There was no doubt about it; winter was here, standing on the year's doorstep waiting to take up residence. The fine, mild days which had seen in October had apparently been a joke on the part of Mother Nature, and for the last week the weather had been cold, dull and just plain depressing, as if Harry had taken all the sunshine with him when he went off to join his regiment. This morning, a chilly wind brought promise of rain, and Mavis shivered as she stepped off the bus and into its icy embrace.

It was her day off, and for once she had time on her hands. There was nothing to do at home. All her mending was up to date, and her tiny bed-sitting room was as neat and clean as a new pin. Mam was working, and the kiddies were all at school, so no point in calling round at Esk Road. Nor anywhere else, for that matter. Most of her old friends had drifted away; joined one of the services, or taken war work away from London, or evacuated. Even Rita was off on a home trip to Plymouth to see her mum and dad. So as Mavis had finished her latest book from the lending library, she had decided to treat herself to a trip to town, and a leisurely browse in the bookshops along Charing Cross Road.

She paused for a moment, debating whether to venture into the big shop on the corner, but on catching sight of her reflection in one of the windows she decided against it. She'd done her best with the old blue coat, but while the cream-coloured bands she'd stitched onto the ends of the sleeves hid the frayed cuffs nicely, nothing could disguise how shabby and worn-out the rest of it was looking. "Make do and mend" was all very well, but there were limits. She would have to go looking for a new one before winter really set in, but for now, it was all she had, and she didn't fancy going into a posh place like that, just to be looked down on by some stuck-up sales clerk. Besides, her budget didn't run to brand-new books, not even those plain green-and-white paperback ones which were so popular these days.

On the other side of the street, in defiance of the weather, the second-hand bookseller's big wheeled display racks were out on the pavement in front of his shop. Mavis crossed over, and stood for a minute surveying the wildly varied selection on offer. But the next gust of wind was one too many for her. There were plenty of books inside, and less chance of being blown halfway to Battersea.

The sign over the door identified the business as Barraclough Books. Presumably the elderly gentleman in the saggy brown cardigan, sitting behind the counter with his nose in one of his stock items, was Mr Barraclough. At the sound of the little bell on the door, he looked up. "Good morning. And a very fine morning it is, too."

"Not half. Makes me wish I lived by the seaside so I could go for a swim."

The bookseller's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "And how may I help you today? Are you in search of anything particular?"

"Just something to keep me awake when I'm on firewatch at the depot." She hoped she wasn't blushing, which would be a dead giveaway. Firewatching wasn't the only occasion when a book came in handy. She never like to admit how many of her evenings were spent at home with only the BBC for company and a bit of light reading to help her pass the time.

Mr Barraclough didn't seem to have noticed her discomfiture. He tapped his fingertips together. "Ah, yes. One of the many vital duties we all have to address in these troubling times. And what kind of story is likely to prop your eyelids open for the requisite number of hours? Mystery – comedy – romance…"

Mavis tilted her head, trying to work out whether he was having a laugh. You never could tell with some geezers. "I like a bit of everything," she said at last.

"Well, that you will certainly find here." Mr Barraclough made an expansive gesture around the shop, so filled with high, closely-crammed shelves that it would have done nicely as a fairground maze. "Not much of it very recent, but then, as Thomas Love Peacock once wrote, Modern literature is a north-east wind – a blight of the human soul." He paused, as if contemplating the sentiment, then held out his hands. "Of course, that was over a century ago. Speaking personally, I rather admire the moderns, but they don't come my way very often. So I'm afraid you won't find Orlando or Finnegans Wake within these walls. At least, not for a few years yet."

His eyes returned to his book, but as Mavis moved towards the nearest shelves, he added vaguely, "I should warn you, my inventory is a little disorganised. One day I hope to get it sorted and categorised, but so far I simply haven't been able to make the time. There's always something I need to finish first..." His voice dropped into a soft murmur as he found his place on the page.

Mavis knew exactly how he felt. More than once, she'd let everything go so she could keep reading to the end of a particularly good story. It was still a new enough enchantment to surprise her; she'd never been much of a reader until she started going deaf.

She soon realised the plummy old so-and-so hadn't been joking. The bookcases which filled his shop, reaching almost as high as the ceiling and crowded closely to leave only narrow passages between, were crammed with books of every kind: fiction and non-fiction, romance and adventure, poetry and philosophy, all jumbled together into a kind of literary hotch-potch.

It was a bit much, but Mavis wasn't about to let a bit of a mess put her off. She pulled a random volume from the nearest shelf, and opened it at the beginning: In the county town of a certain shire there lived (about forty years ago) one Mr. Wilkins…

Well, bully for Mr Wilkins. Mavis flipped over a few pages, but the whole book seemed to go on like that. Still,the title sounded like there might be more to it, and there was a nice dramatic picture opposite the title page, so she held on to it for now.

Before long, she had four or five, chosen according to her usual method. A catchy title might attract her eye, or an interesting cover, or an author whose name was either familiar, like Dickens, or accidentally comical; although on that last point she had to admit to at least one disappointment, as Trollope's stories hadn't proved nearly as lively as she'd expected.

The rain had finally come on. It added a new texture to the sound of the traffic, softening it to a gentle, distant background murmur which was far less distracting than silence would have been, and making it easy, just for a few minutes, to forget the war-weary city outside with all its uncertainties and frustrations and fears, and to get drawn in by an account of a hiking trip in the French mountains. Mavis always liked travel stories, and this one had a donkey in it.

Without raising her eyes from the page, she took a few steps towards the end of the aisle; and collided with the tall, sturdy mass of another, similarly preoccupied customer. She gave a squeak of alarm and jumped back, dropping half her armful of books, while the gentleman started to apologise, before breaking off abruptly. "Is it…ah, it is Miss Mavis! I am so very sorry, I hope I did not…"

"Mr L-Lutz?" No doubt it was the surprise of meeting him somewhere other than on her bus which caused Mavis to blush, and stumble over his name. But just in case he noticed, and got the wrong idea, she hastily stooped to pick up the books from the floor.

"Please, allow me," said Karl Lutz, trying to retrieve them for her. Both reaching for the same one, their hands almost touched, and Mavis felt even more flustered.

"It's fine, I've got it," she stammered.

"But it was my fault."

"No, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Nor was I." He held up the cause of his own inattention, a rather tattered paperback, not that old but apparently extremely well-read.

In spite of her embarrassment, Mavis could feel the corners of her mouth twitching. "Oh, well," she said airily, "it's obvious who's really to blame."

"You are right. The villains in this case are Agatha Christie and…and Robert Louis Stevenson," replied Karl, a smile softening the gravity of his strong features.

Mavis's legs were already starting to ache. She straightened up, and as he was still holding one edge of Travels with a Donkey, he had to follow her.

"Thank you," she murmured, and he flushed, and let go of Mr Stevenson's memoir.

For a few moments, neither of them seemed to know how to continue the conversation, until Mavis, who had an uneasy feeling that silence was a little dangerous, gestured towards the book Karl was still holding. "So, you like whodunnits, then? Detective stories, I mean," she added, in case he didn't understand.

He glanced at the little book. "Yes, I enjoy them. Since I am new to this country, I try to improve my English by reading, and to learn about English customs and English life. The books of Mrs Christie are very English, no?"

"Well, I suppose they are, if your idea of English is fancy hotels and vicarage tea parties, with the odd dead body thrown in. We don't get much of that sort of thing up round Stepney Green." Even as she spoke, it struck her how offhand the words sounded, and she went on quickly. "But they're not bad fun - the books, I mean, not the tea parties. Well, I suppose the tea parties must be all right, otherwise nobody would go, would they…?"

She was just babbling. He must think she was a complete idiot. She'd better let him do the talking. "So, do you get much time for reading?" she asked, by way of encouragement.

"Not so much. But I have a long train journey next week, and a good book will help the time to pass."

"You're going away?" For the life of her, Mavis couldn't have kept the startled dismay out of her voice. Belatedly, she tried to put on an expression of friendly interest, hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt.

"Yes, I have work – ah, but I should not have said." Karl gave a rueful smile. "But I know you will not speak of it. And…and perhaps I flatter myself, but I would not like to disappear without any explanation. If you should miss me – but no, why should you?" He broke off, clearing his throat.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll miss…I-I mean, it'll not be the same, not seeing you hop on the bus at Green P-Park..." Oh, for pity's sake, now she was stammering. What on earth was the matter with her? Just because he was leaving, like everyone else did – Peter, Gwennie, Kathleen, Harry…

She became aware that he was regarding her with consternation, probably because he'd clocked how close she was to tears. Hastily, trying to avert the impending shower, she went on: "Well, I know better than to ask where you're going, but I hope it's nice, wherever it is. And I hope the train trip isn't too awful…" But it was no good; the sentence terminated in an irrepressible, undignified hiccough.

"Is something wrong?" Karl, perhaps without thinking, laid a tentative hand on her arm. "You are upset. What is it?"

Mavis looked up into his face, and what she saw was just too much for her. "I don't want you to go," she blurted out, almost in tears.

She was astonished, and a little aggrieved, when his look of puzzled concern gave way to a slowly dawning smile. "I am so happy to hear that," he said simply.

For a moment she thought he was laughing at her; but he sensed her indignation, and held up his hand. "Please, let me say something I have wanted to say for a long time. I…I like you, very much, and I would very much like it if we could be friends, and see each other more often. If you would rather not, I will understand, but…"

"No. No, I would really…oh, I'm sorry, this is dreadful." Hampered by her armful of books, Mavis tried to get one hand free so she could find her hanky; and Karl, without asking, removed the encumbrances, and stood watching with anxious solicitude while she tried to wipe her eyes, and her nose, with at least some degree of elegance.

"I should not have spoken," he said. "I did not wish to cause you such distress. Please, forget what I said."

"Not a chance." She stuffed her hanky into her pocket, and met his gaze with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances. "I'm not upset about that. I'm upset that neither of us said it sooner, because…because I like you, too. And now you're going away, and it's too late."

"But I will be gone for only a few weeks. My work is here, in London. I will come back."

It took a couple of seconds for Mavis to take this in. She felt like crying again, which was ridiculous when she was so happy. She wanted to tell him, but she wasn't sure she could trust her voice, so she just gave him an unsteady little smile.

Encouraged, he ventured a little further: "Would you like – if you are not busy – there is a very nice café not far from here. We could talk."

"Oh…" She hesitated, aware of what a sight she must be, all puffy-faced and red around the eyes; let alone how tatty her old coat was. But Karl looked so hopeful, she couldn't bear to let him down. "I'd like that. Just let me pay for my books."

The bookseller gave the pair of them a shrewd, interested appraisal as they approached the counter. Maybe he'd heard part of the conversation, or maybe he saw through their would-be nonchalance.

"So, did you find something to your liking?" he asked Mavis, regarding her with kindly benevolence over the top of his spectacles.

Mavis went pink, and glanced at Karl. He was trying not to laugh, and her own lips twitched.

"Do you know," she replied airily, "I really think I might have."

Notes:

Novels referenced in this chapter:

Nightmare Abbey (1819), by Thomas Love Peacock.

Orlando: A Biography (1928), by Virginia Woolf.

Finnegans Wake (1939), by James Joyce.

A Dark Night's Work (1863), by Mrs Elizabeth Gaskell.

Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes (1879), by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I suspect the Agatha Christie novel Mavis is thinking of is The Murder At The Vicarage (1930), although the one Karl found on the shelves is probably an earlier work.