Then you can tell me goodbye

In amongst the chaos of the city, the constant movement and all-consuming rush, Lewis’ second hand books was easy to overlook. With the exterior paint beginning to peel, and the windows filled with stacks of books, all haphazardly organised; the shop could have easily been mistaken for a derelict building.

In fact, for the first three months that I lived in London, I’d paid no mind to the shop on the end of the high street. Every day I’d walk straight past it, hurrying on my way to catch the 7:22 train to Victoria, where I’d spend all day hunched over my desk, counting down the minutes until I could leave again. I was 22, and I’d just moved to the city to start a job in finance. Back then, London was everything I feared it would be. Overwhelming, demanding and incredibly lonely. I missed my university days, my parents, my life back home.

Then one warm Saturday morning in June, I saw a man coming out of the shop carrying a handful of books. I couldn’t help but wander in. Inside was even more chaotic than the window displays, a rabbit warren of shelves, trolleys and boxes, spines of all shapes and sizes. It reminded me of my grandfather’s house, where you couldn’t move without tripping over a pile of books. Not to mention the distinct and welcoming smell of old books.

Sunlight filled the shop, squeezing through the stacks of books and illuminating the dust particles suspended above. A threadbare Persian rug lay on the hardwood floor. Amongst the shelves was a tatty armchair, inviting readers to sit awhile.

For the first time in a long time, standing in the book shop, I could shut out the rest of the world. I lost myself in the pages, from Homer’s Odyssey to Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. When I finally approached the till to pay, I could barely carry my selection of books. Clara was behind the counter, dressed in a high neck jumper and a long plaid skirt. She rang up the purchases with an unreadable expression on her face.

“You have an eclectic taste,” she said when she got to Dostoevsky’s the Idiot.

“For my father, sort of a joke.” I’d said. She didn’t reply. Desperate to fill the growing silence, I kept talking, “I wanted to study Russian literature at university. He said only commies studied Dostoevsky and Tolstoy.”

“So, what did you study?”

“Russian Literature.”

Clara smiled, a slow, warm smile. I noticed as she did, her flecks of gold eyeliner, matching the gold rings she wore on her long, slender fingers.

The shop soon became my sanctuary. A place I could escape to every Saturday morning and the highlight of my lonely week. I would chat to Clara, when she humoured me. Sometimes Mr Lewis would be serving customers, and we’d talk about the books we were reading. He had no qualms about telling me how much he hated Russian Literature. Mr Lewis was an older black man, his hair slowly turning silver. He reminded me so much of my late Grandfather, but so much kinder, quieter and gentler.

When Clara mentioned a few months later that Mr Lewis was hiring so he could focus on his novel, I didn’t hesitate to put my name forward. I left my job in finance, walking out without no more than a second thought about the life I was leaving behind.

I slowly fell into the rhythm of the shop. Of the meandering conversations about life, politics, religion, books, anything and everything, which paused whilst we served customers, only to be resumed immediately. Of the weekend and after work rushes, and the quiet moments. On the days when the rain and wind beat down furiously, deterring even the most avid of readers, Clara would settle down with a book. Tucked up with a mug of tea, she would sit engrossed in a book for hours, blissfully uninterested in the outside world. Mr Lewis would sit in his office, writing away on his typewriter. The music on his record player was just audible over the sound of the rain. I would float around the shop, tidying, reading and trying and failing not to glance over at Clara.

On the days Mr Lewis would finish his writing early, he’d throw open the door to his office so we could listen to the record player. We’d take it in turns to choose a record; his collection of vinyl, almost as extensive as his books. Mr Lewis favoured classical, Clara invariably choose jazz. I would try to choose something different every time, pop, country, disco. Until one day I put on The Casinos. Mr Lewis welled up the moment the brass started playing.

“Forgive an old man for blubbering. This was my wedding song.” He was looking over at the framed photo of him and his wife that he kept above the till. Clara had told me that she’d passed ten years before from cancer.

“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I’ll change it.”

“No, no,” said Mr Lewis dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. “Please.”

“A beautiful choice,” Clara said with a soft smile. We listened to the rest of the song in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. When it finished, Mr Lewis disappeared into his office. We didn’t see him for the rest of the day. Neither Clara or I chose that record again.

On Mr Lewis’ radio, we heard the BBC announce that two planes had hit the Twin Towers. As New York burned, the world mourned. Months later, Princess Margaret died. Then the Queen Mother. And all the while, there we were, drinking tea, selling books and listening to history be made. We were from different parts of England, different lives, different families; united only by our love of books, music and stories.

I suppose I knew even then, that it wouldn’t last. The shop had begun to take on a magical, unworldly quality. I often felt like I was trying to capture a moment that was quickly fading. Like trying to remember the exact colours of a sunset as it changed before your eyes.

A few days before everything changed, I’d paused outside the shop. It was a frosty winter morning and the sun had barely risen. Inside Mr Lewis and Clara were sharing their morning coffee. Mr Lewis was leant against his office door, wrapped up in one of his many woollen cardigans. Clara was sat on the counter, swinging her legs and chunky black boots beneath her. They were deep in conversation. When I finally walked through the door, they both welcomed me with a smile. Mr Lewis immediately busied himself making me a tea. It was the last day that I saw Mr Lewis. The last day that the shop would be open.

The day of Mr Lewis’ funeral was the last time I saw Clara. She was leaving London, reuniting with an old boyfriend in Paris. It had been Mr Lewis and his dusty, forgotten shop that had kept her in the city. I walked past the shop on my way home. The For Sale sign had already gone up. Most of the books had gone, reduced to a handful of teetering piles. The wallpaper where Mr and Mrs Lewis’ photos hung was a different shade to the rest; the only sign that he was ever there at all.

I stood, looking through the window until dusk had crept up on me. Still I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I was so sure that I’d find something there. Mr Lewis’ parting wisdom, his enduring strength. Clara’s warm smile, her magnetic presence. Or maybe I was looking for myself; for the person who for one year, walked into that shop and called it home. But it was just an empty space, haunted by memories.

Back at home, I put on The Casinos record. It was the only thing I’d taken from his collection. His family didn’t mind. They hadn’t even known that it had been his wedding song.

As soon as the needle touched the vinyl and the song started, my tears began. Tears for Mr Lewis, a man who cried for his wife years after her death. A man who devoted the rest of his life to his shop, his unpublished manuscript, his book collection. Kind, wise, old Mr Lewis who had slipped on the ice on his way to church and never made it home.

Tell me you'll love me for a million years

Then if it don't work out

Then you can tell me goodbye