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.
I dragged the desk over to the corner by the window, so I had good light and a full view of the shop. I found a sturdy carver chair, also in dark wood and upholstered with a deep red and gold brocade. Rather unconsciously, I found myself modelling my surroundings on those of Shakespeare and Company. The memory made my heart lurch and I wished I could speak to Sylvia, ask her advice. But I knew what she would say, to trust my gut. And my gut was telling me that it was all well and good dreaming of printing my first catalogue of rare books, but I had to get some customers first. Let people know I was open for business.
And so I sat at my desk for the first time, placed the card in front of me and, with the pen suspended in mid-air, realised I hadn’t even come up with a name for the shop.
‘Gray Books?’ I said aloud to no one but myself. It sounded terribly dull. ‘Please, step inside and buy some grey books!’ I chattered to myself, realising that my new pseudonym wouldn’t do at all. I tried to think of my favourite book titles.
‘Wuthering Books?’ Again, such dreary names would never attract customers. I immediately thought of Emily Bront?’s pseudonym – Ellis Bell. Bell Books? Or Belle Books, to add a little French flair?
‘Perfect!’ I said, congratulating myself, and in my best handwriting wrote the new name and ‘Rare and Used Books for Sale’ in smaller writing underneath. I put it in the window and nodded my head with satisfaction. No matter what came, I had my books, and in the quiet morning air, I could hear their breathing, patient and steady. Like the resonance of a piano note held in the air long after it’s been played.
I jumped when the bell above the door rang shrilly and turned to see my first customer.
‘I’ve come to buy a book, if that’s all right.’
It was Matthew. I blushed momentarily at the memory of my outburst and how he had held me in his arms. I hadn’t seen him since, despite the fact that he lived next door.
‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place!’ I said, a little redundantly. He moved about the shop, noting the changes I had made with a nod of his head. He was a tall man with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that seemed to curl at the ends. He held the brim of his hat between his fingers, as though he were afraid to leave it down. That if he did, he might wish to stay.
‘What books do you generally like to read?’ I asked, busying myself with rearranging some stationery.
‘Oh, non-fiction generally,’ he said, turning briefly to face me before noticing my attire. ‘Are … are they my father’s work trousers?’
I blushed. I didn’t think he’d notice. Not the fact that I was wearing trousers （everyone who came into the shop noticed that） but that they didn’t belong to me.
‘I found them in the attic. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, failing to hide a bemused look.
‘I have some new non-fiction over here if you’d like …’ I began, changing the subject.
‘Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for my son. Ollie.’
I had to prise information from him; not because he was unwilling to give it, but because he seemed to think I wouldn’t be interested. Was I interested? I felt as though I should be. Women were supposed to be interested in children, after all. Yet it struck me that being a woman was akin to a performance, with its cues and lines that had to be learned. I knew how I was supposed to act and what I was supposed to say, I just wasn’t exactly sure if I wanted to.
‘He has a vivid imagination,’ he said, keeping his sentences short yet heavy with implication.
‘You say that as though it’s a bad thing, Mr Fitzpatrick.’
‘Matthew, please.’
‘Has he read any of the Oz books?’
I went to the window and took the first in the series down from the shelf.
‘What are they about?’
‘Well, they’re about a great wizard who lives in an emerald city—’
‘I don’t think so, Miss …’
‘Opaline, please.’
‘Opaline. His mother wishes him to follow the family business.’
I panicked for a moment, thinking I would become unemployed and homeless yet again.
‘Her father’s business. Banking.’
‘Ah,’ I said, looking around the shop for anything that would suit a young banker. Nothing. The silence made me feel uncomfortable until the cuckoo clock announced the hour and made us both jump.
‘Would you like some tea?’ I wasn’t sure why I said it. Possibly because I was certain he would refuse, but he surprised us both by saying yes. I went downstairs and put some things on a tray.
‘So, is it going well?’ he called down the stairs.
I wasn’t sure if he was concerned about the business or my ability to pay the rent.
‘Well enough,’ I called back.
‘I see you’ve managed to incorporate my father’s antiques with your books. Very clever.’
I peeped out from the door and saw him standing by the maritime section I had created, with Moby-Dick and Robinson Crusoe floating on a blue muslin sea with mermaids and boats sailing in impossibly tiny bottles. I even had a copy of Peter Pan there, with a toy crocodile snapping at the corners.
‘This is truly fantastic,’ he said, finally coming to life. ‘The shop seems … bigger somehow.’
I went back to the kitchen and turned on the tap, but no water was forthcoming. The pipes gurgled and belched like someone with bad indigestion. I let it run until it spluttered and clanged and then was silent. I stood back and put my hands on my hips. It didn’t make any sense, just like the attic door or the copy of Dracula falling from the shelf. I climbed the stairs, the kettle still in my hand.