Shrines of Gaiety

by Kate Atkinson

She supposed she should come to terms with the concept of “fun.” She didn’t want any for herself but she was more than happy to provide it for others, for a sum. There was nothing wrong with having a good time as long as she didn’t have to have one herself.

Misses Tate, Rogerson and Shaw. Missed the quiet talks about nothing that threaded through the Library days. “Gossip,” Mr. Pollock called it dismissively, but Gwendolen thought that was the word men gave to women’s conversation. Men talked in order to convey information or to ruminate on cricket scores and campaign statistics. Women, on the other hand, talked in an effort to understand the foibles of human behaviour. If men were to “gossip,” the world might be a better place. There would certainly be fewer wars.

Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone. Perhaps, after all, one’s purpose in this world was to be forgotten, not remembered.

Cissy had “ideas above her station,” according to Gladys. Freda thought that seemed like a good thing—how else did you elevate yourself out of a lowly little life?

It took Gwendolen a moment to remember that “my mother” was Nellie Coker—she didn’t seem like anyone’s mother. And Niven didn’t seem like anyone’s son. Some people were complete in themselves, as if born from the earth or the ocean, like some of the gods. Which was not a compliment. The gods were ruthlessly indifferent to humanity.

Once perhaps, a long time ago, to his mother when he was still a boy. She had been indifferent to them, he seemed to remember. Nellie had brought her children up without sentiment. She said it was a gift.

He had been rather cantankerous with her and she had been increasingly cross with him. Gwendolen wasn’t even entirely sure what the subject of the argument was. Her independence of him, perhaps.

“She should be called an impatient rather than a patient,” Betty grumbled.

A woman in her sixth decade, dressed in everyday drab, is more invisible than a librarian.

William Cobb retired in 1951 as a Superintendent in the Metropolitan Police, which just goes to show how far a dull man can rise if he simply turns up for work every day.