Page 21 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Sophie couldn’t change her outlook now, though. In a couple of months, she would be gone. She would plan the Christmas festival, with or without Harry’s help, and she would find out who had sent her the beautiful copy ofJane Eyre. Perhaps she would spend more time with May, too, but then she would pack up her things and start the next chapter. It was how she protected herself, and it had worked so far: there was no reason things needed to be different this time around.
Chapter Nine
The book was on Sophie’s wooden coffee table, still loosely wrapped in its brown paper. She sat on the sofa, cradling her coffee, while Clifton snoozed in his dog bed, under a patch of winter sun filtering in through the window.
She picked upJane Eyre, held it to her nose and sniffed. It had that familiar, slightly musty scent, with a faint chemical undertone that might have been the glue used to rebind it. She flicked through it, stopping to read a paragraph here, a line there, pausing on a page that caught her eye:
I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and that brow professes to say – ‘I can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me, which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’
With a lump clogging her throat, she turned back to the first page and slid the gold ribbon in to it.
Next, she reread the postcard:
Dear Sophie, sometimes you have to look closer to home to find what you’ve been missing. Please accept this gift as an early Christmas present – love from The Secret Bookshop.
She hadn’t heard anyone in Mistingham mention a secret bookshop, and Fiona hadn’t either. She wished, now, that she’d asked May about it on Saturday, but there had been too many other things to talk about. She still felt indignant that there was someone out there who thought she was missing something in her life, who thought they knew her well enough to tell her that, but indignation was far outweighed by intrigue, and she was desperate to find out who had given it to her.
She put the book and postcard back on her coffee table, finished her drink and went to get ready for work.
‘Aunty Sophie! Uncle Clifton!’ was the shout that greeted her when she arrived at the bakery at lunch time. As usual, its incredible smells met her even before she’d walked through the open door – a mix of baking bread, frying bacon and melting cheese – and Sophie’s taste buds burst into life in anticipation.
‘Lucy.’ Dexter wearily ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not everyone is Aunt and Uncle.’
Lucy had been sitting on the bakery counter swinging her legs, but now she jumped off and wrapped her armsaround Sophie, then crouched to stroke her dog while Sophie tied him up outside, next to a large metal water bowl.
Lucy’s dark hair was a tangle of glossy curls, and Sophie had always thought of her and Clifton as kindred spirits. She was surprised how long the girl’s legs looked in jeans; how much more grown-up she seemed without her school uniform on.
‘You saidloadsof people called random friends Aunt and Uncle,’ Lucy pointed out, ‘so why can’t Sophie be Aunty?’
Dexter gave Sophie an exasperated look as she stepped inside. ‘Well, if she agrees. But Clifton can’t be Uncle. He’s a dog.’
‘In the book I’m reading there’s a horse called Great-Uncle Arthur.’
‘Does your book have dragons in, too? Goblins? Unicorns?’
‘They’re ogres, not goblins,’ Lucy said.
‘There you go then,’ her dad replied. ‘It’s a completely different world, so it’s a different set of rules.’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Uncle Clifton sounds pretty cute to me, though.’
‘Don’t encourage her,’ Dexter said with a smile. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Two of your epic chicken sandwiches please, with mayo and red onion and tomato and mustard – the works.’
‘Good choice.’ He turned to his preparation counter.
The bakery was at the top of Perpendicular Street but set back slightly from the road, with a small patch of grass in front of it that was constantly flattened by people queuingup for sourdough loaves, croissants and baguettes. Dexter also made a range of savoury pastries – his cheese, onion and bacon had legend status in the village – and fresh sandwiches for the lunch crowd. Sophie triedto make lunch at home and bring it with her, but with the bakery so close, and the greeting so warm, her willpower wasn’t always up to it.
‘Why aren’t you at school?’ she asked Lucy.
‘Insect day,’ Lucy said.
‘Inset,’Dexter corrected. ‘Your teachers aren’t going around hunting for woodlice and spiders.’
‘Spiders aren’t insects,’ Lucy told him. ‘They’re arachnids.’
‘True. But I doubt your teachers are looking for them either. It’s some kind of training day.’
