Southend U3A

August 2024

The Dusty Book - Pete Norman.

When I first started at Barclays, I never expected that it was going to be exciting . . . but then again, neither would I have expected it to be quite so tedious. There were times when the interaction with the customers and the help I could give for them made it all worthwhile but there were others dealing with customers who were time consuming, awkward or just plain rude.

There was a room where some of the staff took their lunch break but it wasn’t very comfortable, so instead I chose to go for a walk each day and get some fresh air. Barclays was in the middle of a busy High Street, but the excitement of wandering around those shops quickly waned and so I desperately sought out a more suitable haven to soften my lunch break.

Down some of the side roads were some of the lesser shops, nestled in silent anonymity amongst the housing and it was there that I came across Jonas Grey Books. Unlike Waterstones, this shop window was not crammed from edge to edge with the gaudy covers of all of the recent releases, instead, in the centre of this space there was one single book, opened at a page filled with arcane print.

My curiosity pulled me through the door.

It was not a large shop but the shelves were filled to overflowing with books – hundreds and hundreds of books – neatly stacked in tight columns, quite unlike any other bookshop I had seen.

A voice from behind said, quietly, ‘Good morning, John.’

I spun around to see a small desk by the window, dwarfed by the large man sitting at it. He had put down the book he was reading and appeared to be studying me intently.

‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, ‘Do I know you?’

He smiled and gestured towards my name card, ‘You see, you are advertising your name for all to see.’

I reached up and ran my fingers across the Barclays badge. ‘And there was me thinking you were a mind reader.’

He sat forwards, steepling his fingers. ‘Mind reader? Well, maybe . . . maybe not . . . but, what if I was to tell you that on your lunch break from the bank you aimlessly wander the High Street until you venture upon something perhaps a little more interesting?’ ‘But how did you . . .?’

‘Elementary, my dear Watson . . . you see that the name Barclays is also printed upon your badge above your name; the time now happens to be just after midday – which I believe to be lunchtime in most quarters – and I regularly see you walking along the High Street at this time, seemingly without a sense of purpose . . . and so, QED, I rest my case.’

I mumbled, ‘I never thought that I was quite that interesting.’

He laughed. ‘Please excuse my playful exuberance, John, you see, we do not have many customers in here and sometimes the time does seem to pass with glacial slowness.’

I didn’t answer him, I was seriously considering heading for the door but there was something about the man that was interesting, different, slightly skewed from the normality of my daytime labours.

He said, ‘And so, how might I be of assistance to a young gentleman such as yourself?’ His hand gestured around the room. ‘What genre of literature might we interest you in?’

I had already turned back from the door, so I had to accept that my only logical option was probably to buy a book. I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I suppose I like most stuff, really but maybe crime thrillers, murder mysteries, Stephen King, you know, something like that?’

Mr Grey gestured at the roomful of books. ‘Please feel free to browse.’ He paused. ‘The books will assist your choice if you so require it.’

I ignored his cryptic comment and turned to the bookshelves but it was immediately obvious that that was all it was . . . books, nothing but books. They were not separated into sections, not by genre, not separated by author, not even in alphabetic order, merely a seemingly jumble of thousands of books.

I threw up my hands in defeat.

Mr Grey smiled. ‘I told you that the books will assist your choice if you so require it.’

I glanced at the door, working out just how many seconds it would take for me to get out of here.

He climbed out of his chair with a slight groan, ‘All you have to do is to place your fingers on the books – just as I am doing now – and to close your eyes and to think of a book title – or maybe just an author if you so wish – and then, with that thought firmly in your mind, gently kiss the books with your fingertips as you walk along the aisle – just as I am doing now – and the book will . . .’ He stopped walking and drew out the book where his fingers had come to rest; he held it up to me and then opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Is ‘The Shining’ a suitable selection for you?’

As I took the book from him, a very faint tingle kissed my fingers but only for a few seconds, then it was just a book again . . . just a book.

Mr Grey gestured for me to follow him back to the desk. ‘You might place your selection down here – and then, young man, in order to dispel any thoughts of charlatanism, I believe it is your turn.’

He was standing between me and the door and I had little choice than to comply with his request. I closed my eyes and thought hard. I wanted to come up with the most obscure book I knew – something maybe in keeping with the weirdness of this place. I rested my fingers on the first of the books and Edgar Alan Poe sprang to mind and what better than ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’. With a secret smile I walked slowly along the bookshelves.

I couldn’t see how far I had gone but I must clearly have covered the entirety of the lefthand wall. I stubbed my toe as I reached the end and stopped. Mr Grey was right beside me. In a soft voice he said, ‘You are now in the dark area. If you are still prepared to continue then perhaps you might consider moving to your right along the end wall. . .’

I stifled a smile; I was close to proving this man a charlatan . . . but, all of a sudden, my fingers touched a book which set a tingle up my fingers and my wrist. I snapped my eyes open and shook my head in disbelief.

From behind me, Mr Grey said, ‘An excellent choice. One of Poe’s masterpieces.’

I carried it back with my fingertips and placed it on the desk, beside the Stephen King, my brain in meltdown.

‘What has just happened?’ I asked.

Mr Grey held up his hands. ‘In like mind, young man, would you think it acceptable to ask a Michelin star chef to reveal his culinary secrets?’

I shook my head and in the ensuing silence my eyes settled on the far wall. ‘If I might ask just one more question, why do you call those shelves at the end, ‘the dark area?’

Mr Grey smiled. ‘Some of the literature there is . . . shall we say, somewhat different . . . some men try to read such works in the belief that within those pages they might learn the secrets of the universe, might become all powerful or as rich as Croesus. Such men have no concept of the extreme threat that is the dark twin of the bounty they seek.’

I said, ‘Surely such books should not be kept in open view, if they are so dangerous.’

‘Dangerous and priceless, which is why they are less accessible. However, you must not be concerned, the books themselves are not powerless.’ He turned his head as a dark shape moved quickly past the window. He smiled. ‘In fact, I believe this might just be the proof you require.’

The door opened and a man hurried inside, his hair was dishevelled, his eyes were wide in terror. The man dropped a book onto the desk and croaked, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I must have accidentally dropped the book in my bag. I’m so sorry.’

Then we watched as he turned and fled through the door.

With his hand Mr Grey indicated the book to me, which appeared to be vibrating in a frenzy. I reached out and touched it. My fingers recoiled painfully. Mr Grey immediately reached over and placed his hand on the book and whispered a few unintelligible words. As I watched, open mouthed, the book calmed instantly.

Mr Grey dragged me back to reality. ‘I do believe young man that your luncheon break must nearly be over. Now, which of the two books you have selected would you like to take away with you? I assure you that you are perfectly safe – it is only thieves who will be . . . shall we say, compromised.’

I glanced to the door. Don’t fight it. Play it cool. Just get out of here.

I said, ‘The Steven King would be great, thanks.’

‘A sound choice,’ he replied. ‘I will just wrap it for you.

I turned my eyes back to the desk. The other two books were no longer there.

As Mr Grey handed me the book he smiled. ‘I have stamped it for 7 days.’ He saw me staring at the empty desk. Oh, don’t worry about the other two, they can find their own way home.’ I strode out of the shop as purposeful as I could manage. Once back in the High Street I opened the brown paper bag. Inside it was the book. It was just a dusty old book, just like any other book. I decided that perhaps I might read the book but that I will most definitely get it back to the shop within the 7 days!