“Today, Ms. Kavanagh, I bring you a cup of ‘Hope’ with a capital H. Enjoy!”
As Ross went upstairs to the flat, Olivia sipped her coffee and listened to the scraping of chair legs and windows being opened and the cat being shooed out of the way. She smiled to herself as she glanced back at the shop’s front window. However it had gotten there, something about that little green shoot spoke to her of new beginnings, of hope.
Fairy juju or not, five new customers arrived that morning, and every one of them left with a book in their hands and a promise to come back soon.
OLIVIA WAS STILL thinking about the shop window when Henry Blake arrived later that morning, peering around the door to ask if it was a good time.
Olivia put down the pile of books she was rearranging. “It’s always a good time to see you, Henry. Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
They drank peppermint tea while Henry asked how she was and how business was going and whether there had been any offers on Bluebell Cottage.
“We’ve had a few viewings, but no offers yet. To be honest, part of me hopes it doesn’t sell.”
Henry looked surprised. “But surely you’re keen to release some cash?”
Olivia sighed, a big heart-heavy sigh of resignation. “I am, I suppose. It’s just that Nana and Pappy loved that little cottage so much. It’s been in the family for years. I hate the thought of someone else living there.” She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I even bought a lottery ticket today. My first ever. Maybe if I win the lottery, I can keep the cottage and the bookshop.” Henry eyed Olivia studiously. She felt as if she had been scolded without him having said a word. “It’s a big if,” she conceded, returning the ticket to her pocket. “A very big if.”
Henry looked at her with compassion then. She sensed that he understood her reluctance to let go.
“Everything must move on, dear. Houses. Shops. Books. People.” He stood up and took his teacup for a walk as he paced up and down the shop. “Let someone else love the cottage as much as your nana and grandfather did. Let a new family make it their home. Sometimes we have to let go of the things we cherish the most. Sometimes it’s the only way we can move on.”
Henry talked such sense. Olivia often wished she had a notebook to write everything down. She imagined his wisdoms on fridge magnets and notecards. “Henryisms,” as she called them.
He put his cup down, took a book from the shelf beside him, and opened it to the front page. “Take all these books with their sentimental inscriptions. Here. Listen to this. ‘Christmas, 1915. To my darling Beatrice. Think of me as you read these glorious words. Yours always. Patrick.’ Young lovers separated by war, no doubt.” He opened another book. “And this. ‘August, 1933. Follow your dreams, wherever they may take you. Bertie.’ These words, these books, meant the world to someone not so long ago, and now here they are, giving joy to us as we romanticize about who these people were. When someone buys these books, those sentiments will become theirs to cherish.” He sat down again. “There’s a provenance to everything, Olivia. The only reason anything has a story is precisely because it moves on. Books, paintings, houses—they all hold a trace, an echo, of the people who once cherished them.” He took a sip of tea and added as an afterthought, “Not so dissimilar to people, I suppose. We are the sum of those who have touched our lives in one way or another.”
Olivia remembered how Pappy used to talk about the provenance of books. He found great romance in the notion of books acquiring new owners and a new history. Henry was right. She was being overly sentimental. She desperately needed the money and Bluebell Cottage was, after all, just bricks and mortar.
“Did you ever look into that old picture book you found in the drawer?” Henry asked. “Or the Conan Doyle book you found about the girls and the fairies?”
Olivia said she had and that they were both cataloged and on the website. “It’s all really interesting. I found an old manuscript in the desk drawer, as well. It was written by Frances, the younger of the two girls who took the fairy photographs, and what’s fascinating for me is that her schoolteacher, Ellen Hogan, was my great-grandmother.”
“That is fascinating.”
“Isn’t it? I’d love to take a trip over to Yorkshire. Nana Martha grew up in Cottingley, where the girls took their photographs, but she never talked about her life there, so I hadn’t made the connection. We didn’t talk about the past much. My mam died when I was young. I suppose it was too upsetting for everyone to look back. So we didn’t.”
Henry put down his cup and touched Olivia’s hand. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
His words carried such meaning that they moved Olivia to tears. She’d heard “I’m sorry” so many times but had rarely believed anyone truly meant it. Henry’s compassion was so honest and heartfelt. It wrapped around her like the little green shoots entwined around the fairy door.
Sniveling into a tissue, Olivia thanked him for his kindness. “With Pappy gone and with Nana as she is, I feel like I’m losing touch with my family’s past. I’d like to go back to the start of their story. See the village where Nana grew up. Maybe the cottage is still there. I don’t know. I’ve done a bit of research online and found out there’s a collection of materials relating to the Cottingley fairy photographs in the library at Leeds University. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I feel that I need to go.”
“Then do. I’d be very happy to look after the shop for you. I find the days interminably long. It would be nice to fill them here.”
“Would you really?”
“It would be my pleasure. I made a solemn promise to your grandfather, and I will do whatever I can to help you, Olivia, for as long as I can. If that includes sending you off on a fairy trail to Yorkshire, then so be it.”
He winked, and Olivia felt a crack heal in her heart. She hadn’t seriously thought she would go to Yorkshire, but now that Henry had made it possible, why not?
“But what about Nana? I can’t just abandon her.”
“Then don’t. I’ll visit her while you’re away.”
They had known each other, after all, although Olivia doubted Nana would remember Henry after so many years.
Henry placed his hand on Olivia’s. “It would be my pleasure.”