Passing Manolete’s, she saw Nigel through the window in full Manolete mode, swooping a stoutly elegant boot past the face of a sturdy middle-aged woman: turning to see Emma, he winked and then made a shooing motion for her to move on. She smiled and obeyed, crossing the street just before the Green to walk past the Screen on the Green, where Matthew had taken her on an early date to a screening of My Fair Lady, past the coffee shops and the wine bars and the small florist where she always bought lilies to take to Fee on Mother’s Day, to the section across from Camden Passage where the pavement was elevated behind all the bus stops, where she had once unexpectedly come across Matthew and Sophie deep in conversation, Sophie laughing and gesticulating, Matthew listening with that quiet smile of his, and, seeing them briefly as a stranger might, had thought what a kind and gentle face he had, and how much she loved him.
At the bottom of Upper Street and on the other side of it was the side street that led behind the Angel Tube station to the Charles Lamb, the 180-year-old wood-paneled pub where she was to meet Matthew for lunch. But before crossing the street she turned right, through a small crack between buildings and into a gleaming shopping center built around a giant steel sculpture of angel wings, where you could procure anything from jeans and T-shirts to Japanese noodles, from almond-oil soap to your choice of a dozen new films to see in the cinema complex. Emma walked to stand under the sculpture, and looked around at the teeming, chattering mass of humanity of Saturday morning London, at the liberated office workers and business moguls and schoolgirls, the students and tourists and young professionals, the actors and politicians, artists, bank clerks and, no doubt, pickpockets, at the light brown skins and the dark, at the mottled pinks, the smooth ambers, and the coffee-colored, at the blue jeans and the saris and the dashikis, the pale pink cardigans on grannies and cream-colored cashmere on glamorous young mothers, the cotton and silk, corduroy and Crimplene, the shopping bags and the parcels, the satchels and the handbags and the pushchairs. She walked on through the crowd towards the Liverpool Street end of the shopping center, where there was a bookshop, three bright floors crammed tight with knowledge on every subject under the sun. She stopped outside, and smiled, and sighed. Then she went in.
“Can I help you?” said the assistant lurking near the door. He was young and pale, with a Londoner’s sallow skin, pierced eyebrows, and a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“I’m looking for the travel section,” she told him. “I need to buy some books about North Dakota.”
8
Concord, November 1869.
Dearest Amy,
We have had our first Thanksgiving without Bethie, and though we tried to be gay, it was uphill work, I fear. Marmee got herself up in her silk and looked as splendid as she always does with Grandma’s comb in her hair and a knot of winter roses in her bosom; Meg and John were there, too, Meg such an elegant matron now in her new winter suit, with the “babbies” as cherubic as it is possible for them to be while still remaining human children. Hannah outdid herself with the turkey and the stuffing and the pies, Father and John talked of books, Marmee and Meg talked of babies, and at the end of the feast Father read to us, as he always does, the story of the brave men from whom we spring, who dared to cross the seas for freedom, and founded our great country. But there was one little chair that was empty now and always will be, and, although its occupant was a shy little soul who never said much and hid her face in the sofa cushion whenever anyone praised her, oh, Amy, now that her quiet voice is silenced, how great is the void she has left behind.