The Lost Bookshop(3)
‘I’m not selling that one. It has … sentimental value.’
‘Ah, now this is interesting. It is known as the “reading edition”, as Dickens would have read from it at his public readings.’ His bulbous nose and tiny eyes gave him the look of a badger or a mole. He sniffed out the valuable book like a truffle.
‘Yes, I am aware,’ I said, trying to snatch the book back from his greedy paws. He continued with his appraisal, as though he were already selling it at auction.
‘Sumptuously bound in full polished red calf. A charming edition; ornate tooling in gilt to the spine; all page edges gilt; original marbled endpapers.’
‘My father gifted me that book. It is not for sale.’
He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, sizing me up. ‘Miss …?’
‘Miss Carlisle.’
‘Miss Carlisle, this is one of the best-preserved examples of these rare issues I have ever handled. ‘
‘And the illustrations by Hablot K. Browne. You see his pen name, Phiz,’ I added, with pride.
‘I could offer you fifteen pounds.’
The world fell silent, the way it often does the moment before a life-changing decision. On one path lay freedom along with the unknown. The other was a gilded cage.
‘Twenty pounds, Mr Turton, and you have a deal.’
He narrowed his eyes and his lips betrayed a grudging smile. I knew he would pay, just as surely as I knew that I would devote my life to getting that book back. As his back was turned, I slipped my Wuthering Heights back into my pocket and left.
That was how my career as a book dealer began.
Chapter Two
MARTHA
Dublin, nine months ago …
When I first arrived at the redbrick Georgian house on Ha'penny Lane that cold, dark evening with rain dripping from my jacket, I hadn’t planned on staying. The woman on the phone sounded less than friendly, but I had nowhere else to go and very little money. My journey to Dublin had begun a week previously and from the other side of the country, at a lonely bus stop just outside the village. I don’t know how long I sat at the bus stop, if it was cold or warm, or if anyone passed me by. All of my senses were dulled by one overwhelming urge – to leave. I couldn’t see out of my right eye, so I didn’t see the bus eventually pulling up. My whole body felt numb, but when I slid off the stone wall, my ribs complained. Still, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. Not yet. Even when the driver got down to help me with my suitcase and looked at me as though I had just escaped from a secure facility, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
Anywhere but here.
‘Dublin,’ I answered. Dublin might be far enough. I watched the countryside slide past my window. I fucking hated those fields, the small towns with a school, a church and twelve pubs. The greyness of it, pressing in on me. I must’ve started to doze off, because I jumped, thinking he was on top of me again – my hands protecting my face. I didn’t know what to protect. He was too quick. And when he found the poker, it all fell away from me. Everything. Every hope I had. Every naive, stupid hope. I learned something in that moment; you’re on your own in this world. No one is coming to save you. People don’t suddenly change, say they’re sorry and begin to treat you with respect. They are a jumble of hurt and pain and they will take it out on whomever they can. I had to save myself.
‘Just a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich please,’ I said to the waiter, picking the cheapest item on the menu.
I’d had no luck online, so I grabbed a local newspaper and began searching for jobs. One week staying in a hostel and I was already running out of money. That’s when I saw it: Housekeeper. Live-in. I dialled the number and the very next day found myself on the steps of a very grand-looking house, knocking on the glossy black door. Madame Bowden, as I was told to address her, was like no one I had ever met. Like a character from some historical TV drama, she wore a feather boa and diamond earrings. Within five minutes, she had already regaled me with stories of her days in the Theatre Royal, dancing with the Royalettes and acting in some old plays I’d never heard of.
‘People call me eccentric, but then I call them boring, so it’s all relative. What’s your name again?’
‘Martha,’ I repeated for the third time, following her down the stairs to the basement. She had a walking stick and while she made a big production of it, she seemed agile enough. I guessed that she was probably in her eighties, but she also seemed timeless – an actress who had chosen a character to be frozen in time.
‘Now, the last girl was very happy here,’ she remarked in a tone that warned me I should feel likewise.
It was so dark, I couldn’t make anything out, save for the half window close to the ceiling, where I could see people’s feet walking past at street level. She flicked a switch using her cane and, following a moment’s blindness from the large bulb in the pendant lamp, I could see a single bed in the corner with a wardrobe on the opposite wall. Beside the door was a small kitchenette and just outside, a door led to a tiny bathroom with a shower. The lino on the floor was curling at the edges and the wallpaper similarly obliged, but I immediately felt a sense of safety. It was mine. A space I could call my own. I could close the door and not have to worry about who might beat it down.