by Hazel Gaynor
Just not this girl’s.
Holding the bookshop key, she began to walk down the slippery scree of the headland, following the trail that descended through the candy-colored rhododendrons, stooping beneath the dark tunnels formed from their gnarled roots and branches. She walked through the golf course and on into the village, the wind pushing always at her back as the words of Frances Griffiths’s memoir whispered to her and the melody of a much-loved song played at her ears and memories of happier times flickered through her mind. As she walked, she thought about the determined, inquisitive little girl she’d once been and the determined, optimistic woman she’d always imagined she would become.
She was sure she was still in there somewhere, among all the doubt and uncertainty.
She just had to find a way to believe in her again.
HOWTH VILLAGE SPARKLED beneath the extravagant May sun, tempting people outside with their coffee, despite the cool edge to the breeze. Olivia loved these spring days, before the arrival of summer’s tourists and wasps. These were days for eating the first ice cream of the year and for blustery strolls along the harbor wall. She watched a young couple buy fish heads to throw to the seals in the harbor, drawing laughter from the gathered crowd as the seals barked their encouragement.
At the café on the corner, she ordered a latte and gave her name as Liv. While she waited, she caught her reflection in the mirror behind the counter, hardly recognizing herself without her curtain of long auburn curls to hide behind. She touched her fingertips self-consciously to the nape of her neck, wondering what Jack would say about her pixie cut. He’d always preferred her hair long. Said it was more feminine. She hadn’t planned such a drastic change, especially not on the morning of Pappy’s funeral, but she’d heard “Moon River” on the radio in the hairdresser’s and remembered Pappy saying her mother used to look like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.
“Latte for Liv.”
Olivia took the cup from the server, smiling as she saw what he’d written in black marker on the side. Live. It shouted at her like an urgent instruction. Live! You must live! The irony was not lost on her.
Leaving the café, she put her head down against the brisk wind and turned up Abbey Street, past the rainbow-colored terraces and the old abbey ruins, past the pub and the church. Poignant memories and half-remembered stories were waiting around every corner: awkward teenage kisses here, exam sorrows drowned there, the doleful chimes of the church bells as she’d wondered how she would ever learn to tie her shoelaces properly without her Mammy to show her.
As she walked, the familiar voices of doubt and insecurity surfaced. What are you thinking? You don’t know the first thing about running a bookshop. You can’t call off the wedding. But another—more hopeful—voice chimed in. It’ll be all right, Liv. This is a good thing. A fresh start. You need only the permission of your heart.
She carried her doubt and determination along like awkward shopping bags, one in each hand, banging against her shins with every step. Only when she reached the top of the cobbled lane did her internal chatter shush, and her breath caught in her chest as she read the sign on the wall to her right. Little Lane. Lána Beaga.
She walked on, the cobbles familiar beneath her boots as she passed the thatched cottages: a bakery, a florist, a gift shop, a vintage clothing shop, and, at the end of the lane, the bookshop.
Something Old
It was like looking at a dear old friend, and her heart soared at the sight of it: whitewashed brick walls, two stories, four sash windows, an arched doorway, a rusting cartwheel leaning against the wall. The paintwork was chipped, the windows were dulled with rain spatters, the window boxes bloomed with weeds, and discarded flyers for harbor tours huddled apologetically in the doorway, but it was beautiful to Olivia. So many fragments of her life were anchored to this place, the safe haven where she’d sheltered among the magical places of other people’s imaginations when the awful truth of her reality was too much to bear. Books were Olivia’s salvation once upon a time. She hoped, with all her heart, they would be again.
The faded old sign above the door swayed in the wind on wrought-iron brackets, creaking a feeble Hello, Liv.
A smile curled at the edges of her lips. “Hello, Shop.”
She remembered running curious fingertips over the embossed lettering and fancy gilded flourishes of the old Gaelic script. She remembered the comforting warmth of Nana’s hand in hers as they’d watched Pappy hang the new sign, dressed for the occasion in his best three-piece suit. His dream come true. His very own shop for rare and secondhand books. “Special and much-loved,” as he preferred to call them. “Like my Martha.”
Nana had worn her favorite blue coat, her red hair whipping around her face like flames as she’d nagged at Pappy to move the sign to the left a bit and to the right a bit until he lost his temper and told her it’d have to shaggin’ well do. He wasn’t really annoyed. He adored his Martha too much to ever be properly annoyed with her. In any event, Nana had told him to do it himself so, and they’d left him to it while they bought cream cakes and red lemonade from the bakery.
The sign had hung there ever since. Lopsided. Perfect. Blackened now with decades of grime and dust, and yet still Olivia sensed it: the suggestion of something magical in that ancient lettering, the promise of wonderful things behind that old black door. She took the key from her pocket and faltered. The thought of Pappy not being inside was unbearable.
“You won’t sell many books standing there gawping at the place.”
Olivia turned to see Nora Plunkett standing behind her, arms folded in defiance, her face creased into her trademark scowl. Nora Plunkett was the self-appointed, self-important secretary of the local Society of Shopkeepers and always looked like she’d come prepared for an argument. She was a thorn in the side of several shop owners on Little Lane, not least because she refused to let anyone lease the cottage beside Something Old. It had once been her husband’s furniture shop but had stood empty for years.
“Hello, Nora.” Olivia didn’t have the emotional capacity to bother with Nora’s spite today.
Nora sensed Olivia’s defenses were down. “I hope you’ve come to give this place a good tidying up. Weeds and rubbish in the doorway won’t tempt many customers.” She cut Olivia off as she began to speak. “I’m surprised to see you’re still in Ireland. I’d have thought you’d be back to London and planning your wedding now that Cormac’s been laid to rest.”
She at least had the decency to cross herself as she said this.
Olivia looked up at the shop sign, drawing strength from its familiarity before turning her gaze on her inquisitor. “Didn’t you know, Nora? The shop’s mine now.”
A look of surprise. “Cormac left you this old place?”
“Yes. He left me this lovely, fabulous old place.”
Nora tutted. “Should have given it up when Martha went doolally. Bit off more than he could chew if you ask me.”
Nobody was asking her. People rarely did, but she offered her poisonous opinions anyway. There were so many things Olivia wanted to say to the interfering old cow, but she chose her words carefully, as Pappy had always reminded her to.
“First of all, my Nana is not doolally. She has Alzheimer’s. It’s a medical condition, and it’s bloody awful. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” She hoped her pointed stare drove her point home. “And second, my grandfather—God rest him—would never have given up on this shop.” She felt an overwhelming surge of affection for the old place with its chipped paintwork and weeds. “And neither will I.”
Nora harrumphed and folded her arms even tighter across her chest. “How will you manage to run a bookshop all the way from London?”
And there they were, all the dull practicalities, waiting to trip her up. What about money? What about her car and her job? What about the invitations and the church and the deposit on the country house they’d booked for the reception? How could she ever unpick the tangled threads of her life in Lo
ndon?
Olivia took a deep breath, drawing courage from Nora’s spiteful disapproval. “I’m staying in Ireland for a while, to sort things out.”
Nora glanced at Olivia’s left hand and raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “I take it your fiancé won’t be joining you while you ‘sort things out’?”
Olivia bristled. What business was it of Nora’s, anyway? “No, actually. He won’t. This is something I’ll be doing on my own.” It felt reckless and liberating to say it out loud. “So now there’s something to gossip about with your friends. I’d say you’d be able to get some mileage out of that until Christmas, at least.”
Before Nora could reply, and with her heart galloping in her chest, Olivia turned the key in the lock and stepped inside the bookshop, leaving Nora Plunkett alone on the cobbled lane to wrestle with her conscience. Assuming she had one.
THE SHOP BELL jangled above Olivia’s head as she kicked aside the junk mail and closed the door behind her. The bell rang again before falling into a respectful silence.
It was like stepping back into her childhood.
The mellow scent of Pappy’s pipe tobacco still lingered in the air, as if he’d just popped out the back to put the kettle on. Olivia imagined him pottering about, dressed to the nines, a bow tie or a cravat at his neck, a silk handkerchief in his top pocket, his fingertips conducting the air as he hummed along to a sweeping aria playing on his ancient radio, that knowing twinkle in his eyes, silver-gray, like moonlight. Pappy was like someone from another time or place. Nana used to say it was as if the stories on the shelves had become part of him, so that it was impossible to know where the bookshop stopped and he began. Olivia thought of his tartan slippers and his habit of closing the shop on a whim, because it was a lovely Tuesday afternoon, or because his favorite concert series was playing on the radio and he didn’t want to be interrupted. He was one of a kind.
Was.
The awful reality of his absence hit her, ripping through the shop like a brick through glass, sending broken memories of happier times skittering across the creaky floorboards to hide in dark grief-stricken corners. He wasn’t there, and yet he was everywhere: in every cracked spine, on every dusty shelf, in the warped glass at the windows and the mustard-yellow walls. Something Old wasn’t just a bookshop. It was him—Pappy—in bricks and mortar, leather and paper. He’d loved this place so much, and Olivia knew she must now love it for him.
“I miss you, Pappy.” Her voice was a whisper, her words rushing away to hide between the rows of thick encyclopedic volumes and slim clothbound novels. “I miss you so much.”
Her eyes flickered around the dimly lit room. Every surface was covered with books, every shelf buckling beneath the weight of them. Teetering piles of recently donated books leaned against walls and table legs: the discarded spoils from house clearances waiting for rare treasures to be found. Some had toppled over, left where they fell, like a Neolithic monument. Olivia walked up and down the shelves, running her fingertips along the ridged spines. Layer by layer, the shop had grown over the decades. Like ancient rock, each newly added section held the story of a specific time in her life: Irish Poets was secondary school. Myths and Fables was graduation. British Classics was art college. Children’s Books was London. Pappy had been working on a new section, Fairy Tales and Folklore. The shelves gaped with empty spaces. The job incomplete. Olivia’s to finish.
Stepping over threadbare rugs with treacherous curls at the corners, she walked over to the old oak desk and put down her coffee, her fingertips tracing the stories that had been told here, captured forever in the grain. She pictured the three of them sitting around the desk to celebrate the infamous wonky sign-hanging. They’d laughed as they slurped red lemonade from Nana’s best china teacups and sent bubbles up their noses. It was the first time Olivia had laughed since the accident. Everyone noticed, but nobody remarked on it, afraid to break the rare spell of happiness.
The silence of the shop grew heavy with expectation. Like a bored child waiting for ideas from a parent, Olivia sensed that it was waiting for her to tell it what to do next.
“What should I do, Pappy?”
The wind whistled through the letterbox, rattling the window frames, replying with her echo. What should I do? What should I do?
She finished her coffee and switched on the radio. Classical music blared out: Lyric FM. Pappy refused to listen to anything else, declaring other stations an insult to his ears. She was glad for the symphony that filled the impatient silence of the shop, glad for the dramatic crescendos and decrescendos that infused everything with a rich melody of possibility. She sat down in the Queen Anne chair and, for want of anything better to do, began to empty the desk drawers.
The first was full of boring-looking accounts and serious-looking business correspondence. Bills for rent and bills for the nursing home. She scribbled the name Henry Blake onto a scrap of paper and put it in her cardigan pocket. Whoever this colleague of Pappy’s was, she had a feeling she would need his help sooner rather than later.
The second drawer contained the heavy old ledgers in which Pappy had diligently cataloged all the books, stubbornly refusing to embrace any new technology and insisting that the old ways were the best. She thumbed through the pages and pages of entries. All of them would have to be transferred onto a website if she was to have any hope of connecting with a wider range of collectors and buyers. It was a daunting task, but at least it was something practical she could do.
The third drawer—the last—refused to open at first. Olivia tugged at the handle, jiggling it from side to side until the drawer eventually gave way to reveal a tan leather briefcase, battered and mildewed. She lifted it out, brushed off a thick layer of dust, unbuckled the rusted straps, and folded back the soft leather flap. A sweet, musty smell bloomed around her, the scent of lost secrets and stories to be told. Inside the briefcase were a large hardback book and a manila folder full of yellowing newspaper articles. Olivia lifted everything out onto the desk to take a closer look.
The book was a children’s picture book called Princess Mary’s Gift Book. The binding was still mostly intact, and despite a little foxing on the frontispiece and flyleaf, it was in good condition. On the title page an inscription read, “To Frances. Happy Christmas, 1914. From Mummy and Daddy. ‘It is only by believing in magic that we can ever hope to find it.’” Olivia turned the pages carefully, savoring the delicious old-book smell of leather and vanilla and imagination. The book naturally fell open at a poem called “A Spell for a Fairy” by Alfred Noyes, beautifully illustrated with pencil sketches of ethereal young girls in flowing dresses. Tucked into the seam between the last two pages of the poem was an old sepia photograph. It was a strange image, nothing but a jumble of shapes among long grass. On the back, in neat script, were the words “To Ellen. The fifth photograph. Real fairies! From Frances.”
Putting the book and photograph to one side, Olivia picked up the manila file next and took out several yellowed pages from a publication called The Strand Magazine, dated November 1920 and March 1921. The headlines grabbed her attention:
FAIRIES PHOTOGRAPHED
AN EPOCH-MAKING EVENT DESCRIBED BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
and
THE EVIDENCE FOR FAIRIES
BY
A. CONAN DOYLE
WITH NEW FAIRY PHOTOGRAPHS
She was surprised to discover Arthur Conan Doyle had written about fairies, but the articles interested her. She scanned over the first one, stopping at a paragraph halfway down the page: “It was about the month of May in this year that I received a letter from Miss Felicia Scatcherd, so well known in several departments of human thought, to the effect that two photographs of fairies had been taken in the North of England under circumstances which seemed to put fraud out of the question.” But it was when she turned to the second page that Olivia’s hands stilled and the shop fell extraordinarily quiet. The page carried a black-and-white photograph of a little girl, a garland of f
lowers on her head, a slight smile at her lips as she watched a group of fairies dancing in front of her. The caption beneath it read:
ALICE AND THE FAIRIES.
Alice standing behind the banks of the beck, with fairies dancing before her. She is looking across at her playmate Iris, to intimate that the time had come to take the photograph. (An untouched enlargement from the original negative.)
Olivia’s hand rose instinctively to her heart. She knew this photograph. Like a fossil in rock, the image of the girl and the fairies was imprinted forever on her mind, part of a forgotten story she had always sensed was somehow linked to the unwritten pages of her own. The sight of it sent her thoughts rushing back over the years as painful memories pushed forward, forcing her to remember.
SHE’D FOUND THE photograph at the bottom of her mammy’s jewelry box and was instantly enchanted by the picture of the girl watching the fairies. She asked her mother about it while she was getting ready to go out.
“Ah, now, that’s a very interesting story, Olivia. Far too interesting to tell you in a hurry.” Her face was alight with secrets as she pressed the silver photo frame into Olivia’s hands. “You take care of it. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
She remembered that her mother’s hands were cool in hers. She remembered the sweet marzipan scent of her hand cream, the rattle of the hooks as she drew the curtains, the tickle of hair against her cheek as she bent down to kiss her good-night and tuck her in. She remembered the smooth edges of the silver photo frame as she’d held it beneath the tight cocoon of sheets and blankets. She remembered small details like this.
It was her mammy’s birthday. She was going out for the evening with friends and had never looked more beautiful to Olivia.