Pages & Co.: Tilly and the Bookwanderers. Anna James

get in the way. Speaking of,’ he said, brushing crumbs off his apron as a tinny beep sounded through the shop, ‘my pop cakes are calling. Come and try one in a bit.’

      He pushed himself up from the squishy sofa and disappeared down the stairs, leaving Tilly to her book.

      A little while later Tilly was interrupted from her adventures under the sea by the sound of her grandma’s laughter tumbling down the stairs. Tilly couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Grandma laugh like that, or the last time she herself had laughed so hard either, so she tiptoed up the stairs to see what was causing it. She found Grandma tucked in a corner, wiping tears from her eyes as a woman with dark curly hair pinned up on the back of her head waved her hands around animatedly. She seemed quite a lot younger than Grandma and wore a long, old-fashioned-looking dress. Tilly crept closer, wanting to hear what Grandma was finding so funny, without interrupting the moment.

      ‘And do you know, he turned to him and said in the most insufferable voice, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.” I tell you, Elsie, I held Charlotte’s hand very tightly to stop myself going over and telling him exactly what I thought of his manners, especially when he was so new to town. Of course, my mother will forgive a man that rich almost anything, although this tested even her resolve.’

      No longer able to resist Grandma’s giggles, Tilly coughed loudly and rounded the corner only to find Grandma sitting by herself.

      ‘Oh, Tilly!’ she said, still hiccuping a little. ‘Are you okay, darling?’

      ‘Where’s that woman gone?’ Tilly asked, looking around in confusion, unable to understand how she’d left so quickly and quietly.

      Grandma’s laughter abruptly stopped. ‘Which woman, darling?’ she asked, sitting up straighter.

      ‘The woman you were just talking to, of course,’ Tilly said. ‘The one with the long dress and the dark hair – the one who made you laugh like that!’

      ‘Oh, her,’ Grandma said slowly. ‘That’s Lizzy – she’s an old friend. You caught a glimpse of her, did you?’

      ‘She was literally just sitting here as I came up the stairs,’ Tilly said, confused. ‘Where’s she gone?’

      ‘She must have slipped past without you noticing. You know how this place is like a rabbit warren; it’s impossible to keep track of everything and everyone. I’m forever losing you in here!’ Grandma said, more composed. ‘Anyway! Enough of that! How’s your book?’

      Tilly had the distinct feeling that Grandma wasn’t telling her something.

      ‘How long have you known Lizzy for?’ she asked, ignoring Grandma’s question.

      ‘Oh, a long time now.’

      ‘She’s not very old, though?’ Tilly persisted.

      ‘No, I suppose she’s not. But she’s an old soul.’ Grandma smiled. ‘She’s … well, Tilly, if I tell you the truth, part of the reason I enjoy spending time with her is that she reminds me of your mum, very much.’

      ‘Mum?’ Tilly sat down on the now-empty chair opposite Grandma, hungry for details and feeling her heart punch against her ribcage. ‘What reminds you of her? She doesn’t really look like her, does she?’

      ‘No, not particularly,’ Grandma said. ‘It’s more how she holds herself, her sense of humour, her way of telling stories. Your mum used to make me laugh in the same way Lizzy does.’

      ‘Did my mum know her too? Were they friends? How old is Lizzy?’ Tilly asked.

      ‘Ah, a little older than she looks,’ Grandma said. ‘I first met Lizzy years before your mum left. I need to get her skincare secret, hey?’

      Tilly was feeling light-headed with this new information about her mother, who she’d only known as a baby. Beatrice Pages had left when Tilly was tiny, and Tilly had grown used to not speaking about her to avoid reopening old wounds that seemed to haunt Grandma and Grandad. Sometimes she lost her grandad for days at a time if she asked questions; he was physically there, but barely seemed to notice anything going on around him, ignoring customers and Tilly alike. So when these precious gems of information emerged Tilly gathered them to her and guarded them fiercely.

      ‘Anyway, that’s enough chat about old friends,’ Grandma said, bringing the conversation to a close with a firm nod of her head. ‘Do you have a moment to come and help me in the stockroom?’

      Tilly nodded, and Grandma took her hand as they walked down the stairs together, where they were immediately pounced on by a panicked-looking Jack.

      ‘I need help!’ he wailed.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ Grandma asked as Tilly imagined an array of horrible accidents involving honey, or knives, or both.

      ‘I can’t find the vanilla essence!’ Jack shouted, making two people sitting drinking coffee eye him warily and Alice the cat raise her head in disdain from the cushioned seat she had claimed for the morning.

      Grandma sighed.

      ‘That’s all?’ Tilly said. ‘I thought you’d hurt yourself. I thought it was an emergency.’

      Jack looked surprised.

      ‘This is an emergency. I need to get the vanilla in the batter now. Do you have any in the kitchen, Elsie, or could you go and ask Mary, Tilly?’

      Grandma took a deep breath. ‘Tilly, you go and check the kitchen and see if you can find some in the pantry. I’m going to get back to the stock cupboard.’

      ‘Don’t get honey on my book,’ Tilly said sternly, putting it behind the counter before heading to the kitchen.

      There was nothing in the pantry so Tilly rifled through the kitchen cupboards, but she couldn’t find any vanilla essence there either. The cupboards seemed to be full of everything and nothing all at the same time, the result of her grandad’s inability to throw anything away in case it proved useful later, however much it looked like junk to Tilly and Grandma. She found one orange sock, several pencils and the red half of a pack of cards, but no vanilla.

      And then, tucked away behind a heap of empty shoeboxes, she found a dusty cardboard box wrapped in packing tape. On the top flap it had ‘Bea’s Books’ written in black marker pen. Tilly felt her heart squeeze and a crackle of something she couldn’t identify deep inside her: these were her mum’s stories.

      

      illy dragged the box into the kitchen and peeled off the tape, which had turned crunchy with age. The noise of the bookshop melted away, and her hand drifted to the tiny gold bee necklace round her neck, a gift from her mother when Tilly was born, which matched the one Bea had worn herself.

      Tilly’s idea of her mum was stitched together from a patchwork of old photos and other people’s memories. No one knew where Beatrice Pages had gone, and this lack of facts meant that the hole her mother had left had torn, ragged edges that were slow to knit back together.

      ‘Love, we’ve told you everything we know, and what the police think. It’s not good to dwell on what happened,’ one of her grandparents would say.

      ‘But the police think she was unhappy and just left to start again somewhere. I don’t understand why she would have done that just after I was born if she …’ Tilly