by Anna James
He pushed himself up from the squishy sofa and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Tilly to her book.
* * *
A little while later Tilly was interrupted from her adventures under the sea by the sound of her grandma’s laughter tumbling down the stairs. Tilly couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Grandma laugh like that, or the last time she herself had laughed so hard either, so she tiptoed up the stairs to see what was causing it. She found Grandma tucked in a corner, wiping tears from her eyes as a woman with dark curly hair pinned up on the back of her head waved her hands around animatedly. She seemed quite a lot younger than Grandma and wore a long, old-fashioned-looking dress. Tilly crept closer, wanting to hear what Grandma was finding so funny, without interrupting the moment.
“And do you know, he turned to him and said in the most insufferable voice, ‘She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.’ I tell you, Elsie, I held Charlotte’s hand very tightly to stop myself going over and telling him exactly what I thought of his manners, especially when he was so new to town. Of course, my mother will forgive a man that rich almost anything, although this tested even her resolve.”
No longer able to resist Grandma’s giggles, Tilly coughed loudly and rounded the corner only to find Grandma sitting by herself.
“Oh, Tilly!” she said, still hiccuping a little. “Are you okay, darling?”
“Where’s that woman gone?” Tilly asked, looking around in confusion, unable to understand how she’d left so quickly and quietly.
Grandma’s laughter abruptly stopped. “Which woman, darling?” she asked, sitting up straighter.
“The woman you were just talking to, of course,” Tilly said. “The one with the long dress and the dark hair—the one who made you laugh like that!”
“Oh, her,” Grandma said slowly. “That’s Lizzy—she’s an old friend. You caught a glimpse of her, did you?”
“She was literally just sitting here as I came up the stairs,” Tilly said, confused. “Where’s she gone?”
“She must have slipped past without you noticing. You know how this place is like a rabbit warren; it’s impossible to keep track of everything and everyone. I’m forever losing you in here!” Grandma said, more composed. “Anyway! Enough of that! How’s your book?”
Tilly had the distinct feeling that Grandma wasn’t telling her something.
“How long have you known Lizzy for?” she asked, ignoring Grandma’s question.
“Oh, a long time now.”
“She’s not very old, though?” Tilly persisted.
“No, I suppose she’s not. But she’s an old soul.” Grandma smiled. “She’s . . . well, Tilly, if I tell you the truth, part of the reason I enjoy spending time with her is that she reminds me of your mum, very much.”
“Mum?” Tilly sat down on the now-empty chair opposite Grandma, hungry for details and feeling her heart punch against her rib cage. “What reminds you of her? She doesn’t really look like her, does she?”
“No, not particularly,” Grandma said. “It’s more how she holds herself, her sense of humor, her way of telling stories. Your mum used to make me laugh in the same way Lizzy does.”
“Did my mum know her too? Were they friends? How old is Lizzy?” Tilly asked.
“Ah, a little older than she looks,” Grandma said. “I first met Lizzy years before your mum left. I need to get her skincare secret, hey?”
Tilly was feeling light-headed with this new information about her mother, whom she’d only known as a baby. Beatrice Pages had left when Tilly was tiny, and Tilly had grown used to not speaking about her to avoid reopening old wounds that seemed to haunt Grandma and Grandad. Sometimes she lost her grandad for days at a time if she asked questions; he was physically there, but barely seemed to notice anything going on around him, ignoring customers and Tilly alike. So when these precious gems of information emerged Tilly gathered them to her and guarded them fiercely.
“Anyway, that’s enough chat about old friends,” Grandma said, bringing the conversation to a close with a firm nod of her head. “Do you have a moment to come and help me in the stockroom?”
Tilly nodded, and Grandma took her hand as they walked down the stairs together, where they were immediately pounced on by a panicked-looking Jack.
“I need help!” he wailed.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked, as Tilly imagined an array of horrible accidents involving honey, or knives, or both.
“I can’t find the vanilla essence!” Jack shouted, making two people sitting drinking coffee eye him warily and Alice the cat raise her head in disdain from the cushioned seat she had claimed for the morning.
Grandma sighed.
“That’s all?” Tilly said. “I thought you’d hurt yourself. I thought it was an emergency.”
Jack looked surprised.
“This is an emergency. I need to get the vanilla in the batter now. Do you have any in the kitchen, Elsie, or could you go and ask Mary, Tilly?”
Grandma took a deep breath. “Tilly, you go and check the kitchen and see if you can find some in the pantry. I’m going to get back to the stock cupboard.”
“Don’t get honey on my book,” Tilly said sternly, putting it behind the counter before heading to the kitchen.
There was nothing in the pantry so Tilly rifled through the kitchen cupboards, but she couldn’t find any vanilla essence there either. The cupboards seemed to be full of everything and nothing all at the same time, the result of her grandad’s inability to throw anything away in case it proved useful later, however much it looked like junk to Tilly and Grandma. She found one orange sock, several pencils, and the red half of a pack of cards, but no vanilla.
And then, tucked away behind a heap of empty shoeboxes, she found a dusty cardboard box wrapped in packing tape. On the top flap it had “Bea’s Books” written in black marker. Tilly felt her heart squeeze and a crackle of something she couldn’t identify deep inside her: these were her mum’s stories.
3
Other People’s Memories
Tilly dragged the box into the kitchen and peeled off the tape, which had turned crunchy with age. The noise of the bookshop melted away, and her hand drifted to the tiny gold bee necklace round her neck, a gift from her mother when Tilly was born, which matched the one Bea had worn herself.
Tilly’s idea of her mum was stitched together from a patchwork of old photos and other people’s memories. No one knew where Beatrice Pages had gone, and this lack of facts meant that the hole her mother had left had torn, ragged edges that were slow to knit back together.
Tilly had almost given up asking, but when she did, conversations about Bea’s disappearance always went the same way.
“Love, we’ve told you everything we know, and what the police think. It’s not good to dwell on what happened,” one of her grandparents would say.
“But the police think she was unhappy and just left to start again somewhere. I don’t understand why she would have done that just after I was born if she . . .” Tilly found it hard to voice the end of that thought.
The reassurances always came. “Tilly, she loved you very, very much. We know that without any doubt at all.”
“I just don’t understand why she would leave if she loved me so much.” Tilly couldn’t help but come back to the same question she always asked, feeling the prick of tears as she spoke.
“We don’t understand either, Tilly, my love. We wish we did,” Grandma would say, and Grandad, as always, would quietly wipe his eyes with his tartan handkerchief.
Tilly pulled her mind back to the box in front of her. Inside were piles of old books, the paper yellowing and the covers tattered and ripped. Tilly stared at them, not sure where to start, but as she went to pull out the top book she heard Jack calling from the shop.
“Tilly! Vanilla! I’m smearing honey on your boo
k as I speak!”
The bubble popped, and Tilly sighed and pushed the box to the side of the kitchen. She wanted to save it until she had uninterrupted time to look through it properly, the way she made sure she had time to savor a new book.
She went back through to Jack in the bookshop. “I couldn’t find any vanilla; you should ask Mary,” Tilly said.
“Well, go on then.” Jack gestured impatiently. “Go and ask her.”
Tilly opened her mouth to make an excuse, wanting to return to the box of books. But the words weren’t there, so she turned and grabbed an umbrella from by the door, but skidded on something squishy underfoot. She looked down to see a half-eaten sandwich on the wooden floor. She tutted to herself as she picked it up.
“Honestly, who eats marmalade sandwiches?” she said to herself as she threw it in the bin outside the shop, and crossed the road to Crumbs, the café run by Mary Roux.
Mary and Jack had a long-standing, mostly affectionate rivalry that was almost entirely one-sided. Mary was always lending Jack things he was missing, and offering him baking tips.
The bell above the door jangled as Tilly went in. She didn’t spot Mary straightaway, but she saw Oskar, Mary’s son, sitting at a table toward the back. He was writing or doodling in a notebook, a slice of toast abandoned to one side, and Tilly couldn’t help but notice his brown skin had inky fingerprints on it. A moment later Mary’s face appeared behind the counter. She was carrying a plate of cupcakes iced in pastel shades, which she handed to a couple with a happily gurgling baby.
Mary grinned when she saw Tilly and beckoned her over once the family had sat down.
“What can I help you with?” Mary asked. “Has Jack been experimenting again?”
“He’s trying to make pop cakes, like the ones in the Enid Blyton books,” Tilly explained, “but he’s run out of vanilla and he wondered if he could have a little bit of yours, if you can spare some?”
“Of course, of course,” Mary said. “Sit down. Let me grab some from the kitchen. Do you want some lunch while you wait? You look a bit peaky.”
“I’m okay,” Tilly said. She looked up at Mary, testing how she felt about sharing the news about the box with her. “I just found some of my mum’s old stuff. It’s put me in a bit of a funny mood, I guess. I don’t have much that was hers.”
“Oh, love. I can see why that might have thrown you,” Mary said before planting a kiss on the top of Tilly’s head. Her hand rested on Tilly’s shoulder a little longer than it usually did and then Tilly felt a squeeze as Mary headed off toward the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.”
As the door through to the kitchen swung shut, Tilly looked at Oskar and tried to make eye contact. He didn’t ever seem to be in Crumbs when Tilly was there, and he’d gone to a different primary school, so although they shared some lessons now they’d never really spoken much.
She tried to wander over casually.
“Have you started your English homework yet?” she asked, and Oskar looked up.
“No?” Oskar said in surprise. “It’s literally the first day of the holidays. But we have to read a book by an author we’ve never read before, right?”
“Yep,” Tilly said happily. “Best homework ever.”
“I was thinking . . . I might come and find something at Pages & Co. later. Maybe? If that was okay?” he asked.
Tilly beamed. “That’s a great idea. I can help you find something, if you want? What do you like to read?”
Oskar scuffed his feet together and looked down at the table.
“All sorts. I started reading the first Percy Jackson book in the summer holidays and I’m really enjoying it.”
“They’re so good, right?” Tilly said. “I could not believe it when I found out who Nico’s dad was.”
“Don’t tell me!” Oskar said. “I haven’t got to that bit yet—I’m still on the first one. I read kind of slowly.”
“Oskar’s dyslexic,” Mary said, coming up behind them, a small bottle in one hand and a brown envelope tucked under her arm. “But he still loves reading, don’t you, my love?”
“All right, Mum,” Oskar said, brushing his mum’s hand off his head in embarrassment.
“Right, well, you should definitely come over to the shop for your homework book, though,” Tilly said.
“Yes, thank you, Tilly. That would be lovely. Why don’t you pop round now, Oskar?” Mary said, smiling widely.
“All right, Mum, chill out, okay?” Oskar said. He turned to Tilly. “I’ll come round tomorrow?”
Tilly nodded.
“Oh, and here’s the reason you came over,” Mary said, holding out a tiny bottle of vanilla essence. “Could you let Jack know I don’t need it back as long as I can try one of his pop cakes?” She grinned, before putting the envelope down on the table between them and pushing it toward Tilly, who looked at her quizzically.
“When you told me about your mum’s books it made me think of this,” she said slowly. “I’ve had it for ages. I should have given it to you sooner, but, well, when Bea left I tucked it away, and it just slipped my mind until you mentioned finding her things.”
Neither Tilly, Mary, nor Oskar seemed sure what to say or do next, so Mary pulled the envelope back toward her and slid out a slightly faded photograph that showed Bea and Mary as young women on a sofa in the shop. They sat at either end, with their socked feet touching in the middle, and both of them had books resting on top of their heavily pregnant bellies. Mary’s hair was in an afro, rather than the braids Tilly was used to seeing, and her own mum had long auburn hair spread over the back of the sofa.
“I’m sorry I haven’t taken better care of it, Tilly,” Mary said as she tried to rub away a smear from one corner of the picture. “But it’s yours now, if you want it. I know it’s only one photo, but I thought you might like it anyway. I can tell you a bit more about it, if you like, but I understand if you’d rather look properly by yourself first. I can picture that day perfectly. I haven’t the foggiest what book I was reading, but your mum went on a real classics binge while she was pregnant, nostalgic for her own childhood, I suppose. That book is A Little Princess; she read it over and over. It was her favorite—although I’m sure you know that. You can come and ask me about the photo or your mum anytime you like, you know.”
“Thank you,” Tilly said quietly, staring at the photo. That was the first time she’d heard A Little Princess was her mum’s favorite book. Mary slid the picture back into the envelope and passed it to Tilly.
“Go on, get back to Jack, and make sure to bring me over a pop cake later.” Mary gave her a gentle push toward the door. “And keep that envelope out of the rain.”
* * *
After dropping the vanilla off with Jack, Tilly went back into the kitchen to find Grandad sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the box with his hanky out. Tilly slid down the wall next to him and squeezed in under his arm, breathing in his familiar smell of cashmere jumpers and old paper.
“I’d forgotten where I’d put these,” he said, hugging Tilly close to him. “They were some of your mum’s books when she was your age. She’d been rereading a lot of them while she was pregnant with you.”
“These were her favorites?” Tilly prompted, eager for more details.
“Yes, well, her favorites when she was growing up. These were ones that meant a lot to her when she was around your age. The books we love when we’re growing up shape us in a special way, Tilly. The characters in the books we read help us decide who we want to be.”
Grandad paused, and Tilly noticed he had a book in his hands, turning it round and round as he spoke.
“Ah. This one,” he said. “I wasn’t sure whether to show you. I mean . . . Well, just let me know what you think of it.” He gave a last glance at the book in his hand and passed it to Tilly. It was A Little Princess—a copy with a ye
llow cover. Tilly took Mary’s photo out of the envelope and showed it to Grandad.
“Where did you get this from?” he asked.
“Mary just gave it to me,” Tilly said. “Look, she’s reading this exact book!”
“You see, it was her favorite,” Grandad said. “She enjoyed it when she was your age, but she really fell in love with it while she was at university. She took this copy with her and read it over and over again. She . . . well, she found something new in it as an adult, I suppose. Have you read it?”
“Yes, a few times.”
“What did you think?” Grandad asked. “Did you connect with any characters in particular?”
Tilly shrugged. “I enjoyed it. It’s not my favorite but I liked Sara a lot. I like how she tells stories when she feels sad, and to help her after her dad dies.”
Grandad smiled softly, as much to himself as to Tilly. “Well, now you have your mum’s copy to keep. And a photo of her reading it.”
He looked at the box of books. “There might be some in there you haven’t read before. Why don’t you take them up to your room and have a sort through?” He gave Tilly a squeeze and hauled himself up off the floor. “Can’t leave your grandma to deal with Jack by herself for too long,” he said, and headed back into the bookshop.
Tilly put A Little Princess back in the box and staggered upstairs with it to her tiny room at the very top of the house. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of her own books, as well as ones she had temporarily borrowed from the shop, something she was not really supposed to do, but after she caught Grandma spilling tea on what turned out to be a shop book a blind eye was usually turned as long as they reappeared in pristine condition. Tilly put the box down in the middle of the floor and placed Mary’s envelope on top. She sat down on her bed, curled her knees up underneath her, and stared at them as her feelings tangled round each other, twisting and knotting her up.