Page 71 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

ONE

LAURENCE – SEPTEMBER 1939

Once upon a time, my darling maman told me that we humans need stories more than we need food. I was seven years old and we were engaged in an epic battle of wills over pain au chocolat and school homework. Madame Bonheur, who owned the boulangerie next to Maman’s dress shop, had just baked a fresh batch of the chocolate pastries and their scent was wafting through the open door on the breeze. How was I supposed to concentrate on my homework – writing a story about what I had done at the weekend – when the tantalising aroma was sending my taste buds into such a frenzy? But Maman would not be budged. ‘We need stories more than we need food,’ she said again, twisting my long hair into a plait and handing me a pencil.

The story of my weekend is very sad! I wrote at the top of the page. Now I know how Cinderella felt when her evil stepmother told her she could not go to the ball.

But I was to learn the truth of Maman’s statement just a few months later, when the demons that had plagued my papa for so long caused him to take his own life. Terrified of a world capable of delivering such a shocking and painful plot twist, I spent the rest of my childhood seeking refuge in books, befriending their characters and taking comfort in their neat and tidy happy endings.

I think of Maman now, as I look around her store. My store. When she died last year, I had half a mind to sell up and join my bouquiniste friend, Michel, in Paris, selling books on the banks of the River Seine. But there’s something magical about my home town, La Vallée du Cerf, with its ancient forest and crooked stone buildings and winding cobbled streets. It’s like a kindly grandpa of a place, and I could hear it whispering to me, through the breeze in the trees and the soft thud of the deer’s hooves in the forest. Stay, stay, and be a dispenser of words …

‘What do you think, Maman?’ I whisper, gazing up into the old wooden beams lining the ceiling. ‘Do you like what I’ve done with the place?’

Turning my mother’s dress shop into a bookstore named The Book Dispensary felt like the best possible plot twist after her death from pneumonia. Not only was it an opportunity to keep our family store, but it would finally enable me to turn my cherished hobby into a profession. You see, ever since I discovered my love of the written word, I have passed that love on, through prescriptions of books, short stories and poems, for any friend or neighbour in need. Over the years, as my book collection grew, I turned it into an informal lending library, issuing each prescription with a handwritten note: instructions on how the patient ought to take their remedy. Things like: ‘ Lose yourself in the kiss on page 27 ’ for the lovesick, or ‘re-read the stanza about the ocean ten times before sleep’ , to calm those afflicted by night horrors.

But now I no longer have stacks of second-hand books to lend; I have shelves of books for people to buy and treasure forever. I look around the store. Every nook and cranny is lined with shelves made from the same dark oak as the beams in the ceiling. I go over to the poetry section at the back of the shop, close my eyes and take a volume from the shelf. It’s a collection of poems by the writer Rainer Maria Rilke. I turn to a random page, praying for the prescription I need. The book opens on one of my favourite poems, ‘Go to the Limits of your Longing’. My eyes are drawn to the fifth stanza where Rilke talks about letting everything happen to you, terror as well as beauty, because no feeling lasts forever.

I give a sad smile. As always, it’s exactly what I needed to read. Let everything happen to you , I tell myself as I sit in one of the armchairs by the hearth. The fire I lit earlier is now crackling away, sending amber sparks shooting up the chimney. It’s still early September, but there’s already a chill in the air and the nights are drawing in, a fact I take great pleasure from, as surely there’s no greater delight than curling up with a good book in front of a roaring fire. Madame Bonheur thinks it’s a mistake to have armchairs in a bookstore. ‘You’ll never get rid of your customers, Laurence!’ she cried as soon as she saw them. ‘You are making it far too cosy.’ But she doesn’t understand; she sells bread, not books. Her customers don’t need to linger, trying to decipher which baguette is the perfect fit for their personality or their mood; every batch Madame Bonheur bakes is the same – and equally delicious, I might add. But buying a book is like choosing a friend or, if I may be so bold in spite of having tragically little experience, a lover. They’re all so different. You have to be certain it’s the right match before you take it home.

The bell above the door lets out its cheery tinkle and Luc walks in wearing his crisp new army uniform. It’s a sight that makes my stomach clench. ‘ Let it happen to you… it won’t last forever…’ Rilke whispers to me from the book in my lap and I try to calm my breathing. When Luc was first issued with his uniform after being called up last week, I made him put it on for me and he marched up and down, saluting merrily. It felt as if we were kids again, playing at dress-up. It didn’t feel real, maybe because Luc is the most unlikely soldier. He’s a bookkeeper by trade, and by personality, it has to be said. He likes life to be arranged into neat rows and columns, whereas I, well, I prefer life to dance and flow like the most lyrical of poems.

‘I should have known I’d find you reading the stock,’ he says with a laugh. But he’s tense, I can tell. Lifelong friends are as easy to read as well-loved books. I’ve seen his jaw clench like that many times in the twenty years we’ve known each other. Luc’s no longer playing dress-up. He’s about to leave on the train for the Maginot Line, to help guard France against the Germans, who recently invaded Poland.

I leap out of the chair and run over to give him a hug.

‘I noticed that your window display is uneven,’ he murmurs into my hair.

‘What?’ I pull back and frown at him.

‘You have a stack of ten books to the right of the mannequin but only six to the left.’

Why do you always have to be so sensible? I want to say, but I manage to bite my tongue. Luc’s need for order never used to bother me; in fact, I used to appreciate the way it grounded me. He was the perfect balance for my frequent flights of fantasy. But that was before we started courting. It’s funny how things that seem endearing in a friendship can become infuriating once seen through the prism of romantic love. He’s about to go away and possibly have to fight the Germans, I remind myself, and instantly my frustration melts.

‘I meant for it to be like that,’ I reply. ‘The mannequin is supposed to be in the throes of a reading frenzy. She wouldn’t give a fig how many books are placed where.’

He looks at me as if I’m crazy, and I can’t help wondering if the things he used to like about me when we were just friends have also now become annoying.

Outside, the cobbled street echoes with the sound of people walking by. I peer through the window and see more newly conscripted soldiers on their way to the station. Soon there won’t be any young men left in the valley.

‘I should go,’ Luc says quietly, and I have to fight the urge to pull him into the kitchen and lock him in the pantry.

He isn’t going to die , I tell myself. The Maginot Line is impenetrable. And anyway, surely the Germans will have too much on their hands dealing with Austria and Poland.

‘I’ll walk you to the station.’ I fetch my coat from the chair behind my desk.

‘Before we go…’ he says.

I turn and see that he’s holding a small box. The kind of box that normally contains jewellery. The size of box that would normally contain a ring.

‘Oh no!’ This time I’m unable to censor my thoughts and they burst from my mouth, seeming to echo again and again in the silence. Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!

‘What?’ He frowns.

None of my favourite proposal scenes in novels have been anything like this. The woman has never yelped, ‘Oh no!’ She’s either cried tears of joy or – in the case of one page-turner of an American romance – she’s yelled, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes times infinity!’

‘I don’t – I’m not sure – I don’t think we’re ready…’ I stammer, staring at the floor, too embarrassed to look at him. We’ve known each other since we were three; if we’re not ready to get engaged now, then surely there’s no hope for us.

‘It’s all right,’ he says softly. ‘It isn’t a ring.’

‘It isn’t?’ Now I’m unable to disguise my relief.

I glance at him and see that he’s smiling. But his eyes don’t look happy; they look as if they’re holding back tears. I walk over and place my hand on his arm.

‘It’s something I found when I was in Paris recently. I thought you might like it.’ He hands the box to me. ‘I thought it might be of some comfort, while I’m away.’

Now I know that I haven’t been plunged into an unwanted marriage proposal, reality hits me once more like a punch to the stomach. My best friend in the world is leaving to go to war and I don’t know when I will see him again.

I open the box with trembling fingers. Inside, on a bed of dark blue velvet, lies a silver pendant. A figure has been etched onto the silver, holding a sword aloft.

‘It’s your hero, Jeanne of Arc,’ Luc says with a smile.

When we were kids and our friend Genevieve still lived in the valley, we used to play battles in the forest with the children from a neighbouring village. I would cast those poor children as the invading English army and we would be the loyal Burgundians, fighting for the freedom of France. As I had invented the game, I always cast myself as the fearless Maid of Orléans, leading us to victory, with a sword I’d fashioned from a stick. ‘It’s been a long time since I played Jeanne,’ I laugh, touched that he’s remembered my childhood hero.

‘Yes, well, I thought you might need to call upon her strength, what with the store opening – and everything else…’ He trails off.

‘Thank you so much, it’s the perfect gift. I have something for you too.’ I go over to the desk and take a pair of tiny dolls made from blue, white and red yarn from the top drawer. ‘It’s my parents’ Nénette and Rintintin dolls,’ I explain, handing Luc the male doll. ‘Maman gave my papa this Rintintin when he went to fight in the Great War. They were meant to bring soldiers good fortune. I shall keep Nénette and that way you are bound to stay safe, because the dolls have to be reunited.’

‘Thank you.’ He tucks Rintintin into his breast pocket and I wonder if he is looking so despondent because of my reaction to the jewellery box or because he thinks the doll is silly.

I have a moment of inspiration and hurry over to the armchair and pick up the collection of Rilke poems. ‘And I have another gift.’ I go back to my desk and take one of the small creamy sheets of paper I use for my prescriptions from the top drawer. I place the paper into my brand new Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter, rumoured to be the very same model Hemingway uses, wind it into place and type:

Read the fifth stanza on page 59 whenever you’re in need of fortification .

I pop the prescription into the book by the poem. ‘Here,’ I say, handing it to him.

‘Thank you.’ He smiles weakly.

Outside, the town hall clock begins striking seven.

‘I have to go.’

I nod, unable to speak.

We step outside and I lock the door. A horrible silence has fallen over us, laden with anxiety.

As we walk through the town square, past the memorial statue to the previous war – a soldier leaning on his rifle, head bowed – Luc stuffs his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. ‘I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy,’ he says quietly. And, because I’ve known him forever, I’m instantly able to read between the lines.

‘I know,’ I reply, linking my arm through his. ‘And I’ve only ever wanted that for you too.’

‘I would never ask you to do something you didn’t want to,’ he continues, gazing straight ahead.

I have no idea what to say to this. Part of me wants to lie, to try to convince him that my reaction to the jewellery box was just a moment of silliness and that of course I want to marry him one day. But I love him too much to lie. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, wishing that none of this had ever happened. I don’t want him taking this awkwardness with him like an unwanted gift.

We turn the corner and start walking down the hill. The air above the station is filled with the billowing cloud from a waiting locomotive. I feel sick as I think of where the train is going to take Luc. None of this feels real.

When we reach the station, the platform is crowded with other couples – the men in their uniforms, the women crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, standing in front of Luc and gazing up at him.

‘Don’t be.’ He puts down his suitcase and places his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’m going to miss you, Laurence.’

In an instant, my anxieties disappear and all I see in front of me is my beloved childhood friend. ‘I’m going to miss you too, Monsieur Potato Face.’ Luc banned me from using my childhood nickname for him when he turned thirteen, but now he doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles down at me, his eyes shiny with tears. ‘But I’m sure you’ll be back soon.’

He nods, but because I’ve known him forever, I can see the fear and uncertainty in his gaze.

The train whistle blows, but I don’t want to let him go. What if he doesn’t come back soon? What if he doesn’t come back at all? I swallow hard. The last thing he needs is me falling apart.

I plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘Make sure you write to me.’

‘Of course.’ He picks up his case and goes over to the nearest train door.

‘And don’t forget the book. I’ve written you a prescription inside.’

Now his smile reaches his eyes. ‘Thank you.’

I watch as he gets on the train. The guard blows his whistle as he marches alongside the train, slamming the doors.

The Germans wouldn’t dare attack France , I tell myself as I force my mouth into a cheery grin. The Maginot Line is impenetrable.

I wave at Luc through the window in the door. The train starts chugging out of the station, and it feels as if it’s taking part of my heart with it.

***