Elisardbeth

The books arrived on a rainy Thursday, which felt poetic in a way that was mostly irritating.
The FedEx box was in fine condition, the kind of box that suggested someone had cared enough to pack it, but not enough to pack it correctly. Inside were seven volumes, all in matching cloth-bound severity, smelling faintly of mildew and institutional neglect. I had expected Thomas Hardy; tragic novels, windswept moors, a light dusting of literary despair. What I got instead was an extremely thorough overview of the British textile industry.

I wrote to Lawrences Auctioneers in Crewkerne. I tried to keep my tone light, civil, the way one might write to a distant relative who had accidentally mailed you a goat.

Good afternoon dear fine people at the sales department of Lawrences auctioneers in Crewkerne.
I write to you concerning a box that arrived via the fine people of fedex this morning. The box was in fine shape, the books, though oddly smelling, were not dirty or damaged. I did however expect them to be a collection of cloth bound books by Thomas Hardy. Upon closer inspection, the box contained a thorough introduction to the british textile industry in 7 volumes as well as a complete guide to the british textile industry, from 1600 to present day. While I did briefly toy with the idea of using the book “the spinners mule” by Harold Catling to 3D print a replica of the spinning jenny and set it up in our living room, my dear husband did not take a liking to that idea.

Therefore, I wonder, might you have my Thomas Hardy books still in your possession? The Allotment number on Auctionnet was 3818564 A COLLECTION OF CLOTH BOUND VOLUMES BY OR RELATING TO THOMAS HARDY.

After careful consideration of your homepage, I have decided to blame Robert Ansell for the unfortunate replacement of Mr Hardy. Not because of his photo but because I once dated a Robert and he was the kind of man who could misplace a Hardy. He did actually. He misplaced a whole box of Hardys. I happened to stumble upon a photo of them misplaced at the dorm of a cute med student named Molly.

Meanwhile, I wonder what to do with the history of the British textile Industry? Much like the fine people in parliament, I haven’t got the faintest clue.
Best Regards
Lizzy

My husband, who watched me unpack the books in astonishment, reflected on my plans for 3D printing with the comment that it sounded like something that would show up under “reasons” in a divorce filing.

The reply came swiftly:

Good morning.
Thank you for your email. Please be assured, we are looking into this mistake and will get back to you as soon as possible with our findings.
Jon Matthews.

Jon Matthews sounded like someone who wore sensible shoes and apologised with conviction. When he assured me they were “looking into it.” I imagined a small task force, perhaps involving a man with a monocle and a ledger.

A few hours later: good news. The Hardys had been found. They would be sent at once. Apologies were made. Improvements vowed. Systems would be reviewed. I was briefly touched. Then I looked back at the textile books and wondered what to do with them.

I offered to donate them to the Swedish School of Textiles. I even considered including a note: “Donated in the name of Lawrence’s Auctioneers, who meant well.”

Jon responded once more, now with the weary brevity of a man who had aged twelve years in a day.

It’s not worth the cost of sending them back, so please feel free to donate or dispose.

Dispose. Like a sandwich crust. Like a slightly used sock.
I stared at the books, their sober spines lined up like guilty clergy. Donate or dispose. I suppose that is the eternal choice.

In the end, I donated them. The school librarian promised they’d be shelved or, failing that, used to prop open windows. Either way, they’d have purpose.

My Hardys arrived a week later. They smelled of cedar and lost time.
I shelved them alphabetically, then stood back and smiled. Outside, the sky sulked. And then it rained again. Of course it did.