The Bookshop of Forgotten Stories

 

Gosh, isn't the weather lovely? you remark to one another as you stroll. The strong espresso is still warming your throat, the tang of cherry still coating your tongue. 

Bit naughty, you giggle. Cake for breakfast!

The sky is bluer than a Greek shutter, air warm. You shrug off your jacket and pull your sunglasses down over your eyes. 

You both murmur variations on great idea! though neither of you can remember whose idea it was. Are you congratulating your companion or yourself?

Citybreak. It feels right to merge the two words. And it feels right to stroll languidly, cobbles pushing into the soles of your sensible shoes, calves throbbing from the delicious ache of a city well-trodden.

You twist down back streets, gasp at the pretty buildings longstanding, windows witness to battles, births and stolen moments. You've actually clapped your hands in glee as you spot another basilica tower rising from the rooftops. 

Wow! 

Ooh! 

It says here that this was built in 1653! 

Just look at that window! 

This was besieged in 1780! 

Can you believe this is over 600 years old?

You both do a lot of sighing, imagining all of the stories these buildings could tell. 

And look at the view from here! I'll take a picture of you. Left a bit. Bit more. Perfect!

You've lost yourselves in the warren of streets on top of the hill, and neither of you care. You wander by an opening and peer inside. 

Well, isn't this cute!

You duck into the darkness of a courtyard dotted with flower pots spilling pink and purple flowers like tiny fountains. Doors stand open around the mosaiced square. To one side, an artist's studio and shop, green ceramic pots on a table outside. To the other, the open door is adorned with doilies. A hand painted sign advertises locally crafted lace in four languages.

It's the middle door that sends your pulse racing though. It stands slightly ajar, a printed sign declares: Second Hand Bookshop. The doorway is flanked by two piles of leather bound volumes in richly hued jewel colours. They are neatly arranged, but vary in size, some as thick as a doorstep, others thin as a slice of bread. 

Your fingers itch to trace the gold-embossed letters, to gently turn the onion skin-thin leaves. Your nose twitches with the desire to inhale the last traces of ink, the years of gathered dust. 

You probably want to look inside.

Your companion reads your expression. You wear your longing like a robe. 

Oh, maybe a quick browse, you lie, yearning to lose yourself amongst the shelves for hours or days or weeks. 

Well, I've just got to…Your companion performs an awkward mime for needing to go to the toilet. I'll see you back here in a jiffy. 

Take your time, you think. 

You push open the door, disturbing a little tinkling bell hanging over the frame. It's dark, but billiard-table green capped lamps provide just enough illumination to make out the labyrinthine bookshelf pathways. You inhale deeply, taking in sheaves of old paper and forgotten stories. 

There does not appear to be anyone else here. 

Your fingers trail across spines. Some are stiff and untarnished: soldiers smartly guarding a monarch. Others are broken and tattered, evidence of them being laid open over the arm of a chair or on a bedside table. You recognise some of the titles: Jamaica Inn, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Martin Chuzzlewit, The Secret Garden, Crime and Punishment. Others, you've never heard of. You study some of the more curious titles: Tea and Feathers at The Pigeon Cafe, Mim and Wiggy's Grand Adventure, Fat Men Driving Cars. 

You crane your neck to look at the titles on the higher shelves, crouch low to read the ones perched on the lowest shelf. There is, it appears, no rhyme nor reason to the order the books are laid out in. Victorian fiction shares a space with Plumbing for the Discerning Gentleman, trout fishing tomes and fifteenth century Persian verse are bedfellows. You smile, because somehow, it all makes perfect sense. 

A spine catches your eye. You're not sure why, but you're drawn to the book. It's on a low shelf, huddling between Of Mice and Men and The Language of Crows, title barely visible in the shadows. You bend, tilt the book to release it and pull it out. 

In the low light, you squint to read the title, the spine concertinaed from much use. 

Is that…? Surely not. 

The title. It's the same as that manuscript you finished last year. The one that you agonised over for three long years, drafting, redrafting, one, two, three times. The one you had to print out and post to your cleverest friend overseas who promised to proof it for you but never got round to it. The one that you opened and closed five times before attaching it to your query letter and emailing it to an agent who never got back to you. The one you thought you had given an original and smart title to: a title that gave just enough away without revealing your hand. 

Oh well, you sigh. Someone got there first. 

But who? 

You twist the book around until the author's name catches the light. 

You gasp and drop it. 

It's your name. 

You saw your name. 

You shake your head. It simply cannot be! 

Glancing around, you squat, pick up the book. 

You look at the cover now. That's your title and your name. 

Well, you think. Well! 

You can't help but admire how it looks, that pleasing combination of authority and achievement. But surely, this cannot be my book? 

You open the book to the first page. The letters dance at first, refusing to settle into a rhythm. Then they do. 

That first line. Exactly as you wrote it the first time around. You were in a park when that came to you, watching people doing all of the things that people do. You scrabbled in your bag for a pen and paper, settling on a crumpled napkin that came with your coffee that morning. The rest of the book sprung from that one vapour trail of thought. You caught it in time before it slipped away to be found by someone else. It really is an excellent opening line. 

And on. That paragraph that you rewrote a hundred times. That clunky description of a cloud that you just couldn't get right. The poetic way you described light on water. It's all there. Exactly as you wrote it. 

You turn to the back sheaves. A black and white version of you stares confidently down the lens of a camera. You look intelligent, self-assured, successful. And the biography! The biography is glowing: achievements, accolades that you daren't even dream of. 

You turn the book over and shake your head. This can't be real. 

Oops! 

An old man bumps you, knocking the book from your hand. Sorry, didn't see you there. 

He's wearing a checked shirt, corduroys and has a pocketed apron slung about his waist. Books peep over the parapet of the pockets. A fluffy white moustache relaxes across his upper lip. He smiles and stoops to retrieve your book. 

He chuckles as he brings the book to the light. Great book, this one, he says. 

You've read it?

Oh yeah. He leafs through the book. Sell loads of them too. 

You do? 

He looks up at you through thin, peppery eyelashes and grins. He studies your face, then his eyes widen. 

I'm so sorry! I didn't realise it was you! 

You frown. He pats his apron pockets, fishing a pen from one of them. He opens the book at the biography page. 

Will you? He proffers the book and the pen at you. Our customers love a signed copy. 

You take the pen warily. 

Is this some kind of joke?

No! We love signed copies here. 

You place the tip of the pen on the page and hesitate. You've practised this a thousand times, but now, you feel self- conscious. Shy, almost. Is your signature too child- like? Will your scrawl be unintelligible? 

You do it quickly. One flick and flourish and it's done. You've signed your first book. 

The old man smiles and tucks the signed book into his pocket. 

Well, he says. 

Well, you echo. You open your mouth, then close it again. You shake your head. Look, you say. I know I just signed it, but could I…do you think I might…buy it? 

The old man raises his eyebrows. Buy it? Don't your publishers look after you? 

I guess not. 

He taps his chin with a finger. It's an unusual request, he declares. Our customers just love a signed book. But, well, I suppose if you don't have a copy…

I don't. 

He sighs. Here. Take it. He hands you the book. I can't take any money from you. Just, maybe, drop in when you've finished the next one. 

You take the book. Thank you! I will, I promise. 

You clutch the book to your chest and stumble out of the shop.

It seems so bright in the courtyard. Your companion has returned and is turning over ceramic pots thoughtfully. 

Ah! There you are! Find a good book? 

You nod mutely and thrust the book into your companion's hands, looking over your shoulder at the now closed bookshop door. 

Your companion examines the book. 

The Bookshop of Forgotten Stories, they read. 

What? That's not your book title. 

Your companion opens the book and begins to read.

Gosh, isn't the weather lovely? you remark to one another as you stroll. The strong espresso is still warming your throat…