Page 27 of The Christmas Book Hunt

‘I am so sorry about that,’ said Mirren again.

‘Ach, it’s only stuff,’ said the woman. ‘At my age, I’d rather have my knees than all the stuff in China. And that’s a lot of stuff.’

‘It is. No, what I’m looking for is a bit different ... It’s actually a book.’

The woman looked up at her then and for all her slowness and infirmity, Mirren caught in her eye the beginning of a bright gleam, like a bird.

‘A ... a book?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Mirren. ‘My great-aunt ... she remembers a book. That she thinks he illustrated.’

There was a very long pause.

‘And would that be a Robert Louis Stevenson book?’ said the old lady finally, her voice sounding slightly tremulous.

‘YES!’ said Mirren, her heart suddenly leaping in her chest.

The old lady nodded. ‘Well, well, well. I haven’t thought about that book for a very long time.’

She gave Mirren a long, appraising look.

‘Tell me. By any chance, is your aunt’s name Violet?’

‘Yes!’ said Mirren.

‘Well then, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m her best friend, June.’

Chapter 26

It took another pot of tea and all of the Penguins to get to the bottom of it. June was completely astonished. She insisted on Mirren coming with her into the sitting room, which was elegant, if clearly uninhabited, and going through the bookshelves there to find the old photo albums. Mirren let her take her time. Finally, she found it. A tiny black-and-white photograph with white corners, very faded, of two little girls in a back garden, wearing short summer dresses and ribbons in their hair.

‘There we are!’ she said. On the back, in faded ink, someone had written: Violet and June, Summer 1944.

‘Violet’s father must have taken that. He was a wonderful man, your great-grandfather. We’d moved south, but my dad died early on in the war, there was a lot of us like that. Your great-grandfather treated me just like his own. I practically lived at Violet’s. My mother was never the same. We’re quite an ...’ She coughed politely. ‘An eccentric family.’

‘And the book?’ Mirren couldn’t help herself asking.

‘Well, yes, my great-uncle had illustrated it, but there had been a falling-out with the publisher, then Mr Stevenson had gone away, I believe to the South Seas, and it rather got away from them. Then the darling boy died far too young – nochildren, of course – and the draft came down to us. He wasn’t so fashionable then – we didn’t know what we had.’

‘So it was yours?’

‘I suppose it was. I knew I loved it.’

Mirren’s heart was racing. If this was the family home ... could it be in an attic? A basement somewhere?

‘And then what happened to it?’

June’s mouth twisted. ‘Och, I was only wee. It was such a very long time ago.’

‘I know.’

‘And children’s memories . . .’

‘I know.’

‘Mind you,’ said June, ‘I remember a lot of the 1940s. Couldn’t tell you what on earth I did for the whole of the 2010s.’

‘I sympathise,’ said Mirren.

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