‘We’re doing fine,’ she said.

‘You seem worried.’

He rested his hand on her wrist and her fingers itched to grab the paperweight and bring it down on his knuckles.

‘I’m not worried. And if I was, I wouldn’t come to you.’

His face darkened and he tightened his grip. ‘That’s not nice. I’m only trying to help.’

She snatched away her hand as her father appeared holding a bundle of notes. Connie’s heart constricted again as she pictured him scrabbling at the back of the safe, or in the petty cash tin, gathering together enough money to pay Victor. He filled in the details of the invoice, using a fountain pen her mother had given him. The shop held countless memories like that: her mother’s presence filled the space, even now.

He finished writing and tore off the sheet. Connie turned her head away, hating to see Victor signing the piece of paper and taking the notes. She held herself stiffly as he brushed past, saying his goodbyes, giving her a leer, tempered by a wink.

The door banged shut. She wanted to ask questions, to check that Victor had charged a fair price, but her father was already absorbed, scratching the new titles into his book.

She looked at him with a fondness tinged with concern. For an intelligent man, he was remarkably ignorant of business matters. Her mother had been the one who did the accounts, checked the outgoings and incomings, balanced the figures and insisted on fair prices.

‘Shall I make tea?’ she offered.

‘Lovely,’ her father replied, without looking up. ‘There’s digestives in the tin.’

She gave him another fond look before retreating to the back room, and while the kettle boiled she rubbed her wrist where Victor had grabbed it. He had left a faint mark, branded her like cattle. Her mind darkened. How dare he touch her? He had overstepped the mark. What would her father say? Not that she would tell him. He couldn’t fall out with his best supplier because eventually Victor might find a prize amongst the cast-offs he came across, a rare edition, a literary gem. For the sake of her father she had to put up with him.

She sighed and gazed through the barred window at the courtyard. The crooked houses that fronted it leaned precariously. One day, the buildings would lean so far, they would crush the bookshop. Mind you, if more money didn’t come in, the business would fail anyway. The last thing they needed was another mouth to feed. She mustn’t be pregnant. It would be a disaster for everyone. Pushing away the foreboding that rose so urgently inside her, she turned to make the tea.

3

Marina

November 1991

Marina reads Agata’s manuscript. Early recollections: snow falling, goldfish swimming. My brother racing into the kitchen saying we had to leave.