121. Lament
Mrs Shaw kept a close eye on him. She turned up at random times to watch him work or, when he had already been working for a while, to search the shelves for misplaced items.
Draco worked with the utmost care, hoping she would tire of her spying if she never caught him at a lapse. There wasn't much else he could do, was there? He had apologised to her for both calling her names and neglecting his work. A repeated apology wouldn't get him back into her good books. Bribery didn't seem a particularly good idea, either; she didn't strike him as a bribable person. Besides, he had nothing substantial to offer, and presenting her with a box of chocolates was likely to make things worse.
Despite his good conduct, or, at any rate, what he believed to be good conduct, Mrs Shaw changed the rota. All his working hours now coincided with hers.
Being under her constant scrutiny wasn't exactly a cheery prospect since he had come to dread her presence. However, having to tough it out wasn't the biggest problem. His working time overlapping in two cases with his exams was worse.
If both papers in question were for Astronomy, he would be able to simply forego them because Mrs Highbury had already suggested skipping the subsidiary subjects. Unfortunately, one of the papers was for Maths. With Maths, he had to make a convincing effort. Otherwise, he'd be completely disgraced in Highbury's eyes.
It was the same old dilemma of damned if you do, damned if you don't. Not sitting all required papers was not an option, and non-attendance at work without permission wasn't one, either.
Then again, wasn't he making a dragon out of a lizard? There were no lives at stake. People were merely going to see him for the pathetic loser he was.
Was there anything he could he do to prevent this?
Asking Mrs Highbury for help would most probably prove futile. She had already insinuated that she wasn't inclined to intervene. She had said he was to ask his immediate supervisor for time off, and he was to ask really nicely.
Having to beg had a tendency to err towards embarrassment, even in the most favourable of circumstances. Begging a favour of a woman who had shown him open disapproval recently had a huge potential for turning into outright humiliation.
The wimp in him screamed to run – quit the job, leave town, and run, run, run... Perhaps he'd stumble across a lodging house similar to the one of Mrs Bates. Perhaps he'd also find a new occupation that kept him from brooding.
There were other universities. He had seen a list of them while working with Mrs Smith. They had libraries in their vicinity, which was why she kept the list. Maybe one of these universities was situated somewhere near the Coast Path, and he could walk there. He could ask for a Citizen's Library Card. He'd make sure to pay the required fee to avoid trouble. If people were to ask questions, he could present the official documents he had accumulated. He could fall back on converting old banknotes until he found a way to earn money.
Maybe all this was feasible, but running away would inevitably lead to new problems. For example, would it be necessary to transfer his bank account to the new place? Mrs Bates's phone number would surely be useless there because she could take no longer messages for him.
After hours of racking his brain, an idea struck him. He wasn't the only one tasked with shelving books in this library! He had never talked to any of the other part-time workers before, but he knew most of them by sight. Their names he got from the schedule pinned to the notice board.
...
Over the course of the next two days, he approached his fellow part-time workers one by one and asked whether they'd be willing to swap shifts with him. Although his supplication was generally met with sympathy, everybody declined. They had to sit exams, too, or to attend lessons. One young woman had scheduled an important meeting with an apparently influential professor in Exeter, and Mr Trump, who was far too old to be a student, said something about having a paper round every morning. The man looked most sincere when he made his excuse so Draco neither asked nor argued even though he wondered what a paper round was.
Disheartened, he slunk back to his reading corner.
He took out his notes and the exam papers of previous years. Mrs Highbury had given him these papers weeks ago, but he, preoccupied with the damn letter, had paid them no heed. Was there a point in starting now? All his chances of passing Maths had already gone out the window.
Wherefore did he need A-levels, anyway? Wasn't sitting exams only a sham to keep Mrs Highbury from prying?
Sure, he liked Maths. There was nothing fanciful or arbitrary within Maths. Logic reined. Whether two and two equalled four couldn't be considered a matter of opinion. Numbers connected to each other by means of a wide variety of procedures, which had – for all their variety – one thing in common: they followed rules, and all mathematical rules were backed by scientific proof.
Aside from the dependable rules, he also liked the aesthetic aspect. He was fascinated by the way functions could be displayed as elegantly sloping graphs and, conversely, how graphs of any sort could be described by neat and concise mathematical terms.
A shadow fell over the desk he was sitting at. Raising his eyes, he looked directly into Mrs Shaw's stern face.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "What makes you think you're allowed to change your work schedule behind my back?"
"Mrs Shaw," he said, getting to his feet. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy," she retorted irritably. "So, what are you up to this time?"
"I have to sit a paper for Mathematics at nine thirty on Friday morning," he said.
"That's just... that's just great, just what I need right now!" the woman growled. "You didn't deem it necessary to inform me about upcoming exams, did you? It seems to me you're doing exactly the same thing as the other week. Why didn't you tell me you were unwell? You told Emma, so why not me? Instead, you gave me some rubbish about a letter. Well, yes, you did look pallid, and you did run to the gents like a bat out of hell, but am I supposed to guess? You could have said something! And right now, instead of coming to me with the matter, you go and pester other people. There is a reason I scheduled none of them for Friday morning! They told me in time about their other appointments. Now what? Are you expecting me to sort out the mess you've got yourself into?"
She didn't wait for an answer but continued, "This new principle of extended opening hours is driving me up the wall! I don't see how it's ever going to work. It looked like a nifty idea at first to cover the extra hours, especially the ones on weekends, with auxiliary workers, but they can't do much more than sorting books. No offence, Mr Malfoy, but you just aren't qualified. I'd like to have a few more people who can do genuine librarian's work or at least somebody who can help patrons with inquiries, but I'm told the budget doesn't allow for new hires. It's a shame, really. Setting up the new-fangled technology cost an outrageous amount of money, and now the bursar tries to make up for it by cutting back on personnel costs. We still don't have a replacement for Jeffrey, and I'm afraid we won't get one anytime soon.
"That's not your fault, of course. You only picked a really bad time for becoming a headache for me. You know, I had been very nearly convinced that Emma had, for once, a pet project that wasn't going to go awry. It looked like you were really worth her effort. I won't pretend, though, that I haven't been wondering about you. Many people of your age are well on their way studying towards their first academic degree while you're still doing A-levels. This begs the question what you did earlier in your life. Rest assured, I did ask Emma about your background, but dysfunctional family was all she would let on."
She halted her tirade to look at him expectantly.
"Mrs Highbury is very good at summarising years of turmoil in a single sentence," Draco said cautiously. He wasn't sure whether he had only heard the prelude. Possibly, the real tongue-lashing was still to come.
"Maybe. What I know for sure is that Emma will bite my head off if I don't let you sit your exam." She heaved a sigh. "All right, then. I suggest you'll be here at six o'clock in the morning. You'll clear any trolleys there to be cleared at that time, and I will tell Maureen to let you go at eight. Will that be all right?"
"Yes, ma'am, it will. Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Make sure to pass that exam, though. I'd hate it if you became a headache for Emma as well."
...
122. A Breather
The days were a blur. He revised, using every minute he could find. He sat the papers – six times ninety minutes – always hurrying back afterwards to cram for the next one.
Considering the circumstances, things went well. It paid off that he had kept up with the various topics save the last one, anti-derivatives, throughout the year. He had also learned how to handle the funny fits of his electronic pocket calculator. As soon as the device started malfunctioning, he turned it off, leaned back in his chair and breathed slowly in and out. By the time he had calmed down, the pocket calculator would have done so as well. Of course, the procedure slowed him down. He seldom got done more than three quarters of the set questions.
...
When he returned to the library after sitting the final paper, Mrs Highbury all but waylaid him. She ushered him into her office and made him sit in the visitor's chair.
The look of concern on her face bothered him, and as she said nothing and asked him nothing he was about to take the initiative and explain why he had sat neither Astronomy nor Accounting when, with a frown directed at him, Mrs Shaw strode into the glass cubicle.
"Ma'am," he breathed and made to rise out of the chair.
"Stay seated, Mr Malfoy," Mrs Highbury ordered.
He obeyed, gratefully, because he felt a little faint.
He was at the end of his tether. He had to swallow several times to get rid of the sudden, strange cotton wool feeling in his ears. When he could hear again, the women were discussing the rota. Mrs Highbury apparently wanted a temporary change. Mrs Shaw opposed the idea.
He didn't understand why his presence was necessary. Distractedly, he patted down his pockets in search of the apple he had nicked at Mrs Bates's in the morning. It was indeed still there, which meant he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.
"Things can't go on like this!" Mrs Shaw suddenly burst out. "Am I to have the senior staff do menial-"
"Mr Malfoy is entitled to paid leave like everybody else," Mrs Highbury cut across her, "and we'll need him much more once the holiday season starts. You know as well as I do how many staff members have school-aged children and want to go on holidays in July or August."
"Very well, you're the boss," Mrs Shaw sighed. "But it would be greatly appreciated if Mr Malfoy could be bothered to ask in advance for time off rather than at the last possible moment, if at all."
"As a matter fact, he didn't ask. I simply decided, on the spur of the moment, that he is in need for a break," Mrs Highbury said to Mrs Shaw, who shook her head in silent frustration.
"I hope you don't mind, Mr Malfoy?" Mrs Highbury asked, finally talking to Draco. She didn't pause long enough for him to reply, but went on, "Go home and get a good night's sleep. Then be off to the beach. You've got a fortnight to relax. Use it."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, perplexed. "Thank you, ma'am."
He got up, swaying ever so slightly.
Instantly, the concerned look was back on Highbury's face.
"I'm fine," he said to drown out the rumble coming from his stomach.
"Seems you're not," Mrs Shaw stated. "I'm afraid Emma's right. You ought to get some rest."
He met her eyes without really intending to.
In the past, he would have hated her with fervour. He had always hated those who had made his life difficult. Hatred had served as a vent more often than not even though relief had usually been short-lived.
Did he hate Shaw?
He would like to, but trying to fool himself with yesterday's tricks wasn't going to work, especially because he had become aware of a major flaw in his old coping mechanism, a flaw he had conveniently overlooked in former times – hatred didn't solve problems.
But what did? He was twenty-two years old, and he still had no handle on his life.
Mrs Shaw held his gaze. Her expression puzzled him. It was oddly similar to the one his landlady had been wearing recently.
Mrs Highbury dispelled the tension.
"That will be all for now, Mr Malfoy," she said. "Enjoy your holidays."
He pulled himself together.
"Mrs Highbury, Mrs Shaw," he said, inclining his head to each woman in turn, and left.
...
Later that night, after brushing his teeth, he scrutinised the ashen face that peered at him from the mirror. There were deep shadows around his eyes. His hair was scruffy, and his cheekbones seemed about to split his skin from within.
Maybe the ladies had a point.
...
It took him two days of aimlessly ambling around the pedestrian precinct and the park next to the citadel before he felt strong enough to walk to Trethwyn.
Mrs Bates, when he bid her goodbye, remarked about what a lovely idea it was of him to get some fresh air and much needed rest.
Mrs Gill, upon his arrival, commented on his unhealthy thinness. She fixed up a generous helping of steak and kidney for him regardless of his polite protests and the fact that it was already after closing.
After another two days, days filled mainly with roaming the hills as the sea was still too cold for swimming, he felt better than he had done in months.
On the third day, he did some minor shopping. He bought underwear and several pairs of socks at the little place he had thought of as The Towel Shop ever since his first stay in Trethwyn. This year, the towels on display in the shop window featured smirking tigers, and bears wearing random pieces of winter clothing. Draco had a vague feeling that he might have seen these strangely anthropomorphic animals before, but couldn't recall where or when. (*)
The owner of the convenience store he went to for a shaving stick and a bottle of sun cream told him of rumours about the British Naturist Society being interested in buying Mr Penwith's former estate, along with the still half-finished building. She said there was much speculating in the village on how such a change in ownership might affect the local economy.
There were other changes as well. The chestnut tree in the village square had been replaced by a very small holm oak. The baker's shop was open again, but the products sold there came from a faraway baking factory. Five new homes were being built alongside the lane to Maiden's Cliff, and the lane itself featured several wide, rectangular pits that were sloppily covered by steel planks.
Draco sketched the construction site from various angles. He intended to keep these sketches so he could compare them to the area as it would look like next year.
In the evening, he sat on the terrace of The Merry Fisherman. He leisurely ate one of Mrs Gill's excellent fish pies and mused about how change seemed to be the only constant in life.
...
123. The Swiss Mountains
Draco had finished the fish pie and was contemplating an evening stroll when suddenly Jory stood at the other side of the table.
"Mind if I sit here?" he asked.
"No, not at all," Draco said, allowing his joy to show. "It's good to see you, Jory. How are you?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Fine, thanks," Draco uttered the customary reply.
Jory put a pint in front of Draco before he sat down with another one for himself.
"Cheers," he said, raising his glass.
"Cheers," echoed Draco and took a cautious sip of his.
He hadn't tried the amber liquid called beer by non-wizarding people ever before, and that was just as well. The brew, rather too bitter for his liking, didn't have much in common with Butterbeer aside from the name.
"I'm afraid it won't be long before my wife figures out where I disappeared to," Jory said. "We're going to Glenridding in the Cumbrian Mountains tomorrow, and I'm to help her with packing."
"Oh, I see," Draco said softly.
He had longed to talk with Jory. He had been planning to ask for advice regarding the one problem he could bring up without breaching any secrecy statutes.
"Well, if you have the sea at your doorstep, you'll want something different for your holidays," Jory said, misinterpreting Draco's unenthusiastic response. "Seeing that I can't afford Switzerland, it'll be Ullswater, which is said to look remarkably like Lake Lucerne.
"Enid and I have been dreaming of touring Switzerland ever since we got married. It's a wonderful country – lovely valleys with lakes surrounded by palm trees and other exotic plants while snow-topped mountains tower left and right. 10,000 feet tall and more. You can have all seasons in one day simply by climbing up and down a mountain.
"The obstacle is the cost. Prices in Switzerland are outrageous. We've always said we'll save money for a few years once the girls are grown-up and making their own living, and then we'll go to see all the famous places – the Bernese Alps with their glaciers, and the towns and lakes in the acclaimed South – but I'm afraid we'll end up saving money for the education of the grandchildren we'll have one day. By the look of it, ensuring a good education for your children is getting more and more expensive, and grandparents have to help out financially. You know that well enough, don't you? Didn't you say the money for your tuition fees comes from your grandfather?"
"In a manner of speaking," Draco said, reminding himself not to be surprised by a sudden change of topic during a conversation with Jory. "He left me money. I don't know what he wanted me to do with it. I was five when he died. A week or so before his death, he told me he had made provision for me. He said 'for a rainy day', and I didn't even understand he was talking about money. I do know, however, that he made sure my parents couldn't get their hands on it."
"How so? Did he have reason to distrust your parents?"
"Perhaps," Draco said. He took a moment to choose his words before he continued, "I'm afraid I was too young to understand what was going on. I'm left to guessing because my mother seems uninclined to answer my questions. Her top priority is keeping up the gleaming facade, and not even I am allowed to catch a glimpse of the rot behind it.
"I recall noisy altercations between my father and my grandfather. I can't say whether some of them turned into actual fights because as soon as they started shouting at each other, a servant would materialise at the scene and whisk me, the small child, away."
"Hang on. Did you just say servant?"
Draco nodded. It was the best translation for house-elf he could think of.
"Your parents are rich?"
"They were," Draco said curtly.
Once, his mother had worn jewellery every single piece of which would have bought a town house in London. The monster, upon taking up permanent residence at the manor, had made her hand over a jewel-encrusted necklace she had put on for the very occasion of welcoming said monster into her home. Narcissa dearest, I trust you won't mind giving me a small token of your devotion. It had Vanished the priceless heirloom in front of the assembled Death Eaters. The point had been to teach Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black that neither her wealth nor her ancestry meant a thing. Only serving the monster that was going to be the supreme ruler of the world would, nay, might count henceforth.
Maybe the lesson had backfired. Maybe the monster had lost her loyalty in precisely that moment. Shortly after, she had talked Snape into swearing an Unbreakable Vow to protect her son, thereby defying the monster's explicit wishes. Seen in this light, the deed had been her way to assert that, in her opinion, bloodlines still took precedence.
Jory was looking at him with faint curiosity.
Unwilling to talk about gold, Draco said, "The loss of wealth hurts less than being stripped of your delusions."
"What happened?"
"My father fell in with the wrong sort – more cunning and manipulative than he is, better at deception, and a lot more ruthless. The results weren't pretty.
"Jory, you see, I worshipped my father. My dearest wish was to become his perfect copy. I look very much like him, so the outer resemblance was a given. To round it off, I mimicked his gait and his posture. I parroted his words, and I even emulated his way of speaking. Most of all, I wanted to be treated with the same respect with which people treated him. Or so I thought. I mistook for respect what was either fear or sycophancy, or perhaps a mixture of both. I was blind; I didn't realise where he was steering our family until it was too late."
"Are you trying to say your old man messed up?"
Draco nodded.
"And now you feel like a total fool for having been his biggest fan – is that it?"
Draco nodded again.
"Don't. This sort of thing is more common than one would like to think. It's not always the children who disappoint their parents. It happens the other way round, too," Jory said. He grabbed his glass and clinked it to Draco's. "Here's to your Granddad's memory."
"To Grandfather," Draco said and drank. He didn't want to seem impolite.
"So, how's your ankle, by the way?" Jory asked, setting down his glass.
"Perfectly fine. Thanks for asking," Draco said. "How are your daughters?"
"Isabel acquired a boyfriend," Jory said, a wistful expression on his face. "Drat, I'm getting old."
"You don't look very old to me."
"Thanks," Jory chuckled. "I'll be fifty next month. Fifty, Draco!"
At first, Draco didn't see why Jory thought being fifty was bad. Then he remembered that non-wizarding people had a considerable shorter lifespan than wizards.
"You're afraid you'll never see Switzerland," he said. "Not because you can't afford it but because you'll run out of time."
"Yes," Jory said with a sigh so deep it had to come from the very bottom of his soul. "Life's short."
Just then, Mrs Gill appeared at their table.
"Enid's on the phone," she said without preamble. "She wants to know whether I've seen my brother lately. I said I wasn't sure, but I would go and have a look. So tell me, Jory, do I see you sitting here?"
"Well, I suppose you do," Jory said sheepishly. "Tell her I'll be right on my way."
"Good boy," Mrs Gill said, patting Jory's shoulder. "Enjoy these three weeks together as a family. It will likely be the last time Isabel comes along."
"Eighteen years," Jory exclaimed, "gone in the blink of an eye! It seems like yesterday that she came crawling here on all fours after she had somehow managed to get out of her cot."
"Yes, she was barely eleven months old, wasn't she? I'll never forget the look on your face when she suddenly showed up." Mrs Gill smiled warmly at Jory. "Enid says you're going to leave around nine. I'll pop over to see you off. But, please, excuse me now. It's rather busy tonight."
Jory nodded at her. "Night, Eva. See you tomorrow."
Before Mrs Gill hurried back to the kitchen she apologised to Draco, who felt rather stunned by the revelation about her being Jory's sister, for disrupting his evening.
Jory downed his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood.
"Sorry, Draco. I'll be in deep shit if I don't dash."
"It was good to see you," Draco said, rising. "It always is."
They hugged and wished each other nice holidays.
Then Jory strode across the terrace, stepped onto the street and was, a second later, out of sight. The neighbouring building blocked the view of the small, slate-tiled house where he lived.
Draco let out a deep breath.
Next summer was many, many days away.
...
To be continued
...
- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -
...
Author's notes:
Thanks to Imo97 for beta reading this chapter.
(*) Draco may have seen ads for the "Tigger" movie by Disney.
...
- ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... - ... -
...
In all likelihood, this will be the last update for 2015.
Have a nice season!
bennybear