When the Medicine closed at four, she ran back to the Gardens. She ran up the stairs, and tore off her grey jumpsuit. She hobbled barefoot into the blessedly empty bathroom, and turned on the shower and lathered soap all over herself. She set the tartar bugs loose on her teeth and felt them feasting all along the borders of her gums. Quite a banquet, eh lads? She brushed her teeth to get rid of them — otherwise they died and began to smell — and she ran her tongue over her teeth. Her teeth felt new and polished like the smoothest, coldest resin. She brushed her hair, and peered into the mirror, and saw that some of her pores were enlarged with little plugs of dirt. She popped them out, and washed her face again. She threw herself onto her bed, and pulled on her best wooden clogs. They would clatter as she danced.
Suze and Hanna were out. She could hear them talking below, in the Gardens, in their group. They would talk there until sunset and then go in and eat. Usually the sound of their talk would make Milena feel forlorn, deserted. Now, in the quiet room, she thought: I have a place to go. I am going to eat with a family and all of you are going to eat in a Child Garden. Some of the Tykes will probably have another horrible food fight, wormy old stir-fry thrown all over everyone. You’ll have to wash, and then you’ll sit in each other’s bedrooms playing cards, or trying to make a few deals. You’ll trade toys or reed mats or whatever scraps you can and it will make you feel adult.
Me, tonight, I will eat with adults, and there is going to be music.
Milena savoured the feeling for just one moment more. Then she turned and ran down the steps, her clogs making a sound like a winnowing machine.
The Row was an old square of mostly eighteenth century houses. The old brick sagged and the whitewashed windows were not square, but the ancient buildings stood up proudly by themselves. In the middle of the square, encircled by wrought iron, was another garden. Livestock was kept between the huge old trees. Sheep and goats were tethered to stakes, each of them keeping a circle of grass trim. There was a great structure made entirely of bales of hay, resin sheeting covering the sloping roof.
Milena found No. 40. On the door was a brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin. Its head knocked against brass waves. As soon as Milena knocked, the door was opened by Rose Ella. She must have been waiting, Milena thought, waiting just inside the doorway. She was kissed on both cheeks again, and told again how nice it was to see her. On each side of the hallway there was a row of small brass cannons. ‘They were for firing salutes,’ explained Rose Ella.
The walls were lined with old, yellowing paintings. Rose Ella didn’t know who they were. Milena stopped to stare at their faces. Areas of the paintings had been cleaned, as if the people in them had wiped a dusty windowpane to see out. There was an old chair, with a back made out of wood, carved to look like a harp. Some of the wooden strings were broken. There was a huge rug thrown over bare, worn wooden floors. The colours were faded, all the warp worn through. A large china dog sat waiting faithfully, the tip of its nose broken.
‘What a wonderful place!’ said Milena. ‘All these things.’
‘Secret,’ said Rose Ella. ‘We take our time repairing them, so they can stay with us.’
‘Really!’ whispered Milena. It was a wicked world indeed.
Rose Ella chuckled. ‘Come on, I’ll show you where we live!’ She ran up a great booming uncarpeted staircase. Milena followed in her clogs. Someone higher up shouted down at them to be still.
On the first landing, there were old TV sets, cables folded over their heads, and rows of frozen painted Chinese Buddhas. There was a bust of Benjamin Britten, and another old chair, one of its legs replaced by a prop of bamboo, its embroidered upholstery as worn as the rug downstairs. The chair had padded shoulders, as if it were a jacket.
Rose Ella’s family lived in a huge parlour room, with vast front windows made of wobbly glass. The glass made all the square outside look as if it was wavering with heat. There were wooden candlesticks, and decanters of clear water with glasses over the top to keep out the dust. There were portraits, photographs of dead monarchs, and French engravings of mountain or harbour scenes. ‘Le Calme,’ said one. Rose Ella’s sister, Maureen, sat at a polished mahogany table. More kissing of cheeks. Milena saw that the table’s legs were carvings of naked women. She started to blush. On the table were plastic tiger lilies. Maureen was injecting them with colour.
‘They never the, these flowers.’ said Maureen. ‘They’re always bright.’
Milena was enchanted with the idea. She thought the thick waxy petals, red and orange and black were beautiful. There was an hibachi in the corner. It made the room too hot but a kettle had been left on it, so that Rose Ella was able to make them both a cup of tea. A boy ran in and asked for Johnny. ‘He’s out in the square, somewhere,’ said Rose Ella, and the boy ran off again. Rose Ella’s father came in, carrying books. He was huge, the biggest man Milena could recall seeing, with a face that might have been cruel. It had a small mouth, a long nose that had been broken, a black beard, and a very receding hairline. Then he spoke and his voice was high and gentle. ‘Is it your mother?’ he asked.
He was asking if it was his wife’s turn to cook, meaning he hoped it was not his own. ‘Yes, Ta, yes,’ said his daughter, shaking her head.
‘Oh good, that’s good,’ he said looking at Milena. ‘My daughter tells me you’re a reader of books. Well, come, come, come and see mine!’
He held out a paw, with hair on the back of it, and took Milena’s and led her clumping down the stairs again in her clogs. ‘You’ve got hooves to wake the dead!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here, now, careful!’
They ducked down into a darkened corridor. The back of the house had no windows. He lit a candle, and held it up and there was a wall of books, on high shelves.
‘Look at these, look at all of these, my beauties. None of these are in the viruses. None of them.’
It was a wall of unknown books. Milena, the one who remembered, saw them all again, in memory, clearer than a dream:
Before Scotland Yard
Castle Rackment — the Absentee
Tom Burke of ‘Ours’ by Lever
Wild Tales by George Burrow
The Professor by Currer Bell
Old books in leather, others in cloth, some with faded, painted paper covers.
Nunwell Symphony by C. Aspinal Ogladender, Hogarth Press — with painted skies over great houses.
In Tune with the Infinite by Trine — gold lettering on a blue cloth cover.
‘Why does the Consensus forget them all?’ asked Milena, dismayed at the waste.
The great burly man shrugged. ‘They had their day,’ he said. ‘They were read and loved, and other books grew up in their places. Like people. Only some people are remembered. It’s the same with books. Here, look at this one.’ He pulled out one loose book. Its leather cover was torn; padding leaked out of it as from a sofa. He opened it up for her. There was a photograph, in black and white, obviously retouched by pencil in places. A woman in a white nightdress gazed in wonder at another woman. The other woman wore a garment of leaves. Elaborate scrolls were drawn around the photographs, and elaborate lettering said ‘Scenes from Peter Pan, an enchantment for children.’
He turned page after page. There were misty backdrops of country cottages with bowers of roses, and women in linen flounces that left their stockinged ankles bare. Light was in pools of shadow all around them.
‘It’s theatre,’ whispered Milena, in awe. Rose Ella’s father must have been briefed as well.
‘And none of those productions are in the viruses either.’
Love and yearning made Milena draw in her lower lip. Rose Ella’s father ruffled her hair. ‘Yes, you can borrow the book.’