The Gunther crossed his eyes and blew a raspberry.
“Tell your charming cat,” said Michael, “that Robin Hood would never have seen bananas. We didn’t have them in Britain in those days. So it’s actually a great idea.” And he yawned widely enough to swallow the room.
It wasn’t one of Michael’s better ideas, but birds were singing outside by now, so they all told him it was very clever. When he had finished, Property put the book back in the cabinet, stoppered up the inks, put them away, and looked around the room. Apart from a few thousand new words,everything was just as they had found it.
“Well done, everyone, well done,” said Netty. “Let’s get out of here.”
And so they did. Property turned off the light on the way out, and four shadows hurried away from the offices of Pink and Gimble. The smallest shadow appeared to have a cat for a head, which would have confused passers-by, if there had been any. But no one saw them. By the time London woke up, the Joneses and their cat were tucked up in Montgomery’s house, to wait and see whether their interference had worked.
And while they waited, they all had a very good day’s sleep.
A VERY IMPORTANT MOB
Montgomery’s family were away at his “little place in the country”, so Property was staying in one of the children’s rooms. The bed had heavy velvet blankets, which made her all hot and bothered. She missed her hammock.
Montgomery kept watch on the office that day, and reported back to the Joneses when they woke up. Eliot had left the office with some large black briefcases, he said; the rest had been taken away in a van. It didn’t look as if he had noticed anything wrong. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the very important people to read their books.
Property found the waiting unbearable. Firstly, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Eliot might have somehow outsmarted them. Secondly, Michael wouldn’t stop hinting that she should tell Netty about the whole not-being-able-to-read situation. Property hinted right back that Michael should mind his own business. But he wouldn’t let it drop.
The next morning, the wait was over. Montgomery came running back from his spying mission while they were all still at breakfast. “Come and see, come and see!” he panted, waving an excited hand and knocking over the teapot. The cold tea soaked the Gunther, whose ears instantly turned inside out in shock, but Montgomery didn’t notice. “It’s splendid! It’s magnificent! Hurry, hurry!”
So they abandoned their cornflakes and hurried out, Property wrapping the Gunther in her scarf to dry. They half-ran all the way. (They would have fully-run, but they hadn’t finished their breakfast. Nobody can be expected to run without a proper breakfast inside them.)
In the alley there was a swarm of people, who all looked very important, and very annoyed. Montgomery and the Joneses elbowed their way towards the front to see what was going on.
In the doorway stood a nervous police officer, who was tugging at his moustache and looking a bit overwhelmed by the whole situation. Property nudged Michael, and pointed at the window. Gimble’s panicked face was pressed against the glass. Eliot stood behind him, scowling.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” said the officer, “I can only listen to your complaints one at a time.”
The ladies and gentlemen ignored this enthusiastically. All these things were shouted at the same time:
“Bring them out here!”
“We demand justice!”
“I paid twenty-three million pounds for this!”
“They’re making fun of us!”
“This is supposed to be Latin poetry,” roared a jewel-covered woman, “but I translated the first page, and it’s just the Incy Wincy Spider. And incius wincius isn’t even real Latin.”
Behind her, a bearded man was yelling, “And even if King Alfred the Great did have smelly feet, I’m sure he wouldn’t have written to the Pope about it. Or asked him to pray for his socks.”
“This letter,” thundered a ketchup-coloured man, “claims that Cleopatra had a pet T-Rex called Nigel!”
“Really?” said the man next to him. “That’s interesting. My name’s Nigel. Strange name for a T-Rex, though.”
The ketchup-coloured man shook with anger. “She didn’t really have a T-Rex, you NINCOMPOOP!”
“All right,” said Nigel. “Calm down.”
“This Greek tragedy ends with a recipe for angel cake!” someone at the front screeched. Montgomery smiled.
A nervous-looking man next to Property cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be awkward,” he explained, “but I just don’t think that Robin Hood would have seen a banana.” And then it was Michael’s turn to smile.
The din grew louder and louder. “It’s a scandal!” “It’s an outrage!” “They’re mocking us all!” “They’re taking us for fools!” “MAWR!” Those nearest the front were banging on the office door. The ketchup-coloured man was by now wrestling Nigel. The police officer had a go at hiding behind his hat.
“We want our money back!” roared the bearded man. And then the whole crowd took up the chant, until they were so loud that it felt as if the alley must surely burst with the sound.
The officer tugged at his moustache, cleared his throat, and tugged at the other side of his moustache. None of which helped. In the end he said, “One moment please,” and ducked back into the office, slamming the door behind him. He could be seen through the window, arguing with Gimble. It didn’t look like Eliot was saying much.
At length, the officer emerged again, looking determined. This was a bit like watching a beetle get tough with a pack of hyenas.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said – and then he said it again, louder – and then he shouted it so loudly that his moustache rippled: “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I have spoken to Mr Gimble and Mr Pink. They are very sorry for the – ah, mistakes.” (Behind him, through the window, Gimble could be seen shouting at Eliot. Eliot was ignoring him thunderously. Neither of them looked especially sorry.) “I am pleased to say,” the policeman continued, “that they are willing to pay you all back immediately.”
There was an uproarious cheer. “Of course they are, the rogues,” muttered Montgomery. “Either they pay, or it’s prison for both of them.”
“SO,” bellowed the officer, “please form an orderly queue to make your claims. ONE AT A TIME. And then please go away. Quietly. Please.”
With much elbowing and shoving, the very important mob became a very important queue. The officer opened the door, and one by one they all filed in. The Joneses waited in line. Property’s heart was pounding. It had really worked!
At last it was their turn. When they approached the desk, Eliot’s face twitched all over and his lips grew very thin. He didn’t look at Property.
“Hello,” said Michael cheerfully. “We bought a Shakespeare play, but where it should say ‘by William Shakespeare’ it says ‘by Sillythem Fake-here’.”
“No it doesn’t,” said Eliot.
“For the last time, Mr Pink,” said the officer, “if you don’t want to be arrested, you will be helpful. ”
“We paid with everything we have, including two bookshops” said Netty. “I want my signature back.”
Gimble looked to Eliot. Eliot looked, at last, at Property. He looked at her hands. Property looked too, and realized that there were still some ink stains on her fingers. It didn’t prove anything – pens leak all the time – but she could see that he knew. She shoved her hands in her pockets, and stared at him without blinking.
“Well, Mr Pink?” said the officer. He glanced at the Joneses nervously, as if he was worried that they might cause a riot. (To be fair, the Gunther was looking pretty ready to riot, but he was just getting ready to have a fight with the officer’s moustache.)
Eliot fished in his pockets, and pulled out the papers. He handed them over.
“This,” he spat, “is cheating.”
“Gosh,” replied Property quietly. “So it is.”
The officer didn’t hear her, beca
use he was busy adding the Joneses’ complaint to a long list. Here are some of the things he had written:
Evidence of book forgeries sold by Mr E. Pink and Mr N. Gimble:
Sacred book by 12th century monk is mostly the opening to Star Wars.
Map of Ancient Egypt is actually map of Swindon.
Ancient philosopher Aristotle claims that the meaning of life is deep-pan pizza.
Book of Roman law says that on Friday nights, all Romans must get down and boogie to the funky beats.
He now added:
Stupid name for Shakespeare.
Complainants: Ms, Mr &
Miss Jones; Mr Montgomery;
Something that is probably a cat.
“Right,” he said, “was there anything else?”
“No thanks,” said Michael. He beamed at them. “We’ve got everything we could possibly need.”
And this, thought Property, was true.
THE GREAT JONES BOOK EMPORIUM
When Montgomery, the Joneses and the Gunther returned to the Emporium, the Wollups were still packing it up. The armchairs and lamps had gone from the shop floor. It was almost bare.
Montgomery turned a little pale. He stopped the nearest Wollup. “Who,” he demanded, “are you?”
The Wollup looked at him mournfully. “Wollup,” he said. “I just work for Pink,” he explained. “That’s all,” he added, sighing.
“I doubt that you do work for him any more, you know,” said Montgomery. “The police are in his office right now. He’s going to be driven out of business.”
“Oh.” The Wollup turned this idea over in his mind. Something like a smile crept across his face.
“And he doesn’t own this emporium any more,” Montgomery went on, “so I’m sorry to trouble you, but we’re going to have to ask you to put everything back.”
The Wollup sighed. It was the deep sigh of a man who has to spend today undoing yesterday’s work, and isn’t even surprised, because deep down he suspects that this might be what life is all about.
Montgomery produced a bottle of lemonade from under the counter, and poured them all a celebratory glass. He raised his in the air, spilling a little on the way. “To the Great Jones Book Emporium!”
The Joneses raised their glasses too, a little uncertainly. “Mr Montgomery,” said Michael. “Don’t you – er. We were wondering. Don’t you want it back, now?” Property could see that it pained Michael to even ask the question. He had fallen in love with the Emporium from the moment that they arrived.
“No, no,” said Montgomery, “I really think I would like to retire. I’ve been thinking that I’ll open a cosy little library somewhere quiet. Get back to the books. It’s all got a bit much for me here, since the business took off – I’m not really cut out to be a businessman. As you’ve seen.”
That was when Property had her second very good idea.
“You could use our old bookshop for your library,” she said. “It’s really cosy, and we’re not using it.”
“That,” said Montgomery, “sounds like a splendid idea.” And they all drank another toast, this time to the White Hart Library and all its cupboards.
Michael asked hopefully whether the Gunther might go to the White Hart with Montgomery, but the kitten dug all his claws into Property’s shoulder and tied his tail around her ear. So that answered that question. Montgomery looked a little bit relieved.
“I’m sure you’ll all do splendidly here,” he said. “And may I say, my dear Joneses, that I cannot think of anyone more deserving of this emporium. Your achievements since you got here have been magnificent.”
“It was all Property, really,” said Netty.
“Yes, she’s brilliant,” said Michael. He nudged Property, and raised his eyebrows. “And we’ll always think she’s brilliant, no matter what.”
“Thanks,” said Property. She ignored the hint.
“If she ever wanted to tell us anything,” said Michael, nudging so hard that he dislodged the Gunther, “There is absolutely no way that we would ever be angry about it.”
Montgomery and Netty nodded, but they looked a bit confused. Property rubbed her sore arm.
“In fact,” said Michael, “now would be a great time for us to all talk about anything that was bothering us. I think.”
“All right, all right,” said Property. She took a deep breath. She accidentally breathed in the Gunther’s tail. There was an awkward bit of coughing. Then she said, “Mum. I can’t read. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what you were both doing at first. And then I was too scared to tell you. And then it just didn’t seem worth mentioning. But now I think I’d like to learn, please.”
Netty’s face did something that Property had only seen once before. It was the same expression that she had made on finding a five-year-old girl in her lost-property cupboard. It was an expression that seemed to say, “Well this is very surprising, but the only thing to do is to be sensible about it.”
“Well then,” she said at last, “we will have to teach you.”
Property couldn’t find the right words, as usual. So she hugged Netty very hard, and the Gunther licked her face and patted her nose with his paw, and that got the general message across.
There was an almighty crunch behind them as a Wollup turned a stack. It was, Property saw, the Room of Sticky Endings, which had finally unstuck itself. She smiled. The Emporium was starting to look a little more like its old self. The armchairs and lamps were back out, the woodland creatures had been released from their cage, and the first of the books were back on the shelves.
It was good to see it come back to life. It could never replace the White Hart, thought Property; but it was an Object of Wonder.
They do happen, sometimes.
BEFORE WE FINISH
So that is the story of Property Jones, and now you have heard all of it. But people always have questions, of course, so before we finish it, I will answer a few.
What happened to Pink and Gimble? Gimble became some sort of small-time lawyer, who can still be seen squirming around the shabbier parts of London. But Eliot Pink walked away the next day, down a long, grey road out of town, and he hasn’t been seen since.
The more kind-hearted readers sometimes want to know what happened to the Wollups. I am happy to report that they made themselves so useful, putting the Emporium back together double-quick, that the Joneses decided to hire them. Now they are all booksellers, and they look like a much happier sort of walrus. They have even made friends with the Gunther, which is just as well, because he has grown much bigger and no less fierce.
Some people ask who Property’s real family were. To those people, I say: the Joneses. There is nothing more to be said about that.
And lastly, of course: did Property ever learn to read? She did. She was not especially good at it, and it took her a long time. But she had a whole Book Emporium to choose from – not to mention a library, which she visited every weekend to drink lemonade with the librarian – so she got there in the end.
She quite liked reading books, on the whole. She didn’t like saying goodbye to the characters at the end, but she knew that “goodbye” only means “God be with you”, and she came back to her favourites as often as she wanted. They were always waiting for her.
And she did like the sound that a book makes when you shut it: a very, very tiny THMPH.
Like shutting a door that is barely there at all.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As Property understands well, a book is not just the words on the page. There are many people who have provided the inspiration, encouragement, experiences and tea which are as much a part of this story as the commas and full stops are.
Huge thanks go to three wonderful draft-readers and friends: Sam Plumb, Dylan Townley and Erin Simmons.
Thanks also to my two excellent editors, Lucy Rogers and Genevieve Herr, for their wise words and support. Lucy is responsible for the arrival of a cat in this tale, so blame the Gunther
on her. To Ashley King and Sean Williams, thank you for the beautiful illustrations and design; Property would find stories all over this book. And finally a big thank you to Olivia Horrox, and all the team at Scholastic who have helped The Bookshop Girl make its way into the world.
Finally, thanks always to Bryony Woods, agent extraordinaire.
You are all the bee’s knees.
A Q&A WITH SYLVIA BISHOP
Your first book was about an elephant and your second is about a bookshop! Where do you get your ideas from?
I think ideas are everywhere. We only run into trouble when we worry about finding a good idea, because as soon as we do that, we start criticising all our ideas before they can even get started. Anything that I find funny or magical or exciting could be a funny, magical or exciting story, and the trick is to try writing about all of them with an open mind and see what happens.
Elephants are funny. Bookshops are cosy and a bit magical. I think we all see things that appeal to us every day. And if it appeals to you, it will appeal to someone else, and it could be a story.
Property’s secret is that she can’t read. Did you love reading as a child? What were your favourite books growing up?
I did love to read, but I think I would still have got on well with Property, because I also liked the books themselves. I liked hardbacks and thick pages and beautiful pictures.
I loved the Winnie-the-Pooh books, because they are so funny, and my father would read them to me with all the right voices. Later I loved everything by Dianna Wynne-Jones, who writes about wonderfully detailed, interesting magical worlds. And A Little Princess, by Frances Hodgson Burnett, was a firm favourite.
Where do you write? Do you have a special place?
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