Scrapbook Page 9

  “Hashtag what?” I asked.

  “It is how it’s trending.” said Ginnie. By now George had arrived and was listening intently.

  “I saw it on my Facebook.” said George. “I couldn’t believe it at first but there it was.”

  “You have Facebook George?” I asked incredulously, imaging galleries of pictures of brooms and door oiling tips and techniques.

  “I do.” he said shamefacedly, blushing slightly.

  “If the shop had a Facebook page it could be linked to that.” said Ginnie. “It would be like free advertising.”

  “Twitter too.” said George. We had a laptop in the office that Stevie used for accounts and so on but we all used it if we needed. She was not precious about such things.

  “I will ask Stevie when she arrives at lunchtime.” I said. “Maybe it would be a good idea.”

  “I think it would be a great idea.” said George rather more enthusiastically than I had seen him be for a long time and so we left it at that, but when Stevie arrived she thought it was a great idea and so just after lunch Stevie and I had tasked ourselves with manning the shop floor while Ginnie and George were despatched to the office to create our Facebook page, twitter account and anything else that they thought relevant.

  “Blog.” George had said. “Got to have a blog.”

  “Sounds positively distasteful.” said Stevie, a look of concern on her face, but we left them to it as we covered for them while they wandered about the shop taking pictures on Ginnie’s phone and one of the store from outside. The final picture was a selfie of all four of us which actually looked slightly better than I thought it would. Even George managed a smile for the camera, and there was not a broom or oil can in sight at all.

  Several customers were gathered about the shop, flicking through various different books.

  “All strangers.” I said to Stevie.

  “Why are they flicking through the books?” she asked.

  “Why do you think?” I asked, pointing at the photocopy of the Bookworm’s note on the store noticeboard.

  “Oh my word.” grinned Stevie, and she grinned even more as the browsers all eventually bought something, note from the Bookworm or not.

  “All done!” called George from the office a little later and it was much quieter now so we all trooped through to the laptop to have a look.

  I have to say I was very impressed. The Facebook page had all of the shop's opening hours, where we were, telephone number and email address and so on, as well as explaining what we did and what we did not do.

  (Primarily coffee.)

  There were pictures of the inside and outside of our shop as well as our selfie. To me it gave a definite impression of homeliness. Stevie was especially pleased. The twitter account lost me though. I just could not understand it.

  “It’s easy.” said George. “All you have to do is count who follows you. The more follow you the more popular you are.”

  “So how do people get to know about me?” I asked. “The shop I mean.”

  “Well every time you make a post on your blog or on Facebook then you can link it so it sends a message to all of your followers saying that you have tweeted something, and a link to it.

  “So it all runs in tandem.” I said.

  “Yes.” said Ginnie. “Now all I have to do is link the Bookworm’s note with the shop and then the two sort of follow each other.

  “I will post on Facebook about it as well.” said George with determination, and I saw Ginnie nodding too. I looked at the number of Twitter followers that we had. Two.

  “That's me and George.” said Ginnie when I pointed it out. “Never mind. I am sure it will grow now we have our own account.”

  “I hope so.” I said, but by the time we all went home it was still sitting steadfastly at two followers.

  When I got to work the next day however it was now seventeen. I looked at the list of new followers. I had no idea who any of them were.

  “It’s good Twitter etiquette to follow them back.” said Ginnie when she arrived at her usual eight fifty-five time. “Unless you’re a celeb of course and then it doesn't count.”

  “I see.” I said as Ginnie patiently showed me how to follow people back. By the start of lunchtime, we had twenty-four followers, and by the end of it fifty-six.

  “Wow.” said George. “I only have eleven, and they are all my family. In fact, two of them are actually me.” He grimaced slightly. “Small clerical error.” He explained.

  “So we are doing okay?” I asked as a tall middle aged man approached the counter. I recognised him from the day before, he had bought a copy of “Robinson Crusoe” for his son he had said as I had wrapped it up for him whilst enquiring whether he needed any bookmarks. Apparently he did, and had bought several.

  “Wonderful shop you have here.” he said. “The note is absolutely marvelous of course. My son is delighted with it. I wonder if you could get the Bookworm to sign it for him? It is one of your staff I take it?”

  “Sorry?” I said and with a smile the man produced from inside his jacket a familiar looking piece of paper. I took it from him as George and Ginnie gathered about to read it too.

  Dear new owner of this book

  What an excellent choice you have made!

  This is a masterpiece well worth every

  second that you will spend reading it.

  I envy you setting out on this

  journey for the first time!

  This is a story of adventure and triumph

  over adversity that stirs the very soul.

  that I am sure you will enjoy tremendously.

  Enjoy the magic that this book holds

  and savour it too, for you will remember

  the first time that you read it

  (and you will read it many,

  many times - trust me on that)

  for the rest of your days.

  Yours,

  The Bookworm.

  “Oh God it’s another one.” said George rushing off to photocopy the new note.

  “I must tweet this!” said Ginnie, running into the office, where Stevie sat looking at her in alarm.

  “I am awfully sorry.” I said to the man who was standing waiting for an autograph and probably thought that George was doing it rather than photocopying the latest note from the Bookworm.

  “Sorry why?” asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

  “Because we don’t have any idea whatsoever who the Bookworm is.” I said. “It certainly isn't a member of staff.”

  “How marvelous.” said the man as George returned and handed him the note back. “A mystery! I really must tell all of my friends.”

  “I’ve tweeted it!’ said Ginnie triumphantly as she returned from the office and the customer turned to go. As he headed back to the door though he suddenly stopped and then came back to where all three of us were standing.

  “There is a curiosity about this bookworm chappie too.” he said.

  “What’s that?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “Well it’s peculiar really, but the note was not in the book when I bought it. I flicked through it you see. I even turned it upside down. “He laughed aloud. “I am surprised you did not notice at the time.” I smiled. I hadn’t noticed, but then everyone seemed to be flicking through books in the shop these days. One more wouldn't make any difference.

  “Yet it was there when I got home.” he said. “It just appeared as if by magic.”

  “Oh God.” said Ginnie and shot back off to the office, presumably to blog or tweet or post this too.

  By the close of business, we had three hundred followers.

  Stevie surprised me the next day by turning up at eight forty-five. I don’t think I had ever seen her at that time before ever, but she had an air of excitement about her. She had been there when we created the Facebook and Twitter accounts of course, and she was also on the selfie, but she had also obviously been looking at them at home the night before.

  “
We have just over seven hundred followers on Twitter now.” she said, “People are tweeting and retweeting about notes appearing in books as if by magic. There have only been two though I think?”

  “So far.” I said. “Someone is obviously putting them there.”

  “Could it be George or Ginnie?” asked Stevie and I laughed.

  “No.” I said. “Neither have the imagination, and the words the Bookworm uses. It’s not how they would phrase things.”

  “What about any of our regulars?”

  “Well let’s see.” I said, counting them off on the fingers of one hand, “We have an old lady who comes in to get warm. A young man who comes to flirt. Well, when he feels like it anyway.”

  “Flirt?” snorted Stevie, eyebrows raised. “Who with?”

  “Ginnie.” I said and her eyebrows raised even further.

  “How strange.” she said slowly.

  “Then there is a schoolboy who likes swords and sorcery and spaceships, and a man who always seems to know what he wants even if he doesn’t know what it is actually called.”

  “Not any of the regulars doing it by the look of it then.” she said.

  “No.” I replied.

  “Anyone acting suspiciously?”

  “Can’t say I have noticed, no. And usually I have the time to notice. George suggested that we install CCTV.”

  “No money.” said Stevie. “Besides it would ruin the look of the shop.”

  George had arrived by now too and was looking nervously out onto the street as he entered.

  “There is a queue.” he said, his mouth falling open.

  “Never.” said Stevie, almost flying to the shop door and looking onto the street outside.

  “Nine, ten, eleven.” she counted. “Oh my word. George is right. There is a queue.”

  We opened shortly after and let the queue come inside. It seemed rude to keep them waiting really.

  In short, many books were flicked, but many more were sold. We even had to get Stevie out of the office to help with queries at one point in the afternoon, though she looked glad to be asked to do so. By the end of that day we had more than a thousand followers and takings were up across the board by two thousand percent. By closing time we were all not only ecstatic but exhausted too.

  ***

  “So Ruth.” said the radio interviewer, putting the microphone in front of my face. The local news team were there at eight in the morning to set up and interview me, and the local television station were due at some point in the afternoon. “The notes from the Bookworm just magically appear in the book when it is taken home you say?”

  “Well it certainly looks that way.” I said, “The only notes I have ever seen have been those brought back to us by customers to show us. The paper and handwriting as well as the terminology used seem to be consistent though.”

  “The same person?” asked the interviewer.

  ‘Precisely.” I said.

  “Tell me about the third one. This was inside a book by Patrick Rothfuss I believe?”

  “The Name of the Wind”, yes.”

  “What did it say?”

  I pulled the photocopy out of my pocket and read it,

  Dear new owner of this book

  What an excellent choice you have made!

  This is a masterpiece well worth every second that you

  will spend reading it. This is a tale of magic and quiet places not just of the world but of the heart and soul too. It is a story of magic and love and pain, yet it speaks also of truth.

  Savour it my friend, for you will remember

  the first time that you read it

  (and you will read it many,

  many times - trust me on that)

  for the rest of your days.

  Yours,

  The Bookworm.

  “Quite wonderful.” said the interviewer. “Thanks very much Ruth.” He then addressed the audience directly, as the television interviewer would do later on to equally great effect. “If you fancy having a look and see if a magical note appears for you then pop down to “Telling Tales” on the high Street. If you do get one, then let us know!”

  “Twitter is above two thousand.” said Stevie a little time later. She was as good as full time now, and her face looked less stressed. We were now virtually besieged on a daily basis, and takings were through the roof. Stevie however insisted that we continue to “liquefy stock” though by that I think she meant that it did not really matter what books we had in stock, people would buy them anyway to see if they had a note inside them when they got them home.

  The Saturday Moratorium a month later was much happier than usual.

  “Six notes from the Bookwork now?” asked Stevie and I nodded. “And all appear in the book once they get it home?”

  “Quite.” I said. “There was the one we found in the Stephen King book, “It”. Then there was the last one which was found in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles”, and the previous in a very old book called “The Hab Principle”.”

  “Never heard of it.” said Stevie, now obviously miles away, her mind roaming.

  “Very few people have.” I said. “Good book though. Great premise.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” said Stevie. “Ruth. Who the hell do you think the Bookworm is?”

  “Well.” I said. “Whoever they are we should be extremely grateful to them. Business is booming.”

  And so it was. Over the course of the next few months the number of notes from the Bookworm steadily decreased until it reached the current rate which is now about one a month. The notes seemed to be completely at random, though they were always written in the same handwriting and in the same whimsical fashion. Every time one appeared twitter went wild, and the number of customers increased, though that was hardly an issue now as our customer base, our regular customers if you want to call them that, had definitely increased. We had a thriving business again. People had come into the shop to see the gimmick, but lots liked it and stayed.

  Still, we had a lot who were still looking for notes and so they continued to come in and buy even more books. George and Ginnie and Stevie too were of course all mystified, though I just went along for the ride. We all had secure jobs again in a thriving business that we all enjoyed doing. What more can you ask for than that?

  Of course, having a steady job is important. Everyone knows that. Yet somehow it all fell into place in my life completely by accident. A little slip if you like. I mean. The Hobbit. Everyone puts something into a copy of the hobbit don't they? If they don't then they should. Still. All is well as ends well, even if it was a complete accident. A happy accident I like to think of it as, and that is true enough, and I am sure that those who did find a note from the Bookworm will remember it for the rest of their days.

  And so here ends my story. As I pick up my calligraphy pen - I always did have a talent for a fine handwriting - I look to my bookshelf by my writing desk, and cast my eyes over my favourite books - the Hobbit, It, Robinson Crusoe, The name of the wind, Tess of the D’Urbervilles and The Hab principle. Favourites all, and such an inspiration. I open up my writing desk and pull out a piece of my special notepaper. I have another note to write I think. I smile to myself. Everyone considers it magic the note only appears when the books get home. Yet we are an old fashioned store, are we not? No coffee, remember? I always wrap the books before I bag them up, and I of course am the last person to handle them before the customer takes them home.

  The rest is easy. I shall go now for I have this note to complete and then perhaps a few more as well. We shall see. Business is good, but it can always be better.

  I hope you enjoyed my tale.

  Yours in words and love,

  Ruth Hughes

  AKA

  “The Bookworm”

  Frozen inAmber

  The heart attack that killed Sidney Armitage as he drove his double decker bus along Nether Compton high street was remarkable only in the fact that the bus was by then out of cont
rol and so mounted the pavement outside the high street bookshop and killed my wife and baby daughter too. It was nobody’s fault. The bus was perfectly serviced, my wife and daughter were both minding their own business as they strolled along the pavement. The only person who could say to be even remotely to blame was Sidney, and like my wife and daughter, he was dead too.

  I had been working at the time. I am an architect. I design buildings. I remember quite distinctly the coat my wife Sarah wore that day, the long zip that ran up the padded beige jacket, the low slung bag on her shoulder. I remember what my daughter Amber was wearing too. Nearly five years old and her hair tucked up into the small winter hat in her usual tomboy fashion. From behind she looked like a little boy which suited her just fine.

  I keep them there the two of them in my memory, their clothes never changing; a snapshot of the last time I saw them and the last time I ever would. Frozen in amber. They never changed. I guessed that they never would.

  “Just going to get a few bits.” Sarah had said as she and Amber had left the house. I had merely nodded, taking my cup of tea up to the loft where I worked, drawing out the plans for my latest project. I had my head up in the loft already, my mind elsewhere - in my studio, the next stage of my design ready to be drawn out, and I hardly marked their departure at all really, even when Amber had run across and insisted on a kiss.

  How that kiss would haunt me in the years to come.

  How long did it take for me to realise that they were never going to come home I hear you ask but I think you can already envision it; a series of possible scenarios in your mind, things I may have said, words of condolence or explanation that the police gave; the tears, the screams, the toys on the bed and their clothes still in their wardrobes.

  You know how it is. Though actually I hope you never know how it is, because it nearly killed me. Yes, it very nearly killed me many times, and sometimes in the darkest part of the night, or when I am staring at the final dregs in my glass I am never quite sure whether one day perhaps it will kill me.

  I shall wait and see.