‘That’s true,’ Priya shrugged, and followed her dada, letting him, slowly, lead the way.
Today he had borrowed a book from the library, legitimately, and the girl behind the desk had even been helpful. He felt a little bad for complaining about her but, then again, if he hadn’t, she might not have been so polite today. When he worked at the Wembley Central ticket office, everyone loved giving customer feedback – good, honest customer feedback was the only sure-fire way to improve a service – and now, years later, he enjoyed it as well.
Today, too, he had taken his granddaughter to the library. For the first time in ages, Priya had looked excited or at least content in her grandfather’s company. Perhaps today marked a new chapter.
THE READING LIST
LEONORA
2017
LEONORA NAMASTE’D HER INSTRUCTOR and went to pick up her shoes from the hallway. Everyone was in a rush to get away, pulling their shoes on without undoing laces, and running out through the door, immediately forgetting the peace of the yoga class. But Leonora always took her time over this bit. She didn’t mind if she got in people’s way. She savoured the dreamlike calm of this moment, as she gradually adjusted to reality.
When people asked her why she’d moved back to Wembley, she always said it was to be closer to her parents – she never mentioned her divorce, she never mentioned her sister, Helena, who was slowly fading away; Helena was the real reason she had left Manchester for London. As soon as her divorce was announced, Leonora’s parents had jumped on her, begging her to move in with her sister, to help her out, to put their minds at ease. She’d reluctantly agreed, but Helena didn’t really want help, so now they lived side-by-side in awkward silence – Leonora an unwanted stranger in her own sister’s home. And she had no one to talk to about it. No friends in this familiar but unwelcoming place. She was struggling.
Being back was a weird experience. Her parents and Helena had seen Wembley evolve, they’d been a part of that change, so the contrast wasn’t so apparent to them. But Leonora had barely seen beyond the North Circular on her trips back home, for Easter and Christmas, bank holidays too, so to her, everything, the place she’d grown up, felt different. There were new high rises everywhere, the residential streets had turned greyer with dust and age, whereas the shopping malls, the station, the stadium had all been polished to shiny perfection for the benefit of tourists alone.
Flailing in this lonely, changed city, Leonora had hoped this yoga class would help her meet new people. But beyond the occasional ‘hi’， no one seemed that interested in chatting. People filtered out, while Leonora lingered, not wanting to go home.
There was one lady who always gave her a warm smile, but she felt too awkward to make conversation. She knew she should just suck it up and introduce herself, but everyone here was so self-contained. It felt strange, alien, to even try to say hello.
Today, she pulled on her shoes, slowly tying the laces. As she did every week, she read the notice board right in front of her, loitering long enough in the hope that someone else might say hi to her first … She wanted that meet-cute moment, like in the Hollywood films. Well, if she was really honest, she just wanted a friend.
Yoga retreats at ￡500 per week – no thank you. Cat-sitting opportunities – with her allergies? No thanks to that either. A book club at the local library on Harrow Road … She hadn’t been there since she was a kid. Beside the poster was a handwritten list; she presumed these were the book club titles.
To Kill a Mockingbird
Rebecca
The Kite Runner
Life of Pi
Pride and Prejudice
Little Women
Beloved
A Suitable Boy
Maybe this would be a chance to meet people. If it was a book club, they had to speak. And she remembered the place fondly. Harrow Road had been her library of choice as a teenager. She remembered the librarians – they’d probably be long gone now – and the young manager, Dev, who always had a good book recommendation up his sleeve, tailored to the tastes and interests of each and every cherished library-goer.
She looked down the list, taking in one title at a time. She had read some of these already, including To Kill a Mockingbird, when she was a teenager. She didn’t remember the story, she was terrible with detail, but she remembered the way it made her feel. It had this kind of warm, magical quality about it. The title brought memories of eating breakfast outside on a wooden bench – and it was so long ago she couldn’t recall whether the memory was her own or a scene from the book itself.