Like so often in life, Alfie has no idea what to do with his hands. They feel awkward hanging at his sides as he walks next to Matilda Nightingale, back to the bookshop, so he thrusts them into his coat pockets.
‘I want to apologize for the way I acted last time.’
He turns at the sound of her voice. Her rainbow scarf is wrapped tightly around her neck and chin, her nose poking out and bright pink from the cold. There are pink patches on her cheeks, her freckles standing out against her pale skin. Alfie isn’t sure if he’s ever seen so many freckles on one person before.
‘You’ve got nothing to apologize for.’
Her forehead creases as she replies. ‘But I shouldn’t have snapped like that. You were just doing your job. I’m sorry.’ There’s a softness to her voice that wasn’t there when she visited the shop the last time. She sounds so defeated and tired that he’d rather she were snapping at him.
‘It must have been a shock for you. If I knew my dad had left me a gift like that I would have wanted to open them all then and there too. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself …’
His words come out before he can stop them and he is aware of her turning to look at him, her eyes studying his face. They are a striking shade of grey tinged with green, reminding Alfie of verdite, not that he’s sure she’d particularly appreciate having her eyes compared to a microcrystalline metamorphic rock. Women haven’t seemed to in the past.
She is still looking at him, so he says, ‘He died seven years ago. Not that it feels that long ago.’
A ripple of something spreads across her face. ‘I’m sorry. Although you were right last time – I wish there was something better to say.’
‘There isn’t really, though, is there? And I reallyamsorry about your husband. That must be a whole other realm of shit.’
There’s a noise beside him, something that sounds halfway between a cough and maybe … a laugh? He sneaks a glance at her and sees her lips are curved upwards in a small smile.
‘Yes, that’s about right.’
They have reached the bookshop now, the two of them stood opposite one another outside the window. Seeing it like this, Alfie experiences a little rush of pride. The street around them is dull and grey, the trees lifeless, the road’s window boxes filled with nothing but dirt and ice, but the window of his shop shines brightly. Despite the promise of warmth inside, Matilda Nightingale doesn’t move, so Alfie doesn’t either. There’s a biting breeze and it tugs at her hair, tangling marmalade strands around her face.
‘I’m sorry to insist on the whole one book per month thing,’ he supplies when she says nothing. ‘But Joe really wanted you to have books to look forward to opening for the whole year.’
‘That’s really sweet,’ she replies, her voice tight.
‘I thought so too. And hopefully this month’s book will be worth the wait?’ He holds open the door for her. She doesn’t even have to duck to pass under his arm, and as she does he catches a brief snatch of the smell of apples and a hint of what might be tea.
‘Let me introduce you to the rest of the team. Prudence, Blue … Matilda Nightingale is here for her February book.’
Prudence looks up from behind the counter, a silver-haired white woman who has a bouquet of floral clips in her hair thatchange with the seasons. Today they are stems of snowdrops. She is dressed in several layers of cardigans and her usual array of jangly jewellery. She has worked part-time at the bookshop for several years, ever since she decided retirement wasn’t for her. Prudence likes to tell people she is sixty but he knows from her employment documents that she is seventy-five. He doubts if retirement will ever be ‘for her’.
On a ladder propped against the bookshelves Blue turns around from where she’d been shelving books. Her large brown eyes smile down at them both, the same shade as her arms which are currently bare beneath a plain white T-shirt. She seems to have no feel for the cold, something that has caused more than a few disagreements between the two of them over the years about the correct temperature to heat a room. Alfie met Blue at university, where they studied different courses but were both part of the same amateur theatre group. Alfie gave up when he quickly realized he was terrible at acting, but Blue still performs when she’s not working part-time at the shop.
‘And this is Georgette,’ he says, reaching out to stroke the tabby sprawled over the paperwork on his desk, ‘the fourth member of the Book Lane team.’
‘So you’re the customer with the mysterious year of books,’ says Prudence, stepping out from behind the counter. ‘We’re all so sorry for your loss. Is it OK if I give you a hug?’
Alfie is just about to try and rein Prudence in (not that trying to rein Prudence in ever particularly works) but she already has her arms around Matilda Nightingale, and to his surprise it seems she doesn’t mind at all. Any earlier frostiness melts away and she sinks into the older woman’s arms. When they step apart they are both smiling. And that’s the power of a Prudence Silver hug. Alfie should know. He’s had more than a few over the years.
‘Let me get you your next book,’ he says, turning to the collection shelf. ‘Did you enjoy your first book, by the way?’
‘I did, actually. It’s been a long time since I last read a children’s book. I’d forgotten how good they are.’
‘I rereadThe Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobeevery Christmas,’ he admits. ‘There’s something comforting about knowing how a story is going to end.’
He realizes that Matilda is looking at him a little strangely and he clears his voice and hands the book over, this time tied with a purple ribbon. ‘Here you go.’
She takes the book in two hands, her arms sagging with the weight of it.
‘Wow. Well, I’m guessing this one isn’t a children’s book. Thanks. I’m glad I came back.’
She looks up at him and Alfie blinks quickly, pushing his glasses up his nose.
‘So are we.’
