THE DUSTY WORLD OF BOOKS
Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight. Mr Evans was behind the counter and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored voice.
Grace smiled at him, “Good morning, Mr Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”
“I don’t need help, but my wife insisted, and I finally agreed. And don’t put your heart into this job, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”
Grace’s shoulders relaxed with relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to stay for the rest of her life.
She scanned the shop. Shelves were crowded against one another amid piles of books. At her uncle’s shop there had been some sort of order at least. What was she to do with this chaos? Where was she even to start? Did Mr Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?
She stood uncertain with her handbag on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. She cleared her throat. “Where am I to put my belongings?” she asked.
“Back room,” he muttered.
“Then what would you like me to do?”
Mr Evans gave out a frustrated sigh. “I told you, I don’t need help. You can sit in the back room and sew or settle into a corner with a book to read. I don’t care.”
Grace nodded and moved toward the door he’d indicated. The room was narrow and poorly lit, with an old-fashioned table and chair. Boxes lined every wall. She had never been one for sewing and wouldn’t know which book to read. There was nothing else but to find something to do. So she went back into the shop and closed the door behind her. The thick layers of dust on the shelves begged to be wiped clean. Mr Evans hadn’t mentioned dusting, but the shop really needed taking care of at once. Three hours later, her white shirt was all covered in dirt, and Mr Evans glared in her direction every time she coughed.
Several customers came and went. She took considerable care not to send dust clouds in their direction, but still remained close enough should they require help.
An older woman approached her. “Excuse me, do you have Black Spectacles?”
Grace smiled. At least this was a question she could answer. “We don’t sell spectacles here, I’m terribly sorry.”
The woman blinked her wide blue eyes. “It’s a book. By John Dickson Carr. I finished The Crooked Hinge last night and want to find the next one in the series.”
If the earth had opened up at that moment and swallowed Grace, she’d have offered no protest. She had two book names and a series to work with and no idea where they might be. While cleaning, she’d tried to find some order to the layout of the books, but with no
success.
“Of course.” Grace waved to the woman to follow her. “Did you find The Crooked Hinge exciting?” she asked, trying to make out what type of book it was.
“Oh, the best kind of mystery.”
Ah, yes, a mystery. Maybe there were some located near the back. “I believe it will be
somewhere here.” Grace gazed over the spines of books, none of which were in any order, not by title or name or even colour of the book cover.
“If I may…,” a masculine voice spoke from behind Grace.
Na podstawie: Madeline Martin, The Last Bookshop in London
poleca:
