Actually, it turned out, since the weather was still holding—almost unheard of for this part of the world—the little village was absolutely thronged, people everywhere exploring the historic cobbled streets. The pub had thrown open its doors, and Edwin and Hugh waved merrily to her, perched at wooden tables set up outside, both of them nursing their usual pint of 80 Shilling.
She stopped for a chat, as she normally did, and presented them with her latest finds: a Cold War submarine thriller for Edwin, which he adored, no matter how similar they ended up to one another, and a contemporary rom com for Wullie, of all people, who had accidentally stumbled across one and now adored the entire genre, notably unfazed when teased about how many pink-jacketed books he was reading.
And as Nina looked around the little village in the sunshine, she couldn’t help but notice something.
Everyone was reading. People out in their gardens. An old lady in her wheelchair by the war memorial. A little girl absentmindedly swinging on the swings, her feet dangling, completely engrossed in What Katy Did.
In the bakery, someone was laughing at a book of cartoons; at the coffee stand, the barista was trying to read and make someone a cappuccino at the same time.
Nina was amazed. It couldn’t be—surely—that she had turned an entire town into readers. And yet, as she opened up the Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After, and more people came cheerfully out of their houses, exclaiming that she was open on a Sunday, it seemed that she had.
“The kids have almost stopped playing Minecraft!” said Hattie. “Of course they just want to read books about Minecraft. But that’s still a miracle as far as I’m concerned.”
“I don’t even know when I stopped reading,” an elderly man confessed, picking up one of the most beautiful editions of Sherlock Holmes Nina had ever seen; she hated selling it and had stuck a huge price on it in the hopes that she wouldn’t have to, but it appeared that she did. Still, it would help for her moving fund, she thought sadly.
“I think I just stopped seeing books around,” the man went on. “You know, on the bus, everyone used to read books. But then they were fiddling with their phones or those big phones, I don’t know what they’re called.”
“They were probably reading on their tablets,” said Nina loyally. She loved her e-reader, too.
“Yes, I know,” said the man. “But I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see what they were reading or ask them if it was good, or make a mental note to look for it later. It was as if suddenly, one day, all the books simply disappeared.”
Nina looked at him. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I do, I know how you feel.”
They both admired the Sherlock Holmes, with its hand-tooled leather cover and beautiful watered-silk endpapers.
“You don’t want to let go of this, do you?” said the old man.
“Not really,” said Nina honestly.
“I’ll look after it, I promise.”
“Okay,” said Nina, taking his check and putting it in her old tin cash box.
“You can come and visit it from time to time if you like,” said the old man, with a slightly flirtatious tone.
Nina grinned at him. “Oh, I’m not sure how long I’ll be around,” she said, and tried to make it sound careless and lighthearted, although she did not think she succeeded.
She was sitting trying to unobtrusively watch mucky little Ben sitting on her steps, quietly sounding out a book with his lips moving, his eyes shooting up every ten seconds in case anyone was passing or saw him, when Ainslee came up and scowled at him.
“Don’t run out of the house! I thought youse were lost.”
“I’s no’ lost.”
“Yeah, I can see that now, but you cannae just up and go and no’ tell me.”
Nina frowned. Now Ainslee was hissing at him.
“If they see you . . . if they see you wandering the streets, Benny . . .”
“I dinnae care.”
“You will.”
“I dinnae.”
He looked back down at his book, and Ainslee sighed in exasperation and turned her attention to Nina.
“I didn’t know you were open today.”
“I’m not really,” said Nina. “I just . . . I just came down to . . .”
She didn’t know how to explain what was going on and changed the subject.
“Didn’t you like the midsummer party? It was lovely.”
Ainslee shrugged. “It was boring.”
“There were lots of nice boys there,” said Nina, trying to raise a smile but not succeeding.
Ainslee looked around grumpily. “There’s nothing to do.”
“I know,” said Nina, who’d had a flurry of anxiety-displacing tidying up. “Honestly, I don’t need you today.”
Ainslee shrugged and set off again into the bright market square, her heavy black eye makeup and badly dyed hair looking strange in the morning sunlight.
“C’mon, Ben,” she snapped, and the little boy reluctantly put the book down—Nina would wipe it for fingerprints later—and trailed behind her, head down.
It was then that Nina made the decision. She had held off for long enough. And if she wasn’t going to be here for long, it didn’t matter if people thought she was a busybody. She waited an instant, then quietly closed and locked the doors of the van and slipped down the street, following the pair.
The village wound on through its cobbled central section and dribbled off into less attractive streets at the bottom: gray-built 1950s social housing, some of which was neat and lined with flowers and some of which was a little tattier, though it all overlooked beautiful green fields with long views across the countryside.
Even if you were broke, Nina couldn’t help thinking, it was still obviously the loveliest place in the world to grow up.
Ainslee and Ben turned in at the most broken-down-looking house of all. Garbage was scattered all over the front yard, as well as an old armchair without legs and some broken toys. There was only dirt on the ground. The door was covered in scratches and dents; the glass in the windows was cracked. It was completely unloved and uncared for.
Nina swallowed. She realized suddenly that she was quite frightened. In her darkest scenarios, she imagined Ainslee kept in by some horrible stepfather, or a family on substances who couldn’t be bothered to look after the children. She didn’t know if she had the courage for this. She was used to having to deal with various social problems in the library; they would often have a quiet word with social services if the same people were coming in every day and falling asleep, obviously without anywhere else to go, or if their regulars were becoming increasingly unkempt. And many people used the library as a kind of informal citizens’ advice bureau anyway, so they tried not to mind.