Moving On

Freedom

Freedom

‘I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE ACTUALLY GOING,’ CLAIRE said.

‘Oh, I’m definitely going.’

All morning she’d felt fluttery with excitement, for once not able to eat breakfast. At the age of twenty, Ellen Sheehan was finally leaving home, making a start on a life that she knew would be filled with amazing adventures.

Her one tiny regret – well, maybe not that tiny – was that Claire wasn’t coming too. That had been the plan, for both of them to escape together, but that was before Claire’s only brother had skipped off to London to work on the building sites for the summer, leaving Claire trapped behind the counter of her family’s pub.

‘The minute Martin comes back you’ll follow me, right?’

‘I’ve told you I will. Can’t wait.’

Claire had turned twenty in February, five months before Ellen. They were grown-ups now, ready for the world and all it could throw at them. They rounded a bend and there was the bus station, causing Ellen’s stomach to flip again. Another few minutes and she’d be on her way – and this time tomorrow she’d have begun her new job, surrounded by books all day, meeting people who loved them as much as she did. Could things get any better?

At the station they found the Galway bus and stood at the open door. ‘Behave yourself,’ Claire said. ‘And obviously I’m joking.’

Claire never behaved herself if she could help it. She believed in having fun, particularly if it meant breaking rules. Ellen knew she’d never be half as brave – and so did Claire. She called Ellen her rock of sense, but Ellen didn’t want to be anyone’s rock of sense. She wanted to have fun too, without worrying about it.

Ellen’s mother didn’t think Claire was brave. That girl is a bad influence , she’d said more than once. I’m glad you’re getting away from her. She didn’t know that Claire was following on: Ellen had thought it best to say nothing about that.

‘Here,’ Claire said, fishing a long blue box from her pocket. ‘A little going-away present’ – and inside, Ellen found a silver pen.

‘Wow, I love it. Thanks a million.’

It crossed her mind that it might be stolen. Claire was an experienced shoplifter. The trick , she’d told Ellen, is to buy something small, and look them in the eye when you’re paying for it, and smile like mad and talk about the weather .

There had been a time, a horrible time, when Ellen had stolen from shops too, but it hadn’t lasted.

The bus was filling up. ‘Find a proper boyfriend,’ Claire said. ‘You’ll have plenty to choose from in Galway. Stop being so fussy.’

Claire wasn’t fussy. She’d lost her virginity at seventeen, in the back seat of her then boyfriend’s car, and she’d had plenty more sexual partners since then. It’s just physical , she’d say. It’s fun, and no big deal – and that was the problem, because Ellen wanted the big deal.

She wanted the drama, the deep passion of all the lovers she read about, the Cathys and the Heathcliffs, the Elizabeth Bennets and the Mr Darcys. She wanted someone who would die for her, someone who would kill for her. She wanted nothing less than a soulmate, and she was happy to wait for him.

And she would meet him in Galway. She was convinced of it.

For one thing, she was bound to encounter lots of readers in the bookshop: right from the start, they’d have that in common. Plus, if she could lose ten pounds by Christmas, and stop biting her nails, and let her hair grow, she’d feel so much better about her appearance, and that confidence would definitely attract more attention.

Yes, she was hopeful. Very hopeful.

‘Are you getting on?’ the bus driver called.

‘Just a sec.’ Claire flung the rucksack into the luggage compartment and threw her arms around Ellen. ‘Phone me,’ she ordered. ‘I want all the news. If your aunt doesn’t allow you to use her phone, wait till she goes out.’

At the mention of her aunt, Ellen’s excitement dimmed. Moving in with her mother’s older sister, a relative she hardly knew, wasn’t the start she’d have chosen for her new life, but it would only be for a short while, until she and Claire found a flat together.

‘See you soon,’ she said. ‘Tell Martin he has to come home.’

‘I will. Have a ball. Go wild. Now get on before they leave without you.’

Ellen hitched her small bag higher on her shoulder and boarded. From her window seat she waved at Claire until the bus pulled out of the station. Watching familiar streets as they flashed past, she wondered if she would ever live in the town again – and this thought stirred a memory of another uprooting when she was eight, the family leaving their old town when her father had been offered a better job here. It must have been momentous at the time for her and Joan, but they’d been young enough to adjust and make new friends.

And then, eight years after that—

No. She would not think about it, not today. She switched her thoughts to the man who was going to be her new boss, and whom she had yet to meet.

Ben McCarthy , he’d said at the start of their phone call two weeks earlier. Manager of Piles of Books . Coming back to you about the job you applied for.

Oh . . . yes. She hadn’t expected to hear so quickly – hadn’t she only posted her letter two days ago?

What’s your favourite book?

The question had caught her off-guard, but was an easy one to answer. Lolita.

Ah, the great Nabokov . Could you live without reading?

Another unexpected question – but again, one she hadn’t had to think about. I couldn’t go a day without reading.

The right answer , he’d said, sounding pleased. Which dead author do you wish you’d met?

She’d almost laughed. This was crazy. Dickens .

And what are you reading now?

Housekeeping.

Marilynne Robinson?

Yes.

Like it?

Yes, I’m really enjoying it.

A brief pause had followed, and then: You’ll do .

Pardon?

Six pounds an hour, half nine to half five, Monday to Saturday, with one flexible day off in the week. How does that sound?

She’d hardly believed it. Was he actually offering her a job based on a conversation lasting less than a minute, and involving no more than a few bookish questions? He hadn’t asked anything about the typing pool, wasn’t even looking for a reference.

Is that a yes? Are you thinking about it?

Yes , she’d said hastily. Yes, please. Thank you . She’d already forgotten the terms and conditions he’d rattled off, but she hadn’t cared.

Great. How soon can you start?

She’d thought fast. I need to give two weeks’ notice where I am.

Two weeks. That brings us up to . . . Friday, September fourth. So let’s say you start here on Monday seventh.

OK.

Good, all settled.

Um . . . is there anything else I need to know?

Yes. Wear comfortable shoes – you’ll be on your feet a lot. Be here at half nine sharp, or I’ll have to fire you .

She’d waited for a laugh, but none had come. Thank you , she’d replied, but he’d already hung up.

Half nine sharp, in comfortable shoes. No mention of a dress code, or what her duties would be. No information about the shop or who else worked there. It had certainly been an odd interview, but it had ended with an offer of work, and it had enabled her to hand in her notice at a job she’d hated, and now she was on her way.

She wondered what he’d be like face to face. Hopefully he’d be a bit less . . . unpredictable. Some people just didn’t suit the phone.

On the other hand, what was wrong with unpredictable? Might make life more interesting, working with someone who didn’t do the expected thing. From now on she must be open to every possibility, willing to embrace the unknown, the unexpected. Willing to be brave.

She rummaged in her bag until she found her book, and the apple she’d snatched from the fruit bowl on her way out of the kitchen. She began to read, and the world outside the bus window fell away.