely a rich collector’s.
‘Whatever you think,’ she beams, holding out a stack of hardbacks. ‘So tell me, what did we decide about poetry?’
We carry on until late afternoon, sorting through books and selecting what to go on the three small shelves. In theory it should take twenty minutes. An hour tops, if you’re really indecisive. But that wouldn’t allow for chatting to all the different passers-by who, interested in what we’re doing, stop to ask questions.
Most people in the neighbourhood have heard about the closure of the library and share our dismay; a free little library is exactly what the community needs, and their response is enthusiastic and encouraging. Several people offer up their used books, others ask questions about setting up their own library, while some just take the opportunity to stop and chat.
Every so often I catch myself looking across at Cricket, deep in conversation with someone, and can’t help smiling. It’s not just the little library that’s coming alive, it’s Cricket too. By giving something to the community, she’s getting so much more back. People offer to drop by with books, numbers are swapped, introductions are made, hands are shaken and cheeks are kissed.
I listen to the stories of people who have lived here twenty, thirty, even forty years, telling me about how much the area has changed, how it used to be mostly antiques shops before it became gentrified and all the designer shops moved in, ‘pushing up prices and pushing people out’. While on the flipside I meet a couple from New York who have recently moved to the area and are happily embracing the designer lifestyle, and chat to the mother of a little girl, who offers up some of her children’s books while confessing to being sick of looking at her phone but not having time to read.
‘Word by word, page by page,’ Cricket tells her cheerfully, ‘that’s how a writer writes and how a reader should read. You’ll get there in the end. Doesn’t matter if it takes six months or a year or longer to finish it. That’s what I always used to tell my husband.’
She ends up borrowing The Great Gatsby.
‘Well, that was fun,’ I say, as we finally say goodbye to the last person and make our way inside with our empty boxes. We already had to replenish the shelves during the afternoon, as so many people were eager to borrow books.
‘Monty would have loved it,’ says Cricket, climbing the front steps and closing the door behind us. ‘Seeing everyone enjoying his books, it was like having him back again.’
I follow her into the Bumblebee-yellow living room and we flop onto opposite ends of the sofa, sinking back into the worn velvet that’s been warmed by the afternoon sun. For a few moments we both rest our heads and close our eyes, bathed in the shafts of light that stream in from the French windows. The room is quiet but for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘I read the letter, you know.’
Still resting my head on the sofa, I turn sideways and look across at Cricket. Her eyes are still closed.
‘It was a love letter to Monty from Pablo.’
‘I didn’t read it,’ I say quickly. It’s the first time we’ve spoken about it. ‘I just saw the photograph. I’m sorry, it just fell out of the envelope—’
‘My dear girl, you’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ Opening her eyes, she turns to meet mine. ‘I’m not upset.’
‘You’re not?’
‘That my husband loved a man before he loved me?’ A slow smile reaches her eyes. ‘No, I’m not.’
We both look at each other, our cheeks still resting on the velvet.
‘They met in Paris when they were in their early twenties,’ she continues quietly. ‘Pablo was a painter. Monty a struggling playwright. They became lovers. Monty never wanted me to know. He was terribly ashamed of that part of himself. It’s not like today. The younger generation are so fluid about sexuality, there’s no shame . . . and why should there be? But it was different in those days. And I loved him, so I pretended I didn’t know his secret.’
‘You knew?’
‘All along,’ she replies, without missing a beat. ‘From our very first date, I knew Monty had a past. There were rumours. I suspected. I found a telegram, a few notes, a photograph . . . it didn’t take much to piece it all together.’
There’s a pause as she casts her mind back.
‘I knew Pablo had been his first love and theirs had been a brief but passionate affair. They reconnected later in life when Monty became ill. I saw a card that I wasn’t supposed to see at the hospital. A missed call from a Spanish number on his phone. I never let him know.’
Listening to Cricket, I wonder if I could be so accepting. ‘You’re an amazing woman.’
‘Monty was an amazing man,’ she replies simply. ‘He wasn’t perfect, but who is? What is? Le mieux est l’ennemi du bien.’
I frown, not understanding.
‘Voltaire, the French philosopher, wrote “the best is the enemy of the good”,’ she explains. ‘Though I think a better translation would be, “don’t let perfect be the enemy of good”.’
I absorb the words, twisting the phrase around in my mind.
‘Would I choose that my husband loved a man before he loved me?’ She turns her gaze to the ceiling, where the large ornate chandelier is catching the light. ‘No, and I struggled with it at first. Neither would I choose his shocking temper and his filthy habit of stubbing out cigarettes on his saucer. Or his fondness for finishing my Times crossword.
‘But would I choose his generosity and his compassion? His brilliant mind and ability to quote Derek and Clive off by heart? Or how when I was in a room with him he made me feel like I wouldn’t care if the rest of the world ceased to be?’
With our heads still resting upon the back of the sofa, we both watch the light display of rainbow prisms dancing around the walls. It’s pretty obvious this isn’t a question.
‘Damn right I would. Every single time.’