I was going to visit the library after work. No, I had no intention of borrowing books. I am by no means a bibliophile. The last book I had ever read was when I was ten – a highly watered down version of Oliver Twist with plenty of colourful pictures. My aunt, who had been a member of the local library, had dragged me along and forced me to sit in a corner and read the book. I read exactly three pages. I never picked up any other book after that. Twenty years later, I was heading towards the very same library again – this time, for a very different reason.

The library was located on the second floor of a red building, close to the Mayor’s office. It was a quiet area with little traffic and plenty of trees lining the pavement. The ground floor housed a coffee shop and the first floor, a doctor’s chamber. While the two establishments seemed to be thriving well, the library appeared to have lost its former lustre and appeal. It looked deserted and had a woody smell. In all probability, the likes of me were on the rise.

I looked around, once I had entered through the glass door. An elderly couple was seated at a table to my right. They were reading a book together. At the far end, sat the librarian – a bespectacled lady in her mid forties, pouring over a register. I headed towards her.

She looked up as soon as I reached her desk.

“Yes,” she asked. “How may I help you?”

“I am looking for a young lady, named Rose. I am given to understand that she comes here often.”

She frowned at me over her spectacles.

“I have no intention of divulging any information about any one who visits my library,” she said frostily.

“But it is important that I meet her,” I said firmly.

“Well, it is important that I do not tell you anything about anyone. You may leave, unless you wish to borrow a book.”

“Well, I have no wish to borrow a book.”

“Then you may leave.”

I paused for a moment and then pulled out my wallet and slammed three fresh currency notes down on her desk.

Her eyes widened in horror. “This is abominable!” she said in a slightly raised voice. A young man who was browsing through some books in the history section looked up.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, hurrying towards us.

She managed to collect herself and nodded. She then turned her attention to me.

“Why exactly do you wish to know about this lady?” she asked.

“Well, it is a personal matter,” I replied.

“In that case, I will not be able to help you,” she said, rising up to her full height of four feet and something. She then marched towards the door of the library, held it ajar and stood there, waiting for me to leave.

“I will be back,” I told her ominously and left.

I went down to the coffee shop, ordered a coffee and a sandwich and sat down at a table near the window overlooking the park. I really needed to track down Rose. She had created a bit of an upheaval in my life.

Outside, the skies had darkened. Soon, a drizzle began and droplets of rain had gathered on the glass pane. I grimaced. I had forgotten my umbrella. Just then the waitress arrived with the fare I had ordered. She was a plump lady with a warm, dimpled smile and sparkling eyes. She seemed chatty too. On an impulse I asked her if she knew anyone called Rose.

She thought for a while and said, “You mean the young girl with spectacles, who comes here every other day with books?”

“You know her?” I asked excitedly.

I had never met Rose, but the description seemed to match the person I had in mind.

“Oh, I’ve seen her often enough,” the waitress said breezily.

She then took a quick look around and plonked into the seat opposite mine.

“She is a strange creature,” she said in a low whisper, as if she was divulging some highly guarded secret. “She never talks to anyone. Not even me – and that is very peculiar because people love to hold conversations with me. Look at you – you’ve never met me but look at the way we are chatting now.”

I took a gulp of coffee before I continued.

“What else do you know about her?” I asked.

The lady thought for a moment. “She usually comes here at around lunch time for a quick bite of something before heading back upstairs. I believe she’s doing some research on some stuff. A student, I believe. That’s what Tim at the counter says.

“Culinary history,” I said.

She looked at me for a moment and then nodded. “That too, I guess. But why are you asking about her? Are you a secret admirer of hers?”

“Oh no, not at all,” I said dismissively.

Her curiosity was piqued further and she watched me expectantly.

“Are you a detective?” she mouthed the words, her eyes now larger than before. “She does appear shady at times – the way she slips in and out without saying a word.”

I shook my head.

“In that case, I am sure you’re in love with her,” she said with a sagacious look.

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Have you any idea when she will be here next?”

She shook her head disappointedly. “She has no fixed schedule. She comes with a pile of books and keeps reading and writing. After having her lunch she leaves again.”

The drizzle outside had abated.

“Fine,” I said, rising from my seat. “I’ll be back again. I am leaving you a contact number. Do let me know when she comes next.”

She had a frown on her face. She had really wanted a story to share at home over dinner. However the frown quickly changed to sheer delight when she saw the tip I was leaving for her. She picked it up and trotted behind me to the counter.

“We will be in touch,” she whispered to me with a wink.

I nodded.

I had barely reached the bus stop when I saw her bustling up to me in excitement . She was breathless but looked thrilled with herself.

“She’s come,” she gasped. “She ordered a coffee. I told Tim to keep her engaged.”

“That’s fantastic,” I exclaimed. “You really are an angel, Madam.”

She beamed with joy.

“You go ahead,” she said. “I will follow. You see, she may think I spilled the beans on her.”

Barely waiting for her to complete the sentence, I raced towards the building that I had just left. On reaching the coffee shop, I pushed open the door and looked around. There was a solitary figure sitting at the very same place that I had sat. She was reading a book.

I barged towards her and sat down on the chair opposite hers. She looked startled.

“There you are!” I said with a victorious smirk. “I have been on the lookout for you.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, her facial expression a cross between fear and annoyance.

“You are responsible for the horrid meals that I have been having for the last six months!”

“What does that have to do with me?” she burst out.

She looked around for help. The waitress, my kind angel, was standing some distance away, pretending to wipe a table.

“Could you please help me out with this gentleman?” the lady in front of me called out. “He is saying the most obtuse things to me.”

Tim looked up but the waitress motioned him to stay where he was. She then waddled up to him and whispered something. A look of realisation appeared on his face and he nodded and continued with his work. She turned around, grinned and winked at both of us and went into the kitchen area.

The lady in front now seemed to be quite angry.

“Sir, I have no idea who you are or what you are talking about. I have never met you before either.”

“Neither have I,” I replied animatedly. “But I know of you, of what you do and how you are messing up my life. And I have been on the look out for you to just tell you to stop what you are doing.”

She was aghast and speechless.

“What on earth are you talking about? What have I done ?”

“You write recipes in magazines. My mother has been an ardent admirer of you. What is more, she tries out every damn recipe that you publish and I am the guinea pig who has to bear the brunt of it. My mother is an atrocious cook. Please for God’s sake , will you stop publishing recipes?”

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and I almost choked over the last few words.

“But I don’t publish recipes. I don’t even know how to cook anything beyond an omelette.”

I paused.

“You don’t?”

She shook her head.

“Aren’t you Rose – the culinary expert who has a column in the Women’s Pal and a few other magazines?

“No,” she shook her head. “I am Ann – and I am a receptionist. I work at the clinic upstairs.”

 

Image : Clem Onojheguo ( Unsplash )

Written for Penmancy’s Tale A Thlon S5 – Flash Fiction 2