The Lost Bookshop

Chapter 55

Chapter Fifty-Five

OPALINE

Dublin, 1952

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

I let Emily Dickinson’s poetry book fall on to my lap and spied the stained-glass windows of the shop, the colours of which now painted the image of a bird and an open cage. I made a kind of pact with the universe that if I kept the door to my heart open, one day my little girl would walk through it. In the meantime, I found an occupation that created the illusion of doing something to bring that day ever closer. I began writing a book. A children’s book. A Place Called Lost . I knew there was a strange kind of magic in these walls. Maybe not the kind you’d find in travelling shows or under the big top, but something far subtler than that.

I began to switch off the lights, lingering over the task. I had an undefinable sense that something, or someone, was close. Someone I knew. Someone I loved. But I couldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t. Even when I heard the knock on the glass door, I didn’t turn to look. Couldn’t face the disappointment of being wrong. I placed my hands on the desk and let my weight lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was disobeying my mind and without consciously making the decision, I turned around.

He was there.

Josef. The snow falling gently on his head and shoulders.

A sigh of relief escaped my lips and I could have sworn the books on the shelves sighed too. The bookshop had let him in when I had first escaped St Agnes’s and needed him the most. Now he had returned, everything felt hopeful again. He stepped closer to the window and I followed. We were separated only by the thinnest pane of glass. My eyes searched his eyes, his lips, his entire frame. Was he real?

‘Are you going to let me in?’ he asked, a lopsided smile on his face. ‘It’s a little cold.’

I burst out laughing and it sounded like silver bells to my ears, bells that hadn’t rung for years. I opened the door and we both stood at the threshold, the stained glass overhead blooming with flowers.

‘Are you back for good?’

‘My father passed away in the autumn.’

I placed my hand over my heart. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I can repair some of the old music boxes that were in the attic. Anything that is broken—’

‘You’ve already repaired what was broken in this place,’ I said, rushing into his arms.

‘So many nights I have dreamed of you and this place,’ he said, holding me tightly, as though nothing would tear us apart again.

‘This bookshop is rooted in my heart,’ I said. ‘I have to find a way to keep it alive. For my daughter.’

He pulled back and searched my face for answers.

‘She’s alive. My baby is alive.’

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. The joy in his eyes was enough.

‘Please, come inside,’ I said, finally.

All he carried was a large canvas duffle bag with a book poking out of the pocket at the front. Red leather, gilt-edged pages. It was so familiar to me, but so utterly incongruous that I hardly dared to hope.

‘For you,’ he said, following my eyeline and handed it to me. ‘I found it in an old bookshop in Austria.’

I took the time-worn book into my hands and felt the magic of childhood rushing back to greet me. I searched for the inscription and gasped when I saw it. Alfred Carlisle. My real father.

‘How did you—?’

‘ Mein liebling , I beg of you, stop speaking and kiss me.’