PROLOGUE
1964
The woman hovering in the antiquarian section is a regular customer within my shadowy ocean blue walls. She is kind and thoughtful, though furtive of late—constantly hiding the evidence of her book-buying habit. She sits on the cracked leather sofa and begins to turn the pages of the book she has taken from the shelf. The moment comes when she decides to buy it—a shift, a shimmer of anticipation. I know the moment well. She approaches the counter, chats briefly, tucks the wrapped brown paper package beneath the contents of her bag. And I know (though don’t ask me how) that when she reaches home, she will hide the package before greeting her husband, to prove her bags are filled only with necessities; no new books to earn his ire. But the woman lives for the books and will keep collecting despite the teetering piles that fill whole rooms of her enormous house. Visits here will be her happy reprieve.
Book collectors can become obsessed. It can become an addiction, fed by the lure of undiscovered treasure: that last volume in their collection about ancient Greece or steam trains. That first edition, exquisitely vellum-bound; the elusive signature of a notable author; that rare, illustrated copy with annotated endpapers. It must be found and possessed.
But booksellers can be equally passionate. Behind the counter stands a girl. She is nineteen now, so no longer a girl I suppose, but I am old, and time is circular. She—the girl—is the spine of this story. In here, her heart patters for the items locked inside the rare book cabinet, but outside she laughs and rides her bicycle through the rain. In winter, she walks barefoot on ice-brittle grass, and when the summer sun arcs its shimmering path across a cobalt sky, she makes love to her paramour beneath the river elms. She saves and plans to travel; to climb mountains and watch fishing boats return to the bustling waterfront in Tangier. She dreams of attending a Beatles concert, of wearing a miniskirt as the girls in London do. She sees a radiant, glittering future alive with promise. She is wrong, of course. I know exactly what happens.
Her early chapters will be lived here, inside my walls. She will enjoy my sanctuary for some years before the cataclysm; a violence that will split her life in two. She will live her later chapters on the run, always looking over her shoulder.
The girl will know love and experience unfathomable loss. Her sweetness means she will suffer for others. But she will seek knowledge, learn to lean into pain, to understand what it means to exist. She will become a book collector, with an interest in Celtic mythology. She likes the way it embraces feminineintuition and spiritual wisdom, the cycles of the seasons and the veil between the worlds. It symbolises a lifeout there. For now, though, she is satisfied with here. She ponders love and fate and the smell of a rose. She studies and partakes in humble, simple pleasures: wine and dance and song. She waxes the drawers of the old mahogany cabinet full of brittle maps of shipping routes and distant continents. She polishes the glass display cabinet and runs her fingers over the precious books within. She enjoys the font, the hand-tooled leather bindings, the gilt edges of the pages.
The girl will see more birthdays than most. But nine or ninety years, we are all here on Earth briefly, my dears. Time is gloriously absurd! A blink, a slip, a crinkle.
For now, she is here, wrapping a book, giving change, smiling at her customer. I will give one piece of advice, if I may, to both the girl and the woman collector who is hurrying out the door: books bring knowledge, but they are no substitute for life. You mustlive. Through the winter and its storms, you must endure before yielding to the first buds of spring. And if you learn to live alongside your past, to walk with it while the raven flies, you will better understand the balance of the seasons. You will find power within. That is the fullness of life.
So, read my books, but listen to your intuition. Live for the day and love with all your heart. The girl behind my counter will one day return to share her final lesson with us. Curl up, my dears, and turn the pages of her story. Andwelcometo The Bookshop of Buried Pasts.
1
PHYLLIDA
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
There is little reason why this, the most perfect day, should not be the one she chooses. A day when the sun’s rays spread like golden treacle on her shoulders, and ducklings still bearing downy coats of newness follow their mother down Sprouts Lane. A day when the breeze is gentle, and the grass is freshly mown, throwing scents of earth heavenward; when children screech and giggle in the nearby playground, and the most delicious quiche, warm and eggy, has been magicked up for a morsel of lunch. Indeed, there is no reason at all why a day as lovely as this should not be the one that Phyllida Banks selects as her last.
She has carefully stored the remaining quiche in her best Tupperware container inside the fridge for Mary to find tomorrow. Over the past week she has tidied up her bookshop and cleaned out her cupboards. She has tied her important paperwork together with string, sorted her emails, finalised finances and boxed upclothes for the charity shop. Then, thinking of Mary, and the raft of jobs her dear friend will no doubt take it upon herself to complete, she has cut up her old undergarments for rags and put them in bags, before disposing of her almost-finished toiletries and paying the pharmacy bill. Now, as darkness finally falls and she can be sure Mary won’t pop in from next door to borrow a screwdriver or deliver some newly picked zucchini, Phyllida sits on the edge of her bed and regards the envelope.
It has taken a week to draft this letter to Lottie. Phyllida has thought it through carefully. Sheknowsher granddaughter will be all right. She has supported Lottie through some difficult weeks recently, but the girl is more courageous than she realises. There are plenty of surprises to come, but Lottie is strong enough to deal with them.
Phyllida has lived a full life—eighty years—and nothing is forever. Yes, she has recently learned some upsetting news, and yes, she has spent her life running from her past, but she has worked hard to ensure her life was not one long bus ride through guilt and grief. She has tried her best to be a contributor, and she has had some success. Her stop is coming up, that’s all. Time to ring the bell. Perhaps not the happiest ending, but not the saddest either. She has only one regret: that she has never been reunited with Francis. But some things are impossible. The upside is that she might soon be with David again.
Dear, darling David.A truly wonderful boy. She is the luckiest woman alive, for a few minutes more at least. The pain of her past had hurt so much less when he had been alive, because as he had grown from a child to a man, she had learned to live again. His death had been penance for the sins of her past—sheknows that. But she has endured. And soon, they will sit together in whatever part of the ether he is hovering in, and they will watch those who remain, as night becomes day again.
Phyllida props the letter up on her nightstand, neat and straight against her tub of face cream.
She pushes herself off the bed and reaches for her best nightgown. She lets the blind down; a necessity if she is to be found quickly. Mary always checks that the blind is up in the mornings. It will be a rude shock for her friend to walk into. For fifty years they have shared their lives on this street, in this lively village. Rarely have either of them ventured far. Well, apologies to Mary, but needs must.
Phyllida shivers into the stiff cotton fabric of her nightgown. The cottage is cool, despite the summery day. The whole place needs fixing up—new heating, new roof. She has barely spent an unnecessary penny on this place in all the decades she’s owned it. The discomforts of her small life keep her agile. Wood must be stacked and carried. Fires must be coaxed and grates must be cleaned. A cold nose above the blankets in winter reminds one that the seasons are in charge; that spring warmth is best appreciated after the swell of anticipation. Comfort is in the work and the work is her comfort.
There was a lesson in that, she came to realise, as the years shortened, and her spreadsheets lengthened. One does not need much. And the secondary lesson, it seems, is that discipline pays. If one does some research about price earnings ratios and dividend yields and compounding interest, and one rarely spends a penny of the capital sum, well, it is incredible how a nest egg can grow. She glances down at the letter. Lottie is bound tobe surprised. She supposes nobody will be able to believe it, really.Old Phyllida Banks. Who would have thought?
She reaches out and opens the box that holds the pills. She’s researched carefully. This is the right amount and the right sort. She has grappled with what she is about to do, wondering if David will understand her wish to join him on the other side, and if Francis will forgive her, should he ever hear of it. God is on board, at least. In her prayers, their discussions felt peaceful. Right and honest.Do as you like, dear. It’s called free will.She is a benevolent being, Phyllida’s God. Open to all interpretations, and practical too.
Open, tip, pour.Phyllida smiles, watches in surreal fascination as her palm cups the pills. Her hand lifts the last glass she will ever hold. The water is cool on her lips. She takes the final few pills.Swallow, swallow. A sip of water to clear the tongue.She lowers herself back and picks up the photographs. One is of a boy in a bookshop, ten years old and wide-eyed. This photograph of Francis usually sits hidden in the base of her jewellery box. The other is of David, a grown man of twenty, which graces the frame by her bed, but she has removed it for this final night. She burrows beneath the covers and slides the photographs to her breast. ‘Goodbye, dear Francis.’ She strokes the first with her thumb. Then the other: ‘Nearly there now, Davey. Look out for me.’ A moment later: ‘Righto, Lord.’
Phyllida Banks closes her eyes and sighs. Then she releases a sound that might just pass for the snippet of a laugh.
2
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
I am mentally sifting through my Very Important List of Things to Consider. Today it includes permanent vegetarianism and looking for an affordable flat away from Miriam, who is currently carving the lamb roast. There is repulsive pink juice running across the serving dish. ‘I told you I’d gone vego,’ I say. ‘No meat for me.’
Miriam looks at me sharply, knife deep in the joint. ‘I thought you were joking! How am I supposed to eat all this lamb on my own? I won’t have space in the fridge.’
