Dearest Father. Stories and Other Writings

Glancing at the book in her hand Maisie sighed and considered the merits of reading the section ‘Letter to his Father’ from Franz Kafka’s 'Dearest Father, and other stories'. She opened a random page:

“Sometimes I imagine the map of the world spread out and you stretched diagonally across it.”

What did that even mean?

Through the tiny window above her head Maisie could see the darkening sky where shimmering raindrops fragmented the glow from the streetlamps. Settling back against the bookcase she wondered if anyone in the library had noticed she was missing. How long before they sent out a search party? Would anyone remember the errand she’d been sent on? As the newest recruit, not really beyond probation, she had found herself sent all over the building, often on a wild goose chase. Just a joke, they said, when she’d been sent to find ‘Dehydrated Water’ by Davy Jones. This errand hadn’t been a joke. The young man who’d come into the library, hair plastered to his head, dripping all over the wooden floor, had looked flustered, anxiety oozing from every pore. His eyes, small black marbles, seemed to jerk around the room looking desperately for help.

“I need this book, I really need this book. It’s essential for my research. I’ve got a deadline.” The words tumbled out in a disorderly flurry of disjointed phrases.

“Maisie will help you,” Mrs Grant had waved the man towards Maisie at the information desk and returned to cataloging the new additions to the detective fiction section. Maisie had been covertly watching. She’d seen the latest Dennis Fisher had arrived and had hoped to disappear off into a corner and skim read it. Dennis Fisher was an unlikely detective, but had won Maisie’s heart with his slightly bulging tummy and home knitted jumpers. At the end of ‘Dennis Fisher and the Mystery of the Rubber Truncheon’ he was in hospital and there was the suggestion of a love interest from a nurse. Maisie was hoping that that story line went nowhere, it was difficult to fantasise about a character if the author had married him off.

Outside the rain bounced from the roof of the building next door, its temporary sheeting vibrating as the water pulsed against the plastic. She wondered idly if it would hold and what was stored in the loft of the artisan bakery that the building accommodated.

“What I would have needed was a little encouragement, a little friendliness, a little keeping open of my road, instead of which you blocked it for me.”

Maisie certainly agreed with Kafka on that point, wondering whether the book was still available to buy, these were things that her father needed to understand. Certainly if it was then the flustered man could have just downloaded it and saved himself the bother of coming to the library in the pouring rain. Which in turn would mean that Maisie wouldn’t have been sent on an errand to find the book and wouldn’t have accidentally locked herself in the basement storage section for authors K – O. Kafka clearly had a father who thought along the same lines as hers did – categorically announcing that a life on the stage was no way for a girl to make anything of herself and an internship in the library was by far and away the best thing for a girl like Maisie, who spent most of her time with her head in a book living in a fantasy world of someone else’s making.

Maisie had relished her drama classes – the build up to a production; the rehearsal camaraderie; the costumes and make up. She’d loved all of those things and wanted her chance to give it a go. Drama was one road that her father had definitely blocked for her.

“In a way, I was safe writing” just like Maisie, sneaking round the library reading books, safe from her father’s watchful gaze. She wondered what the man dripping water around the library needed the book for, was he writing about Kafka or maybe fathers. Perhaps he too had a really irritating parent like her.

The hot water pipe that ran alongside the wall was warm and the storeroom had heated up to a level that was causing Maisie to find it difficult to keep her eyes open. Suddenly there was the sound of the door opening and Mrs Grant’s voice annoyed asking her what she thought she was doing sitting on the floor – the man was waiting for the book. Taking it from her hand she swept upstairs leaving Maisie to gather herself together and follow her. She arrived back at the information desk to hear Mrs Grant announce in no uncertain terms that the book was not to be loaned out.

“You have thirty five minutes before closing time and then you’ll have to leave,” and then as if remembering that this was a member of the public coming in to use the library service she added slightly more kindly, “if you give me your coat I’ll hang it on the staff coat rack – it’s by a radiator and should dry out before you need to leave. The study desks are through that door on the left.” She held her hand out. Maisie wished she had that level of confidence. It was so much easier, she thought, when she could stand on a stage and pretend to be someone else rather than mousey Maisie Grey.

 Thirty five minutes later Maisie was standing outside the library under an umbrella with her hood pulled up - waiting. She wondered if she was going slightly crazy, what would Dennis Fisher have done in her situation? She needed to know who the man was and why he was studying the Kafka book. She’d slipped away from the desk and hidden in the staff toilets Googling  Kafka to discover that his work fused reality and fantasy, something that Maisie’s father had said she did in her own life. You need to grow up, he’d told her, take some responsibility. You can’t live in a fantasy world forever.

Maisie had skimmed through Wikipedia: “Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it.” Which means, Maisie thought, that logically if you repeated the mantra “I do believe in fairies, I do, I do, I do” then it stands to reason that Fairies would come into existence.

Maisie had taken out two books by Kafka and tucked them deep into the side pocket of bag. ‘Metamorphosis’ and ‘The Trial’ which Google informed her were essential reading for the Kafka scholar. 

She spotted her prey exiting the building and leaving an appropriate two person gap between them she scuttled along the street, past the artisan bakery and round the corner into Robertson Street. There were fewer people heading this way and Maisie tried to pull her umbrella further forward so that her face was less visible, although her quarry did not seem in the slightest bit interested in anything around him. 

The time was 5.45pm and he was clearly heading for the park, marching purposefully on towards the gates, which were locked at 6.00pm on the dot. Maisie watched him go through. If she followed him she’d have to eventually turn around and come back as her own home was in the opposite direction, if the park gates were locked it would mean a twenty minute detour and her mother would have tea on the table at 6.30, with the expectation that the whole family would be washed up and ready to eat. Reluctantly Maisie turned around and headed back down Robertson Street. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, he hadn’t finished with ‘Letter to his Father’, maybe he might come back in to the library and Maisie allowed her imagination to wander through scenario after scenario, each one ending with Maisie and the Kafka scholar sharing tea and comparing notes on tyrannical parents!