Page 98 of The Society of Unknowable Objects
“Oh, come here,” Magda said. She marched across the room and grabbed James, pulling him in for their second kiss.
“Quite right,” Henry murmured behind them. “And about bloody time.”
Epilogue
Frank’s Books
Several Months Later
On a frosty winter’s afternoon, some months after Frank’s death, Magda sat behind the desk in the window of the bookshop, gazing out at Bell Street as the evening darkness came. It was the end of the year, the hours of daylight short and fleeting and the nights long and dark, lit up by lights and decorations as Christmas approached. It was the perfect time of year for sitting inside with a warm drink and daydreaming, thinking up stories and plots and characters. Magda had not started writing again yet, but she knew that she would soon. She had a lot of ideas mixed together in her mind—moments and images and memories that she had collected over recent weeks. They needed to be structured and organised into stories. She would take her time with it—the next book would emerge when it was ready.
She leaned forward to wipe some condensation from the window, feeling the frosty cold through the pane of glass. A car swept by, illuminating passersby who were wrapped up in scarves and hats against the chill. It was almost closing time, and Magda hoped the last customer would soon leave, and no other customers would come. She was ready to head home.
After Frank’s death, and once the deeds for the shop had passed to her, Magda had renamed Bell Street Books as Frank’s Books. It was a small change but Magda had felt it important to recognise and remember Frank, in some small way, to acknowledge the impact of his life on her own. A picture of Frank now sat on the shelves behind the desk, amongst the first editions and rare books. Magda liked having him there; it felt as if he was where he belonged. She thought that when she started writing again, it might be nice to do it at the desk, with Frank watching over her shoulder.
Her phone buzzed, drawing her out of her thoughts. She picked it up to see a message from Henrietta. It was a photo of Henry in the noodle shop in Kowloon that James had taken Magda to that first day she had met him. The message with the image read:Took a trip to Hong Kong—lots of business for someone in my line of work out here. (That’s a joke, I promise!) Thought I’d try this place out.
“James!” Magda called.
James jogged down the stairs from the upstairs room, books under his arm. “Yeah?”
Magda showed him the message. He peered at it and then grinned. “Tell her she must have the beef brisket noodles, otherwise what’s the point?”
Magda smiled and tapped out the message and looked up to see James still standing over her, watching her with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said. He bent forward and kissed her on the lips, a delightful surprise.
They had fallen into a relationship without ever talking about it, and Magda was enjoying every minute of it. James had given up his job in Hong Kong to move to London, and now they lived together in Magda’s house, and both managed the bookshop. He could have easily got a job in one of the finance firms in the City, but he was content to be free from that world for the time being. She was content too. Magda was getting used to the changes in her life, to the loss of Frank and the arrival of James and everything else that had happened. But it was okay. James helped a lot.
She studied his face as he regarded her. It was easy and it was lovely, and it was more than Magda had ever thought she would have.
I wish Frank could have been here to see it. And Mum. Mum would have loved James.
Floorboards creaked and they both looked around to see the only customer in the shop descend the stairs from the upper floor—a tall blond woman wearing a hooded overcoat the colour of strawberries.
“I’ll leave you to it,” James said, grinning mischievously. “Got books to shelve, otherwise my boss will shout at me.”
Magda watched him as he headed back up the stairs, smiling to herself and thinking she had never felt so happy. Then the customer in the red coat looked at her and smiled, as if sharing in Magda’s happiness.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said, and the woman nodded and turned her attention to a nearby shelf.
Magda shivered, the chill reaching her through the window. She switched on the desk lamp and returned to the book she has been reading—the journal her mother had been writing on her last adventure all those years ago, recovered from the bag that Lukas had carried around with him. Magda had been working her way through the entries, taking her time and savouring them, trying to eke out the last words her mother had written for as long as possible. She had made it as far as the Netherlands, the last stop her mother had made before travelling across the Atlantic to America. Imelda had been journeying through the bulb fields in late spring, and her journal entry had described the great swathes of bold primary colours painting the flat landscape:
It is so beautiful here. I am going to bring Magda back here next year. We can buy some pancakes and waffles and cycle out here and see the flowers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much colour in one place in my life. Magda would love it here.
Imelda’s journal had been full of moments that she had wanted to share with Magda, and that discovery had pained Magda greatly, but it also warmed her heart that her mother was always thinking of her. “I’llgo see the tulips, Mum,” she murmured to herself. “Next year. I’ll go see them, I promise.”
Magda sighed and closed the journal, laying a hand on the cover. A lot had happened, many dreadful things, but despite that she felt happy and optimistic for the future, for the new life she would build with James.
She put the journal aside as the woman in the strawberry-coloured coat approached, two books in her hand.
“This is such a lovely bookstore,” the woman said, and Magda heard an American accent.
“Thank you,” Magda said, taking the books. She saw, to her surprise, that they were both Miranda Hepworth novels. She wondered briefly about revealing to the woman that she was the author, but decided against it—there was no way to do it without sounding boastful.
“I used to work in a bookstore,” the woman told her, smiling, as Magda slipped the books into a bag. “Back in New York.”
