The Bookshop Girl

by Sylvia Bishop

  Warblewarbleplumplummywarble.

  “Yes, of course! Thank you so much!”

  Netty Jones put down the phone, and looked up at her two children. “An Object of Wonder,” she said faintly. And then suddenly Michael was hugging Property, and Property was hugging Netty, and Netty was hugging Michael, until they all got tangled up into one big hug that was just hugging itself.

  From somewhere in the middle of the hug, Netty’s voice broke free. “Come on, come on, enough nonsense.” And she laughed, even though nothing was funny. “We’ve got a lot to do, there’s no time to lose. Albert H. Montgomery himself wants to meet us tomorrow.”

  By noon the next day, the White Hart was empty. The first things to go had been the books, which the Joneses pushed for free into the arms of willing customers and unwilling customers and startled passers-by. The second thing to go was the smell of books. Some cleaners came and replaced it with the smell of hoovering and lemon-scented sprays. Then, finally, the Joneses went too.

  Netty marched out happily, without a pause.

  “Goodbye, White Hart,” Michael said, turning back at the door. And Property suddenly wanted to crawl right back inside her cupboard, and never say goodbye. Goodbye seemed very final. It meant that they really weren’t going to return.

  When she said this, though, Michael just told her firmly that “goodbye” is short for “God be with ye” – so it doesn’t mean anything about not returning. This was not even a little bit useful, but it cheered Property up anyway. It was good to know that, whatever happened, Michael would carry on being Michael. So Property took a deep breath, got a lung full of the lemon smell, coughed, picked up her suitcase, and followed her brother out of their shop.

  The three of them caught a fast train to London. At six o’clock, while the White Hart stood in darkness with nobody to turn on the lights, the Joneses arrived at the Montgomery Book Emporium.

  THE GREAT MONTGOMERY BOOK EMPORIUM

  It was dark when the Joneses arrived at their new home. There was a huge shadow on the steps, which turned out to be a crowd of reporters waiting to meet them. The Montgomery Raffle, it seemed, was national news.

  As the Joneses approached, the reporters began shouting out questions. Michael helpfully tried to answer all of them, while Netty said more sensible things like, “Excuse me,” and, “Sorry, could we get through please?” and, “Ow!” (when somebody jostled them especially hard).

  “How does it feel?” shouted someone, and “Where are you from?” yelled another. One woman grabbed Property by the arm. “Little girl!” she squawked. “Tell the nation: what’s your favourite book?”

  Lying to the Joneses was hard enough; Property didn’t want to have to lie to the whole nation. So she said, “EXCUSE ME,” extra-loudly, stuck out her elbows, pushed her way to the front, and rang the bell.

  The door swung open at once, with a sigh. The three of them stepped inside, and it swung shut behind them. Everything was suddenly silent.

  The room that they entered was round, with dark wooden walls, and a soft carpet, and a beautiful marble ceiling very high above them. It was full of sleepy armchairs and quiet lamps. It felt exceptionally bookshopish – only, there didn’t seem to be any books.

  As Property’s eyes adjusted to the lamplight, she saw that there were a dozen mahogany doors spaced evenly around the room – thirteen, if you counted the front door as well. She supposed that the books must be behind the doors. The whole place smelled of books, anyway, so they had to be nearby.

  “Oh,” said Netty in delight. “Oh.” And Property was inclined to agree. She hadn’t been so warm in years.

  “Yes, oh indeed,” said an armchair. With a start, Property realized that the armchair had a man in it. He was dressed in the same plum-coloured velvet as the chair, and he had a soft, ruddy face, with a most magnificent moustache. He smiled at them. “Also ahh, I find, especially when the rain falls on the roof.” He stood up and stretched his arms out to match the stretched-out smile. “Welcome, my dear Joneses, to the Great Montgomery Book Emporium!”

  Netty and Property both said, “Thank you,” and, “Hello,” and so on. Michael did an odd little bow, because meeting Albert H. Montgomery himself had made him come over all funny. His glasses fell off. Montgomery generously pretended not to notice.

  “You must be Netty Jones,” he said to Netty. “Splendid. And you two…?” He turned to Property and Michael, all spread-out smile and spread-out hands.

  Michael was busy trying to remember how to function, so Property said that he was Michael, and she was Property. This made Montgomery blink a bit (although he never dropped the smile), so Property quickly explained about Michael putting her in the cupboard. Michael found his voice again, and very quickly explained that this was a long time ago. Montgomery just blinked and smiled and nodded as if this all made a lot of sense.

  “Naturally, yes,” he said. “I daresay we’ve all put the odd person in a cupboard in our time. Splendid, splendid. Now, won’t you all have some refreshment?” He waved a hand at some of the armchairs, and the Joneses sank obediently into them, while Montgomery passed around lemonade and angel cake. Nobody wanted angel cake when the Emporium was waiting to be explored, but they all took a piece to be polite.

  “Now,” he said, arranging himself back into his armchair, “Now, now, now. Tell me about yourselves. Are you very fond of books?”

  Property was, but probably not in the way he meant, so she left this to the others. But before they could answer, a ball of grey fluff fell from a lamp above and attacked Michael’s scalp.

  “Gunther,” said Montgomery, “NO.”

  HssssMaaaAAWR, said the cannonball of fluff that was called Gunther.

  “Owowowowow,” said Michael, several times.

  Thankfully the fluff soon got bored of scalping Michael, flumped off his head to the floor via his knees, and glared at the new arrivals. It seemed to be a kitten, but it was difficult to be sure. Its head was monstrously big, and its face was so squashed in that its nose was level with its eyes.

  “This is one of the famous Gunthers – Gunther Armageddon the Third, to be exact,” said Montgomery proudly. “They are a very fine family of Persian Blues. This little chap is only four weeks old.”

  The Gunther eyed them all grimly, then shot up into Property’s lap. She braced herself, but he didn’t attack. He just sat and glared at her, squash-faced, unblinking.

  “There!” said Montgomery. “He likes you! Splendid! He can’t come with me, so he’s all yours.”

  He said this as if the Joneses should be pleased. They all looked at the cat a bit doubtfully.

  “And speaking of things that are all yours,” Montgomery went on, “would you like to look around this magnificent bookshop?”

  And they all said that they would, apart from the Gunther, who hissed and crossed his eyes. Property didn’t speak cat, but she guessed that this was probably a “no”. But the kitten was outnumbered, so they all got to up to take the tour, the Gunther hitching a ride on Property’s head. Property’s heart beat a little faster. What was it like, behind those doors?

  “What would you like to see?” said Montgomery. “Detective novels? Romance novels? War novels? Knights and castles? Cops and robbers? Desert islands? Space adventures? Woodland tales? Bedtime stories? Cookbooks? Dictionaries? Books to use as doorstops? Sticky endings? Soppy endings? Fairies, witches, wizards, dragons? Pirate stories? Ghost stories? Stories about the ghosts of pirates?” Montgomery paused to breathe in. “That’s just the beginning, my dears. That’s just a taste. Ask for anything at all. I guarantee we have it.”

  Property tried to imagine the size of the hallways beyond the twelve doors. It made her head hurt just to think about it. Then she realized that her head was mainly hurting because the Gunther was batting at it repeatedly with his front paws. But still: that was a lot of books.

  Michael chose first. “Please – could we see the dictionaries?”

  “Aha,” said Montgo
mery, “a man after my own heart. A very fine choice.” And he walked to one of the doors. Where there should have been a door handle, there was a brass lever. He pulled it down.

  There was a tremendous din. It sounded as if the whole bookshop had a bellyache, and they were trapped somewhere in its gut. Property wasn’t sure whether this was meant to happen, but the Gunther started yowling in delight, so she guessed that it was probably normal. It went on for an awful ten seconds, then stopped. Montgomery opened the door.

  Property expected more dark wood and lamplight, but the room inside was white and well-lit. The books were arranged in strict straight lines, and each had a brown tag attached. Actually, everything in the room had a brown tag attached. Property looked at the nearest one, on the inside doorknob. It was covered in small, boring black type.

  “In the Room of Dictionaries,” said Montgomery, “everything has a definition. Not the most beautiful room, perhaps, but very satisfying. Wouldn’t you say so, young Michael?”

  Young Michael couldn’t reply, because his jaw had dropped on discovering so many dictionaries at once, and he was having trouble getting it back again.

  Montgomery gave it a moment, then said, “Splendid. Yes, well. Perhaps you’d like to pick a room, young Property?”

  Property was thoroughly befuddled. She was still trying to make sense of the bellyache noise, and the lever, and where all the other rooms could be if there was only one behind each door. But Montgomery was waiting, so she said the first thing that came into her head. “Space adventures, please.”

  “Oho,” said Montgomery, “that’s in the same stack. Splendid.” And he shut the door of the Room of Dictionaries and pulled the lever. Once again, the Emporium and the Gunther groaned and yowled in duet. Then it stopped, and Montgomery opened the door a second time.

  The Room of Dictionaries had gone. In its place was a new room, painted all over in deep indigo, speckled with twinkling lights. The books were hanging from fine threads, so that they almost seemed to be floating in mid-air.

  “The Room of Space Adventures,” said Montgomery. “I’m rather proud of this one.”

  “But…” said Netty, as sensibly as she could manage.

  “Whaaa, er?” Michael asked.

  “Where did the other room go?” said Property.

  “Aha!” said Montgomery. “Oho,” he added. “Eehee,” he tried, to see if that would sound good too. It didn’t. So he coughed, embarrassed, and explained how the Great Montgomery Book Emporium worked.

  “This Emporium,” he said, “this beautiful Emporium, is the world’s first and only mechanical bookshop. It is my own invention!” He beamed at them. “Consider, my dear Joneses, how a lift works: one little room, which can be moved up or down. Yes? Well, each of these levers moves a whole set of rooms, and not just up and down – they move in a loop, over the ceiling and down the wall and under the ground and back up again, like a Ferris wheel. Pull the lever – turn the rooms. You see?”

  “I call each loop full of rooms a stack. There are twelve stacks – one for each door. Think of that, eh? Think of the size of it!” He traced circles in the air with his arms, splashing lemonade everywhere. “This shop floor is right at the heart of it all, my dears. The rest of the bookshop is all around us. It’s just waiting to be called.”

  Property and Michael were speechless. Luckily, Netty had all sorts of sensible questions, and did the talking for them. Montgomery explained to her about getting the customers to queue for the rooms, and warned her not to let anyone get stuck in the stacks, and showed her the emergency doors at the back of each room. When he started showing her how to oil the levers (“Just a drop, my dear!”), Property and Michael exchanged looks. They couldn’t wait any longer, and they definitely didn’t care about lever oil. So they backed away quietly and began to explore, the Gunther aboard Property’s shoulder.

  Michael’s eyes were so wide that there was only just room for them on his face. Property knew how he felt. The Emporium was hard to take in.

  On each door there was a lever, and by each lever there was a brass dial covered in tiny pictures. Michael had great trouble with the pictures, and never knew what room he was calling up next. But they made perfect sense to Property.

  She pulled up room after room. This picture called up the Room of Knights and Castles, which had stone walls covered in tapestries, and felt chilly. This, obviously, brought the Room of Aeroplanes which looked like a cockpit, with books making up the instrument panel. The little picture of a squirrel brought the Room of Woodland Tales, which had a pine needle floor, and kept its books in trees, where there were actual living mice and birds. Something scurried past that might have been a vole. She had to shut that room quickly when the Gunther started purring too enthusiastically at a passing mouse.

  Most of the pictures on the dial were obvious to Property, but some were strange. This, for example, was a mystery.

  She turned the lever. The shop crunched especially wearily. It almost sounded as if fetching this room made the Emporium sad.

  The room that arrived felt old. It smelled of vanilla. The light was dim, and the dust hung in the air in a respectful sort of way, as if it was sorry to disturb such an important room. Property ran a finger over the nearest books.

  All of them were beautiful, and a bit broken.

  “The Room of Old Books?” she asked the Gunther.

  The kitten stuck his tongue out and dribbled.

  “All right,” she said, “the Room of Really, Really Old Books?”

  Before the Gunther could comment, Montgomery came bobbing into the room, fluttering his hands. “My dear Property!” he said, “whatever are you doing?”

  “Um,” said Property, who didn’t think she was really doing anything.

  “This is a terribly boring room,” he said. “Terribly boring. You mustn’t waste time in here. A load of old antiques. What’s to see? What’s to do? Come along, out we go, come along.” And he shooed them outside.

  Something had unsettled him. He took some hearty gulps of lemonade to steady himself, spilling a lot of it down his suit.

  “Goodness me, look at the TIME!” he bellowed – which the Joneses helpfully tried to do, but as there didn’t seem to be a clock on the shop floor, this was tricky. Montgomery began gabbling about trains that he had to catch, and hunting for some papers that he needed, talking all the while. His ruddy face was far too ruddy, and his stretched-out smile was strained.

  Property stood very still, watching him. She felt an urgent heartbeat, somewhere in her belly. It was six full years since she had been left behind in the White Hart, but she still knew perfectly well when somebody was abandoning something. What was Montgomery hiding?

  The Gunther dug his claws into her shoulder particularly hard, as if to say that she should be paying more attention to him. Property tried to ignore him, but it was impossible to think while he needled her.

  “What is it, you daft cat?” she whispered. And he looked at her as if there was something very important that he needed to say. He had folded one of his ears inside out, but other than that, he was doing his best to look serious. Property was growing fond of him.

  He was so fierce for something so young.

  Oh! He was very young. Which raised an interesting question.

  Property whispered in the Gunther’s ear. “Why did he buy you in the last month, little cat, if you can’t go with him? Didn’t he know he was going to leave?”

  The Gunther preened himself smugly, like a cat who has made his point.

  Montgomery had found his papers, and was now hunting for a hat, muttering all the while. “Mr Montgomery,” said Property, trying to sound casual, “where are you retiring to?”

  “SPAIN!” exclaimed Montgomery.

  The Joneses all looked at him. There is a limit to how loudly you need to say the word Spain. Albert H. Montgomery had exceeded that limit.

  “Oh, lovely,” said Netty brightly. “Whereabouts in Spain?”

  “
Florence.”

  “Florence,” said Michael helpfully, “is in Italy.”

  Montgomery opened his mouth. Then he shut it again, because this was true, and there was nothing more to be said. “Yes, quite, splendid,” he said. “Now. The hour is here! The moment has come!” He had found his hat at last, and he rammed it on to his head, and rammed a smile on to his face. “Well,” he said, looking around the shop floor. “Well, well, well. I suppose this is goodbye.”

  His face reminded Property, with a sudden sharp pang, of her own feelings just a few hours earlier. “You know,” she said kindly, “‘Goodbye’ just means ‘God be with you’. That’s all. It doesn’t mean you can’t come back.”

  Montgomery blinked at the staring girl with the funny name, who had managed to charm his monster-kitten into sitting on her shoulder like a parrot. Property didn’t know it, but she could seem a bit strange at first. “Yes. Well. Splendid.” He gave them all a little bow. “God be with you, then, my dear Joneses. And good luck.”

  And with that, Mr Albert H. Montgomery himself took his coat from a hook behind the counter, and walked out of the Great Montgomery Book Emporium without looking back.

  That night, Michael and Property spent a long time choosing where to sleep. The Room of Bedtime Stories had a lot of beds they could use, but although they were excellent squishy beds, the Joneses didn’t like them: they didn’t hug around you like a hammock. So they settled on the Room of Desert Islands, which had warm sand on the floor, and potted palm trees to hang their hammocks from.

  They set up their gas stove and kettle and had dinner, before reading a desert island adventure. Property quite liked the tough little hardback, but she really liked being in the room. She imagined that it felt a little like being able to read the book.

  Then they strung their hammocks up on the potted palm trees for the night. Netty was the first to fall asleep. Property waited for her breathing to slow down, and start doing that slight whistling on the in-breath, before she whispered, “Michael?”