‘Poundlworld,’ frowned Mr McCredie. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘I’m taking you,’ said Carmen. Then she reconsidered. ‘No. You might have a heart attack. But just give me a bit of petty cash and trust me.’
‘I can’t believe we have … a “window display”。’
‘How … ?’ said Carmen. ‘How on earth are you a shopkeeper?’
‘I prefer “custodian”，’ said Mr McCredie, but he was too distracted by the little trains.
Carmen went back into the main house and through the rest of the old Christmas decorations, discarding the crumbling and irretrievable, but there was a surprising amount of good-quality little gold-coloured candlesticks, a beautiful ceramic nativity set, some brass angels and, loveliest and strangest of all, a doll’s house which looked not unlike Sofia’s house, with its steps up, and with perfect little rugs and beds and the dearest patterned arm chairs, blankets and curtains, but instead of little people inside were little dressed toy mice, perfect in every way, with fur and whiskers and little bright beady eyes, wearing waistcoats and spectacles, aprons and bustles. Carmen had to suppress something in her that would very much have wanted it for herself.
Then followed a rather jolly afternoon of splashing out on artificial snow and tiny strands of lights at the happy, busy Poundworld. As Carmen worked on both windows – trains on one side, doll’s house on the other – more and more people stopped by to see what they were doing, and several popped in and bought books.
Finally, at around 4 p.m., everything was ready, and Carmen stood back. She flicked the switch and suddenly, at last, the shop was alive: the lights of the train and the stations and the little lamp-post that came with the house glowed golden and beautiful, as did the working fairy lights that she had hung in the tiny windows of the house itself. And the little train, now with a tiny holly wreath round its front engine, tootled on towards the tunnel before the station, and at last, on the busy thoroughfare that is Victoria Street at Christmastime – at last, there was a crowd outside their shop.
Carmen put up a sign – ‘Children’s Story Time: 4 p.m. on Wednesday’ and for once was happy as she locked up the shop （she had decided to take over the keys, given Mr McCredie’s rather lackadaisical approach）。
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
Mr McCredie shook his head.
‘What? Oh,’ he said, mumbling slightly.
‘What?’ asked Carmen. ‘Well. I have always loved my books. But … I don’t think I have ever enjoyed being a shopkeeper before.’
Which sent Carmen home in such a good mood that it made it even odder that that night she had the dream.
That night, bundled in the single bed at the bottom of her sister’s house. Carmen had the oddest dream. She was on a train.
It was an old-fashioned sort of train, with compartments rather than everyone sitting in the open, and she was sitting on a long seat, covered in a dusty, carpet-like material, with straps above and a mesh luggage rack.
Outside the old window, which was also covered in mesh for some reason, she could catch a glimpse of the snowy woods the train was hastening through, with a clickety-clack on wooden rails that felt oddly comforting.
She realised suddenly that she wasn’t alone in the carriage and looked up sharply. A woman wearing a pink hat so close to her head it appeared to be moulded on looked up too and smiled sweetly. She was wearing pink lipstick and reading a book called Up on the Rooftops.
‘Tell him,’ she said pleasantly, but as she spoke Carmen knew they were growing closer and closer to a tunnel, even as the snow fell more and more thickly and the train sped up and the woman opened her mouth wider so she could speak above the shrill sound of the whistle blowing as the tunnel got closer and closer and the noise got louder and louder and the woman’s mouth got wider and wider and she was saying something, screaming something, but they crashed into the tunnel, and Carmen jolted and woke up, completely confused and unable to recognise where she was, frozen. It was pitch-black outside, but according to her phone it was after 7 a.m.