The Lost Bookshop(90)

‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.

‘It sort of found me. Stories sometimes do. Like the one on my back.’

Her tattoo. I wanted to ask what it was, but before I said it, she asked about the rest of Opaline’s papers and I was glad of the distraction. Thinking about the last time I saw her tattoo, dancing with her, holding her in my arms, it was too much.

‘Oh, yes. There were bundles of letters written by Opaline that were never sent. It seems a bit sporadic, maybe some got through the gates and some didn’t. They don’t make for easy reading, I can tell you that. I don’t know how she survived. But she must have – we have the letter to Sylvia which proves that.’

‘And the book,’ Martha said.

Even if I never found the manuscript, I had the makings of a very interesting paper on a woman who had been one of the most prominent book dealers in Ireland who was nevertheless locked up on the word of her brother. It didn’t seem to matter how talented, intelligent or independent a woman was, she was still seen as the property of a man, to do with as he pleased.

‘I’m afraid I have to get back to the library,’ I said, rising rather abruptly and putting on my jacket.

There was a beat before Martha reacted. Had she wanted me to stay? I would never know and I wasn’t going to make a fool of myself by asking.

‘Could I take the book with me? I’m trying to finish the paper I’ve been working on. Hopefully I’ll still be able to get some funding for it.’

She hesitated, so I suggested a trade. Opaline’s papers for the book.

‘Actually, there’s a photo inside. Would you like to see?’

She nodded enthusiastically. It was endearing to see her enthusiasm for this woman she never knew. It was not a terribly flattering photo. There were several women lined up in front of a dining table, their hands clasped, no smiles. Perhaps it was taken for the families who paid for their keep? There was no writing on the back. Martha cocked her head to one side, then asked if I had a magnifying glass.

‘Not on me, no,’ I joked, but it went over her head. ‘What is it?’

‘Maybe nothing.’

‘You can’t say that!’

She squinted and held the photograph close to her face.

‘It’s her skirt. It looks like there’s something written on it.’

‘It’s hard to tell,’ I said, looking at the grainy black and white image. When I looked back at Martha her expression had changed.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Hmm? Oh, it’s nothing, I’ve just realised the time, Madame Bowden will be back soon.’

With that she almost shoved me out of the door and I found myself back on Ha'penny Lane wondering what it was that I was missing.





Chapter Forty-Nine





OPALINE





Dublin, 1941


‘Guten Abend, Fr?ulein.’

I didn’t know how to respond, or why he was speaking in German. I wrapped the sliver of a shawl tightly around myself, as if it offered any protection. I thought I’d heard something and had come down from the attic to check.

Following my escape from St Agnes’s, I had made my way back to Ha'penny and was relieved to find the shop still standing. It was like a dream, where things were both familiar and yet strange. Like Miss Havisham, the shop seemed to have halted the passing of time after I was taken away. the front door opened at my touch and even the brass handle felt like the soft muzzle of a long-lost family pet. Things had decayed and deteriorated and most of my belongings were missing. The windows of the shop were all boarded up. I had dragged my mattress up to the attic – the basement was far too cold – with only tap water to fill my belly. After the elation of gaining my freedom, a tremendous tiredness had come over me and I couldn’t do anything to help myself. Days had passed with no human contact and now I was standing face to face with this man.

He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and proceeded to light one. He offered the packet to me, as if this situation were perfectly natural and I wasn’t noticeably shivering with fear. Still, he said nothing, he simply leaned against the wall, casual and unhurried. He was a tall man, with dark blonde hair slicked back and piercing blue eyes. I could see now that he wore an army uniform, a khaki jacket with an eagle sewn on the breast.

‘How did you get in here?’ I asked, hardly trusting my voice, which croaked from neglect.

‘The window in the basement. It is not locked.’

I had checked it myself. Either he was lying, or …

‘Who are you?’

‘Josef Wolffe. Zu Ihren Diensten.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t speak German,’ I said.

‘You are alone.’

It was more of a statement than a question. I didn’t reply. Life continued on the street outside as we stood there, figuring one another out. Friend or foe?

‘Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.’

Every muscle in my body was tense. He simply nodded, as though this entire situation were commonplace. He looked around the shop, taking his time, then looked me over. What did he see?

‘I come here, sometimes. To read.’ He nodded towards the small pile of books that still remained on the bottom shelf. My books.