In the children’s section of the library, a squadron of toddlers are banging spoons, blowing whistles and screaming along to nursery rhymes. I want to leave, but Rain says Jenny might like the rhymes. She sits in the circle with the doll on her lap. Some of the mothers throw her suspicious looks. The singing librarian gives Rain a wide, welcoming wave. After a couple of songs, Rain joins in with the singing. I leave her to it and flop down in front of a computer in the research section.
A librarian with spiky white hair points at a sign above my computer: 30 min limit for PCs.
‘If you’re doing some homework, you don’t have to worry about that. We just don’t want people sitting here and spending five hours chatting online. Do you know how to work the computer?’ She looks about Nana’s age and even has a bit of Nana’s soft lilt.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I say. I open a new document, expecting her to go back to her work. She stands with one hand on my desk, looking at the screen.
‘Is it an INSET day?’ she asks.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re not at school. Is it a staff INSET?’
‘Uh, yeah,’ I say. ‘The teachers have a meeting.’
‘And they’ll be on strike next month. What do they expect parents to do with their kids all day?’
I lightly tap the keyboard without writing anything.
‘Well, if you need help, I’m over there,’ she says, and walks away.
I type slowly and check over my shoulder occasionally to make sure no one is reading what I’m writing.
‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou
It doesn’t look like war
Unless you examine it closely – with your glasses on,
Drawing your finger over the cracks in the friendship.
We were a pair,
A team of two
Until Donna took her
Away –
Swooped down and grabbed Pilar
Like an eagle diving for fish at the edge of the ocean.
I never thought that could happen.
I thought for ever friends meant just that:
For ever and for ever and for ever.
Now I know it means
Until.
Until someone better comes along,
Until the conductor swipes her baton,
Chooses you, not me, and
Ends our symphony.
I get to one hundred words then turn to check on Rain. She is fully engrossed in a wild rendition of ‘Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes’. Jenny has lost a shoe.
I read through what I’ve written but as usual, it’s too close to the truth. I can’t hand it in.
I open a fresh document and start again:
‘War’ by Apple Apostolopoulou
I don’t understand people who make football into war. My dad loves Arsenal. He’s their biggest fan, but I don’t think he really likes watching them play all that much because when he does, he gets really angry. He shouts and swears and knocks the stuffing from cushions. And he acts as though the players on the other team are evil. He tells me he hates the managers of the other teams too. In England there are a lot of football hooligans who go to games just to have fights. But football is a sport, so it should be fun.
‘How do I print?’ I call over to the librarian.
She smiles. ‘I’ll print it for you,’ she says. She comes and sits on the chair next to mine. I don’t want her reading what I’ve written, but she doesn’t. She presses some buttons and gets the printer set up. Across the room, it gurgles to life.
She jumps up and returns with my English homework.
I fold the paper and put it into my bag. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
She bows slightly as Rain comes bounding over from the children’s section. ‘Jenny really loved that!’ she says. Her face is flushed from dancing and singing.
‘It was nice of you to bring her along,’ I say. I’m being sort of sarcastic, but Rain doesn’t notice. ‘OK, shall we get books so you have something to do at home for the rest of the week?’ I ask.
The librarian frowns and looks like she’s about to ask a question. I quickly pull Rain by the arm back into the children’s section.
‘Right, you need some fiction and non-fiction. I think if you get one history, one science and two novels, that’ll be enough for today.’
Rain looks around at the shelves. ‘Can I take them home?’
‘It’s a library, Rain, of course you can. Haven’t you ever borrowed a book from a library?’
‘Nope. I read stuff on Mum’s iPad.’
‘But . . .’ I look along the shelves. I never choose a book without picking it up and flicking through the pages. I always read the first few lines. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the ones I like,’ I say. I take her to the fiction section, and we explore.
Rain is sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, completely engrossed in a mystery about a girl who goes to sleep one night in her parents’ boring old house in Croydon and wakes up the next day in a Victorian London orphanage. I’m reading the brand new Mallary Ford novel, which I’ve been waiting for ages for the library to get in. I’ve also found a book of poems by someone called Emily Dickinson. Most of them are short. I scan my eye over one or two and decide to give the collection a try.
‘Shall we get these then?’ I say. I pat the pile of books we’ve chosen.
Rain doesn’t look up from her reading.
‘Let’s get going.’ I pull her to her feet.
We’re on our way to the front desk when I see Nana chatting with the white-haired librarian. I yank Rain behind a bookcase.
‘Ouch. Don’t hurt me.’
‘Shh.’ I press my index finger to my lips. ‘Nana’s here. If she sees us . . .’ I stop because I don’t know what she’d do. All I know is that I don’t want to find out.
‘She’s not my nana,’ Rain says.
‘Yes, she is. Or your nan or gran or grandma or whatever you want to call her,’ I whisper.
Rain peers around the bookcase. ‘Is she nice?’
‘Yes. She’s . . . very nice.’ I take a peek myself, using one eye.
Nana is leaning on the issuing desk, watching the librarian scan the barcodes. She isn’t crying or frowning or anything like that, but she looks sad. Her eyes look sad. And her shoulders are rounded.
I hide behind the bookcase again.
‘Is she OK?’ Rain asks, seeing it too.
‘Don’t know. Maybe Derry’s sick or Nana fell out with someone at the church,’ I say. But if it is one of those things then why do I feel so guilty? I sneak another look as Nana drops her books into her shopping trolley and slowly shuffles out of the library. I’ve always thought of Nana as old-fashioned but I never thought she was old. Not until now, and it makes me want to chase after her.
‘What’s happening?’ Rain asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
I take her to the desk to have our books issued.
‘You’re lucky to snap this one up,’ the librarian says. She holds up the Mallary Ford novel.
‘I know. I love her books,’ I say quietly.
I don’t sound excited – I can’t be. All I can think about are Nana’s sad eyes and rounded shoulders. All I can think about is how I probably should have helped her wheel home the shopping trolley.