Dublin, 1922

M y first few weeks at Mr Fitzpatrick’s Nostalgia Shop were punctuated by a string of strange occurrences. It seemed the building itself did not exactly welcome me with open arms, but I was determined to prove myself a worthy custodian. I ventured up the spiral staircase that led to the attic, where he had kept the overflow from the shop. At the top was a tiny door that required me to bend a little and when I pushed against it, I found that the wood seemed to push back. I stood back in order to take something of a run at it and on the third go I burst through and fell flat on my face.

‘I see,’ I said aloud. ‘Like that, is it?’

I got up and dusted myself down, trying not to take the idiosyncrasies of an old building personally. A tiny window with a circular pane, opaque with green lichen, was the only source of light. I found a Victrola gramophone and immediately set it aside to bring downstairs. At first glance, it looked like an old museum with glinting treasure peeking out from under dustsheets. There was a telescope in the far corner behind bits of old furniture and lots of boxes. On a shelf I spotted a pair of workman’s trousers and looked down at my impractical skirt, covered in dust and worn

in places. Decision made, I slipped it off and pulled on the tan-coloured trousers. They weren’t a bad fit and I pulled the belt through the loops, securing it around my waist. Mr Fitzpatrick must have been a rather slender man, as well as being a conscientious one, as they were neat as a new pin. Slightly too long in the leg, though, so I turned up the hem once and then twice, until I could see the heel of my boot. Catching sight of myself in a cheval mirror, which was amusingly strung with feather boas, I smiled at my reflection.

‘Hello, Miss Carlisle,’ I said, turning from side to side. I ran my hands through my hair and held it back, giving myself an androgynous look. My blouse looked remarkably well, tucked into the trousers, and I only wished I had a cravat to finish off the look, like the Parisian author, Colette. Perhaps I could also be known purely by my Christian name and conceal my identity. Opaline, however, was not a very common name. ‘Hello, Miss …’ I spotted a book lying on the dusty floor. The Picture of Dorian Gray. ‘Hello, Miss Gray.’ Not bad.

Keen to investigate the rare book dealers in Dublin city and see what could be picked up, I set out and walked across the humpbacked Ha’penny Bridge, like the spine of a whale decorated with lamps, to visit Webb’s bookshop on the quays. Sylvia had mentioned the name to me before I left, and the only way I could retain the information was to picture a spider’s web. I took a moment to lean against the iron railing and looked up at the green domes of the cathedral and the Four Courts. My eyes followed the River Liffey as it flowed down towards The Custom House, which had only recently been burned out by the Irish Republican Army. Joyce had neglected to mention that the country was in the middle of a civil war when he suggested I escape here. From the frying pan into the fire, as they say.

Wearing a man’s trousers and using a pseudonym, I felt like I was playing the part of an actress. Mr Hanna was one of those rare types who took absolutely no notice of my appearance and instead filled a box with

some popular titles to ‘keep me ticking over’, as he put it. At the mere mention of James Joyce, it seemed my good reputation was sealed. I had a quick scan through his Dickens collection, just in case my father’s copy of David Copperfield was among them. It had become a little habit of mine, a way of keeping him close to my heart. It was a rare edition, and I could tell with a glance that it wasn’t there. No matter, I said to myself. I will find it one day.

Armed with my new books and a list of distributors I could call on, I arrived back at Ha’penny Lane with renewed purpose. I looked around the shop, at the rich green walls and the little Tiffany lamps shedding their colourful glow on all the treasures that had held their breath, waiting for the doors to reopen after Mr Fitzpatrick’s death. It almost felt like Sleeping Beauty’s room in the tower and I needed to find the spell to waken her. I had insisted on keeping all of Mr Fitzpatrick’s stock, for the shop would have looked bare with only my small bookcase of titles to furnish it, yet I had no idea how these two ideas would merge. I first looked at the window display, which hadn’t changed in all the time the shop had been closed. If I wanted to entice customers inside, I had to use my imagination. There was a carousel with a winding mechanism which played a jolly fairground tune while the horses elegantly turned around and around. A string of pearls and other costume jewellery were draped artfully over a coffret, and overhead, various multi-coloured hot-air balloons with baskets were strung from the ceiling. That was when inspiration struck.

I opened the box of books from Mr Hanna and found just what I was

looking for: the Oz books by L. Frank Baum. They were utterly magical and would fit perfectly with the hot-air balloons. I would use Mr Fitzpatrick’s curiosities to create a visual storyline for the books. I was so pleased with myself that I hardly noticed the hours passing by, as I played what felt like a parlour game of matching books with their props. I had received several Beatrix Potter books, which were always so popular with

children, and magically found two little velvet rabbits with bows at their necks. The window now had the enticing look of a treasure chest – albeit slightly skewed towards a younger clientele. No matter, I thought. They were the true pioneers of every family and would lead their parents through any street or thicket to chase their hearts’ desires. In any case, I set up a little trestle table outside with some cheap second-hand books, which could always tempt the passer-by.

It was just missing one thing: a sign. I searched for a piece of card, which of course I found in the stationery section, a rich cream vellum, and spied a beautiful calligraphy pen held on a piece of marble. That was when I realised that I had no desk. I found the perfect specimen – a rich walnut console table, which was currently displaying an alarmingly large collection of ceramic frogs in all shapes, sizes and poses. That was the amusing thing about collecting: you never knew what would hold value, nor to whom. Were we all preconditioned to love certain things? A moment in childhood, lost to memory but indelibly marked on our souls? To me, the promise of finding what I did not know I was looking for was the lure of the game.

I dragged the desk over to the corner by the window, so I had good light and a full view of the shop. I found a sturdy carver chair, also in dark wood and upholstered with a deep red and gold brocade. Rather unconsciously, I found myself modelling my surroundings on those of Shakespeare and Company. The memory made my heart lurch and I wished I could speak to Sylvia, ask her advice. But I knew what she would say, to trust my gut. And my gut was telling me that it was all well and good dreaming of printing my first catalogue of rare books, but I had to get some customers first. Let people know I was open for business.

And so I sat at my desk for the first time, placed the card in front of me and, with the pen suspended in mid-air, realised I hadn’t even come up with a name for the shop.

‘Gray Books?’ I said aloud to no one but myself. It sounded terribly dull. ‘Please, step inside and buy some grey books!’ I chattered to myself, realising that my new pseudonym wouldn’t do at all. I tried to think of my favourite book titles.

‘Wuthering Books?’ Again, such dreary names would never attract customers. I immediately thought of Emily Brontë’s pseudonym – Ellis Bell. Bell Books? Or Belle Books, to add a little French flair?

‘Perfect!’ I said, congratulating myself, and in my best handwriting wrote the new name and ‘Rare and Used Books for Sale’ in smaller writing underneath. I put it in the window and nodded my head with satisfaction. No matter what came, I had my books, and in the quiet morning air, I could hear their breathing, patient and steady. Like the resonance of a piano note held in the air long after it’s been played.

I jumped when the bell above the door rang shrilly and turned to see my first customer.

‘I’ve come to buy a book, if that’s all right.’

It was Matthew. I blushed momentarily at the memory of my outburst and how he had held me in his arms. I hadn’t seen him since, despite the fact that he lived next door.

‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place!’ I said, a little redundantly. He moved about the shop, noting the changes I had made with a nod of his head. He was a tall man with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair that seemed to curl at the ends. He held the brim of his hat between his fingers, as though he were afraid to leave it down. That if he did, he might wish to stay.

‘What books do you generally like to read?’ I asked, busying myself with rearranging some stationery.

‘Oh, non-fiction generally,’ he said, turning briefly to face me before noticing my attire. ‘Are … are they my father’s work trousers?’

I blushed. I didn’t think he’d notice. Not the fact that I was wearing trousers (everyone who came into the shop noticed that) but that they didn’t belong to me.

‘I found them in the attic. I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Not at all,’ he said, failing to hide a bemused look.

‘I have some new non-fiction over here if you’d like …’ I began, changing the subject.

‘Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for my son. Ollie.’

I had to prise information from him; not because he was unwilling to give it, but because he seemed to think I wouldn’t be interested. Was I interested? I felt as though I should be. Women were supposed to be interested in children, after all. Yet it struck me that being a woman was akin to a performance, with its cues and lines that had to be learned. I knew how I was supposed to act and what I was supposed to say, I just wasn’t exactly sure if I wanted to.

‘He has a vivid imagination,’ he said, keeping his sentences short yet heavy with implication.

‘You say that as though it’s a bad thing, Mr Fitzpatrick.’ ‘Matthew, please.’

‘Has he read any of the Oz books?’

I went to the window and took the first in the series down from the shelf.

‘What are they about?’

‘Well, they’re about a great wizard who lives in an emerald city—’ ‘I don’t think so, Miss …’

‘Opaline, please.’

‘Opaline. His mother wishes him to follow the family business.’

I panicked for a moment, thinking I would become unemployed and homeless yet again.

‘Her father’s business. Banking.’

‘Ah,’ I said, looking around the shop for anything that would suit a young banker. Nothing. The silence made me feel uncomfortable until the cuckoo clock announced the hour and made us both jump.

‘Would you like some tea?’ I wasn’t sure why I said it. Possibly because I was certain he would refuse, but he surprised us both by saying yes. I went downstairs and put some things on a tray.

‘So, is it going well?’ he called down the stairs.

I wasn’t sure if he was concerned about the business or my ability to pay the rent.

‘Well enough,’ I called back.

‘I see you’ve managed to incorporate my father’s antiques with your books. Very clever.’

I peeped out from the door and saw him standing by the maritime section I had created, with Moby-Dick and Robinson Crusoe floating on a blue muslin sea with mermaids and boats sailing in impossibly tiny bottles. I even had a copy of Peter Pan there, with a toy crocodile snapping at the corners.

‘This is truly fantastic,’ he said, finally coming to life. ‘The shop seems

… bigger somehow.’

I went back to the kitchen and turned on the tap, but no water was forthcoming. The pipes gurgled and belched like someone with bad indigestion. I let it run until it spluttered and clanged and then was silent. I stood back and put my hands on my hips. It didn’t make any sense, just like the attic door or the copy of Dracula falling from the shelf. I climbed the stairs, the kettle still in my hand.

‘Are you wearing your landlord hat today?’ I asked, holding up the kettle. ‘I’m afraid I might need a plumber.’

‘I’ll have a look,’ he said, in the way that men do, assuming the problem is something straightforward enough for them to fix. Before I knew it, he had his jacket off and was down on the floor, wrangling with pipes under the sink. I didn’t even know there was a spanner and it seemed highly unlikely that he would carry one around with him. I almost asked him if he was quite sure what he was doing, but instead asked if he knew what the problem was.

‘Probably a blockage of some sort,’ he said, his voice straining. ‘I’ll have it fixed in no time. I’ll just switch off the—’

Before he finished his sentence, the tap flew off the top of the pipe and water began gushing like a geyser. I ran to it and shoved an old rag into the hole where the tap used to be, stemming the tide until he managed to turn off the mains.

‘Perhaps I should have called the plumber,’ he gasped, getting up from the floor and brushing his wet hair from his forehead.

We looked at each other and realised we were both soaking wet. I could feel a giggle slowly erupting from my ribcage but tried to suppress it … until I saw him wringing water out of the ends of his shirt. He looked so ridiculous, my shoulders began to shake with laughter. He looked up at me then, his cross expression melting into a broad smile.

‘Amusing you, am I?’ he said, as I bent over with laughter.

‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said, turning my back to him so that I might stop. When I turned around he was taking the wet shirt off and wringing it properly into the sink. He had a vest underneath, which was also wet through.

‘Might I hang this in front of the stove for a while?’

‘Of course,’ I said, and quickly added more wood to the fire. I hung his shirt on the back of the chair and moved it closer to the heat. He could have simply returned home, he only lived next door, but there was a silent understanding that the explanation that would have been required was too complicated. My clothes were wet also, but I couldn’t change while he was

there, so I merely wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and stood beside him, watching the flames.

‘I’ll have someone come and fix it first thing tomorrow.’

His tone of voice had changed again. I knew I wasn’t imagining it, this closeness that he would temporarily allow, an intimacy, before pulling up the drawbridge again. I had to snap myself out of this silly attraction. It was some jumble of homesickness and loneliness – a misplaced focus for all of my mixed-up feelings. He was kind to me at a time when I needed comfort, but I knew this was dangerous and had to stop.

‘Thank you, Mr Fitzpatrick.’

A moment passed and as though he had heard some distant noise calling him, he grabbed his still damp shirt and put it on. I responded and jumped to action, picking up his jacket from the floor and handing it to him. Our fingertips brushed as he took it from my hands. I did not look him in the eye but kept my head level with the hollow where his neck met his chest. I did not think about touching him but found my hand was already on his chest, above his heart. The rise and fall of his breathing grew heavier and in one movement, he pulled me close to him and our lips collided – clumsily at first, then passionately, desperately. His mouth was soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear.

‘I’m sorry.’

I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’, but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it.

When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse.

The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Brontë sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Brontë family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Brontë novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further.

It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of

Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go.

I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As I glanced out into the street, I noticed that the stained-glass patterns had shifted and were now the shape of a vast and rolling moorland with a path leading up to a grand farmhouse.

‘Wuthering Heights,’ I whispered to myself.