The Lost Bookshop(34)

‘I see,’ I said aloud. ‘Like that, is it?’

I got up and dusted myself down, trying not to take the idiosyncrasies of an old building personally. A tiny window with a circular pane, opaque with green lichen, was the only source of light. I found a Victrola gramophone and immediately set it aside to bring downstairs. At first glance, it looked like an old museum with glinting treasure peeking out from under dustsheets. There was a telescope in the far corner behind bits of old furniture and lots of boxes. On a shelf I spotted a pair of workman’s trousers and looked down at my impractical skirt, covered in dust and worn in places. Decision made, I slipped it off and pulled on the tan-coloured trousers. They weren’t a bad fit and I pulled the belt through the loops, securing it around my waist. Mr Fitzpatrick must have been a rather slender man, as well as being a conscientious one, as they were neat as a new pin. Slightly too long in the leg, though, so I turned up the hem once and then twice, until I could see the heel of my boot. Catching sight of myself in a cheval mirror, which was amusingly strung with feather boas, I smiled at my reflection.

‘Hello, Miss Carlisle,’ I said, turning from side to side. I ran my hands through my hair and held it back, giving myself an androgynous look. My blouse looked remarkably well, tucked into the trousers, and I only wished I had a cravat to finish off the look, like the Parisian author, Colette. Perhaps I could also be known purely by my Christian name and conceal my identity. Opaline, however, was not a very common name. ‘Hello, Miss …’ I spotted a book lying on the dusty floor. The Picture of Dorian Gray. ‘Hello, Miss Gray.’ Not bad.

Keen to investigate the rare book dealers in Dublin city and see what could be picked up, I set out and walked across the humpbacked Ha'penny Bridge, like the spine of a whale decorated with lamps, to visit Webb’s bookshop on the quays. Sylvia had mentioned the name to me before I left, and the only way I could retain the information was to picture a spider’s web. I took a moment to lean against the iron railing and looked up at the green domes of the cathedral and the Four Courts. My eyes followed the River Liffey as it flowed down towards The Custom House, which had only recently been burned out by the Irish Republican Army. Joyce had neglected to mention that the country was in the middle of a civil war when he suggested I escape here. From the frying pan into the fire, as they say.

Wearing a man’s trousers and using a pseudonym, I felt like I was playing the part of an actress. Mr Hanna was one of those rare types who took absolutely no notice of my appearance and instead filled a box with some popular titles to ‘keep me ticking over’, as he put it. At the mere mention of James Joyce, it seemed my good reputation was sealed. I had a quick scan through his Dickens collection, just in case my father’s copy of David Copperfield was among them. It had become a little habit of mine, a way of keeping him close to my heart. It was a rare edition, and I could tell with a glance that it wasn’t there. No matter, I said to myself. I will find it one day.

Armed with my new books and a list of distributors I could call on, I arrived back at Ha'penny Lane with renewed purpose. I looked around the shop, at the rich green walls and the little Tiffany lamps shedding their colourful glow on all the treasures that had held their breath, waiting for the doors to reopen after Mr Fitzpatrick’s death. It almost felt like Sleeping Beauty’s room in the tower and I needed to find the spell to waken her. I had insisted on keeping all of Mr Fitzpatrick’s stock, for the shop would have looked bare with only my small bookcase of titles to furnish it, yet I had no idea how these two ideas would merge. I first looked at the window display, which hadn’t changed in all the time the shop had been closed. If I wanted to entice customers inside, I had to use my imagination. There was a carousel with a winding mechanism which played a jolly fairground tune while the horses elegantly turned around and around. A string of pearls and other costume jewellery were draped artfully over a coffret, and overhead, various multi-coloured hot-air balloons with baskets were strung from the ceiling. That was when inspiration struck.

I opened the box of books from Mr Hanna and found just what I was looking for: the Oz books by L. Frank Baum. They were utterly magical and would fit perfectly with the hot-air balloons. I would use Mr Fitzpatrick’s curiosities to create a visual storyline for the books. I was so pleased with myself that I hardly noticed the hours passing by, as I played what felt like a parlour game of matching books with their props. I had received several Beatrix Potter books, which were always so popular with children, and magically found two little velvet rabbits with bows at their necks. The window now had the enticing look of a treasure chest – albeit slightly skewed towards a younger clientele. No matter, I thought. They were the true pioneers of every family and would lead their parents through any street or thicket to chase their hearts’ desires. In any case, I set up a little trestle table outside with some cheap second-hand books, which could always tempt the passer-by.

It was just missing one thing: a sign. I searched for a piece of card, which of course I found in the stationery section, a rich cream vellum, and spied a beautiful calligraphy pen held on a piece of marble. That was when I realised that I had no desk. I found the perfect specimen – a rich walnut console table, which was currently displaying an alarmingly large collection of ceramic frogs in all shapes, sizes and poses. That was the amusing thing about collecting: you never knew what would hold value, nor to whom. Were we all preconditioned to love certain things? A moment in childhood, lost to memory but indelibly marked on our souls? To me, the promise of finding what I did not know I was looking for was the lure of the game.