Book thieving; stealing lives

Have you ever stolen a book? I confess I have. Years ago, impoverished student, all that stuff. It was a hardback copy of Virginia Woolf's 'To the Lighthouse'. I still have it. And look upon it with shame.

But what a book to steal!

Do you ever walk through bookshops inhaling? Or plunge into a sofa and drink up as much as you can? The last time I did that was in Piccadilly Waterstones, where the chairs are very comfortable and no one frowns in your direction. I read nearly the whole of Helen Garner's last book, 'The Spare Room' . Garner's friend is dying of cancer and comes to Melbourne to endure a final, non-Western treatment. She has come to die. Interspersed with these ravaged scenes Garner's grandaughter pops through the side fence in her flamenco costume, looking for some grandma attention. Kid stuff. A gentle laugh.

I felt like a voyeur, allowing myself to be gripped by the what stood up as a crafted story - and yet whose central drama was the real and painful demise of a friend. Her death. Is that allowed?

Why is she writing this?
Why am I reading this?
There was a horrified pull and push to my involvement. I was magnetised, repulsed, compelled. I read on and on until at certain point I realised I wasn't breathing anymore and my chest was caught. I had to look around, get my bearings, get away from Garner's fetid house.


About halfway through I decided I couldn't read anymore. I also decided that London was too expensive for me to justify buying a half-read book, and that my cheap-flight bags were already overweight (other books, my tireless daughter's shopping). I still don't know how the book ended. Though I suppose Helen's friend Nicola dies. She had to.

And I didn't even contemplate stealing the copy. I wouldn't dream of doing that these days. I put it back slowly and walked out into the busy street, feeling guilty that I had stolen some of Helen Garner's hard work.

But it made me think of theft. What we steal from those around us to write a story. I don't think I could ever document life as vividly as Garner does, but I know I use it as a springboard. Real things. Real places. In Penzance where I presented this book last month I was asked about my title story 'Pelt', where a pregnant Ghanaian woman tries to win back her German lover when his ex-wife comes to town.

Where did it come from, Catherine?

The truth? Years ago a German man knocked on our gate in Ghana, said he grew up in our rented house. Said there used to be a monkey cage behind the kitchen. He even went onto the veranda to point out the place. I could see the little boy he once was: grinning, unreeling.

My story has nothing to does with monkey or cages or little boys unreeling. But when this German man walked away down the street I could see him through the hedge. His back was a little too straight, as though he'd had an injury, been thrown from a horse. There is nothing in the story about horses or back injuries either. But way he moved - even though I never mentioned it - that was Rolfe.

Oh yes, that was Rolfe.