VERONICA HENRY THE MAGIC OF BOOKS

The shop was Joy’s sanctuar y… and maybe it would see her through her first Christmas alone

Joy spotted the card in the window when she went into Nightingale Books to browse. She nipped in there at least once a week to pick up something new to read. Something to bring her escape and cheer.

Somehow, the sadness of the past year faded away amongst the shelves. She could lose hours, wandering from Biography to Travel to Fiction, and the shop always lifted her spirits. It seemed to hug her as she walked in. She wondered if everyone felt like that?

She read the card again.

Part-time Christmas Elf needed – to stack shelves, serve customers and deliver books in and around Peasebrook. No experience necessary, just a love of books.

Well, that was Joy to a T. She certainly had no experience. And she adored books. She didn’t have to prove that. They often told her she was their best customer. The owner, Emilia, often gave her a discount when she rang up her purchases, even though Joy protested.

She had cried the first time Emilia had done it. It was the little kindnesses that set her off, she found. And the thing with grief was, you never knew when the tears would surprise you.

Once, she had gone for three days without crying and thought that was that and she was getting over it. But the next day, she had wept in the cheese aisle in the supermarket when she found herself automatically reaching for Dave’s favourite Cheddar. She’d stared at it in her hand, her cheeks wet. She had abandoned her trolley and hurried home.

And now, six months later, she realised that grief was a slippery customer and you couldn’t control it. But keeping busy was definitely the best weapon. Busy-ness and books got her through.

A job in the bookshop would bring both. It would be the perfect solution. She was dreading Christmas. Every time she thought of it, her stomach churned.

Her son had offered to fly her out to Dubai, where he worked, but she couldn’t bear the thought of palm trees and sunshine and trying to look as if she was enjoying herself, so she’d asked if she could come at Easter instead. And her daughter was working the Christmas shift at the hospital in London where she was a midwife – they would meet up in the New Year to exchange presents.

She had reassured them she would be fine, and fibbed, saying she was going to friends. In reality she was going to pretend it was any other day. No tree. No turkey.

It would be hard to pretend Christmas wasn’t happening, for it was everywhere already. The stalls were brimming with holly and ivy in the square, there were fairy lights and decorations in every shop window, carols poured from every speaker and the air was thick with spices.

Joy pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her winter coat and stared again at the advert.

Dave had always prided himself on the fact Joy had never had to work. He was from that generation. To have a wife who didn’t have to lift a finger was a luxury. It was an old-fashioned way of thinking, but it was because he loved and cherished her.

Her daughter said that way of thinking was out of the Ark. Joy pointed out that she had done plenty of work in her own way. Looking after the house, bringing up the children. Dave had never had to think about anything other than his job, and it meant he’d worked his way up nicely at the factory. He’d left her reasonably well off. The house was paid for.

Still, a bit of extra money would always come in handy. And it would mean she could spend even more time in her favourite place. Her sanctuary.

But would they want someone like her? She was probably too old.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get, Joy told herself. What’s the worst that can happen? They can only say no. She plucked up her courage and pushed open the door.

Emilia Nightingale, the owner, was at the counter. She looked up as the bell tinged and gave her a welcome wave.

Joy raised her hand in return, and Emilia went back to staring at the computer screen. Joy told herself to walk straight over and ask. Her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding.

It mattered, she realised. She wanted this job. She headed towards the counter, and Emilia looked up again with a smile.

At the last moment, Joy veered away. They wouldn’t want her, an almostpensioner. They’d want someone young and vibrant, who understood computers. And she couldn’t bear the look of polite panic on Emilia’s face if she asked her about the job. It would be excruciating for both of them.

Instead, she headed to the section marked H in fiction, staring hard at the spines before finally picking up All Change, the final volume of the Cazalet chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard. That would keep her going nicely over the weekend – the machinations of a complicated family.

“Oh, you’ve chosen my absolute favourite,” said Emilia as she rang the book up. “I’d do anything to curl up with the Cazalets this weekend. We’re rushed off our feet at the moment. Everyone’s buying books this Christmas. Which is

They wouldn’t want her. They’d want someone young and vibrant

wonderful, of course, but it’s manic.”

She put the book into a thick paper bag with a string handle. She was about to hand it over, then she looked at Joy.

“Listen, this might sound bonkers, but you don’t want a job here, do you? Just in the run-up to Christmas. We don’t pay a fortune but we’re a nice bunch.”

“What?” Joy stared at her.

Emilia looked anxious. “Oh dear. I hope I haven’t offended you. Only I really need someone who knows a lot about books, who can help advise customers. And you’d be perfect. There’s nothing you don’t know. From… Aesop to Zola. And I know I can trust you.”

Joy was lost for words. She stared at Emilia. Finally her face broke into a smile.

“I would love to,” she stammered. “I can’t think of anything I’d love more.”

“There’s just one snag,” said Emilia, and Joy’s heart sank. “You’ll have to wear an elf hat. We all do, from December onwards. Could you bear that?’

Every day in the run-up to Christmas, Joy had to pinch herself. She absolutely loved working at Nightingale Books. Even dusting the books was a pleasure, for it gave her chance to make sure all was in order and nothing had been put back in the wrong place. She knew the contents of the shelves even better than Emilia. And when a customer asked for a recommendation, she could put her hand on the perfect choice within seconds.

Once a week, she sat in the back room and wrapped the books that had been ordered or put to one side. Emilia had ordered special Nightingale Books wrapping paper, in pale blue and silver, and Joy took great care to make sure that each gift looked perfect, with sharp edges, a beautiful bow and a hand-written tag.

Then she took the Nightingale Books van and set off around Peasebrook to deliver the parcels. She disappeared down lanes she had never known existed, winding her way through the depths of the Cotswolds to rambling houses and tiny cottages, hedges thick with sparkling frost.

She even found herself heading up the drive to Peasebrook Manor, where she was led into the drawing room and given a warm mince pie with brandy butter. Her parcels were placed carefully under a twelve-foot tree covered in beeswax candles and red velvet ribbons. She imagined the family opening them on Christmas morning.

On Christmas Eve, the shop was open until three o’clock. Then the door was locked and Emilia poured out glasses of mulled wine and handed around presents to all the staff: snuggly socks, a bar of luxury chocolate and a book she had carefully chosen herself.

Joy was given Death On The Nile, by Agatha Christie, as Emilia couldn’t believe she had never read it.

“Thank you,” said Joy, thinking how she would enjoy spending Christmas afternoon curled up in front of the wood-burner being transported off to Egypt, trying to guess the culprit.

“I wonder if I could have a word?” asked Emilia, as everyone began putting on their coats. Joy’s heart skipped a beat. Had there been a complaint? A badly wrapped parcel? An inappropriate choice? A discrepancy in the till?

Emilia laughed. “Don’t look like that! I wanted to ask if you’d stay on working for us after Christmas? We’ve done so well in the past month, I can afford to take someone else on. And I know a lot of it is down to you. You’ve been wonderful. All the customers have been raving about you. You’re just what the shop needs.”

Joy hardly knew what to say.

“You’re part of the furniture at Nightingale Books now,” Emilia went on. “Everyone has agreed that it won’t be the same without you. Please say yes.”

Joy looked around and realised the rest of the staff were staring at her, waiting for her answer as her cheeks went bright pink. She had never liked being the centre of attention. But pride swelled in her heart. Suddenly the future didn’t look as bleak and daunting. She had a purpose.

“Of course I will,” she said. “I was dreading leaving. I’ve loved every moment of working here. You have no idea what this means.”

She felt herself welling up, but for the first time in months her tears were tears of happiness. She did wish she could tell Dave. He’d be proud of her, she was sure.

As darkness fell, the staff all left Nightingale Books, wishing each other season’s greetings, all still in their elf hats. Joy looked back at the shop, the twinkling lights in the window wound around the books she had chosen for the display. She didn’t mind that she was going home to an empty house. She had the best job in the world to come back to. And she had the Agatha Christie Emilia had given her. She hugged it to her as that special warm feeling bubbled up inside her: the anticipation of a day spent reading. It gave her huge comfort.

No one was ever truly lonely if they had a book, she thought.