The silence between us is uncomfortable. I grip onto the till counter to steady myself. She nods and casts me a weak smile. ‘Oh… well, it was nice to see you.’
I watch her walk out of the bookshop until everything goes blurry. ‘It is for the best, Eva,’ I whisper.
Thoughts about Eva and my curse nibble away at me as I serve the next customer.
When the bookshop is quiet, I catch sight of Henry’s book jutting out of the shelf under the counter. My curiosity is peaking. I have not read Margo Lane’s book. I pull out the book and read the sleeve.
The Water Holds Me – How I Learned to Float Again. A memoir about healing and the unexpected power of swimming to pull us back to the surface, one stroke at a time.
The thought of swimming makes me uncomfortable. I haven’t been swimming since the car crash. It reminds me of Mum too much.
The words ‘pull us back to the surface’ make me think about how, after one of my visions, I feel like I’m underwater. A memory I have buried deep at the back of my mind rushes to the front, as if carried on the crest of a wave. Mum and I are in the car travelling to my swimming practice. I’m trying to tell her about my curse. ‘Sometimes when I am not wearing my gloves, I touch people, and I see…’ She doesn’t let me finish. Instead, she puts her hand on my arm. ‘Promise me, Penelope, you will keep swimming. Now, I wonder what stroke you will be practising today.’
That was odd. I remember thinking that perhaps Mum didn’t hear me. Our car was noisy. Dad used to say we had to ignore the sounds and say nice things about it, as it was old. Even though he and Aunt Polly were not close, they shared similar views on talking to cars.
My mind drifts to Henry. He said the book was for his mum. I recall his mum telling us about how she swam as a child.
‘Can you tell me if my medieval history book has arrived?’ I look up with a jolt to see Mrs Richards, one of our regular customers. In a fluster, I shove Henry’s book back under the counter. I’m busy tapping the details into the laptop when I hear a voice.
‘Excuse me.’ I lift my eyes to see Mr Ellis. ‘Have you managed to find my cookbook?’
‘Mr Ellis, I am serving this customer?—’
Mrs Richards gestures towards Mr Ellis. ‘Serve this gentleman. I want to have a quick look at that new crime book on the shelf over there.’
Frustration bubbles inside me. Mr Ellis smiles. His blue eyes twinkle, and all my agitation disappears. ‘I’m sorry. Once I think of Joan’s chicken casserole, I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Barbara Plum’s cookery book is out of print.’
His face lightens. ‘You remembered the name of it without checking your notes. That means something to me.’
I smile. ‘I will need to speak to my contacts who run second-hand bookshops.’
‘Will you do that for me?’ With a shaky hand, he scratches his tuft of white hair.
‘Yes, I will, Mr Ellis. I have your contact details.’
He smiles. ‘That cookery book is my time machine. Thank you for helping me.’
I watch him hobble away. As the doorbell rings behind him, I reflect on how he still wishes to cook the dishes his wife used to make when she was alive. Surely love doesn’t live on within a recipe for chicken casserole.
16
‘Welcome home,’ Oliver croaks from the sofa as I enter the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa with a damp flannel over his forehead and a hot water bottle against his abdomen. ‘I’m very hungover. My head is throbbing and my belly hurts.’
‘Yes, I saw you come in last night.’
He lifts his flannel and casts me a bewildered look. ‘You saw me drunk?’
I nod. ‘I also met Jamie.’
‘Nelly, I’m sorry. Did we wake you?’
I don’t want to moan or sound like the parent of a teenager who comes home in the early hours from a nightclub and wakes the entire house up. Oliver and I are adults. I want him to feel relaxed and that he can come and go as he pleases. Last night was a celebration, and from the look on his face, he must have partied the night away. In the end, I go for, ‘Yes, but I am glad you had a good time.’
He scratches his stubbled chin before pulling the pink flannel over his forehead. ‘I need to apologise. That must have been late.’
He can say that again!
