Lost Worlds
Mrs Tribble stood quite still on the almost empty pavement, addressing the indifferent world about her, while the cars swished past throwing up cascades from the gutters and late shoppers hurried by.
"I should have brought my umbrella. I usually do. Perhaps I've left it somewhere. It's raining quite heavily now. I must find shelter."
She stared about her trying to grasp reality. The street was unfamiliar though she walked it everyday. She stared hopefully into the shop windows until a secondhand bookshop caught her eye. She stood for a moment hesitating. A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door.
There was no counter or till as there is in modern bookshops. She doesn't care for modern bookshops, full of light, reflecting their garish book covers. Those books have not the magic for her of these subdued red, green, blue and brown volumes. She stands for a moment grasping shadows.
"I've been in this shop before I think. I remember; no its gone."
As she walked into the dim interior a sweet musty smell assailed her senses. This she remembers. She feels an old excitement stir within her. Here is the place of her dreams. Here time stands still. Here temptation is overwhelming. Neither Stevenson travelling with his donkey nor Amy Johnson zooming skyward felt greater elation. Time lost all meaning here in Aladdin's cave, amongst all the wonders of the world. She breathes deeply of the magic dust as she cranes her neck to read the titles. Tomes of history, too heavy for her frail arms to lift juxtaposed with Plato and Socrates. She runs a finger over the gold lettering and as she does so, she nods her head and clicks her tongue.
"Albert doesn't approve of Socrates. Very set in his ideas is my husband Albert. But a good man. Happy as a king on a nice day. Doesn't like the winter though. Not many gardeners do."
In the corner, a pile of half remembered romances catches her eye: 'The Way of an Eagle,' 'I will Repay', 'Mill on the Floss' and a conglomeration of later publications, read once and abandoned forever. She lingers, taking and replacing the dusty volumes from the mahogany shelves. Occasionally, she shakes her head disapprovingly and alters the order. A low stool tempts her and she sits book in hand but she doesn't focus on the words on the page. Her mind recalls her childhood when she evaded household tasks by climbing out of the first floor window on to the flat roof of the extended kitchen. There, on a sunny day, she would sit propped against the warm brick work to travel through magic casements into fairyland. She hears again her father's angry voice,
"Wasting time again! Where do you think reading will get you?"
She sighs and addresses the air about her.
"There was a time: at least I seem to remember: a room, book shelves floor to ceiling; now it's gone. Did I dream it? How marvelous it must be to own all this."
Her mouth tightens disapprovingly.
"Mind you if it were mine I'd keep a closer eye on the stock. Where is the owner? It's asking for trouble."
Even if she had money to buy, she would need a streak of puritanism to call the unseen vendor from his cubby hole in the dark recesses of the shop. A gardening book, paperback, displaying faded delphiniums lies discarded on the floor. Her knees crack as she bends to pick it up. Fearfully she looks over her shoulder. Nothing! No curious shopkeeper to ask,
"Have you found what you are looking for?"
She opens the book. 6p is marked in pencil on the fly leaf.
"When I am ready I will call for the book seller and offer five pence.One should never give the asking price for a book. Albert will like it. Delphiniums are his favourite flowers. Perhaps I should buy two. Two books will deserve a bag. One, he might expect to put in my shopping bag and that would never do."
Gingerly she tests the weight.
"I must not try to carry too much. Who told me that?"
She stands bewildered, and then another book catches her eye a thick gold lettered navy blue volume.
"That title, could it be the same?"
She stands on tiptoe, arm outstretched. Her fingers tremble as they journey through the pages. 'The Mighty Atom.'
"It is! The story which so profoundly affected my life. Strange how I can forget things that happened hours ago and yet recall childhood traumas so vividly. And now", she studied the pencilled price inside the cover. With a heavy sigh she replaced it on the shelf. "It's too much, unless", She opened her shopping bag and carefully removed the book of Keat's poetry, and the Omar Khayyam, staring at the titles as if they were new to her. Mr Thomas, the bookseller decided it was time to make his presence felt.
"Hullo, Mrs Tribble what have you got there? Ah I see you have found Marie Corelli's book. Not a very cheerful tale I'm afraid. Are you sure it won't be too heavy for you to carry? You must be sensible you know. We don't want you having another heart attack in our shop, do we?"
"Mr Thomas, you shouldn't creep up behind me like that. Nearly made me jump out of my skin."
Her hand is shaking, but she is pleased she remembered his name. Names are constantly escaping. Her lip quivers, and her eyes are focused on the distant past, more real than this present threat.
"I must have it, you see I first discovered this book in an hotel, in Llandudno or was it Blackpool? No it was Wales... where was I? Oh yes. It was where we stayed on holiday. I was about twelve, I think It was the last day of our holiday. Outside the rain blinded the windows day after day. I was totally absorbed, I couldn't bear to leave it behind and never know the fate of Lionel and his little sweetheart Jessamine. Papa found it when we unpacked. It was dreadful."
She covered her eyes for a moment before continuing in a whisper but she seemed no longer aware of an audience.
Mr Thomas clicked his biro impatiently.
"Thief! The accusation rang in my ears. I was forever branded. Compelled to return the book with a letter blotted with inky fingers and tears, for years I grieved over the unknown fate of my fictional friends. I have never seen the book since then until now. Nor thought of it."
She turned the book in her hands before resting it on the edge of a shelf...
"What was I saying?"
Without waiting for an answer she picked up the book of delphiniums, leaving the other two books on the floor.
"I'm thinking of buying this for Albert."
Mr Thomas sighs heavily, his forehead wrinkling above his thick lenses.
"Now Mrs Tribble you don't want to do that. You haven't got a garden now. I tell you what I'll bring you some real ones tomorrow. Try to come just before one and I'll run you up to the cemetery with them". He lifted up the Keats and Omar Khayyam.
"Let me put these back on the shelf for you. Are you sure you want 'The Mighty Atom'? Tell you what, leave it for now and tomorrow you can take it, have a read and bring it back when you've finished it."
A faint flush stained her parchment cheeks.
"What are you trying to sell me now? I may be old but you can't foist your rubbish on me. Atoms indeed! Why should I want that? I'm not a science student. I don't need you to tell me what I want; surely I can look round in peace."
Her voice has become shrill.
"Yes, yes," Mr Thomas placates. "I'll leave you to it. Just call me when you're ready."
Her anger leaves her and she mutters to the shelves.
"The cemetery? Why did he mention that? Is Albert in the cemetery? And what did he mean, 'Our shop?' I wish people wouldn't confuse me. They do it deliberately. I won't think about it now. I've the shopping to do. If Albert isn't waiting, I can put the book in my bag. No need to buy fish, not when I've got an egg left. Albert likes fish. Couldn't put books in my bag if I bought fish."
The flickering screen watches as she turns her head this way and that. She smiles as she once again puts Marie Corelli's book in her bag before again picking up the book on delphiniums. She juggles with the shopping bag and hand bag to extract her purse. Waving a five pound note she calls out,
"I've found what I want; a six penny book on delphiniums."
Mr Thomas sighs and replaces the telephone before he answers to her call he is tired of arguing. He takes the money,
"You're sure there's nothing else?"
"Of course I'm sure, I don't have time to read."
She throws back her head, squares her shoulders and marches out of the door. A policewoman awaits, takes her elbow and firmly guides her back inside the shop. She takes the bag from her and holds up the book.
"Well I never" Mrs Tribble exclaims, "How did that get there?"
Her eyes rest on Mr Thomas, they widen childlike in conviction.
"You put it there. You tried to make me buy it and when I wouldn't.."
She began to weep.
"I'm not a thief, Papa, I only borrowed it."
"I don't want to prosecute," Mr Thomas tells the officer but what can I do. He indicates the Omar Khayyam and the Keats, last time she walked out with those two and I didn't know. Oh yes she brought them back but how many more has she got?"
Mr Thomas dabbed his brow with a large red spotted handkerchief, forgetting in his agitation that he had last used it to dust a bible.
"The time before that she convinced a student she owned the shop and sold him a set of encyclopedias for a pound. That was when she had a heart attack. I lost a lot of customers over that. Sometimes she comes and starts rearranging the books. Perhaps it's true that she once owned a bookshop, though it's hard to believe that now. If you could just stop her coming here I'd be satisfied. She should be locked up. Isn't there anywhere left where she could be kept safe? Of course I understand it isn't her fault, but what am I supposed to do? I've got a business to run."
Mrs Tribble leaves, happily chatting to the Police officer. "That's the trouble with books they make you forget everything. No need to hurry now. Albert won't be home for dinner."
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