Pages and Co 2: Tilly and the Lost Fairytales

by Anna James

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ a voice said, and a petite woman with a broad smile appeared from a door. ‘Oskar, look how much you’ve grown!’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘And this must be Matilda! It is wonderful to meet you; thank you for coming to stay with us. I am Marguerite, Gabriel’s wife.’ She leaned forward and kissed Tilly on both cheeks. She smelled like fancy perfume.

  ‘Thank you for having me,’ Tilly said. ‘You can call me Tilly.’

  ‘Tilly! How lovely! Now come in out of the hallway. We’ll take your bags up and show you your room once you’ve warmed up and had some lunch.’

  The three of them followed Marguerite into the high-ceilinged living room, which was a cacophony of colours and textures. The space was dominated by large windows that looked out over Paris, and there were two chairs under the window with colourful blankets draped over their backs. A Christmas tree was squeezed into one corner, decorated entirely with white fairy lights and silver decorations, and the source of the classical music Tilly had heard was revealed to be a record player perched on top of a cabinet full of vinyl records.

  They went through to the kitchen, which had another tall window that would open out on to a tiny balcony when the weather was sunnier. There was a wooden table pushed against the opposite wall, piled with food – a fresh baguette generously sliced, a plate with three different kinds of cheeses, a big patterned bowl full of salad leaves and a matching smaller bowl heaped with green and black olives. As they all settled down for lunch, talking of trains, and cheese, and Christmas, Tilly thought how nice it would be to have two days without any bookwandering, or bookbinding, or any kind of book magic at all.

  nd that is why you should never trust a sheep farmer from Marseille,’ Gabriel finished triumphantly, at the end of a very long and confusing story about dairy farming in France. ‘But enough about cheese. Let me show you two where you’re sleeping. I’ll save my brie facts for tomorrow.’

  Tilly tried to smile and nod politely. She had never heard anyone talk about cheese for such a long time. Gabriel picked up their cases from the hallway and pointed at two closed doors. ‘That one’s the bathroom.’ He gestured. ‘And that one is usually the study, but it’s where my mother is staying, recuperating from her operation. She is currently sleeping. I am sure she’ll say hello shortly.’

  Tilly and Oskar followed Gabriel up the narrow staircase to Oskar’s older sister’s room, where Tilly would be sleeping. It was a small, square space with fairy lights dipped from one corner to another, illuminating posters and magazine cuttings about philosophy, feminism and poetry. Two large, messy bookcases took up most of one wall, and a huge poster of Simone de Beauvoir hung over a bed heaped with blankets. Tilly was a little disappointed she couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower from the apartment, but she supposed that was like coming to London and expecting to see Big Ben out of every window.

  ‘We should have a look through Emilie’s books,’ Oskar said once Gabriel had left. ‘See if there’s anything we can bookwander inside!’

  ‘No,’ Tilly said, trying to push whatever had happened on the train out of her mind. ‘We can’t do it from here, remember? You can only bookwander from a bookshop or a library. Anyway, Grandma told me not to, just in case.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Oskar said. ‘It’s not like we’re just going to bump into Chalk, is it?’

  ‘Who knows,’ Tilly said. ‘All we know is that the grown-ups are supposedly going to sort it out. Not that they seem to be doing a very good job of it.’

  ‘Who’s going to even notice if we bookwander in Paris anyway?’ Oskar said, trying to sound persuasive. ‘We should go somewhere fun and Christmassy! Nowhere dangerous! I bet Mamie knows where the good bookshops are. How about we try and get back to Narnia?’

  ‘Narnia is what you think of as fun and safe and Christmassy?’ Tilly said.

  ‘I mean, it’s festive, right?’ Oskar said. ‘And fun if we stick to the right bits!’

  ‘I really don’t want to meet the White Witch,’ Tilly said. ‘And I don’t even like Turkish delight.’

  ‘You never want to go anywhere exciting,’ Oskar complained. ‘We can’t just keep going to have picnics with Ratty and Mole in The Wind in the Willows, you know.’

  ‘Why not?’ Tilly said. ‘It’s lovely and funny and, most importantly, safe.’

  Oskar wasn’t letting up. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  ‘You literally had to walk the plank six weeks ago,’ Tilly pointed out.

  ‘But it worked out fine!’

  ‘And what about everything going on at the Underlibrary!’ Tilly said.

  ‘Yeah, but that’s just fairy tales, isn’t it?’ Oskar replied. ‘I know there’s all the bookbinding stuff, but that doesn’t make actual bookwandering more dangerous. Books are still safe, and we’re not stamped, and do you know, you could look at it like we probably ought to do as much bookwandering as possible if Underwood is going to try and stop children at some point in the future …?’

  ‘Okay, that’s the first point you’ve made that makes sense. But,’ she said, catching herself, ‘the point is that Chalk is still out there. We don’t know where he’s lurking or what he’s planning. He could turn any book into a trap!’

  ‘He’s stuck in fairy tales if we can believe Underwood,’ Oskar said. ‘And anyway, we can’t just stop bookwandering altogether. Isn’t that what Chalk would want? Isn’t that what Underwood wants?’

  ‘I … guess,’ said Tilly hesitantly.

  ‘So we’ll just stick together, and always check the last page. Come on, Tilly, we know what we’re doing!’ Oskar said. ‘We just avoid fairy tales and we’re golden!’

  Tilly nodded. ‘I know, you’re right, I just get nervous these days.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Oskar said, smiling mischievously. ‘We all know you’re the sensible clever one and I’m the exciting adventurous one.’

  ‘Hey!’ Tilly protested.

  ‘You’re right, I am quite clever too,’ Oskar said, grinning.

  There was a new addition to the living room when they got downstairs. In one of the armchairs under the window a very petite, very glamorous woman was looking out across the snowy rooftops. Her ice-white hair was piled up into an elegant chignon and delicate diamond earrings hung at her ears. She was wearing slim-cut black trousers, an expensive-looking silky blouse and a raspberry-pink pashmina that matched her lipstick.

  ‘Mamie!’ Oskar said, running over to her and kissing her on both cheeks.

  ‘So formal, mon cher,’ she replied, breaking into a broad smile and gathering him into a gentle hug. ‘And this must be Matilda!’ Tilly hurried over to her chair and stood a little awkwardly in front of her, not sure whether to kiss her or hug her or shake hands. In the end she plumped for a quick wave.

  ‘Bonjour, uh, madame?’ she said.

  ‘It is very kind of you to try to speak a little French, Matilda,’ Mamie said. ‘But do not worry, I speak English fairly confidently after years of working with English writers and publishers. And you may call me Clara.’

  ‘You can call me Tilly.’

  ‘Wonderful, we are almost friends already, then.’

  ‘You worked with English writers?’ Tilly asked curiously.

  ‘Why, yes, many of the books I illustrated were English books,’ Clara said. ‘If you look behind you, you can see something I drew for a book of fairy tales when I was much younger.’ Tilly turned to see an intricate watercolour painting of a fairytale castle surrounded by a dark forest, all set against a brooding purple sky. She was instantly taken back to the few moments on the train when she had been zipping through a forest just like that one. Tilly found it rather menacing; she could easily imagine all sorts of nightmarish creatures lurking among the trees.

  ‘It’s kind of scary,’ Tilly said, unable to tear her eyes away from it.

  ‘Fairy tales often are,’ Clara said. ‘As I am sure you know. I am told you are quite the reader, Tilly. So you must be familiar with the rea
l fairy tales, not just the shiny cartoon versions.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Tilly said, still staring into the painted forest, as if she might catch a glimpse of something moving between the tree trunks. ‘But I never much liked them, to be honest, or not as much as some people do. They’re too predictable. Evil stepmothers, witches in disguise. The princess always gets married at the end. The prince always saves her. But I just found out my grandma loves them, so I’m going to give them another try. Maybe I’ll like the old ones better.’

  ‘I think you might,’ Clara said. ‘I wonder if you will find them as predictable as you expect.’

  ‘Mamie, we actually wanted to ask you where the nearest bookshop was. We’d love to explore,’ Oskar said.

  ‘Well, you have many, many to choose from in Paris,’ Clara said. ‘But as I imagine you will want something you can read, I would recommend my friend Gretchen’s shop, as she has many books in English as well as French. I shall take you there myself tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, Maman,’ Gabriel said, putting an attentive hand on her shoulder.

  ‘It is really nothing to do with you, mon cher,’ Clara said, gently but firmly removing his hand. ‘I will order a car to pick us up and to bring me back afterwards. It is settled. I am going to retire to the study for now – may I have my dinner in there, Gabriel? – and I shall see you two at ten o’ clock in the morning. Bon nuit.’

  And with that she stood up, slowly but gracefully, kissed them all on the cheek, and left, closing the door behind her.

  The rest of the evening was spent chatting and eating and Tilly felt more at home than she had ever imagined was possible outside of Pages & Co. So much so that it was nearly bedtime when she realised she hadn’t spoken to her grandparents, or her mother, since she’d arrived. Tilly excused herself, thanking Gabriel and Marguerite at least three times for having her to stay, and went upstairs to find her phone. There were several missed calls from her grandparents on the screen.

  ‘Hello? Tilly?’ Her grandad’s urgent voice came over the line. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘It’s me,’ Tilly said, feeling guilty. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t call earlier – everything is fine.’

  ‘Okay, darling, but please remember to keep in touch. You feel very far away from us,’ Grandad said, obviously trying to keep the worry from his voice. ‘So, what are Oskar’s family like?’

  ‘They’re lovely,’ Tilly said. ‘They’ve been so welcoming and kind, and we’ve eaten so much cheese. And I have my own room, and everything is fine, I promise. I’ve met Clara as well.’

  ‘Who’s Clara?’

  ‘His grandmother!’ Tilly said. ‘You know, the one who was poorly, the whole reason Oskar was staying over when … everything happened.’

  ‘Oh! First-name terms already!’ Grandad teased, the usual warmth in his voice returning. ‘I hope you’re not in the market for new grandparents already.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Tilly said. ‘I’m only interested in grandparents that come ready-made with their own bookshops. And anyway, Clara is kind of … I’m not sure what the right word is. She’s not frightening, she was very friendly, but she’s very sort-of stern. She wears lipstick!’

  ‘I wear lipstick! Sometimes!’ Tilly heard her grandmother chime in.

  ‘You’re on speakerphone,’ Grandad explained.

  ‘Is Mum there?’ Tilly said.

  ‘I’m here, darling,’ Bea said. ‘I’m so glad you’re having a nice time already. Is it lovely and festive in Paris? I haven’t been since I was a teenager.’

  ‘Maybe we should have a family visit next year some time,’ Grandma suggested.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Bea said quietly.

  ‘So what’s your plan for tomorrow?’ Grandad asked Tilly.

  ‘Clara is taking us to a bookshop,’ Tilly said. ‘If that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ Grandad said. ‘But do be careful, Tilly. We’re trusting you and Oskar to be sensible.’

  Tilly made a non-committal noise that she hoped conveyed agreement in a vague sort of way. ‘Do you think there’ll be any bookwanderers at the shop?’ she asked.

  ‘I can check for you with Aria in the Map Room,’ Grandma chimed in. ‘Do you know what it’s called?’

  ‘Oh. No,’ Tilly said. ‘Clara didn’t say. I’ll tell you tomorrow when we’re back and you can see.’

  ‘Just stay safe, sweetheart,’ Grandma said. ‘Don’t do anything rash. By the way, where did you pop my fairytale book once you’d finished with it? I can’t find it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tilly said, trying to think of what to say. ‘It’s, uh, I think I put it on Grandad’s desk?’

  ‘Ah, okay,’ Grandma said. She didn’t sound suspicious, as Tilly had never given them reason to be before, and Tilly immediately felt guilty and tried to change the subject.

  ‘So, anything to report from the Underlibrary?’ she asked.

  ‘Really, you don’t need to think about all of that,’ Grandad said. ‘Let us deal with it. We don’t even need to talk about it, honestly.’ Then there was a pause, and Tilly could almost hear them nudging Bea to say something.

  ‘Look after yourself, darling,’ Bea said vaguely.

  ‘Just be safe, Tilly, sweetheart,’ Grandad said. ‘We love you so much.’

  ‘I promise,’ Tilly said. But she found that underneath the chilly feeling of guilt for lying to her grandparents about where the fairytale book was, there was something else stirring inside her; something rebellious and fiery and hard to ignore.

  The next morning was a perfect winter day, skies so blue they looked as though you could sail in them. There was a just-the-right-side-of-sharp bite in the air, and softly falling snow made everything look as though it was dusted with icing sugar. Tilly found herself wishing Anne were there to enjoy it.

  Clara was already up and dressed immaculately in lavender cigarette trousers with a black turtleneck and black boots. She was drinking espresso and reading a newspaper when Tilly came down for a breakfast of toasted brioche and hot chocolate. Oskar was buzzing with excitement over their bookshop visit.

  After bundling up in coats and hats and scarves, they followed Clara back down the stairs and on to the street, where a black car waited. A smartly dressed man emerged and opened the passenger door for Clara, while Tilly and Oskar clambered into the back seat. The drive through the Parisian streets was short but there were so many things to take in – stylishly wrapped-up couples walking hand in hand, chocolate-box patisseries with windows piled high with impossibly beautiful cakes, and a drive over the River Seine that made Tilly feel as though she was in a film. After only five minutes they pulled up in a quiet, tiny narrow street with no bookshop to be seen.

  ‘This way,’ Clara said, heading to an unremarkable door. On the stone wall there was a bell, and a discreet plaque with a gold circle round an intricate drawing of a feather. Above the illustration was written ‘The Faery Cabinet’. Clara pushed the door open and Tilly and Oskar followed, half expecting to be transported into a magical world.

  The room was small, with a desk stacked high with books and a till wedged in among them. Corridors and nooks and steps led off in several directions. As well as many, many bookshelves, the walls were covered with photos of smiling people, postcards and notes. A ladder that had seen better days was leaning against one wall, and Tilly could see a much larger room through an archway straight ahead of them. Handwritten signs were pinned to several of the shelves to mark different genres, and jazz music played quietly. Behind the desk was a threadbare armchair, and in it was a woman with short grey hair and large tortoiseshell glasses, absorbed in a book. Clara gave a polite cough and the woman looked up.

  ‘Clara! On est gâté!’ she said, standing up, knocking over several books that had been balanced on the arm of her chair in the process. ‘Et qui est-ce?’ she said, smiling at Tilly and Oskar, who looked at her in bemusement.

  ‘Not French, I see,’ she said in English, with, to T
illy’s surprise, an English accent. ‘Your grandson, by any chance?’

  ‘He is indeed,’ Clara said, pushing Oskar forward to shake her hand.

  ‘A pleasure, Oskar,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Gretchen. It’s wonderful to meet you after so long. And who’s this?’

  ‘This is my friend,’ Oskar explained. ‘She’s staying with us for a few days before Christmas.’

  ‘Hello,’ Tilly said. ‘Your bookshop is very … full.’

  Gretchen laughed loudly and without self-consciousness. ‘You’re not wrong,’ she said. ‘Now, Oskar neglected to mention your name. What shall I call you?’

  ‘I’m Matilda,’ she said. ‘Matilda Pages. But everyone calls me Tilly.’

  ‘Matilda Pages,’ Gretchen said, looking intently at her. ‘Well, it is lovely to meet you. My name is Gretchen Stein. Welcome to the Faery Cabinet.’

  ‘And, Gretchen,’ Clara said, ‘just to add a soupçon of excitement to today, I believe my grandson and his friend are bookwanderers.’

  ‘What?’ Oskar spluttered, spinning to face his grandmother. ‘How do you even know what that is?’

  ‘Where do you think you got it from, mon cher?’ Clara said, with a mischievous smile.

  skar was staring at Mamie, dumbfounded.

  ‘Sorry, what? You’re a bookwanderer?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ she said.

  ‘Is Dad?’

  ‘Sadly, I do not believe so,’ she said. ‘If one could artwander into a painting I have no doubt he would be adept at that, and who knows, perhaps there is a secret community of these people we do not know about. But books, no.’

  ‘When did you realise I could bookwander too?’

  ‘I did not know for certain,’ Clara said, smiling. ‘But, Matilda, I know of your grandparents, and so as soon as I heard your name, I thought it interesting that my grandson had become friends with you. And when you were asking to go to a bookshop, my heart sang a little as I thought perhaps it was true. And I am so happy to find myself correct!’