After a moment’s pause, he got up and with a curt bow, turned to leave.
‘Fog,’ he said, his back turned to me.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You are wondering how I ended up here. Fog. And engine problems.’
He turned back and lit another cigarette.
‘We took off from Bordeaux. It was the end of the summer, last year. Six of us crew flying a Condor for weather reconnaissance.’
All of that time I was wasting away behind barred windows, the world had been at war.
‘We had to ditch somewhere along the south coast. Policemen found us. Took us to the internment camp and I have stayed there since.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s not so bad. You see, we have much freedoms.’
‘You were fighting for that madman Hitler?’
He blew cigarette smoke skyward and grunted bitterly. ‘You think we had a choice?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know. I thought of Lyndon then. The rumours about the shootings for cowardice.
‘I suppose all Germans were conscripted.’
‘I am not German.’
A car drove by and the lights dazzled me. I got to my feet.
‘Perhaps I should get back,’ he said.
He bowed curtly before unbolting the door.
‘I am Austrian. Good evening, Fr?ulein.’
Over the following weeks, Herr Wolffe began to leave little parcels of food and wood for fuel in the basement. I never saw him arrive or leave. I would simply see a package wrapped in brown paper with a large ‘W’ written on a blank note. There was even a package with some worn but perfectly functional clothing, wherever he had managed to source it.
As I regained my strength, my desire to reclaim my old life grew, the life that Lyndon had tried to take away from me. But that required finance, and the only thing I owned that was worth anything was the Bront? manuscript. And so I did something rash – I wrote to Abe Rosenbach. I told him of the provenance and that there was no doubt in my mind, the manuscript was a draft of Emily’s second novel. He was one of the most powerful men in the book world and the richest. He would take the risk.
So I dangled the opportunity in front of him with a carefully worded letter, before finding the courage to complete the second part of my task: finding Matthew and my manuscript.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I-I’m looking to speak with Mr Fitzpatrick. Matthew Fitzpatrick.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Fitzpatrick no longer works here. Can someone else be of assistance?’
I fidgeted with my hands and then shoved them deep into my pockets. Matthew had been my one constant from the moment I arrived in Dublin. When I thought of him, I thought of things being right. Now everything felt wrong again.
‘Madam? Can I help you with anything?’
‘Where is he? I mean, when did he leave?’
‘I’m not permitted to give out private information.’
My only friend from the past was no longer here, and what did that mean for my manuscript? I had to believe that Matthew would have kept it safe for me.
‘It’s just that he was keeping something of significant value for me and I’ve come to claim it.’
‘I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I suppose it doesn’t make much difference now. Mr Fitzpatrick, Matthew, was killed just over a year ago.’
I could hardly speak.
‘B-but that’s not possible!’ She was telling the wrong story. A story about somebody else. ‘There must be some mistake …’
‘The Germans had just begun bombing London.’
‘No, that can’t be right. Matthew wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t in the army—’
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s difficult. He was visiting family there. It was simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
I couldn’t make sense out of it. All this time he was gone and I hadn’t even known. My time at St Agnes’s was still stealing things from me. I felt completely robbed of everything I’d known.
‘If you could give me your name, I will check the records and see if there is anything outstanding in his files,’ she suggested, softer now that she could see my distress.
‘Um, yes. Opaline Carlisle. Or perhaps Gray, I’m not sure.’
She checked and rechecked. There was nothing. Wherever he had put my manuscript, he had not left a paper trail. It was as I would have wanted, total secrecy, but neither of us had known then what was to come. Now I had no way of getting it back and in that moment, I no longer cared.
Josef visited again and helped me to unpack what remained in the attic. I found more of my belongings, some boxes with my books neatly packed inside, and one of the old mechanical bird music boxes belonging to Mr Fitzpatrick. It was broken.
‘There’s nothing more sad than a tuneless bird,’ I said and put it aside.
When I looked up he was staring at me, thoughtfully.
‘You must open the shop again.’
The wooden shelves seemed to whine a plaintive sound. He might as well have suggested I fly to the moon.
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘Why not?’
It was always so simple for men. Just do this or that, whatever you please.
‘For one thing, no one is supposed to know I’m here. My prison is far stricter than yours and if anyone found out … The thought of going back there …’
I hadn’t realised I was shaking. He put down what he was doing and came to me, putting his arms around me. I was a little stunned at the proximity, but it felt overwhelmingly good to have human contact again. Kindness. He broke away before I did.
‘I am sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
After a moment, we both smiled.
‘It’s a shame,’ he continued, opening another box of books. ‘It must have been a wonderful shop.’
‘It was.’
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to remember how it once looked. To feel the warmth of customers coming inside and finding the one thing they didn’t know they were looking for. Could I do it? Could I afford not to? Without my manuscript to sell, I had no way of providing for myself. I couldn’t keep relying on Josef’s charity. It was sheer luck that he had helped me in the first place. He saved my life. Perhaps he was right. What was the point in gaining my freedom, only to remain locked inside?
‘I would have to be careful,’ I said, and his broad smile gave me a tickle of hope.
The shop began trading quietly and without fanfare. I simply opened the door and invariably people began to wander inside. I used the money from whatever sold to begin restocking the shop properly, as well as stocking my larder. I could even afford some essential items that now seemed like luxuries. I bought soap, undergarments and a brand-new pair of shoes. I began to see a way forward again. I suppressed my worries about being found out; as long as Lyndon believed I was still in St Agnes’s and Dr Lynch kept receiving the money, they would have no reason to bother me. Little by little, I returned to myself. Bruised but still intact – and that was more than some.
Reliance is something that happens without you noticing it. In the weeks that followed the shop’s reopening, I grew to lean on Josef and his quiet, dependable ways. He asked nothing of me and sometimes I couldn’t quite work out why he returned, day after day, without ever questioning the past or the future. Perhaps it was because he was not one to discard broken things. I discovered that about him the day he arrived at the shop with the tiniest tools I had ever seen, rolled up in a satchel.