Book Buddy

She limited herself to one bookcase. She told me a book had to be special to take up permanent residence. Said it had to touch her soul. Otherwise she gave it to a friend she thought might enjoy it or the Oxfam Book shop.

I always peruse the bookcase when I’m in a person’s home, ascertaining shared interests and judging them through their tastes. The first time I visited, it was her turn to host our book group, so I could only make the most cursory inspection. The bookcase itself was enormous and ancient, with bowing shelves. I only recognised half of the titles. The second time, she invited just me for coffee, so as soon as she went to the kitchen to make said drink, I was out of my seat for a proper look.

On my previous visit the books had been organised alphabetically, this time they were grouped by genre. When she brought the coffee in I asked her why and she confessed she reorganised her books at least every month.

Every time I went there they were different. There was always a logic, to even the most eccentric ordering. Chronological, Dewey, width, happy-making-ness. Last time I went there, the shelves were beautifully but incomprehensibly arranged by colours of the spine. I called her on this, but when quizzed she could immediately lay her hands on every book she’d ever lent me.

I loved borrowing books from her, they were always unexpected and magnificent. In the back of her books she wrote concise reviews in pencil and her neat little sentences formed the foundations of our discussions each time we met.

We swapped and bought each other many books over the years. I’m honoured that five of my gifts made it to the permanent collection. All our conversations were about books and I knew nothing of her external life, except what I gleaned from her kitchen which was papered with exotic post cards. I found more out at her funeral than I had in our many years of friendship. She had been a feminist campaigner in the sixties, the singer in a punk band in the seventies and travelled the world in the eighties. I met three tearful ex-husbands and one very glamourous lesbian lover.

A few weeks after the funeral I found out my friend had bequeathed me her books. They were delivered to my door in their bookcase. As I cut though the layers and layers of bubble wrap I saw the books were still organised in the swooping rainbow of our last meeting. They are ordered that way to this day.