The Woman in the Bookshop

Many years ago I worked in a bookshop. It was one of the largest bookshops in the city and countless customers came and went every day, each with their own requests, questions, demands. I was one of the employees in charge of customer orders and often had to cater to unusual requests. I was going through a rather difficult time in my personal life, and there were days when I had to really try to be accommodating, as customers could often be unreasonably demanding. 

Towards the close of a particularly challenging workday, a middle-aged woman came in. I remember noticing her because there was a certain grace about her, a gentleness in her movement and manner. She was looking at the books in the Nature section, and looked as though she was having difficulty deciding what book to get. When I approached her and asked her if I could help, she replied that she was looking for a very special book on the British islands and their wildlife, if there was a particular one I would recommend. I got quite excited at her request, as I am a very keen reader and nature lover, so I eagerly recommended a beautiful book that had just come in and wasn’t on the shelves yet: a book on the Isles of Scilly, by Rosemary Parslow.

When I returned with the book, she took it in her hands ever so carefully and, after looking through it for a few moments, she said, smiling, ‘Yes, this is the one, you’ve done very well. Could you be so kind as to hold it until the spring?’ It was November at the time and I was perplexed. Seeing my confusion, she smiled and said ‘I am rather ill, you see, and this is a gift for my husband. He loves nature and I would like him to have it for his birthday in March, but I’m not going to be around then to give it to him.’ I took the book from her hands, and said nothing for a few moments, trying to process what she had just said. Finally, I asked her if she would like to write a card to be delivered with the book and maybe also choose some wrapping paper. She said that yes, that would be lovely, and went off in the direction of the cards and rolls of paper. After she returned and paid for everything, we wrapped the book and the card, she gave me the address to which the book was to be delivered and said: ‘You’ve been ever so kind. This has been difficult for me. Thank you.’ She then took my hand in hers, held it for a few moments, and walked away, the kind smile never leaving her lips. 

I left the bookshop a few months later, but in March a former colleague called me. She said that a man had come in to ask about a book on the Scilly Isles his wife had bought that had been delivered to his home address; if the girl who had served her was still working there. He said his wife had passed away and he just wanted to say thank you for helping her pick out such a lovely book. 

I will never know what she said in the card that made him want to thank me, but I often think of both of them, of their kindness and grace in the midst of so much pain.