Books for Swapping

He used to listen to Breakfast with Clive for an hour in the morning before flicking through the local paper, its corners speckled with sea spray and beginning to curl. Now he sits by the front door, waiting for the white and black to shoot through the letterbox and onto his stained cinnamon carpet. Sometimes thirty minutes, other times five. On days when the waves are tall and the windows leak, it may never arrive. A phantom rag. 

The analogue radio hasn’t moved. On the kitchen counter it chokes on dust, snug between the bread bin and the sugar, its round dial stiffening. Likewise the gramophone, a Goldring Lenco GL75, perched on a wheeled mahogany box full of redundant records, once his prized collection. Even the telly, in colour but without a remote, now a forgotten contraption, the words too blurry and fast as they skip across screen. 

Every week, always on a Thursday, he steps from his home of relics and maunders down the dirt track that runs past his bungalow, cane in hand. Slightly too short and well worn, he wraps his fingers into place, thumb falling into smooth indent. Occasionally a car trails behind. The tourists beep but the locals know better. 

The post office is on the edge of the village, three metres from the cliff face. Tucked at the back, next to the eggs, is a shelf of novels. Books for swapping. Shuffling over, he slips the latest from his coat pocket and scans the assortment on offer. Some are long-term residents, others new. He plucks and riffles, enjoying it, cane propped against the wall. Length is often the deciding factor; the more words the better. The shopkeeper, used to this routine, listens for the telltale click of the tongue. It takes just over a minute. He refills his pocket and vanishes out the red door, not a word spoken. 

Every day after lunch, always a cheese sandwich, he makes a strong cup of tea and walks through to the sun lounge. Next to his favourite tufted armchair is a wooden side table, neatly occupied. Sitting down, the cushions moulding to bone, he lifts his bad leg and eases it onto the matching stool. It’s a small, ramshackle room, full of light, the white windows flaked and peeling on the outside. A paint tin and brush hide in the corner, have done for years. One day, he thinks. The view, piercing through the row of glass, is a cauldron of sea and sky. Visitors of the past have gawked but he barely glances, his focus on the weekly selection. Long fingers reach out and slide it from the pine, leaving behind a darker wood, unaltered by penetrating rays. Hours he will spend here, all afternoon and much of the evening, slowly turning through the pages, absorbed by silent story. 

*

Heavy rain has fallen for the past few days and he spends the late morning mopping up the wet that’s gathered on the counters and floor. Half the kitchen is below ground and the grass tips sway at eye-level through the window panes. When the water pools, it muddies and worms through the silicone, penetrating. The newspaper hasn’t come since Monday, the dirt track now a dirt bath, impossible to cycle on. Today, Thursday, sunlight frames the clouds, bringing with it a quiet determination. Once the linoleum is dry, he pulls from the hallway cupboard a long tweed jacket and pair of wellies.

The meandering track is full of potholes and puddles. He navigates it slowly, carefully placing his stick. At points he wades more than walks, small flecks of brown jumping up and reaching his trousers. By the time he arrives at the village’s main road his calf throbs, the welly’s rim digging into already tender flesh. A small patch of grass on the right houses a bench, tempting him over. Sitting down, he slips a finger into the gap between rubber and cotton, kneading out the swelling. Nearby the pavement bustles, optimistic visitors heading to the beach from a string of bed and breakfasts further up.

At the very top of Morris Lane stands the teetering post office. Years ago the council erected a railing along the cliff-edge, hanging warning signs caked in big lettering. As he hobbles up the street, cane firmly in use, he doesn't notice the absent metal, now twisted and half-buried far below. Moving from the path towards the door, he reaches for the handle. Unusually stiff, it doesn’t turn. Looking up he’s confronted with a laminated notice taped to the wood. Due to the recent cliff fall the post office will remain closed until further notice. He clenches the book in his pocket, nails digging into hard cover.

*

He wakes at six exactly, his body curled in a tight ball. Stretching, his leg stiffens and then cramps, a shot of pain up the inside. It happens every morning, and every morning it’s a shock. He jerks and fumbles, hands reaching down to grab his thigh. Five minutes it takes before the release happens, the muscle finally loosening. He breathes out a heavy sigh and lies back, staring up at the ceiling.

Showered and dressed, no easy feat, he heads out at first light with a full pocket. It’s a crisp Thursday dawn, the birds chirping noiselessly. As he limps along, stick pressing into dirt, a cyclist approaches; the paperboy on his morning round. A smile is cast but he ignores it, looking away as the wheels spin by. At the end of the path the bench beckons. He walks over and sits in his usual spot, left hand pushing against the slats to ease his descent. Once down and comfortable he twists, reaching to lift the lid of a wheeled mahogany box, freshly painted and tied to the bench. The collection inside is multicoloured, some long term residents, others new. He plucks and riffles, enjoying it.

A passing schoolgirl turns at the sound of a faint click. She sees a seated old man, bearded and hunched, closing the lid of a box and slipping an item into his pocket. Picking up a cane, he rises and starts down a long overgrown track. Eyes wide, she pulls her hand from her mother's grasp, steps over and looks down at the thick writing etched across gleaming white. Books for swapping.