Composite Creatures by Caroline Hardaker (novel books to read .txt) 📕

all over me I kept watching Eleanor. She was thinking, churning something over in her head, and though I wanted to get drunk on Rosa’s enthusiasm, a well-considered response was far more valuable.

Eleanor reached across and took my hand, stroking the opal with the pad of her thumb. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “And you’re happy?”

Rosa plonked herself back in her chair. “She must be. Oh, it’s a freaking fairy tale.”

Eleanor kept her eyes on me. “You’re definitely happy?” She held me in her sights, not letting go of my hand. Rosa looked from Eleanor to me and back again. “Because this is serious now. This is the big game.”

I pulled back my hand. “I know that.”

“And this is definitely what you want? You’re sure? This is totally different to, well, all the other stuff.”

“Yes.”

“You love him, now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And he loves you? As he should, for this?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t have asked me otherwise.”

Rosa took my hand from Eleanor, seemingly to look at the ring but I could tell she was trying to diffuse the tension. This was her way but there really wasn’t any need – you had to expect this from Eleanor. In one conversation she could swoop from elation to fury in a matter of seconds. She was very much alive, Eleanor, and her passion was infectious. I’ve never felt so angry at injustice or at politics that I hardly understood than when I was with her. And if, poor you, you became the focus of her wrath, you’d fold up at a mere look, shrinking until invisibility owned you.

Eleanor let out a heavy sigh, and smiled, as if she’d conceded. But I didn’t want it to be over quite yet. “Don’t you believe me?”

She fiddled with a napkin, rubbing it between her fingers and thumb. “I just think it might be too soon. Don’t you agree? And don’t you think it’s extremely convenient? I mean, it’s fucking perfect, but it’s also fucking unlikely. Don’t you think it’s all a bit much?”

“Why do you have to think about it at all? It’s my life. Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“I’m fucking delighted for you, Noz. I just want to make sure this is right for you. It’s not our world that you’re living in. I just need to be sure that this isn’t something you’re doing to impress. When I know, we’ll get even more drunk to celebrate. That’s all.”

“You’ve made that clear. Let me work out what’s good for me.”

Rosa had given up trying to break the strain, and was staring at the table top, her lips puckered in a child-like pout. Her purple lipstick had smudged across her cheek. Eleanor leant over and wiggled her fingers in the fur of Rosa’s shawl as if scratching a cat. “Don’t worry, kitten. I’m done. Obligatory friend-care-taking done. You can get back to planning your bridesmaid dress now.”

Looking back, I suppose I’d have said the same if our situations had been reversed. She was just looking out for me, though she’d acted cruelly, backing me into a corner like that. I don’t think she realised that she’d stabbed me somewhere delicate, and that her knife was so shrewd that I couldn’t heal. Hidden in those deep nooks there were secrets even I didn’t want to face.

Eleanor reached below the table. “I’d brought you this as a belated birthday present, but it can be an engagement present too, now. Merry birth-engage-day.” She pulled out a parcel wrapped in shimmery green paper. I took it reluctantly, on edge as if this was a trick.

“Open it.”

I peeled back the foil and found within the folds a paperback. It was clearly old, and smelled like I’d imagine bones to smell, somehow dry and damp at the same time. It reminded me of school trips to libraries that had their own special taste on the air. It was like something seeped from people into the books. On opening a cover, it was perfectly acceptable to see stains, maps to someone else’s skin.

This book could have been an antique, but it still held itself together with some stability. It felt heavier than it looked as if the pages were lacquered, and the front was embellished with swooping illustrations of seagulls. The title in big white letters read, Common Birds of the British Isles.

Flicking through the pages, each bird had its own double-page spread of sketches showing the bird in flight from the ground, the head in profile, feather markings, and nesting habits. It might have been from when Mum was young, when it was easy to spot birds at the coast or over gardens.

“To match your mum’s binoculars,” Eleanor said. “You might not spot anything soon, but it doesn’t mean you should stop looking. And this way you won’t look like a pervert hanging out of your bedroom window.”

In lieu of an embrace I squeezed the book between my hands, taking comfort from the strength of its binding, the physicality of it, anchored in time and place. This was from a time when the air didn’t taste this way.

I don’t know what Eleanor meant by giving it to me. It was a really thoughtful gift, but it filled me with a sorrow I couldn’t quite fathom. Rather than gain a present, it was as if I’d lost something. I thought back to the feather I’d taken from Mum’s house, where it had been collected so carefully and stored up high – where it belonged. Even though Mum must’ve told me a hundred times what bird it came from, I couldn’t now remember the name. I flicked through the pages looking for a creature that looked similar but they were all little unremarkable brown things, not black or blue. I pushed the memory from my head.

The thing was, the chance of seeing any of the birds in the book were so few and far between I could waste my life with my eyes on the sky. Rather than a guide for the present day,