by Anna James
Tilly kept going. “But maybe it is.”
“But really, Tilly, it isn’t. Why are we going round in circles like this?” He sounded bemused.
Tilly took a deep breath. “I’m seeing characters from my favorite books,” she announced.
Oskar slowly looked up at her, as though he wasn’t sure whether she was having him on. “Tilly—”
“No, don’t look like that,” Tilly interrupted. “I swear, I was reading my mum’s old copy of Anne of Green Gables when a girl called Anne with red hair turned up in the bookshop. And then I read Alice in Wonderland and a girl called Alice wearing a big blue dress appeared! Oh! And I think my grandad might have been talking to Sherlock Holmes as well, and then my grandma was talking to someone she said reminded her of my mum like—”
“Your grandparents think they’re seeing book characters too?” Oskar said nervously.
“Oh no. Well, I don’t know, I haven’t asked them. I need to do some more investigating first.”
“Was it your mum’s copy of Alice in Wonderland as well?” Oskar asked after a pause.
“Yes, from the box of her old books,” Tilly explained impatiently.
“And my mum gave you that photo of her yesterday, didn’t she?” he went on.
“Yes. And . . . ?”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” Oskar said quietly, “but do you think maybe it’s just been a bit of a weird time with all this stuff about your mum coming up, with the books and the photo, and, um, maybe the characters aren’t actually in the shop, you’re just imagining them a bit harder than usual. I mean, I definitely had an imaginary friend when I was little—he was called Xavier and he was from Newcastle and he was a redhead—but anyway you don’t need to be embarrassed with me. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have my mum around.”
Tilly’s face flushed hot. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just . . .”
“I should have known you wouldn’t understand,” she said, standing up.
“Why?”
“Because no one ever does.”
“Sorry,” Oskar said, sounding as embarrassed as she felt, “it’s just . . . You know that you’re not really talking to fictional characters, don’t you?”
Tilly grabbed what was left of her pop cake and walked out without saying goodbye.
8
A Bit of Nonsense Never Hurt Anyone
Tilly didn’t pick up her mum’s copy of Alice in Wonderland again. Instead she chose a brand-new book that she’d never read before and that her mum had definitely never read. She took it over to her favorite sofa only to find it already occupied. At one end was Anne, picking at the ends of her hair. At the other was Alice, looking around impatiently. Tilly waved, a little startled to see them together.
“Oh! How curious,” Alice said. “You’re just the same as before.”
They both stared at Tilly.
“Why wouldn’t I be the same? I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I should be more surprised that you two know each other,” Tilly said, and Anne and Alice exchanged another look as if seeing each other properly for the first time.
“Have we met?” Alice said, peering into Anne’s face.
“How can you not know if you know each other?” Tilly said. “That doesn’t make any kind of sense.”
“A bit of nonsense never hurt anyone, did it, carrot-top?” Alice said cheerfully, yanking one of Anne’s plaits.
“How dare you!” Anne said. “It’s not carrot-colored at all! It is auburn!”
“I only meant it affectionately,” Alice insisted. “Your hair is lovely and carroty. One of my very great friends has hair that is a similar color, only most of the time he hides it under a hat. I don’t know why you are so touchy about people pointing out what is, after all, a fact that cannot really be denied.”
“But it is ever so thoughtless to point out other people’s faults,” Anne said. “I would hardly come up to you and inform you that you are quite rude and, if we’re being brutally honest, that I think you’ve shrunk since you’ve been here.”
“Well, I am not in charge of that,” Alice said crossly. “I cannot help any of it.”
“And I am not in charge of the color of my hair,” Anne retorted.
“I don’t think you would be Anne at all if you didn’t have red hair,” Tilly offered.
“But when it comes down to it I am not so attached to being Anne,” Anne replied. “If, when I was born, I had had beautiful hair as dark as a raven, or blonde hair”—she glanced resentfully at Alice—“then maybe my parents would have been moved to call me something altogether more elegant. Like Ermintrude. Or Cordelia.”
“I do not agree at all,” Alice said. “Sometimes I feel that my Alice-ness is the only thing I ever know to be true, even when everything around me is acting very strangely indeed. What do you think, Tilly?” And both girls turned to look at her, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, I don’t really know. I’m not entirely sure what Tilly-ness is, to be honest, or if I have any of it, or if I’d still have it if I were called something different.”
“But Matilda Pages is such a wonderful name to have,” Anne said. “It would be a waste if you didn’t think about it just a little. It is a name made for adventuring. It’s a name to be shouted at the head of an army or whispered in magical forests, don’t you think? A name for brave deeds!”
“Be brave, be curious, be kind . . .” Tilly said quietly.
“Why, exactly!” Anne said. “I knew you understood, really.”
“I just need an adventure to find me,” Tilly said.
“Why, you can’t wait for adventure to find you, Matilda,” Anne said. “You must go and find adventure, and shake it firmly by the hand as you set out toward the horizon together.”
“I agree,” Alice said. “That is the first sensible thing you’ve said. And not to mention you have a whole bookshop with your name to it, Matilda—does it belong to your parents?”
“My parents died when I was a baby,” Tilly said, using the same words she always did when someone asked about them. “It belongs to my grandparents.”
“Why, I am an orphan too,” Anne said solemnly. Tilly felt a skinny hand take hers and looked down to see Anne’s fingers intertwined with her own. “It is not something Alice will understand. It is a difficult thing to bear even if you are surrounded by people who are endlessly kind and good to you. But it is not all woe. I used to think that kindred spirits were hard to find, but look: you have found two just this afternoon.”
And, for just that moment, it seemed to be wholly unimportant whether Anne and Alice were real or not.
9
Read Outside Your Comfort Zone
Later that afternoon, long after Alice and Anne had returned to their own stories, Tilly laid out all her mum’s books on the floor in her bedroom like jigsaw pieces from different puzzles. She was determined to try to work out at least a little bit of what Tilly-ness meant. Oskar’s words about missing her mum circled round her head, and she was determined to find some proof that there was more to what was going on than imaginary friends. Whatever it was, Anne’s hand in hers had been resolutely real.
Tilly studied the books laid out in front of her. They were by different authors, from different publishers, and they were different ages and colors. There were adventures and romances, stories about pirates and princesses, and everything in between.
“If this is really happening,” Tilly murmured, “then there must be rules. There are always rules for this sort of thing.”
She looked for another book she had already read, and was drawn back again to A Little Princess. You could tell it was a favorite: the cover was coming away from the spine and there were several rips in the pages. Wondering if she needed to be in the bookshop for whatever was happening to kick i
n, she headed downstairs to her reading corner and settled herself there.
“Right, here goes,” Tilly said to herself, and opened the book at the first page. She read the first chapter, being sure to pay particular attention to all the details about the main character, Sara, in case that helped. Then she put the book down and waited, but there was no sign of Sara in Pages & Co.
Okay, maybe I need to read more, Tilly thought, and she began to delve further into the book. But the best part of an hour and several circuits of the bookshop later there was still no one matching the description of Sara, or any of the other characters.
Tilly tried books she hadn’t read, books that were hers, books that were fresh off the shelves, but there was no one even slightly fictional to be found. She felt a strange mix of disappointment and relief that there didn’t seem to be anything more magical than her imagination at play. Maybe Oskar had been right after all.
Finally giving up, Tilly went to find Jack and flung herself dramatically into one of the café chairs, her head still spinning.
“All right, Tils?” Jack called from behind the counter. “That was quite an entrance. I keep telling you that if you stay cooped up in the shop all the time, it’ll start getting to you.”
Tilly blew her bangs out of her eyes in response.
“Hey, come here. I need some help.”
Tilly stood and shuffled her way over to see what Jack was concocting.
“Right, so these are going to be bear pawprint brownies,” he said, gesturing at a tray of gooey-looking chocolate brownies cut into squares. “They’re an ode to We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.”
He held up a square of baking paper with the shape of a pawprint cut out of the middle and a tiny sieve. “So, I’ll hold this template on each brownie and you’re going to shake some icing sugar through the sieve, and then, hopefully, we’ll peel it off and each one will have a sugar pawprint right in the middle. Got it?”
“I think so,” Tilly said, taking the mini sieve and box of icing sugar Jack was holding.
Jack carefully placed the template on the first brownie and nodded to Tilly, who tried to shake some icing sugar into the sieve, but far too much came out and ballooned up, making the air taste sweet around them.
Jack grinned. “Never mind, that’s the test one. We can eat it later to check the brownies. Have another go, and maybe shake the box a little slower this time . . .”
Tilly gingerly shook the box, managing to get a light sprinkling of sugar through the sieve and onto a brownie. Jack peeled back the baking paper pattern and gave Tilly a triumphant high five, causing another icing-sugar cloud.
“Who’s your favorite book character, Jack?” Tilly asked him as they worked.
“Tough question, Tils. And what do you mean by favorite? The character I like the most, or the character I think is the best written?”
“The character you’d most like to be able to have a real-life conversation with,” Tilly replied.
“Oh well, that’s a slightly different question,” Jack said. “The character I’d most like to talk to . . .” He paused in thought. “I think I would be very tempted to go with Long John Silver, the pirate from Treasure Island—have you read that one?”
Tilly shook her head. “I’ve seen the Muppet film version, though,” she offered.
Jack laughed. “Well, I think Robert Louis Stevenson’s original version is even better. Think of the stories Silver could tell of pirates and buried treasure. Imagine the debates you could have with him.”
“He’s a baddie, though, right?” Tilly asked.
“Well, yes, I suppose, technically, but the baddies are more interesting sometimes, don’t you think? Or the heroes who aren’t always very heroic. People who do the right thing for the wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the right reasons. People like Long John Silver. You should read the original.”
“I was a bit put off by the idea of all the boats—I didn’t like Swallows and Amazons,” Tilly said.
“It’s not at all like Swallows and Amazons. I reckon you’d enjoy it more than you think. I’m sure your grandad has a fancy way of saying you should read outside your comfort zone, and I agree with him.”
* * *
It was almost closing time and they were still busy decorating brownies when a sharp cough alerted them to the fact that someone else was there.
“I’m so sorry,” Jack said, looking up and smiling. “Just decorating brownies . . . bear prints—you see? What can I get you?”
The man standing in front of Jack did not smile back. He was tall and slender, and was wearing a pinstripe suit with a gray bowler hat. His gray tie was held in place with a finely wrought silver tiepin in the shape of an ornate, old-fashioned key. In one hand he held a slim black notebook, and in the other a cane.
“I am looking for Archibald Pages. This is his shop, is it not?” the man said abruptly.
Jack, who was used to dealing with the occasional rude customer, smiled again. “If he’s not at the front till, then he’s probably at his desk. Is he expecting you?”
“No,” the man replied shortly.
“Tilly, why don’t you see if you can find your grandad and ask him if he’s free?” Jack said, and the man looked properly at Tilly for the first time.
“You’re Archibald’s granddaughter?” he said, sounding surprised and staring at her intently.
Tilly nodded.
“How interesting,” he said.
“On second thoughts, let me find Archie for you, Mr. . . . ?” Jack paused, waiting for the man to supply his name.
“Chalk. Enoch Chalk. And I can find my own way, thank you. I’ve been here before.” He nodded curtly and set off toward the stairs.
Tilly gave an involuntary shiver as he left. “Goodness, I wonder what he wants with Grandad.”
“Oh, probably something boring to do with tax or suchlike. He looked like an accountant, don’t you think? Let’s get on with the rest of these brownies.”
“I think I might go and see if Grandad wants a cup of tea,” Tilly said. “I feel like he might need one.”
“Good idea, Tils. I’ll get a pot brewing.”
* * *
Tilly didn’t exactly mean to sneak up on them, but she did find herself walking particularly carefully and quietly, and staying out of sight of Grandad’s desk. Mr. Chalk had made her feel rather strange, and she wanted to know what business he had with Grandad. By the time she reached the desk their conversation was already heated.
“There have been disturbances in the Sources, Archibald. Things that few people would notice, but which have not escaped my attention.”
“Enoch, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You come barging in here, talking about disturbances as though it was ten years ago. I am not part of this anymore, and you know it.”
Tilly leaned closer to the bookshelf she was hiding behind.
“I know that you should not be part of this any more, Archibald, but I also know that you could never resist meddling in things that don’t concern you—or turning a blind eye to those that should be dealt with.”
“Enoch, have you not caused enough problems for me and my family that I have to endure you cropping up in my bookshop?”
“Speaking of family, Archibald—”
But at that moment Tilly wobbled and, putting her hand out to steady herself, pushed several books out of the other side of the shelf, which rained down by the strange man’s feet.
“I, um, I was just checking if you wanted a cup of tea?” she tried to say calmly as both men looked up at her and she bent down to pick up the books and hide her red cheeks.
“No. I am leaving,” Chalk said, and with a long stare at Tilly but without another word he picked up his notebook and his cane and walked toward the stairs.
“Who was he?” Tilly asked.
Grandad
’s face was white. “I used to work with him a long time ago; we weren’t the best of friends, as you could probably tell.”
“What did he mean about disturbances?”
“Were you listening to our conversation, Tilly?” Grandad said sharply.
“No! I just sort of overheard some of it as I was coming over to, you know, ask you about the cup of tea.”
“That conversation was private, and not for you to worry about. Chalk is an old colleague whom I didn’t see eye to eye with, but what’s in the past is in the past, Tilly, and you shouldn’t spend any more time thinking about it. Just a bit unexpected, that’s all. Now, let’s have that brew you mentioned.”
They headed to the café in companionable silence, but as Grandad picked up the cup of tea that Jack had poured, Tilly heard the china rattle as his hand shook, even if he did have what was nearly a smile on his face.
10
Fictional by Definition
“Your grandad has used up all the milk again,” Grandma said as she opened the fridge. “Would you mind popping out to get some from the corner shop?”
Tilly sighed theatrically.
“Go on, love. I need some for dinner and you haven’t been outside all day. Get some Licorice Allsorts for your grandad—you know how much he loves them—and pick something for yourself too.” Tilly resignedly took the five-pound note that Grandma handed her and ventured outside.
Everything that had happened so far that day had left Tilly thirsty for glimpses of magic leaking through into the real world, but the street remained resolutely normal around her. She snuggled deeper into her scarf against the wind, but as she went to pull her gloves out of her coat pocket she dislodged the five-pound note that Grandma had given her and it danced down the pavement in front of her. She set off after it, only to crash into someone standing in the middle of the pavement with a white sneaker pinning the money down, stopping it from blowing away.
