‘Who?’
‘Mouse. He studied architecture there and knows the form for these things. He’s agreed to smuggle you in.’
‘He knows about this too?’
‘My dear girl, of course he does.’
I stood up abruptly. ‘Enough, please, Orlando.’
‘The subject is closed forthwith until you wish to reopen it. Hopefully before next Tuesday,’ he added with a sly grin. ‘And now, back to work. Mr Meadows is happy for us to move into our new home as soon as we wish. I have suggested two weeks’ time to cash in on the pre-Christmas trade. The lease is being prepared as we speak. These,’ Orlando said, pointing to the bookshelves, ‘must be carefully packed into numbered crates, which I’ve already ordered and will arrive here tomorrow. I’ve told both Marguerite and Mouse that they must not make any claim on your time until we are done. We shall have to work night and day, Miss Star, night and day.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s all happened rather quickly, what with the sale of this shop going through – Mr Ho has been most keen and is eager to complete before Christmas. You must come and see the interior of Meadows’ Bookshop. I fancy it’s even more quaint than this. And, most importantly, has a fireplace. As we pack, we shall have to sift out the stock – sadly, there is less shelf space, but Marguerite has kindly agreed to store the remainder at High Weald. And then there’s Mr Meadows’ stock too, which I’ve agreed to buy. We shall be inundated with the written word!’
I tried to concentrate on Orlando and be happy for his excitement and relief at the turn events had taken. But my eyes constantly shifted to the sheet of paper lying in front of me. The photograph of Professor Sylvia Gray, my mother . . .
I turned the sheet face down and pasted a smile on my face. ‘Right, where shall we start?’
At least packing up the shop kept me busy, both physically and mentally. And as the days ticked by towards Tuesday, I blanked out any thoughts on the subject. And so it was that we arrived at Monday evening, exhausted and covered in dust from days of solid packing.
‘Time for a break, Miss Star,’ he said as he appeared from the cellar where he had been fastidiously wrapping the most valuable books from the ancient safe. ‘Good grief, I am not in the least used to all this physical work. And neither does it suit me. Methinks we deserve a glass of good red wine for our troubles.’
As Orlando went upstairs, I flopped into my chair, the fireplace area providing an oasis in the morass of crates stacked high around us.
‘I uncorked it two hours ago to let it breathe,’ Orlando announced as he proceeded along the thin corridor between the crates with a bottle and two glasses and sat down opposite me.
‘Tchin-Tchin,’ he said as we clinked them together. ‘I cannot thank you enough for your help. I simply could not have done it without you. And I am, of course, hoping that you are prepared to move with me to my new premises.’
‘Oh.’
‘“Oh”?! Surely, the thought must have crossed your mind before now? I’m also going to tempt you by offering you the superior title of manager, with the pay rise such a promotion deserves.’
‘Thank you. Can I think about it?’
‘Not for too long. You know how highly I value your skills. I think we are an unbeatable team. And you must have realised what it means?’
‘What what means?’
‘That the two disparate strands of the Vaughan/Forbes family are reunited, sixty years on, in a joint venture.’
‘I suppose it does, yes.’
‘And given that this was, after all, Flora MacNichol’s shop, and she is technically your great-great-grandmother – if not by blood – you have as much right to be here as I do. See? Everything works out in the end.’
‘Does it?’
‘Come now, Miss Star, it’s unlike you to be negative. Now, I must ask you—’
‘No!’ I knew what he was about to say. ‘I’m not going tomorrow. I . . . can’t.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘Because . . .’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Maybe I’ll contact her in the future. But it’s just too soon for me right now.’
‘I understand.’ Orlando gave a sigh of defeat as I drained my glass and stood up.
‘I’d best be getting off, it’s past eight o’clock.’
‘See you bright and early tomorrow then? And do think about my offer. I’ve already asked Marguerite if you could stay at High Weald until you find your own home in the area. She’s thrilled at the idea. And so is Rory.’
‘You haven’t told her yet about . . . my connection to her?’
‘No, but maybe Mouse has. Besides, she lives for the present, not for the past. Especially at the moment. Well then, goodnight, Miss Star.’
‘Goodnight.’
I would be lying to myself if I said I hadn’t gone through the following day – and night – thinking about Professor Sylvia Gray and hating myself for my cowardice. At half past seven precisely, I imagined her stepping onto the podium to a surge of applause.
To my shame, I knew there was another reason I hadn’t made the journey to Cambridge tonight: the opportunity I had missed ten years ago when I hadn’t taken up the place they’d offered me. I sat up long after my sister had gone to bed, and confessed to myself that I was jealous of this mother I’d never known. The mother who had let nothing stop her attending Cambridge, which had facilitated her path to greatness in the academic literary world. Not even me, her baby . . .
Her determination to make something of herself from her humble beginnings made me feel I’d achieved so little in my life in comparison to this paragon: mother to three probably exceptionally bright and driven children, wife, keeper of horses and a career that had taken her to the very top of her profession.
She’d be just as ashamed of me as I am of myself . . .
I wandered to the window and looked out at the frosty clear sky, peppered with stars.
‘Help me, Pa,’ I whispered. ‘Help me.’
42
‘Now then, I will need you down in Kent to help me begin unpacking the books at the new shop this weekend,’ Orlando said as we ate our three o’clock cake the following day. ‘I’m leaving in the morning to oversee things there, and I’m hoping that by the time you arrive, the shopfront will have been repainted and the sign writer will have begun his work. Then I can welcome you to “O. Forbes Esquire – Rare Books”.’
Orlando shone brightly with excitement as I felt my own star fading further into a dull pinprick in the sky.