I can’t tell you how happy I am that Bookends will stay in the family, because I’ve always regarded you and Sam as family. Besides, you’re the only person I truly trust to protect its legacy and keep it safe for future generations of booklovers. I’m counting on you, dear Posy, so don’t let me down! It’s so important to me – my dying wish, if you will – that Bookends will live on after me. However, if you feel that you don’t want to be burdened with it or, I hate to say this, if it’s not operating at a profit within two years, then ownership will revert to Sebastian. The last thing on earth I would want, darling Posy, is for you to be saddled with something that will grind you down into the ground, but I know it won’t come to that.
Now, don’t be afraid to ask Sebastian for help. I’m sure you’ll be seeing lots more of him anyway as he’ll inherit the rest of Rochester Mews, so you’ll be neighbours and, I hope, friends. Time to put all that bitterness about the Coal-hole behind you. Yes, Sebastian can be a little obstreperous, but he really does mean well. That said, don’t put up with any nonsense from him. I do think he’d benefit from a good clip around the ear from time to time,
So, goodbye, my darling girl. Be brave, be strong, be a success. Always remember to follow your heart and you won’t go astray.
Much love,
Lavinia xxx
Bookends was situated at the northern tip of Bloomsbury. People walking from Holborn down Theobalds Road, towards the Gray’s Inn Road, often missed the tiny cobbled Rochester Street on their right. If they did happen upon it and decide it was worth exploring, chances were they’d pause as soon as they came to the delicatessen to look at the cheeses and sausages and brightly coloured edibles in glass jars all lovingly displayed in the window.
They might browse the boutiques full of pretty dresses and soft and cheerful winter knits. Then the butcher’s, the barber’s, the stationery shop, until they came to the pub on the corner, the Midnight Bell, across the road from the fish and chip shop, There’s No Plaice Like Home, and an old-fashioned sweet shop, which still weighed out pear drops and lemon sherbets, aniseed balls, winter nips, humbugs and liquorice allsorts and poured them into little candy-striped paper bags.
Just before the end of this delightful street, like something from a Dickens novel, was a small courtyard on the right: Rochester Mews.
Rochester Mews wasn’t pretty or picturesque. There were weather-beaten wooden benches arranged in a circle at the centre of the courtyard, planter pots full of weeds … even the trees looked as though they’d seen better days. On one side of the yard was a small row of five empty shops. From the peeling, faded signs, it would seem that in another life the premises housed a florist, a haberdasher’s, a tea and coffee merchant, a stamp shop and an apothecary. On the other side of the yard was another, larger shop, though it looked like a collection of shops all joined together to make a jumbled whole. It had old-fashioned bow windows and a faded, black-and-white striped awning.
The sign above the door read Bookends, and on this particular day in February, with the afternoon sun already sinking and the shadows lengthening, a small, red sports car turned into the yard and came to a halt outside.
The door opened and a tall man in a dark suit and a shirt the same shade of red as his car unfolded himself from the driver’s seat, complaining bitterly all the while that the cobbles were playing havoc with the suspension of his vintage Triumph.
He strode around to the passenger side, pulled open the door and said, ‘Morland, I haven’t got all day. I drove you home, I’ve done my good deed for the day, now can you shift your bloody arse?’
A young woman in a pink dress stumbled from the car, then stood there swaying slightly on unsteady legs as if she was still getting used to dry land after months spent at sea. In one hand she clutched a cream-coloured en-velope.
‘Morland!’ The man snapped his fingers in the woman’s face and she came to with a start.
‘Rude!’ she exclaimed. ‘So rude.’
‘Well, you’re standing there like one o’clock half struck,’ he said, then slouched against the wall as she rooted around in her bag and produced a bunch of keys.
‘I won’t come in now,’ the man said. He gestured at the courtyard, neglected and unloved. ‘What a dump. I suppose we’ll have to chat this out quite soon. Can’t do much with the mews with you as a sitting tenant in the shop, can I?’
The woman was still struggling to get the door open but she turned to look at him. Her face pale, eyes wide. ‘But I’m not a sitting tenant, am I? I thought I was the owner. Well, for two years at least …’
‘Not now, Morland. I’m a very busy man.’ He was already walking back to his car. ‘Laters!’
She watched him drive away with a crash of gears, then opened the door of the shop and stepped inside.
Posy had no memory of leaving the club with Sebastian, getting in his car, doing up her seat belt – none of it. It was as if there’d been some breach in the space-time continuum as soon as she folded up Lavinia’s letter and placed it back in its envelope.
She was still clutching it now as she stood in the dark shop, the familiar shape of the shelves, the stacks of books, the comforting smell of paper and ink all around her. She was home and suddenly the world was back in focus, but still Posy stood there, not sure that she was capable of walking, much less able to think of where her feet should carry her.
Then Posy heard the bell above the door tinkle. It made her jump and she turned around to see Sam, school bag slung over one shoulder, anorak undone despite the cold and the fact that she told him every morning to do it up.
‘My God, you frightened the life out of me!’ she exclaimed. It was completely dark now; she didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. ‘You’re home late.’
‘It’s Tuesday. Football practice,’ Sam said, moving past her, his face in shadow but his steps slightly crabbed, which made Posy’s heart sink because it meant his shoes were getting too tight and he didn’t want to tell her because she’d only just bought him new ones in the January sales.
This time last year he’d been the same height as her, but now he’d shot up by a good six inches; he was going to be as tall as their father. As Sam reached the counter and snapped on the lights, Posy caught sight of his grubby white socks, which meant he needed new school trousers too. She hadn’t budgeted for either new school shoes or trousers this month. And then she looked down and saw Lavinia’s letter still in her hand.
‘Are you all right, Posy? Was it awful?’ Sam leaned on the counter and frowned. ‘Are you going to cry? Do you need some chocolate?’
‘What? No. Yes. I mean, the funeral, it was hard. It was sad. Very, very sad.’
Sam peered at her from beneath his fringe, which he refused to cut, despite Posy’s threat to creep into his room with the kitchen scissors while he slept. ‘I still think I should have come. Lavinia was my friend too.’
Posy moved then. Stretched out her arms and legs, which were stiff from being still for so long, and walked over to the counter so she could brush the hair back from Sam’s eyes. They were the same blue as her own eyes, the same blue as their father’s. Forget-me-not blue, her mother had always called it.
‘Honestly, Sam, as you get older, you’ll have plenty of funerals to go to,’ she said softly. ‘You’ll be sick of funerals. And there’ll be a memorial service later in the year.