by Anna James
For the rest of the frosty evening they talked about books, and school, and music, and Paris, and Gabriel and Marguerite’s art gallery; and Tilly realised that, much as she wouldn’t trade bookwandering for anything, this bubble of calm and happiness felt like a welcome rest from the uncertainty of whatever was going on at the British Underlibrary. She sat back in her chair, letting the feeling of sleepy contentment wash over her, as Oskar and his family chatted animatedly around her, and the snow fell gently outside the windows.
he wonderful sense of normality stretched into the beginning of the next day as well, and Tilly tried to push her argument with her grandparents to the back of her mind. She didn’t even text them, determined to show that she wasn’t a little girl any more, and could look after herself.
After a breakfast of croissants with Nutella and fresh strawberries, Marguerite, Oskar and Tilly bundled up tightly against the cold and set out into Paris for a day of ‘being tourists’ as Marguerite put it. The apartment was only a few streets away from the huge glass pyramid of the Louvre, and they posed for photos pretending they were touching the top of it. They walked past the long queues snaking round the building.
‘The best time to go,’ Marguerite said conspiratorially, ‘is at night. It is open until nearly ten o’clock on some evenings, and it is quite magical to wander around. Also, the Mona Lisa does not have quite so many people taking selfies in front of it. You must come back, Tilly, and we can visit.’
They crossed the huge courtyard and wandered along the Tuileries Gardens, which were almost out of a fairy tale themselves. Ornate streetlights and neatly tended hedges dusted with snow turned into broad pathways lined with trees, which were spindly and sparkly in the frost. There was a man valiantly selling ice cream and even some people who were buying it. The three of them drank hot chocolate, ate dainty pastel-coloured macarons, and stopped for a ride on a merry-go-round where their hands froze to the poles, even through their gloves. They were the only riders as it spun round and cranked out its traditional cheery song. Cheeks pink, and heart full, for a few moments Tilly forgot about broken fairy tales, and Melville Underwood, and her mum’s sadness, and her grandparents trying so hard to protect her she felt smothered. She spun round and round, snowflakes settling in her eyelashes, and only Paris mattered.
As they walked back to the apartment, Tilly felt a pleasant glow of happiness and the tiredness that came from a good, busy day, like being wrapped in a heavy but comforting blanket. She was surprised at how sad she felt about leaving the magic and mystery of Paris, not to mention the exceedingly good hot chocolate.
Even more disconcertingly she found that she also felt a sense of loss thinking about not seeing Gretchen again. Gretchen seemed so sure of who she was, and just carried on being herself, regardless of what anyone else said or did. Tilly felt as though she kept having to make big decisions about who she was and what she believed in, when she didn’t really know either of those things. She felt herself tugged in too many directions, and feared that she was going to be pulled into nothingness.
Too quickly, and in a flurry of goodbye hugs and kisses, as well as a few quickly-wiped-away tears, Tilly, Oskar and Gabriel were making their way back to the train station. Their journey from only two days ago was done in reverse; the trip to the buffet car was just as unsatisfactory, and the scenery rolled by as before. The only difference was that Tilly left Grandma’s book of fairy tales firmly in her backpack.
At St Pancras station, Grandma, Bea and Oskar’s mum, Mary, were waiting on the platform, and Tilly felt an overwhelming sense of home wash over her, despite that awful last phone conversation with Grandma and Grandad. She stopped herself from giving in to the instinct to run over to Grandma for a hug and just said a formal hello, clearly confusing Bea, who stepped forward and wrapped Tilly up in a hug that made it hard to breathe, not that Tilly cared at all.
‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ Bea whispered into Tilly’s hair. ‘Mum and Dad said you had quite the adventure while you were there. I missed you so much.’ Tilly felt something inside her unclench a little bit, something that she hadn’t even realised she was keeping tensed, and she snuggled further into Bea’s coat, which smelled of peppermint, and paper, and a little bit of mothballs, as though it had been at the back of a cupboard for a long time.
‘So, I hope you two aren’t sick of each other,’ Grandma said, looking at Tilly and Oskar.
‘Uh, why?’ Oskar asked, confused.
‘Well, because we’ve invited you and your mum to come and spend Christmas with us,’ Grandma said, smiling.
‘For real?’ Oskar said, looking at his mum and grinning. ‘How come?’
‘Well,’ Mary said. ‘Archie and Elsie and I were just chatting about plans, and I mentioned that we didn’t usually do a turkey for just the two of us and they insisted there was space for us at Pages & Co.!’
‘Christmas is about all kinds of families,’ Grandma said. ‘The ones we’re born into and the ones we make.’
‘But I don’t have presents for anyone!’ Tilly said, stricken.
‘Well, I think we might have a few books around you can choose from.’ Grandma smiled.
‘Amazing.’ Tilly grinned at Oskar, glad she would have an ally around. ‘Christmas at the bookshop is the best.’
Tilly walked with her mother back through the doors of Pages & Co., and was pleased that coming home felt like slipping into a perfectly temperatured bubble bath. The moonlight spilled in through the windows, lighting the spines of the books silver. Without thinking Tilly found herself searching for her mother’s hand, and Bea took it as if it were the most natural thing in the world as they walked through the shop towards the kitchen door. Before they got there, Grandad emerged, grinning, despite everything.
‘Tilly!’ he shouted, and met them halfway, pulling Tilly into a big hug. ‘We are so glad you’re home, sweetheart. We love you very, very much. And perfect timing – dinner is ready!’ And indeed, delicious smells were wafting through the kitchen door, and Tilly realised how hungry she was. The six of them settled around the kitchen table, and Grandad put down a huge toad-in-the-hole, its batter golden and steaming. Apparently yesterday’s arguments had been forgotten and Tilly wasn’t sure if she was relieved or frustrated.
‘Sausages from the butcher up the road,’ Grandad was saying. ‘I thought I’d make something properly English to welcome you back, Tilly!’ He served it up into generous portions, alongside green beans and caramelised onion gravy that pooled satisfying in the toad-in-the-hole. They talked about everything but bookwandering, as Mary was there, and after sticky toffee pudding and vanilla ice cream, which Tilly could barely finish, both she and Oskar were struggling to fight back yawns.
Grandma and Grandad had already sorted all the sleeping arrangements, so Tilly pushed her chair back and, after a round of goodnight hugs, headed up to bed. She started unpacking but was far too exhausted, and so the only things that made it out of her bag were the most precious items: Grandma’s fairytale book, the bag of breadcrumbs, the red yarn and the ‘History of Libraries’ pamphlet from Colette. After making sure they were safe, she put on her cosiest pyjamas and snuggled into bed, toasty warm from a hot water bottle placed there by someone earlier. She was just about to turn her bedside light off, when there was a soft knock on the door.
‘Are you too old to have a story before bed?’ said Bea, popping her head around the door. ‘I don’t mind who does the telling.’
‘No one is too old for a story before bed,’ Tilly said.
hat do you fancy?’ Bea asked, looking at Tilly’s heaving bookshelves. Her attention was caught by the collection of curiosities Tilly had put on top of her bookcase for safekeeping. She picked up the pamphlet. ‘A History of Libraries …’ she read from the front. ‘This looks … dense. Did you pick it up in Paris?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Tilly said vaguely.
‘And the rest of this stuff too?’ Bea said, looking at the fairytale book, the red yarn and
the little bag of crumbs in confusion.
‘Nope,’ Tilly explained. ‘The book is Grandma’s; I borrowed it. And the yarn was a gift, I guess, from a librarian in Paris. She’s actually the one who gave me that pamphlet. And I … accidentally brought the little bag home from a bookwandering trip.’
‘You took it out of the book?’ Bea said, surprised, and Tilly nodded.
‘Was I not supposed to?’ Tilly bristled a little, not wanting another telling-off.
‘I don’t really care about supposed to,’ Bea said, with something that looked a lot like a grin playing across her face. ‘But I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be possible. How did you bring it out?’
‘It was an accident,’ Tilly said. ‘I just had it in my pocket and forgot about it, and when we wandered out again, it was still there. But how is it different from you bringing your bee necklace out?’
‘Do you know, I hadn’t thought of that before now,’ Bea said. ‘I suppose it could be because it’s not something mentioned in the text of the book? Or, more likely, considering what you’ve just told me, it might be because I was pregnant with you when I left. How curious. Maybe don’t mention it to your grandparents just yet. They will definitely worry about it. Will you tell me if it happens again?’ Tilly nodded at her mother in happy surprise. ‘I know they were hard on you for bookwandering, Tilly, but remember that after what happened to me, they just want to keep us all safe.’ This was the first time that Bea had mentioned her ordeal so casually, just as a matter of conversation. As soon as she realised what she’d said, something darkened in her face, and she slipped back into that almost-being state she’d been stuck in since she returned. But even a glimpse of the real Bea was hope enough for Tilly, especially the whisper of a promise of a future ally and confidante. Bea went back to looking at the pamphlet.
‘You said a librarian gave this to you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s good bedtime reading,’ Tilly said. ‘It’s a history of libraries with really small type.’
‘Maybe not for now, then,’ Bea agreed. ‘But perhaps you’ll find it interesting to dip into some day.’ She flicked through the pages, and as she did, out fluttered a small piece of paper. On one side, in spidery handwriting, it read ‘the path to freedom starts at 20540’. There was nothing else that she could see. Bea held it up to Tilly.
‘Had you seen this?’
‘Nope,’ Tilly said, getting out of bed and coming to look at it.
‘The path to freedom … I wonder what it means,’ Bea said slowly, brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘It’s not enough numbers for a date, or a time … Hang on,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Do you know what a zip code is?’ she asked Tilly, who shook her head.
‘It’s what Americans call postcodes,’ Bea explained. ‘It’s five numbers, just like this. Of course, it might not be anything to do with that, it could just be a random doodle from way back when.’
‘Would you be able to work out where the zip code was for, if it was that?’ Tilly asked.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Bea said, pulling her phone out of her jeans pocket and typing in the five numbers. ‘Well, if it is a zip code, then it’s for Washington DC in America. And specifically the Library of Congress. Oh, and look! The address of the library is 101 Independence Avenue …’
‘The path to freedom!’ Tilly said, pointing to the spidery handwriting on the scrap of paper.
‘Yes!’ Bea said, looking triumphantly at Tilly. ‘It seems like it’s an address for the Library of Congress. It is a book about libraries, so I suppose that’s not so surprising.’
‘Have you been there?’ Tilly asked. ‘To the Library of Congress?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Bea said. ‘But it’s supposed to be very beautiful.’
‘Do you think that’s where the American Underlibrary would be?’ Tilly said.
‘Yes, I believe it is,’ Bea said. ‘Oh, and look.’ She peered closely at the other side of the piece of paper. ‘There’s something else, written in the crease. More numbers and letters. Your eyes are probably better than mine.’ She passed the piece of paper to Tilly who held it up close to her face.
‘PN,’ she read out loud. ‘6110649, I think, and then another 1, or maybe 2, that’s smudged so I can’t read it.’ Bea tried typing the number into Google but it brought up no results at all.
‘Is it a phone number?’
‘Maybe,’ Bea said. ‘It could be something to do with the Library of Congress, I suppose, if this note really does mean something – which it might not. Who did you say gave you this?’
‘A librarian called Colette,’ Tilly said.
‘And was she a regular librarian, or an Underlibrary librarian?’
‘Underlibrary.’
‘I wonder if she was trying to tell you something?’ Bea mused. ‘Did she say anything else?’ Tilly wracked her brain.
‘I can’t really remember,’ she said. ‘She said … something about being lost? Or getting home? It was all a bit cryptic.’
‘Librarians.’ Bea rolled her eyes. ‘Never just come out and say what they mean.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever go back to the Underlibrary?’ Tilly asked.
‘Ah, I’m not sure,’ Bea said slowly. ‘I think maybe bookwandering isn’t for me any more. It makes me feel very anxious at the moment – the thought of going back into a book. Bookwandering is never going to be something simple and fun for me now. When I met your father, everything changed.’
‘Would you have done it differently?’ Tilly said, not able to look at Bea when she asked. ‘You know, if you could do it all over again?’
‘No,’ Bea said immediately. ‘Everything that happened led us here, and here is where I want to be. We’ve had a funny old journey, full of much more hardship than I would have ever predicted, or welcomed, but we have each other and we have your Grandma and Grandad, and we have Pages & Co. We have our family, and our friends, and our stories, and so we are not doing too badly however you look at it.’ She paused. ‘I know the last few months have been strange – for both of us, and having to get to know each other. But, Matilda –’ she took Tilly’s hands tightly in her own – ‘never doubt that I love you very much, or worry that I want to be anywhere else but here, with you. And right now, I want to be sitting in bed, reading a book together. How does that sound?’ She squeezed Tilly tight. ‘Go on, choose anything you like.’
Tilly went over to her bookshelves and noticed one of her favourite comfort reads, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett, the same author who had written A Little Princess.
‘Is this okay?’ she asked Bea.
‘Yes, of course,’ Bea said. ‘Are we starting at the beginning?’
‘Let’s skip the sad bits,’ Tilly said, happy to speed through the tragic opening of the book where a young Mary Lennox is sent to live at the isolated Misselthwaite Manor after her parents die. ‘Let’s read the bit near the end once they’ve already found the garden – it’s my favourite part. When everything starts getting better.’
‘That sounds like an excellent plan,’ Bea said. ‘There are no rules for reading, after all.’
Tilly snuggled up in bed with Bea, and even though it took a little bit of fidgeting to find a position that was comfortable, they soon found a natural way to fit together, with Tilly nestled into the crook of Bea’s arm. Tilly flipped through the book, past Mary discovering the abandoned and dying garden, right through to when Mary, with her cousin Colin and their friend Dickon, started growing it again. Tilly and Bea took turns reading the book out loud to each other, but when it was Tilly’s turn, something curious started to happen.
‘“There is Magic in there – good Magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there is.”
“So am I,” said Mary.
“Even if it isn’t real Magic,” Colin said, “we can pretend it is. Something is there – something!”
“It’s Magic,” said Mary, “but not black. It’s as white as snow.”
The
y always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed – the wonderful months – the radiant months – the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show colour, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.’
As Tilly read out loud, entirely absorbed in the story, Bea glanced up and held in a gasp of wonder as a carpet of lush green grass seemed to roll out from under Tilly’s bed, covering the floor in springy freshness. And as she watched, flowers and buds sprouted from behind bookshelves and cupboards and the scent of summer billowed through the room. When a robin flew out of nowhere and settled on the bedframe, and started whistling a tune, Tilly was startled out of the book.
‘What …?’ she said, a little scared by the garden that was growing in her bedroom.
‘Keep reading!’ Bea whispered, and so Tilly did.
‘The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses – the roses! Rising out of the grass, tangled around the sundial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades – they came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves, and buds – and buds – tiny at first but swelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.’
