A= The Big Downstairs 1

"The Big Downstairs"

The most unusual thing about Michael Leverett's family, so far as he
knew, was that his mother and sister had very peculiar ways of eating
Jaffa Cakes, insisting on nibbling off all of the chocolate and soft
cake to end up with a slim rosepetal of orange. They certainly weren't
as odd as his friend Callum whose parents didn't even own a television,
and who had to say to at least one person a day at school, "No, I
didn't watch it, we don't have a television in our house. It rots the
brain. "

Michael wondered whether it did, and whether people had got stupider
and stupider since television was invented, which he knew was around
the time of the Second World War - ish. It was hard for him to tell,
but it seemed to him that some people at least had stayed smart,
certainly the Japanese, who had invented DVDs and Playstations. Perhaps
the smart people were all ones like Callum's parents who didn't watch
any television, but then surely they would have no interest in
inventing DVD players.

People had told Michael that if you put a tooth in a glass of Coke and
leave it overnight it will rot, and he imagined that television was
supposed to do the same, just nibble away at the outside of your brain
until it shrank. But Michael knew firstly that it was not true about
the Coke, because he had tried it with a baby tooth and that secondly
it didn't prove anything, because who sleeps with a mouthful of Coke?
As long as you brush your teeth before you go to bed, the Coke doesn't
sit on your teeth that long.

His father worked for the Council doing something dull and did not
listen to any music made after 1990. Michael had grown up listening to
the Clash, the Smiths and the Pixies, but had not heard the charts
until he was old enough to sneak off on a Sunday evening and listen to
the radio under his bedclothes. His mother, Shona was very pretty, he
knew that. All of his friends said so and she found almost everything
funny. They were resolutely ordinary.

Michael was a smart boy, but he knew absolutely nothing about how
unusual his family was.

For example, he had never realised that there was anything odd about
the house that they lived in at West Parade Lincoln, where horses
sometimes clopped down the street outside to get to the common. It was
a big three storey house, just a minute from a Chinese takeaway and the
front door opened directly onto the stairs which Michael and his family
climbed up every day, and another door leading off to the left which
was the ground floor.

Because his parents had never made anything of it at all, Michael had
always assumed that the downstairs just belonged to someone else, that
somebody else lived there. He had no idea that the whole house belonged
to his family, although he had never been through that door, or seen
anyone in his family open the door.

If they had forbidden him to ever touch the door or go into the ground
floor of the house, he would have been full of curiousity and would
almost certainly have defied them, but because his parents were smart
and knew a thing or two about magic, they just simply left things
unsaid and allowed Michael's mind to fill in the blanks and just assume
that the door was nothing whatsoever to do with them.

It was nice having a living room up on the second floor anyway, because
you could look out of the window and down on people's heads and nobody
walked past and looked in at the window to see who you were. And the
other good thing was that when people knocked at the door, Michael
could always take responsibility for running down the stairs and
opening the door, as his parents were always busy with other things and
happy to let him have his fun. So it was that at the age of eleven,
Michael had the responsibility of whether people were admitted or
refused to the house. He had long been hoping to do the same with the
telephone, so that he became the absolute gatekeeper, but his father
was always insistent that he himself should answer the telephone,
mostly to tell people that he had no interest of any kind in
replacement windows or switching his gas supply to an electricity
company.

Michael had lived a perfectly ordinary life so far and had never even
thought about the people who lived underneath them who never made any
noise. All of this was about to change.

* * *

Up at the cathedral, which was sweeping and old and sat on the hill
seeming to be taller the further away you were from it, a bookish man
named William was pouring minestrone soup into a bathtub which was
secreted away in a part of the cathedral which was locked away from
visitors behind wooden studded doors. He was in something of a fluster
and really wanted some more help from his girlfriend, who although was
helping to open the tins and boil the soup was also sending
text-messages to her friend Susan about Susan's boyfriend, who seemed
from what William could tell, not worth the time and thumb effort
involved in talking about him.

William's arms were already sore from carrying bags with about twenty
cans of minestrone soup along from the Co-Op on Burton Road to the
cathedral and he was quite bad-tempered. William had been a choirboy
who had just stuck around at the cathedral, having had the idea that
religion might be the life for him. He had in the past toyed with the
idea of becoming a monk, and had imagined painting very intricate
illuminated large capital letters into books, tending chickens and
perhaps making wine at the vineyard at Bishop's Palace, the most
Northerly vineyard in the world; he hadn't planned on making baths of
soup.

To be fair, the monk idea had gone out of his head when he met his
girlfriend, who worked in Boots and was very pretty, but he was still
wondering whether there was a career to be had in the Church and when
he was asked to do something, he set about it with vigour.

Mr Duffy had told him what needed to be done. By seven o'clock, a
bathtub to be filled with warm minestrone soup, which was to be heated
in pans in the kitchen and brought through. It was of critical
importance that by seven o'clock that the soup was still warm, or the
whole process would have to begin again. Mr Duffy had taken the cans of
soup away from William and returned them an hour later, William noting
that Mr Duffy smelled of candles and violets.

This was intended to be a team effort, his girlfriend would heat pans
on each of the four rings of the cooker, which needed a good clean, but
this was not part of his instructions, and he would carry them through
one at a time to the bath, slop the contents in and come back for the
next pan, at which time his girlfriend would open another can and fill
the pan he had brought back, to heat that one up.

Every time he got back to the kitchen, either one of the pans was
bubbling over, or there was a pan on the hob with no soup in it at all,
with a handle that was too hot to hold even with a teatowel of Fine
British Cheeses wrapped thickly around the handle. Lucy would still be
moving her thumb briskly over her mobile phone and raising her eyebrows
at him as if to say, have we got nothing better to do than cook soup on
a Friday night?

Sadly for William, the answer was no, and it was becoming clearer to
him that when his girlfriend finished with him it was not going to be
the sort of breakup for her that would need her friends to rally round
with wine and text messages to cheer her up. More a shake of the head,
as if to dislodge water from ears after swimming, and her saying, "I
don't know what I was thinking".

By seven o'clock, the bath was filled to an acceptable level with thin
pale brown soup with small peas and tiny ribbons of pasta. William
licked a finger gingerly and placed it into the liquid, to test that it
was still warm. It was, in fact a little hotter than a bath would be
tolerable to stand in.

Mr Duffy arrived, a man like an umbrella or a bicycle leaning up
against a wall in a hallway, carrying four thick books that were
clearly very old and appeared to William to be faintly smoking.

"Ah, William, " said Mr Duffy, who was struggling a little with the
weight of the books and now that he got closer, William could see
little tongues of flames licking at the air around the books and
crisping the wispy blonde hairs on Mr Duffy's arms, "Is the Holy Soup
ready?"

William blinked; this was becoming a stranger day. "Yes, " he said, "It
seems warm enough. "

"Excellent, " said Mr Duffy, who had a face that seemed lacking in
spectacles. He had never worn glasses, but had the eyes and cheekbones
of a man who seemed to have worn them all his life. Looking at him, you
could imagine him doing nothing other than fumbling around, putting his
hand on shelves and coffee tables trying to locate his misplaced
glasses by touch.

"Let's drown these books, " he said.

Some of the hairs on Mr Duffy's arms were really becoming quite ablaze
by now, and William picked up the tea towel to try to smother the
flames.

"Sir? " he asked, as he did so, "Why are we drowning these
books?"

Mr Duffy picked up the first of the books and adjusted his shirt
sleeves, which were already rolled up halfway up his forearm, so that
they were up to his elbow. "These books William, are books that ought
never to have been written. More evils than can be known are contained
in them, men have gone blind or mad from trying to read them and we
have had them here at the cathedral since the fifteenth century, buried
under flagstones in lead boxes covered over with fine river sand, but
the time has come to drown them, to bleed every word out of them and
end them once and for all. "

He moved the other books so that they were under his knees and knelt on
them with all his weight to keep them there; the flames began their
work on his cheap black trousers. It seemed to need all of his weight
to keep them in place.

Mr Duffy lifted the book, which seemed to William to be struggling
against his arms; to be like a sausage-dog puppy as it was brought near
the bath. Mr Duffy plunged it into the bathtub, wincing as the hot soup
burnt his arms. Sweat broke out on his brow and William came over to
use the teatowel to wipe this away. Mr Duffy held the book under the
surface of the soup with both arms and it was clearly some effort to
hold it under. The book was certainly struggling now and William was
very frightened.

"This is volume two, " said Mr Duffy, "The first died back in
Shakespeare's time and the world breathed a little more gently for a
time. He made reference to it in his finest work, the magician who
broke his staff and drowned his books. The only thing that will bleach
these grim books clean. Holy Soup, minestrone blessed by a priest.
"

"Why minestrone? " asked William.

Mr Duffy pulled the book out from the soup, the pages chubby with the
liquid that had soaked into them. "Watch your eyes William. I don't
really know. The Italian connection I suppose. A lot of power comes
from Italy, or China and pasta has connection with both. I'm opening
the book now, look away. "

William needed no encouragement, he felt as though he was going to cry
and tried to think hard of his girlfriend who was still in the kitchen,
just a few feet away, but couldn't even bring to his mind what her face
looked like.

"Thank Heaven, " said Mr Duffy, with great relief, "The pages are
empty. We have done it. William, you should be very proud. We have done
great works today, you and I. "

The bathroom door opened and William opened his mouth to tell his
girlfriend not to come in, that there were things she were better not
to know. It was not a girl though, that came through the door.

It was a man, an utterly beautiful man, wearing a long coat that was
the colour of mushrooms and a white shirt open at the neck. He seemed
to move as though he was on film, with tiny motions that made his
clothes flow and move like liquid. His hair was soft blonde; a tumble
of golden curls not too long and his face was more a painting than a
man. He smiled and William could feel his own mouth smile in response,
although he was frightened, this man just made him feel safe and
kind.

"No more drownings, " said the man, in a voice that was like riverwater
over stones, honey off the back of a spoon. William found himself
nodding in agreement.

Mr Duffy was made of sterner stuff and crossed himself.

"Superstitious fellow, " said the man, "We have come for the books. We
are the Librarian. And you are not the one to stop us. "

Mr Duffy gestured at the roof, at the thick flagstones on the floor.
"Where do you think we are? This is God's house. You have no power
here. "

The man laughed softly, "As much power here as anywhere. But rather
more power once we take those books. A clever trick, to lose them in
such an unimportant little city. We've spent forty years looking for
them in Canterbury and Salisbury. "

The Librarian could not have been older than twenty-five, to judge by
his appearance. He moved to the bathtub to admire the soup.

"Nice consistency, " he said, "And by the look of your burned arms, the
temperature was just-so. A taste, perhaps. "

He moved like a knife, like the world was slower than him and the air
was thinner for him than for other people, friction meant nothing to
the Librarian. From his coat, he produced a golden spoon, long-handled
and delicate. He dipped it into the bathtub and tasted the soup from
the bulb of the spoon.

A light came over his face, like a sheet of gold leaf being passed over
it briefly. "We can taste the knowledge in it. But it needs something.
Perhaps a little more salt. "

And as William watched and fell more and more in love with and in awe
of the Librarian, Mr Duffy was transformed into a statue made of stiff
white crystals of salt, his arms in front of his face to defend himself
from something he could not possibly have defended himself from. The
salt was not fine and granular, it was more like a bag of old sugar
that has got damp and stiffened up, to the point where you need to dig
down with a spoon to get anything you could sprinkle.

After a time that could have been seconds or could have been weeks,
there was a cracking noise from the statue as the weight of the salty
arms could no longer be borne and the left arm tumbled into the soup,
frothing as it dissolved into the warm mixture.

The Librarian tasted it again and pulled a face. "We can never quite
get the seasoning right. "

He picked up the books, which did not burn him and left the room.

* * *

This is the story that Michael's father Roger tells him about how he
met and fell in love with his mother, Shona. Roger worked in an office,
as the post boy, opening all of the letters that came in for the
workers and putting them into the correct pigeon holes and then taking
them around. Roger had been a handsome man, successful with women and
an athlete as well.

Shona had been a temporary worker, covering for a woman that typed
letters for a man whose responsibility was drains - "Like your supply
teachers at school. "

She would be there only for three weeks and Roger knew as soon as he
saw her that he would die if he did not ask her out. He didn't care how
cruel she was at turning him down, he knew that even if she yelled out
awful things and told the whole office that he was inadequate and a
pest, that this would be nothing compared to always wondering if she
might have said yes.

So he asked her out, they went dancing, they watched a film, they went
for a cheap pizza and they kissed and fell in love. And before her time
was finished with the temporary job, Roger had been to Terry's the
jewellers ("It's not there anymore, but it used to be near Our Price,
which isn't there anymore. Near that mobile phone shop. " Which mobile
phone shop? Michael had thought but never asked because the less he
spoke, the sooner the story would be over) to buy her a ring.

This is not the true story, of course. Parts of it are true.

But Roger did not simply ask a pretty girl out. He fell in love with a
woman from the Folk, a woman who had left home to experience the
mundane world for herself, a woman of character and guile, who would
not be snared so easily as the simple women who Roger had won in the
past with compliments and gentle hand circled around a waist.

She had agreed to go on a night out with him, and they had danced and
she had found herself to be happy and far from convinced that the
stories the Folk had told her about the mundane world being grey and
unsatisfying were true at all. But she had her principles and when he
asked her for a kiss, she had to hold back her heart and tell him what
he would have to do for it.

They would have to race, and Roger grinned when she told him, as he was
quick on his feet and at that time his stomach had been trim and his
muscles true. But she was of the Folk, and she led him the dance that
was tradition.

Foolishly, his male pride had given her a head start. They began at the
railway crossing that cut across Lincoln's high street and he counted
to ten before he began pursuing her. She was faster than he had
imagined, and by the count of ten, she was nearly at the Stonebow, the
old archway that was a three minute brisk walk from the crossing. He
took off after her, keeping her in his sights, although she was getting
farther away, rather than nearer as he had expected.

They ran for six hours. They ran up the hill, past the barracks, they
ran past Yarborough School, they ran to Washingborough where the
bowling alley and the long cemetary were, they ran along the railway
tracks. And Roger kept running, although he knew after half an hour
that he would only catch her if she wanted him to. He wanted to give
what he could to the chase.

They ran along the Viking Way, the winding footpath that runs along the
edge of the hill that peeks out at Lincoln, where the stiles gave him a
chance to make up some ground. She was quick on the straight, but the
stiles slowed her down as she had to hike up her light skirt to clamber
over. All of the city danced below them and the stars seemed to watch
them, as it is not often that a mortal man and a woman of the Folk race
in such a way.

At first as she ran, Shona was laughing, thinking that Roger would give
up with a stitch after a few minutes, but as the race wore on, her
laughter stopped and her eyes grew soft and full of something she had
not known before. She wanted to slow down, to allow herself to be
caught, but her pride drove her on. If this was the man for her, then
he would catch her, even if it was impossible.

The race ended close to where it began, Shona running fleetfooted down
the High Street, past South Park roundabout, past the Jaguar showrooms,
past the cinema and then to the level crossing, as the gates came down.
She hesitated for a moment, she could have jumped the gates and run
across before the train could come, but she had doubts about her skirt
and whether it would be seemly to do this. The moment passed and she
waited for the train to arrive. It lumbered past, a goods train with
grubby grey carriage after carriage labelled "Tea" and with little red
triangles and warning instructions about spillage written on each. She
stamped her foot impatiently, it seemed to take so long.

And then, there he was, out of breath, red in the face, dampshirted and
holding onto her shoulder lightly but firmly.

"You're not going anywhere, " he said and he was quite right.

So this is how Michael's mother and father fell in love. And Roger
Leverett did not stroll into a jewellers and exchange some money he had
earned by moving paper from one person to another for a ring. This is
not how it works with the Folk, and not at all how it should work for
ordinary people either. You cannot move money into love or even a token
of love. It requires effort and not the effort that you do
day-in-day-out that someone deems worthy of pay.

Roger had to go out, in the early hours of the morning, before the
birds have woken and find himself a magpie nest. It is rare, this, and
it took him some time to do it, but every now and then, a magpie lays
an egg that is not an egg. Not in the true sense, a parcel of future
life. Magpies taste for prettiness will eventually out and if a man is
patient and tries hard enough and long enough, he may move the piebald
mother softly to one side and take a warm egg inside which will be a
ring that will bind a lady of the Folk. A slender golden ring with a
diamond of truest facets and angles that sometimes glints black and
white together in the light.

So, as anyone can see, Michael knew really very little about what was
going on with his family.