“Why are you wriggling around so much?” Peggy said. “You’re like my old dog dragging its arse along the floor.”
“Sorry,” Andrew said. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“. . . Nothing.”
—
Andrew lost Peggy almost as soon as they walked into the bookshop, his focus drawn immediately to what was happening five feet above his head. A beautiful, dark green engine (an Accucraft Victorian NA Class, if he wasn’t very much mistaken) was sliding effortlessly around the tracks positioned above the book stacks. The aisles beyond were bridged by signs bearing lines of poetry. The nearest read:
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again / How oft hereafter will she wax and wane.
The train flashed past again, a soft breeze rippling in its wake.
“I’m in heaven,” Andrew whispered to himself. If anything was going to slow his pulse back to normal after what had nearly just happened in the car, it was this. He was aware of someone standing next to him. He glanced to his side and saw a tall man in a gray cardigan, his hands held behind his back, looking up at the train. He and Andrew exchanged nods.
“Like what you see?” the man said. Andrew had only ever heard this phrase used by bolshy brothel madams in period dramas, but despite its seeming so out of context, at the same time he really did like what he was seeing.
“It’s mesmerizing,” he said. The man nodded, eyes briefly closing, as if to say: You’re home now, old friend.
Andrew took a deep breath, feeling properly calmed now, and turned slowly on the spot so he could take in the rest of the place. He certainly wasn’t the sort of person who would use the word “vibe,” but if he were, he’d have said Barter Books’ vibe was one he was very much “down with,” to borrow one of Sally’s old phrases. It was so serene, so quiet. People browsed the shelves with a sense of reverence, their voices lowered. When someone took a book off a shelf they did so with the delicacy of an archaeologist bringing ancient pottery out of the soil. Andrew had read that the shop’s claim to fame was that it was where the original “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster had been unearthed. And while it had spawned thousands of annoying variations (Meredith had a mug in the office with the slogan “Keep Calm and Do Yoga” written on it, possibly the most prosaic sentence ever committed to ceramic), here it felt like the perfect emblem.
But they weren’t here for the atmosphere. Andrew found Peggy sitting low in a chair that looked almost obscenely comfy, her hands linked behind her head, a contented smile on her face.
“Argh,” she moaned as Andrew approached. “I suppose we better get on with this, then?”
“I think we had better,” Andrew said.
Peggy looked at him determinedly and held out her hands. At first Andrew stared at them uncomprehendingly, then snapped into action and pulled Peggy to her feet. They stood side by side, shoulders touching, facing the polite queue by the tills.
“Right,” Andrew said, rubbing his hands together to suggest industry. “So are we just going to go up there and ask them whether a ‘B’ works here?”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea?” Peggy said.
Andrew shook his head. “Do you want to do the talking?”
“Nope,” Peggy said. “You?”
“Not particularly, if I’m honest with you.”
Peggy pursed her lips. “Rock Paper Scissors?”
Andrew turned so he was facing her. “Why not.”
“One, two, three.”
Paper. Paper.
“One, two, three.”
Rock. Rock.
They went again. Andrew thought about going scissors, but at the last minute he changed it to rock. This time, Peggy went paper. She closed her hand over his.
“Paper covers rock,” she said quietly.
They were standing close now, hands still touching. It felt for a second like the hubbub had died away, that all eyes were on them, that even the books on the shelves were holding their breath. Then Peggy suddenly dropped her hand. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Look.”
Andrew forced himself to turn around so that they were side by side once more. And there at the tills, cup of tea in hand, glasses around her neck on a chain, was a woman with green eyes and frizzy gray hair. Peggy dragged Andrew by the arm over to the waiting room café.
“That’s definitely her, right?” she said.
Andrew shrugged, not wanting to get Peggy’s hopes up. “It could be,” he said.
Peggy manhandled him once more, this time out of the way of an elderly couple who were slowly carrying trays laden with scones and mugs of tea over to a table. Once settled, the man set about spreading cream onto his scone with a trembling hand. His wife looked at him askance.
“What?” the man said.
“Cream before jam? Ya daft apeth.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Is it heck. We have this argument every time. It’s the other way round.”
“Nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense!”
“It bloody is.”
Peggy rolled her eyes and gently prodded Andrew forward. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve buggered about far too much already.”
As they made their way toward the counter, Andrew felt his heart starting to thump faster and faster. It was only when they reached the woman and she looked up from her crossword that Andrew realized Peggy had taken his hand. The woman put down her pen and asked in the soft yet slightly raspy voice of a smoker how she could help.
“This is going to sound like a slightly strange question,” Peggy said.
“Don’t worry, love. I’ve been asked some very strange questions in here, believe me. Belgian chap a few months ago asked me whether we sold books about bestiality. So fire away.”
Peggy and Andrew laughed slightly robotically.
“So,” Peggy said. “We just wanted to ask, well, whether your name begins with ‘B.’”
The woman smiled quizzically.
“Is that a trick question?” she said.
Andrew felt Peggy tighten her grip on his hand.
“No,” she said.
“In that case, yes it does,” the woman said. “I’m Beryl. Have I sold someone a dodgy book or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” Peggy said, glancing at Andrew.
This was his cue to take the photograph from his pocket and hand it over. The woman took it from him and there was a flash of recognition in her eyes.
“Blimey,” she said, looking at them in turn. “I think this calls for another cup of tea.”
— CHAPTER 19 —
Beryl responded to the news of Alan’s death with a short, sad exhalation, like a week-old birthday balloon finally admitting defeat.
Andrew had only ever given news to relatives on the phone, never face-to-face. Seeing Beryl’s reaction in person was a very uncomfortable experience. She asked him the questions he’d been expecting—how had Alan died, who had found him, where and when was the funeral going to be—but he got the sense she was holding back about something. And then, of course, there was the other thing . . .
“Ducks?”
“Thousands of them,” Andrew said, pouring tea into their cups.
Peggy showed Beryl Alan’s note about feeding the ducks on the back of the photograph. “We assumed it was something to do with this.”
Beryl smiled, but her eyes started to water too, and she reached into her sleeve and retrieved a hanky to dab them dry.
“I remember that day. It was miserable weather. As we were walking to our usual bench we saw an ice-cream van parked on the side of the road. The bloke inside looked so depressed we went and bought a 99 each just to cheer the poor bugger up. We ate it before we’d had our sandwiches—it felt so decadent!”
She lifted her mug to her lips with both hands and her glasses momentarily steamed up.
“Do you remember having the picture taken?” Peggy asked.