The Book
Jan 2012

John had no idea why his feet were taking him down the flagstone steps towards the ABC
Bookshop.  The place was squeezed under street level below a dingy secondhand musical
instrument shop.  He had been in the shop once before, many years ago, with a girl he
knew and hoped to know better.  That one visit had not tempted him to repeat it the years
since.

The door bumped against a hanging bell, the sort of thing which would not have been out
of place in a school playground or a bellringers hand.  At once the matchstick smell of
musty books reminded him why he hated these places.  Who would want to buy a book
that someone else cared so little for that they discarded?

The basement shop had low ceilings, and every wall was stacked with old paperbacks.  
Some were arranged conventionally, in rows, but many were simply piled up on top of
each other, so tightly that if you removed one to have a look, the whole column might
come down on top of you.

The place was empty of customers, though there may have been someone or other round
behind one of the several partition bookcases.  The shop keeper sat behind his desk,
reading one of his own books.  He wore a small peakless cap which looked south american,
with ziggurats in various faded colours.  He eyed John briefly and then got back to his book.

Now he was here, he might as well have a look.  A children's book caught his eye, a
collected anthology of Brer Rabbit stories he remembered owning as a child.  Flicking
through the pages, some other child had decided the illustrator needed a hand, and had
taken an entire set of felt tip pens to the pages.  It was a shame, he might have bought it
otherwise.

The children's section was quite extensive for such a seedy shop, and it continued along the
side of one of the long bookcases which divided the shop into rows.  He let his fingertip
drag across the worn and cracked spines of numerous old and decaying books.  How many
hours had been wasted by countless children on these relics, only to be sold on years later
once they had moved onto their adult lives?

For the first time in many years, he remembered sitting with his father, reading the Boy
Brave adventure books, marvelling at the pen and ink drawing showing the young adopted
red indian boy lighting campfires or saving the village from charging buffalo.  His father's
rolling voice came back to him then, the memory of those afternoons bringing a tear.  Once
he had hoped he would hear his father reading those same books to his own children.  But
he had no children, and his old man had died twelve years before.

His finger came to rest on a particularly smooth spine.  It was sky blue, with large exciting
red lettering.  It was the first in the series of Boy Brave stories and his heart leaped at the
familar book spine.  He tried to pull it out, but it seemed jammed, so he pulled harder.

"Excuse me.  I was already looking at that book."

John immediately hated the voice, it was the voice of an old fart, and there were many in
this town.  Someone on the otherside of the bookcase was addressing him and somehow he
was gripping the Boy Brave book from the other side.

"Excuse me", he said.  "The book was on my side of the shelf."

He gave an extra hard pull and felt it slip from the other man's fingers.  He smiled as he
heard a satisfactory grunt of annoyance from the other side.

He opened cover of the book.  Inside was his own name, neatly penned at the age of six.
This wasn't just the first in the series, this was his very own copy of it.  The same one his
dad had held in his big rough hands on those wet afternoons in another time.  This was his
book, which had somehow been transported here for him to find.

He flipped it over to see the price, which was a fiver.  More than the 25p that the book cost
when new, but very reasonable for a hardback book in good condition.  And no price at all
to John who was now presented with a chance of rescuing a  fragment of his childhood.
Flicking through the pages, he walked to the cash desk at the front of the shop.

"I'll have this, please."

The shopkeeper put down his own book and examined John's for a price sticker.   He rang
up the five pounds ont he till and held out his hand for money.

"Excuse me."   It was the fart again.  "I was looking at that book earlier, and I had already
decided to buy it."

John shook his head and looked at the old man who was shuffling up beside him.   He had a
handlebar moustache and a walking stick and one of those raincoats which always looked
grubby.

"If you wanted to buy it, then it should have been in your hand, like this".  He held up the
book to show him.

The old fart turned to the shopkeeper.  "Jaya, how long have I visited your shop?"

The shopkeeper shrugged.  "Many years, Colonel.  Many good years."

The Colonel nodded.  "I am a collector of books, and there's not much  about them I don't
know.  I saw that first edition earlier today, and I was just round the other side checking on
the condition of another.  I am on a pension, I can only buy in small numbers.  I want that
book."

"I'm sorry, Colonel is it?  You don't understand, this isn't just any book..."

"Of course not!", he interrupted.  "It's a pristine first condition."

John suddenly didn't feel like telling him exactly why he wanted it.  "I have the book.   I'm
sorry if you wanted it, but I have it.  And I intend to buy it, and here's my five pounds."  He
slapped it down on the counter.

"Jaya!  Don't sell that book.  I will give you double!"

The shopkeeper held the book in one and and the five pounds in the other.  He seemed
frozen, caught between a sure sale and the chance of making more money on it.

John shook his head.  "Look, I had it first, and the price is on the book. You can't suddenly
turn this into an auction."

The shopkeeper stammered.  "But mister.... I don't make much money, ten pounds is a lot.
And the Colonel is a very good customer."

John dug into his wallet.  "Fifteen then.  And that's the end to it, put it in a bag for me."

"Twenty!", the Colonel shouted.

"I thought you said you didn't have much money?  Or was that a lie?"

The Colonel ignored him, and spoke directly to the shopkeeper.  "Jaya, twenty pounds for
this book, and for the years I have shopped here."

The shopkeeper looked at John, as if he was egging him to up the stakes some more.  John
gave him no indication he was ready to, and he shrugged. "Very good Colonel, that will be
twenty pounds."

He bristled.  "I can give you ten right now, and I will bring the other ten round to this very
shop by closing time tonight."

John laughed.  "Look, he hasn't even got twenty pounds to give you. I have the money right
here, fifteen pounds."  He waggled it in front of the shop keeper's face.

The shopkeeper looked pained.  "I'm sorry Colonel, money is money."

The Colonel stamped his foot and shook his walking stick.

"Anyway, Colonel", John said.  "I don't think you really wanted this book.  I don't believe you
even noticed it until I wanted it.  Why do you want it so much?"

"I said already that I'm a collector.  I own a museum.  I'm going out to phone my son, he'll
bring me some money.  Jaya, do not sell that book!"   With that he stormed out, the bell 
ringing for ages after he'd gone.

John looked at the shopkeeper.  "Who was that old fool?"

"That's the Colonel, very good customer of mine."

"What was he a Colonel of?"

The shopkeeper smiled.  "You have to forgive him, he's old and a little bit crazy.  He was 
never in the army, he was never a Colonel."

"So can I just buy this book and be gone before his son arrives?"

"There is no son."

"So it's all lies?"

"Not all of it.  He did have a son, once, I heard.  Only lived a few days, and his wife died
hours later.  He's not been right in the head since, they say.  But he's harmless enough, and
he does collect books, which is good for me."

John tapped the book on the counter.  "Look, this book means a lot to me.  It used to
belong to me when I was a child.  It has a lot of memories."

The shop keeper shrugged.  "You must do whatever you must.  The Colonel may not even
come back again, he is a bit forgetful."

Just as he said it, the old man came in again, just as angry as before.

John suddenly felt sorry for him.  "Look Colonel, what if I promised I'd find another copy of
this book?  There are places that look for books, I'm sure I could get another copy of it to
you very soon."

The Colonel tutted.  "You don't understand, I need this one."

"So do I.  This is the book I used to read with my father when I was very young.  Look, there
is my name written on the inside..."

The Colonel looked, and tutted again.  "And I suppose you can prove that is you?"

"I can show you my drivers license if you like."

His face fell.  "No need, young man.  I believe you."

John stood awkwardly for a moment.  "What if I let you borrow it for a while?"

The old man looked up.  "Borrow?"

"Yes, I buy the book now, but you can have it for a few days, so you can read it. Then give
me it back."

"You would trust me?"

John touched the old man's sleeve.  "My father used to read this book to me when I was
young.  Now he's gone.  I've found this book again by an amazing coincidence.  Even an old
atheist like me sees signs and portents.  If you want it too, there must be a reason."

A tear appeared in the old man's eye.  "I'm sorry, young man."

"Don't be sorry.  Somewhere up there or out there, my dad wants you to read the book as
much as me."

The Colonel grasped his arm like an old friend.  "I can't read."

The shopkeeper made a strangled noise.  "But... but.. you buy books in here every week.
And you can't read?"

The old man smiled.  "Jeya, my Indian friend.  I mean to say, I can't see any more.  Oh I can
see you, and this young man here.  But I can't make out print any more."

The shopkeeper threw up his hands.

The Colonel turned to John.  "Will you read this to me?"

John recoiled slightly.  "Surely there's someone else?"

The old man shook his head.  "Here, have the book.  As you can see, I have no need of
books these days.  I should not come in here any more."

"Please Colonel", said the shopkeeper.

The old man shoved the book into John's arms.  "Enjoy it, young man.  While you can."

The shopkeeper was distraught.  "Please mister, he is one of my best customers."

John smiled.  "Just this one then, Colonel.  And I can't stay long."

The old man's eyes twinkled as he led John out of the shop.  The bell rang a long time after
they had gone.

--

Copyright James McGowan 2012