PenWomanShip

I should have let her burn the books, I know that now. But hindsight is so much more tangible than foresight, and anyway, I had no inkling of what might happen. I can see her now, a small stiff figure, mouth set in a taut line, pulling them from the bookshelf and stacking them in three piles on the floor. Some were placed immediately on the tallest pile with barely a glance. These were mostly modern volumes with lavish colour illustrations - you know the sort of thing - Wild Animals of the World, Victorian Painters, 365 Days Out in the British Isles. The novels she examined more carefully, hesitating over each of the two taller piles in turn before deciding. The ones she consigned to the other pile - which quickly became a heap, for she literally tossed them to one side as she warmed to her work - were older, sometimes by half a century. Their dust-jackets were long gone, now truly dust carried on the wind, exposing either faded fabric or that compressed polished paper that looks like leather with the title embossed in gold on the spine.

It was hard for her, I knew that. She'd been brought up by a generation that believed in making do; not only that but she'd lived through WW2 when making do was a way of life. I don't think there'd been a day in my childhood when one or other of them hadn't quoted the old saying 'waste not want not' to me. Struggling to finish the remains of ham, magenta-stained mashed potatoes and beetroot I'd hated the unknown person who'd first said those words. Starving children in Africa materialized before my eyes, described in living - or rather dying - detail, too terrible to contemplate. It was easier to eat the beetroot. And the guilt engendered has remained with me thirty years on, cluttering the house with things I've no longer any use for.

That was why, with Dad gone and cruel as it seemed, Mum had to dispose of the accumulation of a lifetime's hoarding if she were to come and live with us. We'd put the girls in together, turned the dining room into a sitting room and converted the garage into a kitchen and bathroom. That way she'd have her own space - the boys could be a bit much sometimes. She'd be able to bring a few things with her - that special old chair that Dad had found in a boot sale and reupholstered, some china, her photo albums, a few books - but there simply wasn't room for everything. Most of the furniture could be sold at auction, papers had to be gone through and dealt with ruthlessly, and everything unsaleable or not fit for the jumble was destined for the bonfire.

I thought I must be seeing things, when, having tidied the garden and garage for the new occupants and piled the debris ready for the cleansing match Mum staggered out with a box filled with the old books.

'Can't those go to the jumble with the others?' I asked. 'Somebody might be glad of them.'

Her mouth tightened again.

'There's only one place for these,' she said, 'and that's right on top of that fire getting eaten up until all that's left is ashes,' and with that she snatched a book from the box and flung it on the fire to be followed quickly by another and yet another. I tried to reason with her, but she'd have none of it. All I could do was to watch helplessly as the covers curled and the yellowed pages rose to flutter helplessly in the heat before rising like ghosts and disappearing altogether. Mum watched with satisfaction before trotting off to fetch some more.

Curiosity drew me to the box, where almost a dozen volumes of various sizes awaited their fate. What did Mum have against these particular books? I picked one out and looked at the title. Memories, Dreams and Reflections by Carl Gustav Jung. There were more; Freud, Wittgenstein, Plato, Edgar Cayce, Confucius. All were without exception books on psychology, philosophy and spirituality. But Mum and Dad had indoctrinated me too well. While she was gone I put the box in the boot of the car meaning to drop them off at the charity shop on the way home.

I forgot about the books. The box disappeared, Mum moved in with us and I thought no more about them. Then one day a month or so later I came home from work to find Joe curled up in the big armchair completely oblivious to the boys, who were trying to throttle each other on the carpet at his feet. I separated the pair of them and gave them one of my warning looks.

'What's that you're reading?' I asked, bending to look at the title. I remembered the box then. 'I didn't know you were interested in that sort of thing.'

Joe looked up reluctantly. 'Nor did I,' he said, 'but it's fascinating stuff. Wasn't your dad interested in spiritual paths?

'Interested is an understatement,' I said. 'Dad was searching for an answer for most of his life. No stone left unturned - all the major religions as well as most of the obscure ones; meditation, yoga, Zen, occultism, he tried the lot. If Om wasn't vibrating through the study walls then it was Gregorian chants or the Song of the Whale. Did I tell you that Mum wanted to burn all his books? I managed to rescue that and the others, but most of them went up in smoke.'

'Shame,' he said, returning to the open pages. And that's all I managed to get out of him for the rest of the evening. I put the boys to bed - Peta and Jem took themselves - washed up the dinner things and thought no more about it.

Over the following months the remains of Dad's library became the nucleus of a new collection. Joe spent his spare time fossicking in second-hand bookshops, and devoured any book he thought might help him in his quest. The boys went off to school and he had more time to himself, he could even have gone back to his old job if he'd felt inclined, but he rarely went anywhere except to the supermarket, and seemed to have abandoned football, the pub and all his old mates. He began disappearing to retreats, trusting Mum to cope while I was at work, each time returning more quiet and serious than before. The children would come to me to sort out their problems. Joe said he was trying to 'find himself'. I didn't know whether he was succeeding or not, all I knew was that he was changing and I could hardly recognise the funny and affectionate guy I'd married.

One day I arrived home from work to find Jack blue in the face and Edward leading him around the garden on the end of a rope. The girls were at a friend's house, Mum had popped next door to visit Doris Parker. Joe was nowhere to be seen. A low Om and the scent of incense led me to where he sat entranced in the lotus position underneath a tent of blue silk in our bedroom. A single candle burned on a small altar.

'Edward put a rope round Jack's neck and nearly strangled him,' I said. 'I just got home in time. Another five minutes would have done it.' OK, I was probably exaggerating, but I'd had a fright nonetheless.

The chanting stopped, but he didn't turn his head to look at me, and his voice, when it came, remained calm.

'Worldly attachments bring pain,' he said, without a flicker of emotion.

It could have been the old man speaking. I lost it then. 'These are our children you're talking about,' I yelled. 'I could have come home to find Jack limp and bloody lifeless and that's all you can say?'

He didn't reply. I left, slamming the door and a moment later the low chant resumed.

I don't know how I'd have managed without Mum being here to look after the kids. Joe's been gone three years now. I transfer a little money to his Barclays account in Mumbai from time to time - he doesn't ask for much. I often think of him and wonder if he's any nearer finding himself. Perhaps he found Dad too. Mum was right - I should have burned the books.