33
FRANCIS
NOW, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
The bell tinkles as Francis opens the door to the bookshop. Ellery Thistlethwaite looks up from behind the counter, her hands resting on a pile of calfskin-covered books.
‘Frankie. You look terrible.’
‘Thank you, Elly-belly. I admire your honesty.’
‘How was your birthday party?’
‘Predictably awful.’
Ellery crosses the room and begins shelving books. ‘Surely not.’ She turns, eyeing him sceptically, a wry smile threatening.
‘All right. It wasfine. I drank a lot of champagne and talked to some very nice people. It was actually much better than I expected.’
She arches an amused eyebrow. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘Minty found some new caterers,’ he says. ‘They did these exquisite little pigs in blankets. A modern version.’ Francis peersinto the distance, conjuring the flavours. ‘The bacon was sort of smoked in maple syrup. Scrumptious.’
‘I thought you were vegetarian.’
‘One makes an exception when necessary.’
It had been nice not to have to make his own meal. Francis knows how to cook, of course. Mrs Wilson had taught him as a boy, after his father died. Cricket had left Bleddesley House a few weeks after the grisly discovery of his father’s body and the disappearance of his nanny and brother. Francis didn’t blame her. He would have left too, if he could. And with no one in charge in that cavernous place while his paternal grandmother came and went—and the issue of who would look after the newly orphaned and nanny-less nine-year-old was sorted out between adults who all had better things to do—Mrs Wilson had set about giving him life skills. How to bake scones. How to roast a leg of lamb. What to do with the abundance of apples that Len or Stan would bring in from the orchard in the wheelbarrow. He and Mrs Wilson would sit in the kitchen with the gardeners, discussing bottling techniques and the best recipe for apple cakes over cups of tea, straining over awkward silences when somebody accidentally touched on an issue that involved his father, or Dorothea or Louis.
Ellery hands Francis a book from behind the counter. She texted him a few days ago about this volume ofThe English House, which will help complete his mother’s collection on European architecture.
‘I have volumes two and three of this. Clever woman for finding this one!’ Francis sits on the corner chair and begins leafing through it.
‘It’s a little foxed but in pretty good condition.’ Ellery continues to bustle around the shop, moving and sorting.
‘What terrible price are you going to extract from me?’ muses Francis. ‘There’s some rubbing on the cloth boards, I see.’
‘Eighty pounds, I thought.’
‘All right,’ he murmurs.
They look up as the back door sounds. Ellery’s father enters the shop from behind the counter. Technically, he is retired now, though he still adores going out to view collections, or rummaging through deceased estate libraries.
‘Hello, m’lord. How are you?’ asks Mr Thistlethwaite.
‘Well thanks, Mr T.’ Francis remembers the man’s father who worked here when he used to come in as a boy with Dorothea. Both men were equally charming, both devoted to the book trade. There was never any question that Ellery, an only child, would carry on running the Thistlethwaite family bookshop when her time came.
Mr Thistlethwaite glances at the book in Francis’s hand. ‘Your mother would have admired that book. It was new in her time, though, I suppose. That edition at least.’
Francis smiles. He likes to hear stories of his mother. Mr Thistlethwaite Senior had known her better, of course, but anyone who had even met Adeline in passing is special to Francis.
‘Had a friend of yours in here the other day,’ says Ellery, nudging her father out of the way as she ducks behind the counter. ‘Monty, or Jonty or someone. Said he went to university with you.’
‘Good lord. Monty Johnson?’
‘Yes!’ says Ellery. ‘Said you were in the Footlights with him at Cambridge. I didn’t know you could act!’ Ellery pretends tobe scandalised. ‘I would have dragged you into our little drama group here in the village if I’d known.’
Francis feels a shiver go through him. He remembers the rehearsals he’d done for months with the Footlights; how good it felt when the comic timing had paid off—like liquid lightning through his veins. They’d all told him he was good. The past president of the Footlights, a young Stephen Fry, had come to one of the dress rehearsals and sat in the audience. Afterwards he had slapped Francis on the shoulder, told him he had the chops for it.
