I think about the long, meandering conversations Elliot and I have had in the days since we met; the shared confidences, the nights spent whispering in the darkness rather than falling asleep. I’m not lying when I say he knows me better than anyone else; that, in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve told him things I’ve never told anyone in my life. I’m not lying when I say I knowhim.
But I also know Dad’s right: there’s no more of a future for me and Elliot than there was for his great-grandfather and the woman in the photo. I know that it would be stupid of me to think otherwise.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I say lightly, turning to the nearest bookshelf and starting to rearrange it, even though we haven’t had any customers to mess it up first. “I’m not going anywhere. You can trust me on that.”
Dad clears his throat in gruff acknowledgement and goes shuffling off to the back of the shop to switch the kettle on, leaving me alone with my books and my thoughts.
I’m not going anywhere.That much is obvious.
But, all of a sudden, I think I really want to.
The Bramblebury village library is very old, and it's almost as cold inside as it is out on the street. I wrap my arms around myself to warm myself up as Maisie Poole, the chief — and, indeed, only — librarian, comes bustling over, her eyes lightingup at the sight of Elliot, and the opportunity for fresh gossip he brings with him.
“Holly,” she exclaims. “What a treat! Coming to check out the competition, are you? And this must be your American!”
She looks at him speculatively, her little sparrow-eyes taking in every detail so she can report back to her sister Elsie — and the rest of the village — later. It occurs to me that if she ever fancies a change of career, she’d probably make a pretty decent writer herself, with the way she hoards nuggets of information the way a squirrel stores up nuts for the winter. She should give it a try.
“Hi, I’m Elliot,” says the American in question, holding out a hand, which Maisie shakes in the manner of a queen granting an audience to one of her grateful subjects. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Oh, heisa charmer, isn’t he?” says Masie, her tone failing to make it clear whether she means this as a compliment or not. “And what can I do for you two lovebirds, then?”
I explain as briefly as I can that we’re looking for information on a woman who might have lived in the village a long time ago.
“This is all we have to go on, I’m afraid,” says Elliot, pulling the photograph of his grandfather and the mystery woman out of his wallet. “I know it’s not much, but we’re really hoping you might be able to help. Anything you can tell us at all would be amazing, really. We’re kind of desperate here.”
I glance up at him, a little surprised by how seriously he’s taking this ‘research’ of ours.
I thought we were just going to make something up if we couldn’t track down the mystery woman? I didn’t realize we were ‘desperate’?
“Dad thought the uniform might be ATS?” I put in. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that, Maisie.”
Maisie’s lips pucker with annoyance under their frosted-pink lipstick.
“I’m not quitethatold, Holly,” she says, sniffing. “I wasn’t even born during the war, you know. Although I suppose anyone over 30 seems ancient to you.”
Elliot and I exchange glances.
“Holly tells me if there’s something you don’t know, it’s probably not worth knowing,” he says, jumping in smoothly to rescue me. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re so good at your job.”
My muscles tense as I wait for Maisie to figure out that I told him that in relation to gossip, not to her job at the library, but, to my relief, she just reaches up and pats her hair self-consciously.
“Some people have been known to call me the Queen of the Library,” she says, trying and failing to sound modest. “I wouldn’t say thatmyself, you understand, but, well, thereisa reason the library is doing so well these days. Not that the bookstore isn’t, too,” she adds quickly, turning to me. “Howisyour poor father, Holly? It’s a difficult time of year for you both, isn’t it?”
Maisie tilts her head to the side sympathetically, as if she hasn’t spent the last decade pretending the library and bookstore are two rival gangs in a literary turf war, each struggling for dominance over the town of Bramblebury.
Yes, she should definitely be a fiction writer, if she ever quits the library.
“We’re fine, Maisie, thank you,” I reply, suppressing the urge to square up to her like an extra fromWest Side Storypreparing for a dance-off. “But the woman in the photo? Do you think you can help us figure out who she was?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, remembering the reason for our visit at last. “The Auxiliary Territorial Service, wasn’t it? I think wemighthave something on that somewhere, but I’ll have to check when I can find a spare second. I’m rushed off my feet here, as usual.”
She indicates the room we’re standing in, which is empty but for the three of us, and has a faint aroma of mildew and neglect.
“Leave it with me, though,” Maisie adds, with a martyred expression. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. Why do you want to know, though? Who do you think this woman is?”
Her eyes light up at the thought of fresh gossip material.
“We’re not sure,” Elliot replies, saving me the trouble. “It’s a bit of a mystery, unfortunately. This is all I know.”
