Chapter 32 #3
I loved the shop. It was a part of me, and I couldn’t imagine a life without it. But I didn’t believe in the shop the way he had—didn’t believe in anything the way he had, to be fair—and this might have been exactly the wake-up call I needed to change that.
The ledger was dusty from years of sitting beneath the till, and I brushed the cover clean to discover Uncle Arthur’s initials engraved in the corner. Classy.
I cracked it open, smoothing my hands over the worn pages covered in his chicken scratch. It always was the creative types who had the worst penmanship, wasn’t it?
My eyes skimmed the contents of the first few pages, which appeared to be the only part of the ledger in which he actually attempted to log anything remotely related to the business.
By the looks of it, this was where he kept track of the unique volumes he was searching for and where he found them.
There were contacts for people I assumed to be other sellers in the industry, illegible titles with strikethroughs and stamps that read “out of print.”
The more pages I turned, the more it dissolved into mayhem.
Phone numbers scribbled in corners with notes like La Douce, Friday 11p.
A smudge of lipstick, cigarette ashes, pressed flowers, and gin labels.
Like the ledger somehow became at once a business log and a living scrapbook.
It made me wonder about the people who’d been inside these walls.
Whether they all believed in magic or just simply believed in the community.
Though for Uncle Arthur, it wouldn’t have mattered. Believing in anything would have been enough.
I poured another whiskey from my secret stash beneath the counter and slowed down, taking the time to try to decipher his scribbling. To find something that might make sense to me. Might make sense of my circumstances. Of what I wanted. Of what I didn’t want to want.
The notes that weren’t in his handwriting were even harder to read, but they felt important. Notes from the others who came and went through the shop. Honestly, I hadn’t seen the shop mean that much to anyone in a long time. Until Willow, anyway.
Most of his notes were plans, and the subsequent notes about the plans. Like: Soho tonite. Meeting S for late dinner.
And then three days later: S still here. No signs of leaving. Not asking, either. Chuffed for the company.
Or: Reading at National Gallery with P.
Update: Reading was mediocre. P was delightful.
Or: Tarot at Jo’s.
Don’t remember the cards, but her partner makes a lovely spritz. Must ask for recipe. Or invite myself back for another one of hers.
The more I skimmed, the more I found his entries were more about people than magic or the city, every time. And no one loved magic or London more than Uncle Arthur. But still, he seemed to love the people more.
Somewhere in the summer of 1960, an inky scribble caught my eye. I hadn’t known what I was looking for, but that changed the moment I found it.
Met quite a fine American today. Anise. Lovely thing. Single mum. Hope she will return.
I scanned the next few pages, suddenly desperate for more information. That couldn’t have been Willow’s gran, could it? Surely there were plenty of single American mums visiting the shop. With plant names.
It seemed weeks went by without another mention, and just when I started to get discouraged, I found her again.
Anise is back. I’ve invited her for tea.
I turned page after page, following their story like a gripping thriller.
Reminder: find the collector’s edition of Healing and Hygge. Surprise her with it when she comes back.
A curious woman. Wee bit odd. Asks many questions. Cupboards open and close of their own volition when she’s near.
Curtains caught fire above the radiator today when she was in the back room chatting to a bloke. I suspect she was the culprit.
Wants Volume II. Call Fergus.
Back for tea. This time with her daughter. Another lovely thing.
Wants to introduce me to a friend in America. I’ve no desire to go to America.
Came with me to Jo’s for a dinner party. Seemed to have turned the punch to gelatin at the exact moment I heard her turning down a date with a handsome fella because she was meant to go back to America. Like I said: a bit odd.
Plans to return home. I do suspect she’ll take the magic with her. Good for the linens, bad for the soul.
Maybe her daughter will return on her own once she’s grown. If I’m here, I’ll welcome her for tea. Perhaps she, too, will be magic.
I closed the ledger, afraid what might happen to the pounding in my chest if I continued. It had to have been Willow’s gran. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind.
And while I didn’t think Uncle Arthur ever did meet Willow’s mum again, I had the sense I’d finally have the chance to make him proud. To do something we both wanted. He might not have been here, but the least I could do was invite the granddaughter for tea on his behalf.
Because the granddaughter was more magic than the whole lot put together.
And if Anise’s magic had misfired because she rejected a man’s advances, I had a feeling I knew exactly what had happened with me and Willow the night of the full moon festival.