There had been times when she loved working in this shop. She knew almost every title, and where to find it without recourse to the computer. She enjoyed neatening up the shelves after customers carelessly left books lying here and there. She would open books up and inhale the seductive old-book scent that offered the promise of escape. Sometimes she would read a paragraph aloud to herself and, if it intrigued her, would sit by the gas heater with Gigi on her lap and read through cold rainy days when the shop was quiet and Mr Elcombe far away.
There were other times when a true reader came in and she enjoyed discussing books at a deeper level. She had a particular interest in nineteenth-and twentieth-century British literature and found it so rewarding to share her knowledge. Sometimes younger people who had read Greene or Waugh or Orwell might come in and want something else from the era and she could confidently recommend an author they would enjoy. Just last year, a biography of Anthony Powell had been released and there was something approaching a rush of people looking for a second-hand set of his twelve volume Dance to the Music of Time. Fran could discuss the Mitford family at length and made a point of regularly re-reading her first Mitford discovery, Love in a Cold Climate, never tiring of Nancy Mitford’s bracing wit. Fran had met Jessica Mitford briefly at a book signing in Foyles years ago and, as a result, felt a special connection with the family.
American collectors sometimes came in to look at the antiquarian collection, browsing collectables and first editions. There were no bargains – nothing escaped Mr Elcombe’s keen eye and she wasn’t permitted to negotiate. Occasionally an aspiring author would request she read their manuscript, somehow imagining that she was part of the publishing world. They were mostly dreadful, only occasionally readable, and it was hard to know how much to encourage these writers in their endeavour, but she did her best to be helpful.
The business was dying; she knew that. They had been forced to join the world of online sales in recent years. Dominated by Amazon, the process was fiercely competitive, and had driven prices down. Mr Elcombe was part of the old world of gentlemen book buyers, and he found it difficult to accept that they had to cast in their lot with the dross online. Since the Oxfam store opened nearby last year, selling books at a nominal rate, even fewer people came into the shop.
She wandered the aisles flicking a dusting wand as though casting a spell over these books. Who knew their destiny now? They would be dispersed into the world, wholesaled to other second-hand booksellers around the country.
If she had the money, she would consider buying the business. Perhaps there was something she could do to save it, if she were in charge. Her only foray into business was another reason she had no savings now. Some years ago, she’d inherited a bit of money from Aunt Marie. At that time Fran was in love with a Turkish man who wanted to open a restaurant. He made her a partner in the business and, with her theatre background, gave her carte blanche to style and decorate the space. She never tired of the thrill of entering the restaurant with its brocade wall-hangings, clusters of brightly coloured pendant lights and the spicy amalgam of mint, cumin, cinnamon and oregano in the air, knowing she was instrumental in the creation of this concoction. At first the business was a sizzling success but within a year, things went downhill and suddenly it was closed. Worse than closed – went into receivership. And that was that. But, she reasoned philosophically, if she hadn’t blown her inheritance on the restaurant, she would have blown it on the bookshop and probably lost it anyway.
At the ding of the bell, she hurried to the front of the shop to find Mr Elcombe bristling with irritation at the door being left wide open. Now it was closed, Fran had a sense of being cut off from the world outside and she realised with surprise how much she disliked him and would be glad to never have to see him again.
‘Ah, we’re back from our travels, I see,’ he said, flicking through the mail. ‘I didn’t know whether to expect you in today.’
‘I said I would be back today and I am extremely reliable.’ Fran smiled to soften her words.
He glanced up, giving her an inquisitive look over his glasses, as if he sensed a change in her attitude.
‘I saw the sign,’ she said. ‘We’re closing down?’
He took out his brass letter opener and began to slice each envelope open with a sort of fierceness that Fran found disturbing. ‘Yes. Indeed. Difficult times.’
She did feel some empathy for him and his situation, a man born in the first year of the Second World War who had devoted his life to books and reading, confronted by the new world of the twenty-first century. He had three sons, none of whom was interested in the business. It must be dreadfully disappointing in the end to have no one to bequeath his business to, and his decades of experience and knowledge no longer of interest to the world.
‘Were you going to tell me that I was losing my job?’
‘You’ll be needed for a good while yet. Everything needs to be sold off, packed up and dispatched. Of course, once we close the doors, money will be tight. So I may not be able to pay your usual rate. But, I’m sure you understand, in the spirit of the thing, sacrifices must be made.’
Fran felt the breath knocked out of her, and imagined Rose’s elbow in her ribs. Tell him to get stuffed. Go on. Fran heard herself say, ‘I’m already on the minimum wage, Mr Elcombe. I’m not sure that’s really legal.’
‘Legal?’ he countered, in a wounded voice. ‘We have a lot of history together. I would have thought loyalty comes into the equation somewhere? You’re not the sort to exploit the situation, I wouldn’t think.’
Fran was stung by the unfairness of his comments. ‘Of course not. I’ll do whatever I can, but I also need to pay my rent and look for other work. I’m not that young myself any more … Perhaps you could ask some of your contacts in the trade. I’d be prepared to go anywhere.’
He gave a sigh of dissatisfaction at being burdened with her problems. ‘All I can do is ask.’
He put the paperknife back on its stand and, picking up the letters, walked off down to his office, leaving the envelopes scattered on the counter for Fran to dispose of. She imagined herself stalking behind him into the gloom at the back of the shop, holding the paperknife aloft, and …
She picked up the discarded envelopes and put them in the box for recycling. Gigi jumped softly onto the counter and offered her arched spine for comfort stroking, her tail held upright like a banner with a kink. Lost in thought, Fran stroked her with strong gentle strokes and whispered, ‘You won’t be out of a home, my darling. You’ll come with me.’
When she told Louis that evening, he looked disconcerted. ‘He should be giving you redundancy pay,’ he said. ‘Not trying to get out of paying you. Bastard.’
Fran sipped her wine but it only added to the dull feeling she had. If anything, the trip had made things worse because she had come back with this fragile sense of possibility, the idea that something magical might occur. Now she felt crushed. ‘I don’t think there’s any hope of that —’
‘Take him to court. That’s what you’ve got to do, love.’
‘Louis, I have to find a new flat and a new job in the next few months. I don’t have the money or the inclination to take anyone to court. We could both live at your place for a while. And if that worked out —’
‘I gave up my place months ago. I thought I told you.’
‘Months ago? I don’t understand. So, where have you been living?’
He looked guilty then, and couldn’t meet her eye. ‘Well, I was at Barb’s for a bit …’
‘So the reason you offered to mind my place was because Barbara left for Spain and you had nowhere else to live? Louis, please tell me that you weren’t getting straight out of my bed and into hers.’
‘Don’t be like that. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Hadn’t made me mind up, had I? Now, it’s you and me. All good. We’ll get a place together. You’ll find a new job. Before you know it, we’ll be pensioners. We can potter around together. Go on day
trips and all that.’
Fran felt ill. It seemed that her whole life had been leading to this point, where the only option left to her was Louis and his self-interested half-truths, until death did them part. She wanted nothing to do with that dreary future and felt a deep sense of despair settle on her. There must be some other possibility.
Louis read the doubt in her eyes. He was eager to please now and even offered to make dinner. Fran cleared the bench for him and placed her new mug well out of reach. While he was banging around in the kitchen, manufacturing a convivial atmosphere, she started up her laptop to check her emails for the first time in a month.
She skimmed through the inbox, deleting as she went. As she sent one from an unfamiliar address to trash, she noticed it was written in German and retrieved it.
Dear Fran,
I very much enjoyed our time together on the train. It seemed fated that we spoke a common language and found ourselves in that confined space together for some hours. It seemed to me that we shared an affinity and there was a sense that we had known each other for an eternity – perhaps in a past life, although sadly neither of us believe in that idea.
I am living in my father’s house now. I couldn’t describe it as settled. There is a lot to do and I’m not sure how or where to start. The villa is beautiful, as I told you, with big dark rooms that are cool in summer and a garden full of places to sit and have an aperitif surrounded by the orange grove. But the truth is I feel isolated and lonely. I don’t know how to start my life here, all on my own.
You may have forgotten me, and not given me further thought, especially with your extroverted companions and upcoming adventures. But I have thought of our conversation often.
I wonder if you would like to come here and stay with me? Not just for a week but for a good long time. What do you think? Perhaps it is foolish to imagine that you might wish to live in Italy and share a house with someone you barely know. But I do have the feeling that I must take this chance and ask you the question.
You may not be free to come, you may not be willing to take such a risk, but, if the idea appeals to you, let me know. You can bring your belongings, and Gigi is welcome too.
Yours, Sofia
PS Even if you decide it’s not for you, there is a retrospective exhibition of Marta Wolfgang’s work in Paris in September – perhaps we could go there together? I would be glad to have your company.
The postscript was blurred by Fran’s tears. Was it possible? She was afraid to touch the keyboard in case she deleted the email. That was too silly. She had Sofia’s email address on a note in her bag. But if this was deleted, would she believe it had existed? It seemed so fragile and beautiful. Like a missive from a future that was beyond her wildest dreams.
‘Is there any soy sauce, love?’ Louis called from the kitchen.
‘In the cupboard. Just open it and have a look.’
In the silence that followed, she rested her fingers lightly, hesitantly, on the keyboard. It felt as though her current life was a powerful magnet pulling her away, dragging her into the kitchen to find the soy sauce, condemning her to this dismal alliance and eternal pottering hell. She braced herself against its power, hunched her full weight over the keyboard and tapped each key, slowly and deliberately. I will come. I will come very soon.
And she heard the whoosh as it flew to Italy, to Sofia and to her future life.
Acknowledgements
A big thank you to Jan Wasey and Trish Canny for sharing their memories and travel tales, and to Tess Mallos for consulting on Greek references and Hannah Sandow on German phraseology. Special thanks to Uwe Studtrucker for your support and forty years of friendship, which began on a Greek island in 1978.
Thank you so much to my generous friends for their continued support and constructive criticism on early drafts: Tula Wynyard, Tracey Trinder, Helen Thurloe, Joseph Furolo and Catherine Hersom-Bowens.
Thank you also to the fabulous team at Penguin Random House: Ali Watts, Saskia Adams, Amanda Martin, Nerrilee Weir, Sonja Heijn, Nikki Townsend and Louise Ryan.
Book Club Discussion Notes
1) Who was your favourite character in the novel, and which one did you relate to the most?
2) ‘So many people come into our lives and then disappear.’ Discuss the importance of true long-term friendships for women.
3) Who do you think could play the three women in a movie adaptation?
4) Rose says: ‘If my young self could have looked into the future and seen the compromises I’ve made in my life, she’d throw up. It’s been just one compromise after another to make life easy. That’s not fearless. It’s gutless.’ Do you agree?
5) Did anything in the story inspire you?
6) In what ways did this novel toy with your expectations of what might occur?
7) Maggie says: ‘We came to find something. We haven’t even caught a glimpse of it.’ In what ways is this true?
8) What are the major themes of the book and how are they relevant to your life?
9) What, if anything, do the European locations add to the story?
10) ‘Here they were, forty years later. They had changed beyond recognition. And not changed at all.’ Discuss.
11) Do you think all three characters found their happy endings?
12) What other books have you read by this author, and how did this one compare?
Amanda Hampson grew up in rural New Zealand. She spent her early twenties travelling, finally settling in Australia in 1979 where she now lives in Sydney’s Northern Beaches. Writing professionally for more than 20 years, she is the author of two non-fiction books, numerous articles, and novels The Olive Sisters, Two for the Road, The French Perfumer and The Yellow Villa.
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
Two for the Road
The Olive Sisters
The French Perfumer
The Yellow Villa
VIKING
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India | New Zealand | South Africa | China
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2019
Text copyright © Amanda Hampson, 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, published, performed in public or communicated to the public in any form or by any means without prior written permission from Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd or its authorised licensees.
Cover design by Nikki Townsend Design
Text design by Samantha Jayaweera © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Cover photographs: Eiffel Tower by Marcello Landolfi/Shutterstock; bougainvillea by Christian Camus/Shutterstock; background by Slobo/Getty; floral bouquet by Anastasia Lembrik/Shutterstock
ISBN 9780143792116
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Sixty Summers Page 31
