It’s not often so many readers visit me at once. But this group came in, swooping, nodding. Young people reading. Oh happy Saturday.
Swaying, hoping and asking the shelves…. ‘Have I read this?’
Stooping and thinking, shaking heads, no, no. Not that.
Magnificent sunlight conducts the outside of the shop. But is irrelevant. It can stop trying now.
One girl has piled books up, carries them around, keeping order with her chin.
There is a phone conversation. Giving directions. Head back outside (not happily), and shout to someone in the street (fool!)
The rest of the group enter.
Diary of a Nobody, Inkheart, Treasure Island, John Steinbeck, Eoin Colfer, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Black Beauty, Kidnapped, wondering, hissing… ‘You already have that.’
‘How many teeth does an Aardvark have, who knows that?’ Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, The Lost Necklace of Amber or something like that. Someone has lost a water bottle. The light on the darkened windows of the parked cars outside the window dazzles and hurts. Sherlock Holmes. Anais Nin. D. H. Lawrence, Eric Carle.
‘I love Anais Nin. And Harry Potter.’
Somebody is called outside because they have too many books. There is a brief, respectful silence.
Enid Blyton, Laura Ingalls….. ‘What’s her other name?’
Are you getting this?
Pride and Prejudice.
‘Do you have Tarka the Otter?’
‘Do you have the sequel to Sweet Thursday?’
They move and murmur, gather and turn. Read on knees, in silence. Gather up the chosen volumes, phones, a scarf, a sister, a book that will help them read Proust, and slowly everyone is leaving. It is the end of the day and they leave, file out, eyes like jewels.
Illustration from The Twelve Dancing Princesses by Errol Le Cain