‘I volunteered in the library when I was sixteen. I always wanted to be a librarian, but libraries were closing left, right, and centre when I left school – it wasn’t a viable career path. I thought about trying to get into publishing but most publishers were London-based and moving there was too scary, and this corner of the world always felt too small to pursue it in any other way.’ I watch him as he goes over to type in the titles of every book so far chosen for the sale section. ‘How about you? What’s your story? How did you get into drawing? Actually, it feels wrong to say that because what you do is not just drawing. You’re an artist. How do you get into the world of illustrating children’s books?’
‘Do you want the superficial, flippant answer that I always give, or do you want me to overshare?’
‘Oh, overshare, always. Usually at inappropriate moments in front of inappropriate people.’
‘I’d agree, but that would imply that I actually talk to people.’ He laughs, but I like how introverted he seems. He’s a bit of an enigma, really. He seems happy and cheerful but also sad and contemplative sometimes. He talks to customers and gets involved with questions but it’s easy to see that he’s uncomfortable when the shop’s busy.
‘I was terrible at school. The only things I was good at were art and reading. My father forced me into studying business at uni, but halfway through I quit and got into an art school in Oxford, and after I graduated, I worked on a series of graphic novels. Do you know Death Note?’
‘I’ve seen the films. The original Japanese ones were amazing. I flicked through the anime in a bookshop after I watched them.’
‘Well, they were a bit like that – the art style and the weird, otherworldly, eerie tone. I got a literary agent and then a publisher signed me for all three …’
I go to congratulate him because that’s an amazing achievement, but his tone isn’t a happy one, and he’s already said he hasn’t had anything published.
‘My little sister was ill all her life. She had a form of cancer when she was a toddler, and had a leg amputated at four and an arm at six. My mum was her carer. She had everything under control. My sister was in remission for a long time. She could get around in her wheelchair, but she also had a learning disability that meant her mental age was a lot younger than her years. She went to a special school and things were great for a while, and then my mum died. She went out one night and never came back. She had a van that was modified for Dani’s wheelchair and it flipped over on a roundabout not far from our house and she was gone. So I stepped into her role. I moved back home and became my sister’s carer. Family comes first and Dani needed me. I tried to keep up with the deadlines but I couldn’t do it. I lost the publishing deal and eventually the agent. So for the past seven years, I’ve been living my mum’s life and caring for my sister. Not long after Mum died, the cancer came back and Dani couldn’t beat it this time. She died last year. Since then I’ve been alone, trying to find my way in the world again …’ His voice breaks and he turns away.
It’s probably a good thing I’m still up the ladder, because if I was any nearer to him, I doubt I’d be able to stop myself giving him a hug. Instead, my fingers grip on to the side rails so tightly that it’s a wonder the wood hasn’t started splintering. I haven’t found the right words to say before he speaks again.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. It was such a big part of my life that I can’t explain how I got to this point without mentioning it.’
‘What about the rest of your family? Didn’t they help?’
‘I’ve got an older brother but he wasn’t interested. He’d rock up once every few months and take her out for a couple of hours, giving me a fun chance to catch up on housework. My dad’s still around but he and my mum were divorced, and it was an ugly battle. Things with my father are … complicated. Before my mum died, I hadn’t been home for a really long time because of that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I feel inadequate because I don’t have the words to tell him how awful it sounds and I daren’t vocalise how much I want to give him a hug.
‘So no, it was just me. We read together because she loved to read. I drew pictures because her eyesight was failing and she struggled to imagine the images described in books and the middle-grade books she was into by the end didn’t come with pictures. That’s how I found Pentamerone. She loved fairy tales but was too old for kids’ ones and too young for YA or adult books, so I went on the hunt for something darker than Disney and more original. I baked because Dani loved to get involved. She could have mixing bowls on her lap and stir with her good arm. Every morning she’d give me some random flavour combinations and I’d try to find something to bake with them by the end of the day. So there you go. That’s why I love how much you enjoy my baking. It’s something I find relaxing and de-stressing, but I always did it for someone else to enjoy, and something’s been missing in my life without having anyone to share it with.’
My fingers are actually cramped from how tightly they’re curled around the wooden ladder. I always say the wrong thing so my natural reaction in a situation like this is to go over and give him a hug, but there’s no way that would be appropriate. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ I settle on eventually, because I get the impression it’s not something he talks about easily and I want him to know I realise that. ‘I love hearing people’s life stories. You know when you’re on a bus and a random old woman sits next to you and starts chatting and by the time you get off, you know all about her childhood, where she met her husband, how he proposed, what their wedding was like, where she worked, where her children live, and what her grandchildren’s favourite games are? Most people try to avoid that woman, but I love it.’
‘So I’m a nattering old woman? Thanks.’ He gives me a grin, and it makes us both giggle, but this time, there’s a hint of vulnerability under his smile. It really hits me how much people can hide behind a smile. Dimitri is so happy, easy-going, and cheerful. I would never have guessed he’d been through anything like that.
‘I love stories. I love learning about people and getting glimpses into their lives. Like those inscriptions you find written inside the cover of second-hand books – I love making up stories about the giver and receiver of those books. Sometimes the messages can be so heartfelt that you wonder how anyone ever had the heart to chuck the book out.’
‘Robert always used to say the same thing.’ He nods when I look across at him in surprise. ‘He dealt with a lot of second-hand books and he always used to read those dedications and say, “How could anyone want to get rid of this? Doesn’t it mean anything to them anymore?” I thought they’d decrease the value of books he was trying to sell, but he thought it was a sign of how loved a book had been. He was always reading them out loud and trying to get me interested.’
I watch his brown hair flop forward as he leans over the counter, typing the titles into my laptop before he puts each book on the sale table. He must still be struggling with so much grief, but everything about him is light and happy, and he makes everything seem brighter just by being here.
‘How can you be so positive?’ I ask before I realise I’m going to say anything. ‘I mean, after everything you’ve been through, I’d expect you to be sad and angry at the world …’
‘I always believe that something wonderful is about to happen.’
It stops me in my tracks, knocking me off-guard because it’s such a lovely sentiment. A view of life that I don’t have. I don’t think like that. I’m always waiting for the next sucker punch, predicting the next thing that will go wrong, counting down to the next embarrassment, the next accident, the next time I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. ‘Yeah, but … to you?’ I shake myself. ‘Usually wonderful things only happen to other people.’
‘Says the girl who’s just won a bookshop …’
‘Present circumstances excluded, obviously.’ I tell him about how I believe my luck somehow collected up in a stagnant pond until it overflo
wed like a sparkling waterfall in that once-in-a-lifetime moment when Robert picked my ticket.
‘But that came out of the blue. You never saw it coming, and suddenly, your life changed in an instant. That’s exactly what I mean – we never know what’s around the next corner.’
‘In my case, it’s probably a bus waiting to mow me down,’ I mutter, even though I have no right to complain about my luck at the moment, and I can’t exactly moan about my life to someone who’s just shared these tragedies in his life and is somehow still smiling. It must take a certain kind of person to give up their own life, deal with their own grief, and still step into the caring role he took over. I can’t imagine the kind of courage and selflessness it takes to do that, especially alone.
I move from top to bottom of the shelf, keeping the few autobiographies that might still be popular, and moving downwards, sorting celebrity lifestyle, coffee-table books, and other famous-in-some-way authors into piles of fiction, non-fiction, second-hand, and new. It feels like quite an achievement to complete one of the tall cherry wood shelving units and leave it clean and smelling of lemon-scented polish, and with two empty shelves to transfer other books onto and clear some of the haphazard stacks on the floor.
Time seems to move faster here. It’s not even seven p.m. yet, and between us, we’ve started on the stock take, dusted a lot of books and cleaned up shelves that hadn’t been cleaned in far too many months. And we’ve made a start on filling the sale table. When I ask Dimitri if he wants to go home yet, he laughs like it’s the most absurd question he’s ever heard, and I try to ignore the little thrill because I don’t want him to go home yet either.
I slide the ladder along, still unable to believe that this magical place is mine and sliding ladders along shelves of books is part of my everyday life now. I move on to the ‘Classics’ shelf and call out to Dimitri to add a new section to the spreadsheet. On the top shelves are forgotten editions of everything from Shakespeare plays to Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, and Charles Dickens.
‘Great Expectations.’ I pull the battered old copy out. ‘My first ever Dickens book. Everyone in school hated having to read this in English class, but I loved it. I identified a worrying amount with Miss Havisham. I always thought I’d end up as a sad, lonely old bat, wearing a wedding dress and only one shoe. Although, to be fair, stopping all the clocks would be a great excuse for always being late.’
‘Me too.’ He laughs. ‘With the loving it in school bit, not the identifying with Miss Havisham bit.’
‘We’ve got at least three versions of Wuthering Heights.’ I pull them out one by one and blow dust off each different cover. ‘Do you think I should start reading them aloud to Heathcliff to teach him about his namesake?’
‘Yes, I think reading to fish is totally normal. It’s bound to catch on, especially if you do it in public in the middle of a crowded shop. People will definitely not think you’re nuts,’ he calls back, making me laugh.
‘These books are still popular. They shouldn’t be hidden away up here.’ I lovingly stroke a dusty, battered copy of Pride and Prejudice. ‘And now we’ve got Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in with them. That doesn’t belong with the classics.’
I dust each book off and stack them onto the empty shelves beside me so I can clean each section before I put them back, dusting each book as I pull the classics down from the uppermost shelf they’ve been relegated to.
‘Aww, Les Misérables.’ I pull out the Victor Hugo classic and clutch it to my chest. ‘I love this book. All right, it’s a bit longwinded and in the middle of monumental battle scenes you get three chapters on the history of the Parisian sewer system, but I felt like a rebel manning the barricades when I read this for the first time. I could also sing you the musical word for word, back to front while standing on my head. But I won’t. Because you don’t deserve that, and I don’t need any more problems here when I cause all the window glass to break.’
‘I love the musical. I confess to never reading the doorstop of a book though.’
‘It’s brilliant – it adds so much depth to the musical.’ The spine is cracked from being read, and I run my fingers over the red, white, and blue cover, a version I’ve never seen before, and open it to look at the copyright page for a date. ‘Aww, would you look at this?’
There’s a handwritten note inside the cover that reads:
My dearest Esme,
Victor Hugo was correct when he said that the power of a glance is underestimated in love, and yet, what other way does love begin? You lit up my life from the very moment I laid eyes on you. One glimpse of you was all it took, and I believe, my dearest mademoiselle, that I am a little bit in love with you.
Forever,
Sylvester
‘Those are Eponine’s last words when she finally confesses her love to Marius before she dies,’ I say when Dimitri appears at the edge of the aisle. ‘Isn’t that the most romantic thing ever?’
I hand the book down to him from the ladder. ‘This must be how he told her he loved her. How lovely is that? I’d have married him on the spot for that.’
Dimitri snorts as he reads the message, but I can easily imagine how Esme must’ve felt upon opening that book. What a lovely way of telling someone you love them. Did she already like Les Mis? Did he just think she’d like it? I would love a guy to buy me books, and to write such a heartfelt, meaningful message … Why can’t there be men like this in my life? Men who buy books and write declarations of love inside are sorely missing from my doomed love life. In fact, I’ve never met a man who didn’t question the number of books I had, never mind buying me more.
‘Very sweet.’ He hands it back to me. ‘Very defaced.’
‘This edition was published in 2005.’ I run my fingers over the biro message. ‘This could’ve been the very start of their relationship. They could be married with children by now. Oh my God, they could have named their children Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre.’
‘A whole barricade of children. Robert would’ve loved your enthusiasm. Like I said, he was equally enthusiastic about messages in books.’
‘I wonder if there are any more. According to the accounts, he’d been buying a lot of used books lately.’ I run my fingers along the spines until I find one that looks particularly well loved and open the cover in anticipation. Nothing.
I take another one and find a random scribble inside that can’t possibly mean anything, not even in Hieroglyphics or Wingdings. Inside a copy of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay are the words ‘love, Dad’ and I find a copy of War of the Worlds by HG Wells with the words, ‘Congratulations on finishing your GCSEs, I bet you never want to see this book again!’
I hold on to one of the ladder rungs and lean out to look at the shelves around me. ‘Don’t you think that’s a lot of books with messages inside them?’
He shrugs. ‘It’s a second-hand bookshop. Well, a bookshop that deals with both new and second-hand books. You know what I mean. You’re always going to find some used books have scribblings in them.’
‘Yeah, but … that’s like an unnatural ratio?’
He takes a copy of Vanity Fair from the shelf, opens it and holds up the blank pages inside the cover. ‘See? Nothing.’
I don’t know what I’m expecting really. I’ve always had a thing about messages written in books. They feel special somehow, like they bear traces of their readers’ lives. A glimpse into a stranger’s life, a view into something that was once important to someone. The giver and the receiver. Whenever I see them, I wonder about who wrote them and who they gave them to. Were they lovers, friends, or family? Did the giver spend hours feeling out the perfect book to purchase? Was the receiver pleased? Did they read it? Did they love it? Did they think, ‘Why the hell has this person chosen such an awful book for me?’ Did the gifter’s choice affect their relationship in any way? Did the giftee start wondering if there could be something more between them given how well the other person knew their tas
te in books – or did they start questioning their relationship because the giver clearly didn’t know them at all?
Dimitri pushes Vanity Fair back into the snug space on the shelf, and that’s another good point – some of these books are packed so tightly that it’s the equivalent of a gym workout to squeeze them in, and you can’t pull one out without it taking two or three on either side with it. Robert didn’t seem to realise that there can be a balance between loving books and a customer-friendly shop. I mentally add it to the endless list of jobs in my head – take at least one book out of every shelf so browsing is actually possible.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. The organisation of these shelves just gets worse. There’s another Pride and Prejudice down here.’ I lean down to pull it out of a lower shelf that’s full of thrillers and four shelves below where the rest of the classics are.
‘Aww, that was my mum’s favourite book,’ he says.
I know he’s not impressed by the mutilation of innocent books, but I can’t resist a peek inside the cover to make sure. ‘Oh wow, listen to this.’ I read out the gorgeous message, written in age-blurred blue biro on the title page. ‘To the man who brought joy back into my life, you will forever be an even better Mr Darcy than Colin Firth!’
‘My mum loved Colin Firth,’ Dimitri interjects. ‘She was obsessed with that BBC adaptation when it came out.’
‘Thank you for giving me a reason to get up every morning. I would never have learnt how to smile again without you. “We are all fools in love.”’ I read out the quote from Pride and Prejudice. ‘I love you more than words can ever express. Always forever, Della.’
‘My mum’s name was Della …’ Dimitri says slowly. He holds both hands up towards me and I wordlessly put the book into them.
‘This is my mum’s handwriting.’ He runs his fingertips over the words on the title page like they might disintegrate at any moment.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve never understood the saying of feeling like someone walked across your grave before, but I suddenly feel a chill and a shiver goes down my spine. ‘Your mum wrote that?’
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 11