Relentless rain, a head dulled by repeated politeness and a cancelled bus forced Cora to seek shelter in the town’s huge stone library recklessly displaying a billowing yellow banner for the WEA proclaiming: ‘Evening classes for all!’ A smaller sign in the library’s Neo-Grecian porch listed the classes available and so Cora pushed open the door and changed her life forever, though she didn’t realise this until at least five minutes had passed.
Her initial reason for shaking out her navy and gold umbrella and braving the WEA representatives was that Cora required new topics of conversation to discuss with her father over dinner. After only three days, she’d nothing left to say to him that she could share, and the feeling was mutual. Father and daughter remained polite strangers to one another. Yet her grandmother had insisted she must visit Harry ( Cora rarely called him dad or even father to his face) before he took off for one of his long business trips that always involved at least one new friend whom he never acknowledged and as a result, whom Cora had never met. That was not to say that Cora didn’t value her father’s dedication to food. In fact, Harry had made a real effort to treat his daughter to every eating place he had ever managed to avoid indigestion( his stomach had always been delicate according to her grandmother, Larissa) so every evening Harry insisted on taking her out, without knowing what he could ask his daughter about her life with her grandmother in Cornwall beyond the same questions he had asked last time and the time before that. So the rain and the WEA appeared to have the potential for their conversational stalemate. .
‘Welcome to the culture market!’ said a tall girl with a hooked nose wearing a red beret and long army coat. ‘Did the rain force you into our world? ‘
Cora nodded glad of the evidence of her sodden umbrella which she shook vigorously as if she was unused to rain in this town. What did one do in these situations? She reached into her visiting Harry/father bag and pulled out her old notebook with the purple beaded elephant on the cover. .’ No pen’ she said in a deliberately water-soaked voice.
‘Excellent’ said the girl and handed her a biro from her pocket. ‘I feel like a shoplifter with these HUGE pockets’ confided the girl in a voice that was surprisingly sweet the longer she spoke. ‘But I am law-abiding. Promise.’
Cora smiled into a soggy mitten. God, she was good at being the helpless, hapless girl. Buck up she told herself. Or grandmother did but in Cora’s head of course.
‘Do you like reading?’ asked the girl gesturing at the table behind her. ‘I photocopied this term’s courses in blue and the next term’s in yellow. So organised! No staples though I’m afraid. They’d run out. But they are collated.’ She laughed at her own joke and adjusted her beret.
‘Staples are overrated,’ said Cora warming to the girl and then changing her mind within seconds. Was this some odd sales trap? ‘ What are you selling, please? Cora coughed and stared at the table. Why were the leaflets arranged in a fan around a wreath for heaven’s sake? Cora tried to shudder but couldn’t. The girl’s joie de vivre wouldn’t let her.
Oh, I’m not selling anything’ The girl regarded Cora for a moment and then laughed mischievously. ‘And that’s not stolen from a graveyard by the way- in case you are wondering? ’ She blew her nose decisively with a huge handkerchief. ‘ I’m only interested in one tutor actually. Handicrafts and watercolours do nothing for me. Chacun a ton gout etc . I’m the resident groupie for Jeff Millington’s courses. He’s brimming with opinions so we don’t always agree. It gets lively sometimes.’ The girl’s attention wandered to a table of woven baskets. ‘Incendiary even.’
‘I’m not always here’ said Cora suddenly disappointed but reassured as well.
( What a remarkable girl!) And when I am here, I’m not usually here for very long. (How limp she sounded!) Would be a shame to waste such colourful leaflets not to mention such an unexpected wreath.’ Cora gripped her notebook unsure what to do next.
But then neither did the girl who resorted to theatrical chivalry to buy herself time, as the girl half bowed and half curtsied. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’ She looked slightly at a loss then whether she should continue talking to Cora or busy herself another way, though Cora hoped she didn’t want to.
They both glanced about them. Gathering time. It was busy. The rain was a godsend ironically. All around the hall were wet visitors browsing over tables of displays and murmuring questions to the volunteers. The girl was easily the youngest volunteer and easily the most striking. Was this a good thing? thought Cora. How easily distracted she was by appearances her grandmother told her. Like her mother.
‘Dr Jeff Millington.’ The girl was talking to her again.’ Please write down his name. Then I can count this afternoon as a success.’ The girl paused and looked at the Elephant notebook. Please write something in there. Or are you suffering from an Existential dilemma?’
‘Neatly put.’ Cora liked the quick-wittedness of this person. ‘Definitely a dilemma. My father lives here. But not very often. I suppose I could still use his flat.’
‘Peripatetic relationships sound like an emotional whirligig! said the girl who held out her hand. ( Such long fingers)’ My name is Sydney ad you’ve made my afternoon.’
Cora blushed. ‘Like Tale of Two Cities.’
‘Fortunately, Without the guillotine’ said Sydney.
Touché. Cora handed her the notebook. ‘You win. Write down Jeff’s name and course.’
Sydney duly complied and then out of nowhere as if she was a magician on stage produced a paperback book. ‘If I lend you my copy then you will have to attend. I’ve even put a bookmark for the story we’ll be doing, so there.’
Cora was impressed. And she was in no hurry to try out yet another restaurant and Cornwall could wait.
So three days later, Cora left Harry to himself and took a taxi to a splendid Gothic School building charitably reserved on a Thursday evening for the WEA.
Cora inhaled wood polish as she walked across the mahogany entrance hall and followed the neat orange arrows directing her to Jeff Millington’s Early Twentieth Century Literature.
Green arrows and yellow arrows directed you in completely different life directions, didn’t they? Conversational Italian or Still life Painting for Beginners. How magical thought Cora smiling at the way destiny could be split into primary colours.
Sydney( the girl was still lodging in Cora’s head) had not mentioned the course was in the school’s aptly named Turret Library. The winding stone steps were worn and Cora missed the comforting click-clack of her favourite heeled boots. She’d decided suede desert boots fitted the scenario better so she arrived in the Turret room without her shoes announcing her approach. The door was wide open which allowed her to enter without a sound.
The Turret Library was home to furniture that had led a full life somewhere else and had then been abandoned to support this charitable endeavour: single, much engraved- wooden desks, metal stacking chairs and several well-worn velvet armchairs that must have graced the school’s reception or some academic’s study.
A blonde-haired man with a tidy beard nodded briefly at her and returned to his book. He sat on a humble metal chair beneath a pair of mullioned stone windows that reinforced the turret theme. ‘Anywhere you like ‘he said in an American accent. Cora assumed he must be the inimitable Jeff Millington. His eyes lifted to the window. They were a far away grey; like the Atlantic Cora decided, tuning into her figurative self.
But where should she sit?
Cora blushed. Negotiating a room was a challenge when everyone seemed to know one another. Yet their chatter was happy and sounded enthusiastic about the course. This was not the world of her father with his silences, the lonely sound of cutlery, and his terminal secrecy about relationships.
.
Grey hair dominated. But not always. An awkward-looking boy with very long legs attached to heavy work boots extended his legs as far as they could reach. He nodded. Then looked in his pocket for a pen to put in his mouth.
Where could she sit? Cora felt prickles of desperation all over her body. Here she was. Alone. A misfit again.
‘Cora!’ A firm hand on her shoulder and there was Sydney, wearing some cape or poncho and noisy, unashamedly clattering boots. ‘Sorry, Jeff!’
Jeff turned to one side, placed his book down on the desk and then steepled his fingers. ‘Welcome Sydney. And welcome Cora.’
‘Comfy chair alert!’ called Sydney and zig-zagged to the back of the room and improvised new seating arrangements with the furniture.
‘Cora,’ she called ‘please come and sit here.’
‘Who would dare to refuse such an offer?’ joked Jeff and then clearing his throat he began to read the assigned story out loud, sometimes pausing to change his voice as if he was a child in a New Zealand village playing outside in the heat of a dusty afternoon.
Cora snuggled into her chair and listened. Her mind relaxed into a new rhythm. For this was not like listening to her evasive father with his faltering stories that never arrived anywhere. This was not even like her grandmother’s strange tales of the unexpected edged with malice and wit. No, this was an adventure for the mind. It felt as if they were all collectively imagining what to do about the Doll’s House and the poor bullied Kelvey children, as the room of listeners rearranged their prejudices and mentally battled against horrid Aunt Beryl, who admonished them for talking to outsiders.
Cora opened her eyes blinking away her adventure, realising that the whole room was staring at the boy in the solid boots.
‘You are our resident male’ said Jeff unaware of his own identity. ’You may go first.’
‘I like the one called Kezia,’ said the boy who was actually a young man, with a voice as gruff and as deep as a tethered bear.
‘So do I,’ cut in Sydney borrowing her book from Cora’s lap. She found a page as evidence. ‘The gate scene is so perfect!’
The young man (Cora was always flexible in her interpretation of others except when under pressure) turned around to gaze at Sydney thankfully.
‘She swung out’ gushed Sydney reading from the book. ‘How revealing is that! Defying bigotry and being curious.’
More murmurings of agreement from the room and then a grey head added lengthy historical detail to make it clear that facts mattered too.
‘This writer remains like a female James Dean of fiction’ said Jeff taking back control of the group. He paused to observe the rain splattering against a curtainless window, thinking.
‘Tragic’ agreed Sydney in her surprisingly sweet voice again.
‘My uncle died of consumption’ growled the bear boy. ‘He survived the war but he didn’t survive TB.’
‘Dreadful,’ said Sydney who seemed the heart centre of the group despite her youth.
Appreciating the plush stuffing of the chair, Cora tried out the name Kezia in her head. She adored being Cora of course but not always and being Kezia had distinct possibilities. She loved the defiance of Kezia and her kindness that took a gloriously imaginative road. How liberating to be away( Kezia’s word surely?) from Harry’s uptight cheerfulness and closed questions. ‘Yes. No. No. Yes. Fine.’
Sydney had placed her hand on Cora’s arm. Cora watched the arm as of it was independent of the girl attached to it. ‘How much do you love Kezia?’ she asked endeavouring to bring her new friend, Cora, into the discussion.
Cora blinked ad then wriggled into a more upright position. She played with one of her cloisonné earrings for inspiration. She still felt nervous in front of new people unless she had a role to play. So she ruffled one of her favourite curls and tucked it neatly behind an ear. ‘I like the gate too’ she said. ‘I believe that is what Kezia would do because I’ve been imagining being her for a day.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Jeff.’ You are aware that she is a collection of words on the page? A construction?’
The bear boy tapped one foot and then the other. The room waited to hear how this interloper would deal with no-nonsense Jeff.
‘I like trying out new skin said Cora drowsily, and words give us that, don’t they?
‘I bet you time travel too ? ‘ said Cora to the boy abruptly.
The bear boy frowned and ground both boots side to side on the floor.
‘Not especially’ he growled. But more softly than Cora expected.
‘We’re all fans of Kezia then,’ said Jeff examining his glass of water. ‘This always tastes better on a Monday evening you know.’
Laughter broke out in the room as the class enjoyed the compliment and then Jeff relaxed into the final paragraphs of the story.
Thump. The book was back in Cora’s lap and Sydney s elbow was sharing her chair too. Cora thought she was pleased, even happy. But how could she be sure?
I know the ending whispered Cora in her head.
But she wanted to hear it read out aloud. She wanted to know how the ending would sound. However, she was forced to stop listening as a very, very late comer arrived wearing a floor-length skirt and soft felt hat, and no apology. She smiled at Cora as if they shared a secret. Jeff was talking about symbols in the background, but Cora felt too intrigued by the latecomer to pay attention.
The woman selected a hard chair that no one had found appealing and Cora inhaled liniment and then lavender which soothed Cora who couldn’t understand why.
The woman’s mouth gave expression to the last paragraph of the book without sound, but still Cora felt the words mattered far more than anyone in this room could guess.
I seen the lamp …and then they were both silent once more.
Cora twitched her hands as if she was about to applaud but the woman held up a finger to her lips which were dry yet sardonic too . Cora mirrored the woman’s signal as if under a spell. The woman removed her hat and bowed her head, , allowing the light to catch at her tortoiseshell hair band, deepening her colours, inside and out.
Cora sank back in her chair and closed her eyes.
‘Our time is done for this week’ said Jeff. ‘Next week we will explore another story. I hope you will come back, Cora.’
Oh, I shall most definitely’ said Cora not knowing who was the best person to thank first. By the time she had decided, the woman had gone.
