Debbie Murphy
DEBBIE MURPHY has a passion for the written word in a messed-up mix of children’s writing, dark horror and thought-provoking creative autobiographies.
She writes a healthy eating column and tries to practice what she preaches; however her drive to write fiction requires a diet of excess junk food and gin.
The Library
You run your fingers along the worn wood shelf and think of her. You could say she had many friends; all lined up for various positions. They were like a skilled workforce that she would arrange to meet, considering the job in hand. There was that friend who was smiles and drives, she was great for pub visits and appreciating fine wine with.
One friend was a call for weeping, where she would feel able to well up and sob over fluffy things. How about that overweight, squashy one? Great for a walk round the jogging loop, where she could delight in their comparison.
The darkness would have a friend too — he didn’t say much.
There was that friend who had money, ‘champagne darling’ and bling, great for a game of charades. The friend with the house by the sea, a companion for confinement and reflection and of course there was that friend with style for shopping and furnishings.
And then there’s you.
Sympathy and counselling.
The one who knows her best of all.
You ponder the familiar rounded spines of the books; tethered, torn, furrowed and folded. They smell like an old leather coat. You consider the job in hand and next run your eyes along the columns, catching titles. You stop at a Brontë and gently wriggle it free from the troop. The stiffness in your cold fingers wane on the book cloth and your palm receives the cushioned comfort of the craft.
The settee is the place. Brontë and a sweet sherry, a blanket and the patter of rain. You shake the thoughts of your friend and feast the front cover. The beauty of language is its choice, you suppose. Like the coat. One for each season. Your eyes bury themselves in the rich phrasing inside, thick with tradition and longing. The comfort of the old words brings the anchor of history and you’re safely cocooned.
The sherry coats your tongue and releases your shoulders and you think to your friend again. Some would call her a little callous, cold and maybe unconnected but you would usually keep your loyal silence.
Your mind lingers to your bedstead, where your spare reading glasses flatten a well-thumbed Stella Gibbons, your thoughts then meander to your tote for the car, where Virginia Woolf is packed with credit cards and shopping bags. Your child’s reading pocket hanging from his bed, stuffed with Katherine Rundell and a torch, your kitchen top and Nigella…don’t we all have friends for different occasions?
As you sit embracing Brontë, your eyes settle on the bulging coat rack, diverse and disorganised. Your life is a library, not exclusive or solitary but miscellaneous and mottled with curiosity.
And when the rain stops, you’ll take a walk exploring the newly muddled ground. And you’ll be wrapped up in the coat for the weather, which will be the most appropriate companion for the time.
Debbie is completing her MA in Creative Writing at CCCU in the summer of 2020.
