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 of books she usually finds herself gravitating towards: books 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 a children’s book 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’sMatildaand 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 apart from to drag one of her handmade crochet blankets aroundher 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 somewhere inside her a door that she thought was locked nudges open, letting in a shaft of light.
6
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 sat behind the desk. ‘What a … unique outfit.’
Tilly is wearing her usual tweed coat with the colourful buttons, and her favourite 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 goosebumps.
Instead of heading for the adult section, Tilly opens the door to the children’s library. Everything is bright and colourful, from the plastic chairs to the hand-painted mural on the walls. There are a few groups reading at the miniature tables, the children sat in the tiny chairs and their adults crouching beside them. Tilly heads for a bookcase shaped like a castle and begins to browse.
She finishedMatildaas 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 camewith the comfort of rediscovering 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 selectsCharlie and the Chocolate Factory,Finn Family MoomintrollandGreen Eggs and Hamand 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 goes. A parent glances at her with raised eyebrows but Tilly ignores them. It is cosy 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 knit, this time a navy fisherman’s jumper, a deep green duffel coat open over the top. A pair of ill-fitting corduroy trousers are rolled up at the ankle, revealing colourful 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.
‘I guess I imagined you might think of this place as competition,’ Tilly replies. ‘You do realize all the books in here are free.’
He presses his lips tighter together. ‘Ah, sothat’swhat a library is. I’d been wondering. Actually, I’m just dropping off some old stock. Books that are readable but we can’t sell. Sun damage from the window, that kind of thing.’ He shifts the box in his arms again, and Tilly realizes the box must contain about fifty books.
‘Ah, Alfie dear,’ comes a voice behind them, the librarian greeting him warmly. ‘More books for us? Thank you, sweetheart.’
It feels strange to hear anyone call someone quite as tall and bearded as the bookseller ‘sweetheart’ but he seems to take it in his stride. Once he’s handed the books over – the librarian thanking him again effusively – he turns back to Tilly, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.
‘Your February book is waiting for you at the bookshop, you know.’
‘Right. I’ve been busy.’
There’s a silence as the excuse hangs in the air between them like a limp balloon. Tilly isn’t sure why he cares so much whether she collects the book or not. If she never visits the bookshop again he could surely resell the books, even if the thought makes her feel slightly sick.
‘I’m heading back there now,’ Alfie says. ‘I can get it for you if you’re done here?’ He glances down at the books held in her hand, then in that same hushed but rough voice adds, ‘Green Eggs and Hamis one of my favourites too.’ His eyes meet hers and she notices flecks of amber among the brown, touches of light in the dark.
She can feel her cheeks growing hot as she slips the books back on to the shelf.
‘OK,’ she says, suddenly unable to think up an excuse not to return to the bookshop and realizing that she doesn’t want to. She hadn’t thought she could finish a book and yet somehow Joe knew exactly what to pick to get her reading again.
What might he have picked for her next?
7
