Disclaimer: Nothing's mine...
A couple of months ago, MissGoalie75, Gilmoregirl19 and I discussed about a project concerning... Well, that's a secret... Anyway, while discussing this we came up with an OC, Oliver Walsh. If you have read any of my other GG stories, you won't be surprised who he's going to interact with.
So, there's Oliver Walsh for you, a creation of MissGoalie75, Gilmoregirl19 and myself. The story I've started on my own.
He came in here nearly every day…
Chapter One: It always begins with a first meeting...
Oliver Walsh was what the ladies would call a fruit well-riped. Already in his fifties, he still possessed fine features with few wrinkles at the right parts of his face.
Tall, lean, smart and a smile to kill for, he shouldn't have any problems finding a wife. Nevertheless, he lived alone for who was willing to commit, when your heart was long lost?
He lived at the Crossroads as his street was called by its inhabitants. One of the streets in Manhattan separating a rather rich neighbourhood from the poor.
Here he'd been living for the past twenty-five years. In his small bookshop that, were he dependant on the money he earned from it, would barely allow him live. But he did make profit, a fact he was rather proud of. His apartment was right above the shop containing a living-room that also harboured an office and his tiny library (covering more than two-thirds of the living-room, a vast collection he'd be envied for by all those in love with literature), a kitchen and a bedroom. He didn't need more.
He never had.
It was an unusually warm day in spring, when Oliver Walsh would receive a new customer that would stick to his memory and heart much more stubbornly than most people in his life.
Oliver currently rearranged his Hemmingway section as the door opened. He turned to see who'd entered (having been robbed twice within the past five years left him with a certain wariness of his fellow men).
It was a boy, judging by the height about six. He had dark hair and his face was fixed on the ground as if determined to disappear any second.
The child hardly seemed old enough to read. What was he doing in a book-shop? Without any parents?
"Got lost, kid?" Walsh asked kindly knowing better than to step forward. The boy was already on edge.
His head snapped up and their eyes met.
For the split of a second, Oliver had the feeling of looking into an old man's eyes, but it quickly morphed into one of defiant suspicion and mistrust. Whatever the boy's story, it wasn't nice and cosy. Despite that, there was something else in those eyes, but in all honesty, he couldn't say what it was.
The boy simply shook his head in response and walked to one of the shelves where he stopped standing in an angle that would allow him to survey every move Walsh made. He picked up The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, opened it with tender care and took in the words with an eagerness that bordered on hunger.
It took the older man aback. This was a child who'd read before, who practically devoured the written word, a passion rarely seen in one so young.
He doubted the stranger noticed it, but he slowly started to lean against the shelf as he continued with his lecture. His eyes were focused, but Heavens, did they move fast across the page! He'd seen adults unable to read this quickly.
Silence followed.
The only thing heard was the turning of a page. The boy seemed to feel that he was being observed for he started to make himself smaller and read faster as if expecting to be thrown out any second and to take in as much as he could before that happened.
"That edition is rather expensive, kid, but there's an old paperback I won't be able to sell anyway. One dollar and it's yours," when he'd started to speak, the boy looked up again. Walsh had rarely seen eyes more intensive than these green, brown… dark brown with pecks of green… What kind of eye-colour was that? The suspicion was still there, as he spoke for the first time, "Paperback or not. They're more expensive than that."
Now he was able to identify that hidden expression. Intelligence, in plain sight, but already tainted by a hard life. It made Oliver want to hit the wall in frustration.
Life wasn't fair, he knew that. He sometimes forgot, it was so cruel that some children had to know this, too.
"Misprint," he replied promptly (it was a lie, but still…), "There's no information on the author in it. Wait, I'll go get it." At that he started to leave, but hesitated. The boy didn't seem to be a criminal, and frankly, he didn't care if some money went missing. But he couldn't stand it, when someone stole his books.
"There's no fun when the owner of the shop isn't around," the kid gave a very small, lopsided grin as he drew his attention back on the book.
Walsh smirked. He liked that kid already.
In the back of the shop, he picked up a perfectly good paperback edition of the Wizard of Oz and carefully extracted the pages that contained information on Baum. It hurt him to do so, but it would hurt more to have this kid leave without a book.
When he returned, the boy had sat down still reading, completely engrossed. He went to the counter, opened the cash-register, which caused the kid to wake from his moment of peace.
"One dollar, kid," he merely said.
The dark-haired boy reached into his pocket, extracted a wrinkled one-dollar note and handed it over. His hand still lingered on it, until he finally was able to grasp the book.
He was rather short, lean. Walsh again wondered just how old he was. His eyes made him an adult, his body a six-year-old.
"Was nice to have made business with you. You can stay here and continue reading if you want. Anyhow, I'm looking forward to seeing you again."
The boy said nothing, he merely looked at him.
"I'm Oliver Walsh, by the way," Oliver stated in the hope of learning his name.
"The sign kind of gave me that information already," the kid answered as he retreated causing the older man to smirk for a second time.
Definitely not stupid at all.
The door opened, and before he was out, the boy stood still and lowered his head for a second, "I'm Jess."
The door closed and Oliver Walsh was alone again, rearranging his Hemmingway section without knowing that he'd just met his most loyal customer for the next ten years.
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