Chapter 7 #2
“But I’m not starting,” says Clemence. “I wouldn’t be even if I could, but I can’t. I really can’t.” She looks around again, at the dust and disorganization. “You run both stores yourself?”
The woman shrugs. “At this point, they run themselves.” Only because customers rarely came in, but she was fine with that.
“I’m Clemence Lathbury,” says Clemence, putting out her hand. “And I swear that I’m not haunting you.”
Her offer accepted. “Crampton Goldberg,” is the answer. “Miss Crampton Goldberg.”
“Miss Goldberg.”
“Crampton’s fine.”
“I’ve come about the books,” says Clemence.
“Oh, the books,” says Crampton, as though they were an afterthought.
“You’re not a big reader?”
“I read some,” says Crampton, indignant. “Or at least I used to. It’s hard to find the time.”
Clemence isn’t sure she believes this. This woman spends hours and hours in shops that nobody goes into—but Clemence also knows she is in no position to judge anybody for how they spend their days. The store’s cataloguing, though, there’s no excuse for that.
“I was confused,” says Clemence. “About the distinction —‘Women’s Fiction.’”
Crampton Goldberg actually rolls her eyes. “You’re one of those women’s libbers, I guess.”
Clemence says, “I guess, but isn’t that from, like, fifty years ago?”
“The books are written by women, aren’t they?” asks Crampton. “And it’s fiction. I don’t see what the problem is. I’ve been in places where books are filed under ‘Fiction Novels,’ and I don’t see you out there complaining about that.”
“Actually,” says Clemence, “I complain about that a lot. ‘Fiction Novels’ is an egregious crime, but this isn’t any better. Why don’t you have a ‘Men’s Fiction’ section, then?”
“We do,” says Crampton. “We call it ‘Literature.’”
“But why?” demands Clemence. “And don’t you see?”
“Why it matters?” asks Crampton. “No. I don’t. There are problems enough to deal with in this world without people like you going around inventing things to be offended by.”
“I’m not offended,” says Clemence. “I just think it’s wrong.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” asks Crampton. “Boycott? Because no one shops here, anyway. Believe me, I wouldn’t know the difference if you boycotted me or not.”
“But doesn’t it bother you?” asks Clemence. “To see women as somehow second tier?”
“Why would it?” Crampton Goldberg is as unmovable as her city block.
“I know who I am. What anybody else thinks or where a novel happens to land on the shelf—that doesn’t have anything to do with me.
And it’s got even less to do with you. You don’t like it?
You can leave any time.” She waits. “You’re not going. ”
But Clemence Lathbury is unmovable, too, until she hears a sound behind her, the pale book man clambering down the staircase, presumably after a shift among the books on billiards and badminton. His footfall is heavier than his slight figure might suggest.
“Toby, one of these days you’re going to bring the building down,” Crampton is saying, her voice far away now that he’s locked eyes with Clemence, who now realizes this could become very bad.
Clemence had only seen Toby behind the counter before, but now she’s examining him head to toe and determining how likely it is that he will die of something tragic like tuberculosis or scarlet fever.
So pale, his forehead high and vulnerable, full pink lips, and he’s wearing a cardigan, which Clemence has always imagined on a man is a public acknowledgement of one’s desire to be enveloped, and what if she is up for the job?
“You’re back,” he’s saying.
Crampton behind the counter. “I gather the two of you have met?”
“I was in the other week,” says Clemence. “We spoke.”
“Toby, well done,” Crampton calls across the shop, and then says to Clemence, “He usually has a hard time talking to girls.” At this, the pale book man turns bright red and knocks down a tower of mass-market paperbacks—and then Crampton has an idea.
Her face enlivened, and she’s standing up taller, and Clemence can almost see the wheels in her head turning.
Crampton says to Toby, “She’s come about the books, Clemence.
Miss Lathbury—it is ‘miss’?” she asks, checking.
Clemence nods. “She doesn’t like the way we put them in order, and I’ve got to tell you, Clemence, Miss Lathbury, I have neither the time nor inclination to do anything about it.
The books are books, and there are books behind the books, plus upstairs, and changing everything around would give me a lot more trouble than the status quo has ever provided, if you know what I’m saying.
“But I’m wondering, seeing as you seem pretty free and easy, shopping at all hours when everybody else is working, and seeing as the notion of women’s fiction bothers you so much, if you might be want to be one to take on dealing with the problem.
Sorting, organizing, you know. Putting our shelves more in alignment with your politics.
Could you spare the time? I’d pay you. Not much, but a fair wage.
For you to come in here a couple of hours a week and move the books around. To talk to Toby?”
“Are you offering me a job?” Clemence asks.
“If you’d consider.”
“I would. I did.”
“And I’d say that Toby could help, but he’s got a bad back, and shoulders.
He can’t lift much, but you appear to be a remarkably sturdy young woman—and no, don’t make that face.
There’s nothing wrong with sturdy. Poor Toby, here, he gets knocked over when the wind blows.
We can’t have that. You’re robust. I like robust. I admire your gumption.
I don’t understand why you think women’s books ought to be stuck among all those others, books about spies and soldiers, and oil barons.
Wasn’t it Virginia Woolf herself who said what a woman needs is a room of her own? ”
“I don’t think she meant it like that.”
“They’d be tainted by association, I should think. But no matter. You’re never going to finish the job, but maybe you’ll make a start, and I do need the place tidied up. And you can talk to Toby.”
“Does Toby want to talk to me?” Clemence is embarrassed by the quaver in her voice. Toby has disappeared down the far aisle, surely to hide.
“Toby will do what I tell him to,” says Crampton Goldberg.
“I write his paycheques, after all. We’re closed Monday, for Labour Day, but could you start Tuesday?
” But Tuesday morning, Clemence is going to meet with her professor, to begin her new career as an indexer.
So they agree on Thursday, and the matter is set.