Page 9 of The Christmas Book Hunt

And she squeezed Mirren’s arm, surprisingly hard.

Chapter 8

Hay-on-Wye did, Mirren thought, feel like a good place to start. Having arrived mid-morning into some uncharacteristic December sunshine, she took a beautifully backdropped selfie – hills, cobbles and sloping roofs of the town all in one shot, even if she had to stand on one leg while she took it – and posted it on her Insta, just in case bloody Rob got told by his friends how brilliantly she was doing, travelling places and not being in the least bit fussed by him being the single worst human ever born ... Actually, she realised, being away from London, away from false promises and memories tainted by him being a shitweasel, might actually be quite good for her.

It was a beautiful little town with about a thousand bookshops, lovely old grey houses, and now, at the very beginning of winter in Wales, it was already snowy on the little stone-walled roads. Mirren looked towards the hills – which did look like harps, in fact, just like they were supposed to – and briefly wondered how long ago it was, exactly, that wolves had stopped living here and whether or not they’d reintroduced them yet. Her little car, on the other hand, was very happy – you’re not allowed to drive fast in Wales, so she didn’t stand out or get honked as much as usual in her tiny ancient Fiat.

She couldn’t stop her spirits lifting as she approached the dream of a town, nestled right on the border of England and Wales, a world away from London, and mothers, and Robs. She’d watched a stubby grouse take off from a frosty ploughed field as the car puttered down the hill towards the beautiful slate stone roofs of the gorgeous town.

And the bookshops! It was almost overwhelming. There was one that had taken over an entire old cinema building. There was an ancient building with genuine half-timbers. There were crime bookshops and naughty bookshops and every type of book under the sun, and, everywhere, people who loved to read, wellies and hats, marching through the pretty grey streets with tote bags under their arms, past the mullioned windows.

Mirren, a bookworm all her life, hadn’t even realised there was an entire town like this. She had to fight down the temptation to immediately just move here. Who wouldn’t be happy all the time, padding from shop to shop, picking up something wonderful to read and a Welsh cake in one of the many local cafes, and sitting overlooking the river? Suddenly, it felt like a promise of a different life. Mirren took a look at her tiny Fiat, and her tiny Fiat looked back at her with its round headlamps, as if pleading with her not to fill it up with hardbacks; it was having enough trouble making it up the slushy roads as it was. Festive white lights swung in the wind across streets filled with puddles. Sheep dotted the hillsides. It was perfect.

Just as in London, eyes narrowed when Mirren ventured into the shops, one by one, and mentioned what she was looking for. Aubrey Beardsley? And Robert Louis Stevenson? Nobody had heard of such a thing. When they heard it was an original, eyes suddenly opened back up again, often wider than before. Although Mirren saying it was a sale madeseventy-five years ago didn’t raise a lot of eyebrows in shops hundreds of years old.

Mirren searched mile upon mile of shelves. Violet remembering the cover was red was a help in itself, as she could run her finger along fairly quickly. But she tried the children’s department in one shop and found herself almost overwhelmingly tempted by the many beautiful, varied editions ofA Child’s Christmas in Walesand bought one of those to take back anyway, bound in red leather, with beautiful illustrations of little boys throwing snowballs at cats.

And there were many versions ofA Child’s Garden of Verses– contemporary, with modern children in snowsuits, lovely old-fashioned watercolours, and odd Cubist versions from the 1950s – but none was the one she was looking for. Although she was tempted to buy a beautiful Charles Robinson edition from 1896 as a backup. Even that was hundreds of pounds.

She stayed there so long that, even in an environment where people were expected to stay, the nice lady on the desk kept an eye on her and at one point, in fact, cleared her throat politely. Mirren realised it was well after five, and she had been in there all afternoon.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, realising. She also suddenly realised she was exhausted from driving, and completely starving. She grabbed a cheaper, but still pretty, version ofA Child’s Garden of Verses, paid for it and headed out into the dark evening. The rain had come on, pelting down.

Violet had given her a little money – but not very much. Mirren was feeling a bit worried. If the internet couldn’t find something for you ... and phoning the bookshops wasn’t any use ... and now she’d looked in a place, a town, an entire citadel of books that, from the outside, ought to hold every book in the known universe, as well as people who knew moreabout old books than anyone else on Earth, and still nobody had heard of it. Was this all a ridiculous waste of time?

Chapter 9

Theo, having (to his uncle’s unusual satisfaction) managed to find Mirren’s Instagram, turned up in Hay-on-Wye later, as the trains had groaned their way across the country, broken down, turfed him off, made him walk miles to a bus stop and hack the rest of the way. It seemed to him that starting in the biggest book town in the UK would probably make the most sense, but he was there after the shops had shut. It did feel slightly ridiculous, this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

On the other hand, what choice did he have? Theo had loved books all his life. The world of books mostly centred on London, but London was so expensive to live in, it was insane. It was either do his uncle’s bidding or, effectively, be homeless. All his friends were as strapped for places to live as he was. Not to mention that Philip had unpleasantly hinted about supporting his father. Theo sighed. He really didn’t have a choice but to do what his uncle demanded.

He glanced around at the ancient coaching inn he was staying in. It was half-timbered, the heavy beams coming down from the ceiling, the walls white limestone. A roaring fire was in the grate, surrounded by horseshoes, and his room had a little staircase up into what felt like a hayloft, where his bed was. Everywhere, of course, were books lining the walls;photographs, too, of people who he supposed were writers, or book people – black and white, holding books, and weathered with age.

At this time of year the inn was quiet, and, soaked through by the weather and quite freezing – London had been relatively mild – he was rather looking forward to an evening in front of the fire with a glass of malt and one of the many books around the place. There was already a black Lab lying in front of it, its tail thumping softly every time Theo made to give it a pat. The nice lady from reception said she’d bring him over a menu in a little while. Yes, this would do very nicely indeed.

He had just taken his drink, selected an old book of Waugh from the shelves and settled back in an extremely comfortable chair by the fire when he heard the loud voice.

‘Well, what are they saying? No, no, speak up, I can’t hear you ... the reception in here is just AWFUL ... Stupid low beams ... Sorry, I’m in the middle of nowhere.’

Theo closed his eyes. Oh lord, this was just what he needed. Perhaps a hen party.

A very wet person carrying two rucksacks and a plastic bag stood dripping in the doorway.

‘No, I didn’t have anything booked, she’s just ... No, I haven’t, I haven’t ... Can you hear me?’

Theo let out a low sigh, as did the Labrador. The woman glanced up from under her soaking hood and immediately turned her face away, but unfortunately didn’t stop hollering into her phone.

‘Okay, have a comfortable night ... I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay? You got that? As soon as I have news? Yeah? Okay? Goodnight.’

Finally, she rang off and blissful silence descended.

‘Sorry,’ said the woman, who looked to be about Theo’s age, and who also didn’t look sorry at all. ‘Trying to talk to the elderly. You know.’

The nice lady from reception came in.

‘We’ve found you a room,’ she said. ‘Sorry, we shut up a lot off-season.’

‘It didn’t really occur to me,’ said the girl. ‘I left in a hurry.’

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