This Book Made Me Think of You(11)
Even after she and Joe moved in together and eventually got married, she never felt quite good enough for the Carter family.
She’s surprised that Ellen has even bothered keeping in touch now that Joe isn’t here. She should probably return her mother-in-law’s call, but instead she reaches for her laptop, planning on sending some emails and reading some of the manuscripts she’s working on, making notes to send back to the authors. As soon as she looks at the screen, though, she realizes she’s too tired to work. But the prospect of slipping into her big empty bed doesn’t feel tempting either.
That’s when her gaze catches on the copy of Matilda that has sat on her coffee table for the last month, staring reproachfully at her. This time, instead of ignoring it, she picks it up. The edition is so fresh and crisp that the spine creaks satisfyingly as she turns the first page.
Tilly thinks back to what Harper said earlier about the book. Isn’t it aimed at seven-year-olds? The books she has tried reading over the past year have been the type she usually finds herself gravitating toward: ones that focus on complex emotions and big themes. Grown-up books. She hasn’t thought to try a children’s book. She hasn’t read one since she was a child herself, back when she was eager to graduate to the books on her mum’s shelf, books she went on to hungrily devour when she was probably too young to fully understand them.
Her eyes settle on the opening line of Roald Dahl’s Matilda, and she begins to read. It starts to rain outside, droplets hammering on the windows and the balcony doors. But Tilly doesn’t notice the sound. She doesn’t look up from the pages except to drag one of her handmade crochet blankets around her shoulders (a little lumpy but soft and warm), snuggling up with the book splayed on her lap. As she reads about a little girl who shares her name and who loves to read, the world beyond the pages of the book disappears. And inside her a door that she thought was locked nudges open, letting in a shaft of light.
Six
The Primrose Hill Community Library sits on a quiet street not far from Tilly’s flat. On Saturday morning she hesitates outside the library doors.
“Hello, dear.” She is greeted by a smiling Black woman with silver-tipped curly hair who is sitting behind the desk. “What a…unique outfit.”
Tilly is wearing her usual tweed coat with the colorful buttons and her favorite rainbow scarf, a hand-knitted green bobble hat, and matching green tights.
“Thank you,” she replies, not certain if the librarian meant it as a compliment but choosing to take it as one. Joe always said she dressed like a drunk woodland fairy, but he said it while kissing her or giving her that look that always gave her goose bumps.
Instead of heading for the adult section, Tilly opens the door to the children’s library. Everything is bright and colorful, from the plastic chairs to the hand-painted mural on the walls. There are a few groups reading at the miniature tables, children sitting in the tiny chairs with their adults crouching beside them. Tilly heads for a bookcase shaped like a castle and begins to browse.
She’d finished Matilda as the sun rose, on the sofa, where she had sat for hours without moving. Something about the story had grabbed hold of her and refused to let go. The book was funnier than she remembered and darker too. Reading it came with the comfort of reading a well-known story, but she also found new things on the pages that she hadn’t noticed as a child.
As she runs a finger across the spines, she spots books she remembers her parents reading to her before bed and those that she eventually read to herself.
She selects Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Finn Family Moomintroll, and Green Eggs and Ham and heads for the Wendy house in the library corner. She just manages to squeeze in on her hands and knees through the tiny door, her skirt hitching up as she does. A parent glances at her with raised eyebrows, but Tilly ignores them. It is cozy inside, and she spreads the books out in front of her on the carpeted floor and begins to read.
At one point a little boy peers in through the window. Tilly silently mouths, “Go away.” He seems to get the message and disappears. After a while a girl pokes her head through the Wendy house door. Tilly sniffs and wipes her eyes with her scarf. Had she been crying? Her eyes are damp in any case, and her nose drips. The little girl shrieks and rushes back to her mother on the other side of the library.
“Mummy! There’s a troll in the Wendy house!”
When the child’s mother shoots Tilly a look, she clambers reluctantly out, brushing carpet fluff from her knees. It’s then that she notices a man standing holding a large box and staring at her. It takes her a second to recognize him as the bookseller from Book Lane. He is dressed in another baggy top, this time a navy fisherman’s sweater, a deep green duffle coat open over the top. A pair of ill-fitting corduroy trousers are rolled up at the ankles, revealing colorful striped socks. His hair is just as ruffled as before, his angular face split in two by a frown. But despite the frown, his lips are pressed tightly together and his eyes sparkle, giving Tilly the impression that he is trying very hard not to laugh.
“Matilda Nightingale,” he says in a perfect library voice.
“Alfie, was it?” she replies, and he nods, readjusting the box in his arms.
“What are you doing here?” Behind them children play happily in the now-vacated Wendy house.
“What, a bookseller can’t visit a library?” There’s a twitch of movement at the left corner of his mouth, as if he was about to smile but thought better of it.