get honey on my book,’ Tilly said sternly, putting it behind the counter before heading to the kitchen.
There was nothing in the pantry so Tilly rifled through the kitchen cupboards, but she couldn’t find any vanilla essence there either. The cupboards seemed to be full of everything and nothing all at the same time, the result of her grandad’s inability to throw anything away in case it proved useful later, however much it looked like junk to Tilly and Grandma. She found one orange sock, several pencils and the red half of a pack of cards, but no vanilla.
And then, tucked away behind a heap of empty shoeboxes, she found a dusty cardboard box wrapped in packing tape. On the top flap it had ‘Bea’s Books’ written in black marker pen. Tilly felt her heart squeeze and a crackle of something she couldn’t identify deep inside her: these were her mum’s stories.
Tilly’s idea of her mum was stitched together from a patchwork of old photos and other people’s memories. No one knew where Beatrice Pages had gone, and this lack of facts meant that the hole her mother had left had torn, ragged edges that were slow to knit back together.
‘Love, we’ve told you everything we know, and what the police think. It’s not good to dwell on what happened,’ one of her grandparents would say.
‘But the police think she was unhappy and just left to start again somewhere. I don’t understand why she would have done that just after I was born if she …’ Tilly found it hard to voice the end of that thought.
The reassurances always came. ‘Tilly, she loved you very, very much. We know that without any doubt at all.’
‘I just don’t understand why she would leave if she loved me so much.’ Tilly couldn’t help but come back to the same question she always asked, feeling the prick of tears as she spoke.
‘We don’t understand either, Tilly, my love. We wish we did,’ Grandma would say, and Grandad, as always, would quietly wipe his eyes with his tartan handkerchief.
Tilly pulled her mind back to the box in front of her. Inside were piles of old books, the paper yellowing and the covers tattered and ripped. Tilly stared at them, not sure where to start, but as she went to pull out the top book she heard Jack calling from the shop.
‘Tilly! Vanilla! I’m smearing honey on your book as I speak!’
The bubble popped and Tilly sighed and pushed the box to the side of the kitchen. She wanted to save it until she had uninterrupted time to look through it properly, the way she made sure she had time to savour a new book.
She went back through to Jack in the bookshop. ‘I couldn’t find any vanilla; you should ask Mary,’ Tilly said.
‘Well, go on then.’ Jack gestured impatiently. ‘Go and ask her.’
Tilly opened her mouth to make an excuse, wanting to return to the box of books. But the words weren’t there, so she turned and grabbed an umbrella from by the door, but skidded on something squishy underfoot. She looked down to see a half-eaten sandwich on the wooden floor. She tutted to herself as she picked it up.
‘Honestly, who eats marmalade sandwiches?’ she said to herself as she threw it in the bin outside the shop, and crossed the road to Crumbs, the café run by Mary Roux.
Mary and Jack had a long-standing, mostly affectionate rivalry that was almost entirely one-sided. Mary was always lending Jack things he was missing, and offering him baking tips.
The bell above the door jangled as Tilly went in. She didn’t spot Mary straight away, but she noticed Oskar, Mary’s son, sitting at a table at the back, eating toast. A moment later Mary’s face appeared behind the counter. She was carrying a plate of cupcakes iced in pastel shades, which she handed to a couple with a happily gurgling baby.
Mary grinned when she saw Tilly and beckoned her over once the family had sat down.
‘What can I help you with?’ Mary asked. ‘Has Jack been experimenting again?’
‘He’s trying to make pop cakes, like the ones in the Enid Blyton books,’ Tilly explained, ‘but he’s run out of vanilla and he wondered if he could have a little bit of yours, if you can spare some?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Mary said. ‘Sit down. Let me grab some from the kitchen. Do you want some lunch while you wait? You look a bit peaky.’
‘I’m okay,’ Tilly said. She looked up at Mary, testing how she felt about sharing the news about the box with her. ‘I just found some of my mum’s old stuff. It’s put me in a bit of a funny mood, I guess. I don’t have much that was hers.’
‘Oh, love. I can see why that might have thrown you,’ Mary said before planting a kiss on the top of Tilly’s head. Her hand rested on Tilly’s shoulder a little longer than it usually did and then Tilly felt a squeeze as Mary headed off towards the kitchen. ‘Sit down. I’ll be right back.’
As the door through to the kitchen swung shut Tilly looked at Oskar and tried to make eye contact. He didn’t ever seem to be in Crumbs when Tilly was there, and he’d gone to a different primary school, so although they shared some lessons now they’d never really spoken much.
She tried to wander over casually.
‘Have you started your English homework yet?’ she asked, and Oskar looked up.
‘No?’ Oskar said in surprise. ‘It’s literally the first day of the holidays. But we have to read a book by an author we’ve never read before, right?’
‘Yep,’ Tilly said happily. ‘Best homework ever.’
‘I was thinking … I might come and find something at Pages & Co. later. Maybe? If that was okay?’ he asked.
Tilly beamed. ‘That’s a great idea. I can help you find something, if you want? What do you like to read?’
Oskar scuffed his feet together and looked down at the table.
‘All sorts. I started reading the first Percy Jackson book in the summer holidays and I’m really enjoying it.’
‘They’re so good, right?’ Tilly said. ‘I could not believe it when I found out who Nico’s dad was.’
‘Don’t tell me!’ Oskar said. ‘I haven’t got to that bit yet – I’m still on the first one. I read kind of slowly.’
‘Oskar’s dyslexic,’ Mary
