‘About Flora MacNichol,’ I said slowly, perplexed by the way his mind seemed to dart from one subject to the next at lightning speed.
‘Yes, of course, but for now, I am afraid you will have to excuse me, Miss D’Aplièse, as I’ve decided that I really should not let those Russians win. I’m just going to pop upstairs and telephone my agent to raise my bid before the auction starts.’ He rose from the chair and pulled a golden fob watch out of his pocket, clicking it open like the Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. ‘Just in time. Could you possibly mind the shop while I’m away?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
I watched his long legs make short work of the walk to the door at the back. Then I sat there, wondering whether I was mad, or he was. But at least it had been a conversation, and I had said the words I needed to. And set the hares running . . .
I spent a very pleasant time acquainting myself with the stock, making a definitive mental list of what I would want to have on my own dream bookshelf. Shakespeare, of course, and Dickens, not to mention F. Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh . . . And then some of the modern books I loved too, which hadn’t yet had time to become classics, but I knew would be just as valuable to any collector in a couple of hundred years’ time, if not as beautifully bound in leather as they used to be.
Not a single person entered the shop as I wandered the shelves. Hunting through the children’s section, I found a collection of Beatrix Potter books – The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle being my all-time favourite.
I sat down by the fire and began to turn its pages. And had a vivid flashback to a Christmas when I must have been very young. I’d found a copy of this book under the tree from Père No?l, and that night, Pa Salt had taken me on his knee in front of the fire that blazed merrily in our sitting room all winter and read the story to me. In my mind’s eye, I remembered looking out of the windows at the snow-capped mountains feeling warm, contented and very, very loved.
‘At peace with myself,’ I whispered out loud. That is what I want to find again.
‘All done,’ came the man’s voice, jolting me out of my memories. ‘Call me reckless, but I just had to have that book. I’ve been searching for it for years. Mouse will no doubt give me a tongue lashing, which I fully deserve, for bankrupting us even further. Goodness, I’m hungry! It’s all that stress. You?’
I looked down at my watch and saw that over an hour had passed since he’d disappeared upstairs and it was now five to one.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, could I tempt you? There’s an excellent restaurant just across the road which very kindly provides me with whatever the day’s menu is. It’s a set menu, you see,’ he clarified, as if this was important. ‘Always exciting to never be quite sure what you will get, rather than choosing it for yourself, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why don’t I run across the road to collect the food and see if I can entice you? I owe you lunch at least, for being kind enough to stay down here while I sweated it out over the auction.’
‘Okay.’
‘Beatrix Potter, eh?’ he said as he glanced down at the book in my hands. ‘How ironic. In all sorts of ways. She knew Flora MacNichol, but then nothing in life is a coincidence, is it?’
With that, he left the shop and if I’d had any intention of disappearing while he was out, his parting words had prohibited it. I tended the fire in the way that Pa Salt had taught me, banking the coal close together so that it did not burn too fast and waste fuel, but gave out a steady, constant heat.
Again, the shop remained deserted, so I read The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck and Tom Kitten while I waited for his return. I was just about to begin on Jeremy Fisher when my nameless lunch companion reappeared through the door holding two brown-paper bags.
‘Looks excellent today,’ he said as he locked the door behind him and turned the sign to Closed. ‘I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m eating. Bad for the digestion, don’t you know. I’ll just pop upstairs and get some plates. Oh, and a good glass of white Sancerre to go with the fish,’ he added as he strode across the shop and I heard him bound up the stairs.
I was amused at his mannered, old-fashioned use of language. Even though I’d become used to the clipped English spoken here by the upper classes, my new friend took this to another level. A true English eccentric, I thought, and I liked him for it. He wasn’t afraid to be exactly who he was, and I knew only too well how much strength of character that took.
‘Now, I hope you like sole, and the fresh green beans are no doubt sautéed to perfection,’ he said as he reappeared with a bottle of wine, condensation dripping off it, plates, cutlery and two perfectly starched white linen napkins.
‘I do, very much. And yes,’ I said, ‘green beans are surprisingly tricky to cook well.’
‘You’re a chef?’ he asked me as he removed the covering from two foil trays. They reminded me of plane food. I could only hope their contents tasted better.
‘No, I just enjoy it. I took a course a few weeks ago and I had to serve green beans.’
‘You must understand I am not a food snob in the modern sense; I don’t mind what I throw down my gullet, but I do insist it’s well cooked. The problem is, I’m spoilt. Clarke’s is one of the best restaurants in London and their kitchen has prepared this for us today. Now then, will you have a glass of wine?’ he asked as he transferred the food onto a china plate, and placed it carefully in front of me.
‘I don’t usually drink at lunchtime.’
‘Well, I always think it’s good to break bad habits, don’t you? Here.’
He poured me a glass and handed it to me across the table.
‘Tchin-Tchin!’ he toasted me, gulping back a large swig, before proceeding to take enormous forkfuls of his fish. I prodded mine gently.
‘It really is excellent, Miss D’Aplièse,’ he encouraged me. ‘Don’t tell me you are on a diet?’
‘No. I’m just not used to eating at lunchtime either.’
‘Well now, as the saying goes, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper.” Such a simple maxim to follow, and yet the human race ignores it and then complains when it’s unable to shift its fat. Not that weight seems to be a problem for either of us.’
‘No.’ I blushed as I continued to eat, noticing that he’d already vacuumed his plate clean. He was right – the food was excellent. He observed me closely as I ate, which I found extremely off-putting. I picked up my wine glass and took a sip, trying to garner my courage to ask the questions I needed to. I had come here to find answers, I reminded myself.
‘You said Flora MacNichol knew Beatrix Potter?’ I prompted him.