The Reading Room – Part 1: Corner Table

Every Tuesday at ten, a man came into the library and read poetry to nobody.

Maeve noticed on her third week as a volunteer. She was fifty-eight, newly retired from forty years of teaching, and desperate to be useful. She shelved books, stamped cards, sorted the donations box. Across the room, in the corner by the radiator, a tall man in a tweed jacket sat at the same table and murmured lines of verse to the window.

"That's Declan," whispered the librarian. "He's harmless. Retired postman. His wife died two years ago. He says it keeps him company."

"Who does?"

"The poems."

At eleven, Maeve took him a cup of tea. He looked up, surprised. He was sixty-two, with silver hair, kind grey eyes behind round glasses, and a face made for listening.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb the others."

"You're not disturbing anyone. It's lovely."

"It's Heaney," he said, shyly. "She liked Heaney."

"May I sit?"

"Please."

She sat. He read her a poem about a blackberry-picking summer, in a low Cork lilt, and she felt the hairs rise on her arms. When he finished, the radiator ticked and rain whispered on the glass.

"Do you read?" he asked.

"I taught English for thirty years. I've forgotten how to enjoy it."

"Then borrow a book," said Declan. "Read it aloud. To me, if you like."

She did. The next Tuesday, and the next, she read from a worn anthology, and he listened with his eyes closed. In the autumn they began meeting on Thursdays as well, for a walk by the river.

"Can I ask you something?" said Maeve.

"Yes."

"Why did you read to nobody?"

"Because I'd lost the somebody," said Declan, quietly. "I think I've found another."

"Green?" she said, the word from her niece.

"Green," said Declan, with a smile. "Very green. Read me another."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Page.