Chapter 48
Clocks
The Ghost stood in the middle of Bagdale’s Bookshop.
At first he wondered why the train had stopped here.
After all, he was just watching himself stock up a table full of Agatha Christie novels. In what way would this help him understand his life?
It was a Friday. Wilbur was still only employed on a part-time basis. Three days a week. Barely enough to cover his beer budget, let alone anything else.
He was looking hungover, noted his ghost.
And uptight, with a permanently clenched expression.
Mr Bagdale came over. He stared at him through his thick lenses for a while, saying nothing. Then, ‘Did the clocks change, lad?’
‘What?’
‘Well, you must know something I don’t, because I was in here at nine o’clock this morning and I looked around and there was no Master Budd, not anywhere at all.’
‘I was a little late, I’m sorry. My mam wasn’t well in the night. She’s only just back from hospital.’
Mr Bagdale’s wild bushy eyebrows raised with suspicion. ‘You know what they say … Never ruin an apology with an excuse. Wise words indeed, Master Budd. Wise words indeed.’
‘Yes, Mr Bagdale.’
Mr Bagdale sighed. ‘I think it is time.’
‘Time?’
‘To say our farewells. Obviously you can work through this week, and right up till Tuesday next, but that’s it. I’m sorry. I am not the Salvation Army. I’m a business. Even my mother would be tired of you by now.’
The Ghost watched the panic on Wilbur’s face. ‘I’m making up for it. I won’t have lunch. I’ll just keep working. Look, please. I like it here.’
‘No. No, you don’t. Give it a rest, son. You keep wishing you were in Oxford. This is your consolation prize. And you hate it.’
‘No. Please. I need this job.’
His voice was tight with desperation as he felt the weight of failure begin to press on him.
He didn’t want to let his mother down. He didn’t want to work in the steel works.
He knew this was the best opportunity he had to hand.
He felt a sudden fire inside him, as though his future was being set alight.
He felt vulnerable, and he wasn’t good at that.
Mr Bagdale could clearly see his panic. ‘Listen, they’re giving plenty away at the steel works.
And the cutlery factory are on the look out too.
A load more jobs than folk seeking them.
And did you hear it on the wireless? The Prime Minister is steering the ship into steady waters for manufacturing. You’ll be fine, Master Budd.’
Just then, an old man came in. Older even than Mr Bagdale.
The man was tweedy and tall, with an arthritic lean to him, and walked with a stick. A retired professor of engineering at the University of Sheffield who was now trying to embrace art and poetry. He walked slowly over to Wilbur and Mr Bagdale, who stood there with curious anticipation.
‘Thank you so much for recommending that book to me,’ he told Wilbur when he reached him.
‘That’s all right, Gerald.’
‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ Gerald informed Mr Bagdale. ‘It’s very good. Have you read it?’
‘No,’ muttered Mr Bagdale. ‘No, I haven’t read that one.’
‘Well, it was very enjoyable. I like those American writers. Any others like that, Wilbur?’
Wilbur smiled, feeling Mr Bagdale’s eyes on him. ‘Well, not exactly like that. But we have a brand new book in from Truman Capote called In Cold Blood, which I think will be up your street …’
He went to get a copy. Came back. ‘It’s a true story, this one. I’m reading it right now.’
‘And you would recommend it?’
‘Yes. It’s a gripping tale of injustice.’
‘Well, you haven’t got me wrong so far.’ Then, to Mr Bagdale: ‘He’s an asset, is this one. Knows his stuff.’
As he headed over to the till, Mr Bagdale rolled his eyes. ‘All right, all right. One last chance. Don’t muck it up. And from now on, nine o’clock means nine o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bagdale. Thank you so much.’
‘The proof will be in the pudding.’
Wilbur then decided to push his luck. ‘I realise this is asking a lot,’ Wibur said to Mr Bagdale sheepishly, ‘and today’s probably the worst time to ask.
But hear me out.’ Wilbur cleared his throat.
‘Would you consider taking me on full time? I have all these empty days on my hands and that’s not so good for me.
I’m ready to throw myself into it. Seriously.
I think it could really benefit the shop if I’m here every day.
I think I could make this work if you give me more say in things …
I love books. I love people who love books. And I have ideas for this place—’
‘Ideas?’
Wilbur swallowed. This was his moment, and his heart became a samba drum in his chest. ‘Yes. At the moment we are mainly catering to one type of reader. A middle-aged man interested in spy novels and history books about Napoleon and the world wars. No offence, Mr Bagdale, but someone like you. But this is a town full of working men and women of all ages, and children and teenagers, and we could source books for all of them. I could help us make this shop the way it was under Mrs Bagdale. A shop for everyone. I think that might increase our takings.’ He paused and looked down.
‘I admit, I’ve not always been very helpful to that end recently. ’
‘You can say that again.’
‘But I could be. I promise you, I can do this. If you give me that break I won’t disappoint you. I want to …’
He felt he had said too much. Especially the part about returning the shop to its glory days.
Mr Bagdale’s nose whistled a little during what might have been a world-record sigh.
‘Well, I have to be honest, lad, my purchasing decisions haven’t been the best.’ Eventually he came to a decision that would change Wilbur’s life.
‘You will be here six days a week. Front of the shop. If sales are up in a month, you’ll have yourself a full-time job and I’ll give you a say in the books we stock.
Monday right through to Saturday. On time, every day. If not, you’ll be out. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir. As crystal, Mr Bagdale. Also …’
‘Yes?’
‘My mate Charlie is looking for work. He’s very bright and he’s good with people. I just wondered …’
Mr Bagdale’s eyebrows grew closer, like feuding caterpillars. He gave Wilbur a grizzled look. He was altogether a rougher creature than his mother ever was. ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the donkey, don’t push it, lad!’
‘No. Of course, Mr Bagdale. Sorry, sir.’
‘Right.’
Mr Bagdale gave a shorter, huffier sigh and then walked away.
‘I won’t let you down, sir,’ Wilbur called after him. ‘I promise.’
The Ghost gazed around the shop, with its quaint old tables full of books that looked like antiques. He looked outside and saw the mid-morning bustle of Commercial Street.
This was 1966.
A young couple stepping out of a brand new clothing shop called Gear Box were lighting cigarettes. The woman in a colourful kaftan dress, the man in a slim mod-style suit.
Some university students. Not quite hippies, but getting there.
A young smiling man in a yellow polo neck and a fisherman’s cap with the Beatles’ Rubber Soul under his arm, walking past an old woman with her hair in curlers.
An old, faded poster advertising Malcolm X’s talk at Sheffield University Union.
A bright sign in the council office window: ‘Park Hill Flats – Say goodbye to outside lavatories and the slums of yesterday with modern, clean living!’
A monochrome world was starting to leak colour.
He had never appreciated it really. The excitement and hope of that time.
Sure, he had the excuse of grief. But the Ghost wondered: does any person in their youth truly appreciate the time they live through?
Doesn’t the mundane starch of reality always turn to sugar with memory? Wasn’t that just what nostalgia was?
He turned back to himself. Still at the display table. Replacing Agatha Christie’s A Caribbean Mystery with a book that he would soon read and relish called Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys. He was smiling, naturally, for the first time in about a year.
Sometimes you needed to nearly lose something in order to appreciate it.
And Mr Bagdale’s decision to fire then keep him, within the space of a minute, had been what he needed.
This had been the day that something changed inside him.
The moment he stepped off rock bottom and felt ambition kindle into life.
Outside, two young women were walking by. Claudette and Maggie. Claudette was busy in chatter, but Maggie turned towards Bagdale’s. Not the display in the window, but beyond and into the shop. She was looking for someone. And then she saw him, and there was the smallest of smiles.
‘Look at her,’ whispered the Ghost. ‘Turn around. She’s smiling at you.’
Wilbur stopped. He did indeed turn around. He looked right through the Ghost to the street outside. But it was too late. She was gone.
And the Ghost stayed another moment before hearing the whistle of a train.