‘T he thing is, 11 Ha’penny Lane is, um … well, it’s here,’ Mr Dunne said, pointing to the patch of waste ground that stood between number 10 and number 12. ‘Or rather, it’s not here. Here’s where it isn’t,’ he said, disguising a snigger with a hearty cough.
An official from the planning office, he had reluctantly agreed to a site
visit after weeks of my incessant phone calls.
‘Okay,’ I said. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. ‘But you’ve seen the maps I sent you, the ones showing the shop to be right here?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the map, Mr Field, but as I explained on the phone, there are no official records for any building registered on this site. Apart from this,’ he said pointing to the house next door.
‘But this is number 12.’
‘Exactly. There is no number 11.’
‘But just because it’s a house now, doesn’t mean it wasn’t previously used as a shop. The ground floor I mean.’ I was warming to this idea. I hadn’t a clue about historic buildings, but people used to conduct commerce from their homes, surely.
‘Even so, it doesn’t alter the fact that there is no number 11,’ Mr Dunne said, losing interest. ‘Have you tried speaking to the residents?’
‘I’m sorry?’
An articulated lorry was slowly making its way down the street, meaning we had to shout to be heard.
‘They might know something about the area’s past,’ he roared. ‘What, a past of disappearing buildings?’ I said.
Mr Dunne simply looked at me as though there was something not quite right about me and stepped back, in case it was contagious.
‘Is this some kind of prank?’ Mr Dunne checked his watch. ‘I’m already late for my next appointment so I’ll have to leave you to it,’ he said, jangling his car keys in a very pointed manner. ‘Good luck with’—he gestured to the space between the house—‘all of it.’
Yes, I get it, I thought. I’m on my own. The idiot who came all the way to Ireland to find a bookshop that doesn’t exist.
He left, but I couldn’t move. I stared at the facade of number 12 and then at number 10 and back again. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been standing there when I noticed the front door of number 12 opening. It was her, the fallen angel, looking as unimpressed with the world as she had done the other day, leaning out of the window. There was something about her, perhaps it was just the sight of another lost soul, looking for something they knew should be here, but wasn’t.
‘Excuse me! I wonder if I might take a moment of your time, Miss?’
She halted mid-stride and turned to look at me, as though she would make me regret my entire life if I didn’t make the next words from my mouth worthwhile.
‘What is it?’
‘I – well …’ Brilliant. Ten out of ten. She carried on her brisk pace. ‘Can I buy you a coffee? I could tell you all about it—’
‘I can buy my own coffee, thanks.’ ‘Look, I’m not some kind of weirdo—’ ‘That exactly what a weirdo would say.’
I struggled to find the words that might make her turn around. As a last resort, I went with honesty.
‘I need your help!’
She stopped, her head dropped and she paused for a moment, as though deciding something.
‘There’s a café through here,’ she said, pointing to a narrow cobbled street through an old archway.
As I followed her lead, I reintroduced myself as Henry. Henry Field.
Exactly like that, as though I were a key member of MI5.
She kept her name to herself, making an altogether better spy.
 |
‘So, you found an old letter that mentions a book no one’s ever heard of, hidden in a bookshop that doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ I agreed, before taking a mouthful of coffee and inadvertently giving myself a frothy milk moustache. It was kind of liberating, this honesty business. For so long I had hidden my findings for fear someone else would uncover the lost manuscript, but I knew this girl, Martha (as she eventually told me, no surname), wouldn’t have the background knowledge or the interest to steal my discovery.
‘Have you thought about seeing a therapist?’
‘Hah!’ I hadn’t expected her to be funny, her whole countenance was so serious up to that point. She was wearing makeup, which went some way towards covering her bruises, but she still winced from the cut on her lip when drinking her tea. I did the honourable thing and pretended not to have noticed.
‘I know it existed, I have the address on the letter-headed paper, even if the council has no record of it.’
‘And how do you think I can help? I’ve only been here a few days. I don’t know this city at all.’
‘Oh, I just assumed. You don’t own number 12?’
At this she laughed heartily, then just as quickly her features fell back into their strained expression.
‘Madame Bowden owns number 12. I work for her.’ ‘Oh, I see, as some kind of assistant?’
She did not answer straight away and I immediately regretted prying.
What did it matter? It was just something you say. ‘I’m her housekeeper.’
‘Oh.’ Oh? Can’t you think of anything else to say, idiot?
‘Well, thanks for the tea, I’d best be off.’
She was up and heading for the door before I reacted. ‘Maybe we can do this again?’ I called out.
But she never turned back, just waved a hand and headed back out on to the busy street.
