Dublin, 1921

‘I ’m afraid Mr Fitzpatrick died two months ago. We were going to put the place up for sale …’

These were the first words I heard on arriving in Dublin city after a long, uncomfortable train journey from Cork. I was standing in the parlour of a Georgian-style house, with long panelled windows looking out on to a busy street.

‘But I’ve come all this way,’ I said, rather desperately. ‘You received my telegram?’

The man I was speaking to seemed rather baffled by my sudden arrival into his life.

‘Yes. Mr Joyce telegrammed from Paris. He mentioned that you worked in a bookshop, Shakespeare?’

‘Shakespeare and Company.’

‘Forgive me, but I’m not entirely sure why he would have suggested’— he hesitated for a moment—‘that someone such as yourself should come to work for my father.’

I tried to overlook the implication.

‘Mr Fitzpatrick was your father? My condolences, sir,’ I said, shaking his hand.

He thanked me and it seemed as though our business was at an end.

‘I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some further information?’ ‘Of course, if I can be of assistance.’

‘Can you recommend a decent hotel room, or perhaps somewhere that I could rent a room at a reasonable rate?’

‘You don’t have anywhere to stay?’ he asked, obviously perplexed that someone with my accent and appearance should find themselves in such a predicament. A middle-class woman, travelling alone with nowhere to stay and very little money.

‘I’m afraid I made my departure in something of a hurry.’ God only knew what he made of that explanation. I wanted to assure him that I hadn’t broken any laws, but that would have only raised his suspicions further.

‘Well, it’s not much,’ he said, before taking a set of keys off a hook by the door and leading me outside, then down the front steps. ‘There is a small flat in the basement of the shop,’ he explained, as he turned right and stood outside the shop.

I looked at the building with no small amount of incredulity. It was tapered, almost as if it had grown like a stubborn weed between the two houses on either side. He noticed my face, scrunched up in the evening light.

‘It shouldn’t really be here at all,’ he said, mumbling something about planning permission.

Neither should I, I thought to myself. It felt surreal and as though I were strangely removed from myself; a baffled spectator wondering what would happen next. The crossing to Ireland had taken all day and most of the night. As there was no passenger ferry, I’d had to travel on a mail and goods

boat that took me to Cork. Once again, I was on a boat with my small carpet bag, running towards freedom. I tried to sleep on a makeshift bed that was in reality just a bench with a thin cushioning on top. I vomited into a bucket and cried into it too. It was nothing like crossing the Channel. This sea was rough and unforgiving. When the boat moored at the harbour in Rosslare, the rain pelted down and the wind threatened to separate me from my bag as it attacked in gusts. One of the boat hands guided me to a small bed and breakfast nearby where I was able to freshen up before taking the train to Dublin.

Matthew Fitzpatrick was a pleasant man who spoke few words, something for which I was grateful at that moment. I was not at my most sociable. I was tired and hungry and homesick for the kind of home I had never known. Any display of kindness might have resulted in an outburst of tears, so I was glad to keep things perfunctory. I gave the narrow facade another appraising look. On the ground floor there was just room for one panelled glass window, which bowed outwards, and an identical yet smaller window on the first floor and a tiny, diamond-shaped window on the top floor which seemed to taper into a point, like the hat of a wizard. The sign above the window was in the art nouveau style, so popular in Paris, with its swirls and flourishes. Mr Fitzpatrick’s Nostalgia Shop.

The door gave way with a sigh, followed by an elongated creak. Matthew turned to offer an apologetic smile and I waited on the threshold for a moment, giving him time to switch the lights on inside. I heard a click and caught my first glimpse of the shop by the warm glow of a yellow lampshade. The chequer-tiled floor welcomed my feet as I entered the topsy-turvy world of the nostalgia shop. The dark green walls gave one the impression of entering a thick forest, with wooden shelves stretching around the entire room like branches. There were all types of knick-knacks and ornaments, with everything from soaps and hand mirrors to toy soldiers and candelabras. Yet they were of a variety I had never laid my eyes on

before – brightly painted and ornately decorated, the gold and silvers glimmering in the soft light.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, and meant it. ‘Like walking inside a fairy tale.’

He regarded me strangely and it seemed for a moment as though I were looking into the face of a young boy. Gone was the harried man with the hat and overcoat. It seemed he was wearing a disguise also.

‘I’m glad you think so.’

Such few words, yet they were imbued with so much meaning. It was as if I had passed some sort of invisible test for him.

‘Look, I know you came here to work for my father, but how would you feel about running the shop yourself?’

‘Me?’ I squeaked. So much for trying to impress him.

‘You could rent it. On a trial period. I had considered the idea, but couldn’t find anyone suitable. Until today.’

I looked around the shop and felt a ripple of excitement. ‘I’m not sure I could afford it, on top of my lodgings,’ I said.

‘Well, as it happens, the flat is included in the rent. Here, let me show you,’ he said, leading the way down the stairs.

I watched the back of his neck, where his blonde hair grew darker. He had to duck as we came to the last step to avoid a beam and he stood back to let me go first. His soft lilting accent as he pointed out the bed and the tiny kitchenette couldn’t conceal the myriad questions he must have had about my hasty arrival from Paris. He must have thought me strange; there was no doubting that. And yet, if anything, he seemed intrigued by my presence. It suddenly felt quite intimate, standing there with him, and so, as if in agreement, we both decided to cut the tour short.

‘It’s perfect. I’m sure I will find everything I need,’ I said with a competence I hoped would appear from somewhere in the very near future.

‘I don’t doubt it. I’ll have a tenancy agreement drawn up.’

As we ascended the narrow wooden staircase shining with a high varnish, I noticed that there was a word painted on the riser of each step.

found are

things strange lost called place

a In

‘He built it himself, so you’ll have to forgive the slightly eccentric nature of the building,’ Matthew said, placing his hand on the newel post with a tender look of pride on his face. ‘Had the wood shipped over from an old library in Italy. A strange story actually – he took my mother on their honeymoon to a little village in the mountains and they found this abandoned library. It was going to be demolished and my father was the kind of man who couldn’t let something that held so much history go to waste. So he bought the building, had it dismantled and put it back together here.’

‘Didn’t any of the locals wish to keep it?’

‘Ah well, that was the thing; many of the villagers believed the library to be inhabited by spirits.’

‘Good grief!’

‘But of course, that was just superstition,’ he assured me.

‘I wish I could have met your father. He must have been such an interesting man,’ I said, looking with new eyes at the interiors that resembled a puzzle pieced together.

Matthew smiled to himself.

‘Eccentric, that’s how most people would have described him.’ His features failed to conceal the bittersweet memories of his father.

‘Some people have no imagination, that’s all.’

He seemed pleased with this assessment and presumably felt safe to open up a little more. ‘He used to say that he would like people to open this door in the way they would open a book, entering a world beyond their imaginings.’ He gave a wry smile, an expression formed by grief and loss.

‘He sounds a little like my own father.’ ‘Is he a book dealer also?’

I shook my head and continued shaking it until I had to shut my eyes tight to prevent the tears from falling. Why had I mentioned Father? It brought reality crashing down around me. Everything that had happened: Lyndon, Armand, escaping on that horrid boat. Truly, I still felt at sea myself. Who was I now? I felt ashamed of my night with Armand and how my father would be so disappointed in his little girl. I must have been in shock. Try as I might, I could not contain it and my shoulders began to shake until I let out a desperate gasp.

‘Miss Carlisle, Opaline, whatever did I say?’

Words failed to form. He took me by the shoulders as if to keep me steady, but I fell into his arms and sobbed for what seemed like a very long time. He held me fast and absorbed all of the grief and pain without saying a word. When I finally felt wrung out and my ears throbbed with the sound of nothing but my own ragged breathing, I hastened to pull back from his embrace.

‘Please forgive me, Mr Fitzpatrick. I have embarrassed us both with this unbecoming outburst.’

He made no reply but handed me a handkerchief from his pocket. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose before attempting to hand it back. Our eyes met and we both smiled.

‘Perhaps I shall have it laundered first,’ I said and released an unfortunate snort of laughter. The giddiness after such an impromptu intimacy.

There didn’t seem to be much else to say and I was too worn out to think. He saved me the trouble by acting as though nothing problematic had happened at all.

‘I will stop by in a few days to arrange the particulars, if that’s agreeable to you?’

I nodded and walked him back to the door.

‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick, and again, I apologise for—’ ‘No need. Grief is a constant companion, is it not?’

He placed his hat on his head and turned to leave.

‘Given the history of the place, you’ll have to excuse its little eccentricities,’ he said, as though it were a mischievous child.

‘I think we are well matched,’ I said, determined to prove that I was not easily put off.

I brought my old carpet bag downstairs to the basement and hung the only other skirt and blouse I owned in the armoire. I lit the stove and boiled some water in a little pot for tea. Except I hadn’t bought any tea. I realised I would have to go out and buy some provisions. Suddenly, the weight of everything that had happened and the effort needed to carry on seemed too much to bear. I let myself collapse on to the bed and regretted it, as the springs made a very uncomfortable dig into my ribs. Whether it was luck or courage that I had possessed in Paris, it felt like they had both abandoned me. Perhaps Lyndon was right; I was indulging in childhood fantasies. This was not how the world worked. At best, I would be looked upon as an

anomaly. I turned on to my side. The mattress was bare. I didn’t even have a coverlet. I would have to buy that too.

‘No tears,’ I warned myself, but it was no good. I could already feel them running down my cheeks. No matter how much I let myself believe that I could be just like Sylvia and her partner Adrienne, it wasn’t true. They were outliers; they no longer cared for the kind of society that would not accept them. Instead, they inhabited a world of artists and free spirits who chose the vicissitudes of a nonconforming life over the comforts and security of the status quo. And the truth was that they had each other. I had never felt more alone, so far from the only home I knew. I cried myself to sleep that night, with an empty stomach and only my overcoat for warmth.

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching, like a branch against the window. I couldn’t figure it out, as there certainly weren’t any trees on the street outside. I sat up for a moment and realised it was coming from the shop overhead.

I flicked the switch on the wall, but no light came on. Mr Fitzpatrick the younger had warned me that the building could be ‘temperamental’. Luckily, I had spotted a candle on the kitchen table where I had left my purse and so I carefully felt my way across the room to it. My hand searched and found a small box of matches beside it and soon the room emerged out of the shadows. I climbed the stairs, reading the words that Mr Fitzpatrick painted there, In a place called lost, strange things are found. I certainly felt strange and out of place. I paused for a moment, wondering what on earth I would do when I found the source of the noise. What if it were an intruder? Then I heard it again, a soft tapping, like brambles in the wind. I took a deep breath and carried on to the top of the stairs.

The shop itself had an air of stillness and anticipation, as though it were waiting for me. The light from the candle reflected softly on the curiosities adorning the shelves. I felt like an intruder myself amongst these things and hesitated to touch anything. Intricately designed music boxes sat atop a glass case full of pocket watches and engraved pendants. A wooden cabinet of long, narrow drawers, the type for keeping botanical drawings, was actually full of old buttons and stamps. I jumped when a cuckoo clock announced the hour from the opposite wall. Three cuckoos. It reminded me of one of my favourite books I had read repeatedly as a child, by Mrs Molesworth, in which a young girl called Griselda and a cuckoo from a clock became unlikely friends. I spoke the opening line aloud: ‘Once upon a time in an old town, in an old street, there stood a very old house.’

A collection of Russian matryoshka dolls painted brightly in red and blue peeked out at me expectantly from one of the shelves. I couldn’t resist opening one, revealing a smaller doll inside. I opened that too, on and on until I had five dolls, each decreasing in size, all made to perfectly fit inside the largest one. It was exactly how I felt: a fully formed woman, but the little girl inside was still there.

A heavy thud made me turn around with a fright. I held the candle out in front of me.

‘Hello?’ I whispered, feeling slightly ridiculous. Perhaps a cat had come in through an open window. I walked to the rear of the shop where the noise had come from. There was a modest glass cabinet of books, its doors open and a tome lying on the floor. The temperature was so cold and I was in my bare feet, so I bent to pick it up and replace it quickly. A cursory glance at the cover almost made my heart stop – Dracula, by Bram Stoker. A terrifying image of a vampire was on the cover. I looked around the shop. All was quiet now. I replaced the book and turned to go back downstairs when another thud made me jump. Looking back, I saw the book on the floor once more.

‘That’s very strange,’ I said out loud, trying to sound calm. The very fact that I thought someone (or something) was listening confirmed my state of mind. I picked up the book and once again spoke out loud. ‘Yes, I think I shall take a book to bed,’ I said with a little uncertainty, before bringing it back downstairs with me. I read until the candle extinguished, terrified, exhilarated and unsure whether the book was a warning or an invitation.