was still dead seemed … wrong.
***
But as the train drew into London, he felt the surge of energy that felt like the essence of spring and growth and possibilities, a lightening of the heart and a brush of excitement.
He stopped at the lamp in front of his house, which had already been lit.
Mr. Banks. John Banks, he thought, and that thrum of excitement turned into something he found difficult to ignore.
Yet when he went to bed that night, he slept well, better than he had for months, years perhaps.
He woke to daylight—and no burning lamp.
The disappointment made him smile. But he also made certain to be watching that afternoon. The shambling figure that came around the corner was not his Mr. Banks, however.
Worried, Giles left the house and walked out to the man, a tall, gaunt man of about fifty. “Good evening,” he said. “You’re not the usual lamplighter, are you?”
“I am now.” He was missing any number of teeth so the words came out in a slur. “Mr. Banks don’t want this round.”
Now the disappointment he felt didn’t make Giles smile. He stared at the man, who stared back. “You all right, sir?” the lamplighter asked.
The same words Banks had used.
“Yes, I am fine.” He fished a coin from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the new man. “I’m fine. Thank you.” He turned and walked away.
“Thank
you
, sir,” the lamplighter called to his back as Giles made his way back across the road to his house.
***
Giles pretended this abandonment by John Banks didn’t hurt. No, indeed, they had shown each other a kind of tenderness and pleasure and he would cherish it and not resent Banks leaving his old path by Giles’s house.
But why? Banks must have done it because of him, Giles. Why else would he leave his route? He wished he could talk to him, find out what was wrong.
Giles’s eagerness turned into restlessness and he knew, without a doubt, that all of that lifting of heart as he’d come back to London, all of the secret happy anticipation, had been about Banks, that he had looked forward to seeing the lamplighter again. His appetite had been about the flesh, but also the words. He wanted to tell Banks about Wool and Mrs. Wool and the remedy of a smiling man.
He went for a walk and discovered he’d ventured into a less familiar part of the city, a neighborhood with small, cramped ancient houses—just down the lane from where Banks lived.
Enough.
This kind of behavior would not do. He turned about and decided to attend to his responsibilities. He knew he must soon go into the country—his family did not own as much land as Wool had, but the books were in shambles because his father had no interest in that sort of thing and counted on Giles to check the sums and expenses.
He’d neglected his father too long and would send him a letter and a gift. Perhaps a book. His absentminded father—absent in his imaginary travels—enjoyed descriptive guides to countries he’d never visit, and Giles had an agent to track down such books. Perhaps he could look for a book on his own. And this area where he restlessly walked was not far from some good shops.
He considered going to Hatchards on Piccadilly but decided to go to Holywell Street, the dingy old Elizabethan way near the Strand.
Not far from Opera Comique, he noted. They’d talked about the Gilbert and Sullivan there and, yes, now he remembered the name of the bookstore where sometimes John Banks, lamplighter, might be found.
It took a few tries but he found the shop with Abrams stenciled in neat gold script on the window by the door.
Shelves of books reached floor to ceiling along every wall, with some freestanding shelves also forming a maze. There seemed some vague organization to the whole arrangement. He made his way around a table that held stacks of Bibles on one side and Darwin’s
On the Origin of Species
on the other. Mr. Abrams clearly enjoyed controversy or had a sense of humor.
He walked about the shop
***
But as the train drew into London, he felt the surge of energy that felt like the essence of spring and growth and possibilities, a lightening of the heart and a brush of excitement.
He stopped at the lamp in front of his house, which had already been lit.
Mr. Banks. John Banks, he thought, and that thrum of excitement turned into something he found difficult to ignore.
Yet when he went to bed that night, he slept well, better than he had for months, years perhaps.
He woke to daylight—and no burning lamp.
The disappointment made him smile. But he also made certain to be watching that afternoon. The shambling figure that came around the corner was not his Mr. Banks, however.
Worried, Giles left the house and walked out to the man, a tall, gaunt man of about fifty. “Good evening,” he said. “You’re not the usual lamplighter, are you?”
“I am now.” He was missing any number of teeth so the words came out in a slur. “Mr. Banks don’t want this round.”
Now the disappointment he felt didn’t make Giles smile. He stared at the man, who stared back. “You all right, sir?” the lamplighter asked.
The same words Banks had used.
“Yes, I am fine.” He fished a coin from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to the new man. “I’m fine. Thank you.” He turned and walked away.
“Thank
you
, sir,” the lamplighter called to his back as Giles made his way back across the road to his house.
***
Giles pretended this abandonment by John Banks didn’t hurt. No, indeed, they had shown each other a kind of tenderness and pleasure and he would cherish it and not resent Banks leaving his old path by Giles’s house.
But why? Banks must have done it because of him, Giles. Why else would he leave his route? He wished he could talk to him, find out what was wrong.
Giles’s eagerness turned into restlessness and he knew, without a doubt, that all of that lifting of heart as he’d come back to London, all of the secret happy anticipation, had been about Banks, that he had looked forward to seeing the lamplighter again. His appetite had been about the flesh, but also the words. He wanted to tell Banks about Wool and Mrs. Wool and the remedy of a smiling man.
He went for a walk and discovered he’d ventured into a less familiar part of the city, a neighborhood with small, cramped ancient houses—just down the lane from where Banks lived.
Enough.
This kind of behavior would not do. He turned about and decided to attend to his responsibilities. He knew he must soon go into the country—his family did not own as much land as Wool had, but the books were in shambles because his father had no interest in that sort of thing and counted on Giles to check the sums and expenses.
He’d neglected his father too long and would send him a letter and a gift. Perhaps a book. His absentminded father—absent in his imaginary travels—enjoyed descriptive guides to countries he’d never visit, and Giles had an agent to track down such books. Perhaps he could look for a book on his own. And this area where he restlessly walked was not far from some good shops.
He considered going to Hatchards on Piccadilly but decided to go to Holywell Street, the dingy old Elizabethan way near the Strand.
Not far from Opera Comique, he noted. They’d talked about the Gilbert and Sullivan there and, yes, now he remembered the name of the bookstore where sometimes John Banks, lamplighter, might be found.
It took a few tries but he found the shop with Abrams stenciled in neat gold script on the window by the door.
Shelves of books reached floor to ceiling along every wall, with some freestanding shelves also forming a maze. There seemed some vague organization to the whole arrangement. He made his way around a table that held stacks of Bibles on one side and Darwin’s
On the Origin of Species
on the other. Mr. Abrams clearly enjoyed controversy or had a sense of humor.
He walked about the shop
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