Читать книгу Pages & Co.: Tilly and the Bookwanderers - Anna James - Страница 14

illy didn’t pick up her mum’s copy of Alice in Wonderland again. Instead she chose a brand-new book that she’d never read before and that her mum had definitely never read. She took it over to her favourite sofa only to find it already occupied. At one end was Anne, picking at the ends of her hair. At the other was Alice, looking around impatiently. Tilly waved, a little startled to see them together.

‘Oh! How curious,’ Alice said. ‘You’re just the same as before.’

They both stared at Tilly.

‘Why wouldn’t I be the same? I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I should be more surprised that you two know each other,’ Tilly said, and Anne and Alice exchanged another look as if seeing each other properly for the first time.

‘Have we met?’ Alice said, peering into Anne’s face.

‘How can you not know if you know each other?’ Tilly said. ‘That doesn’t make any kind of sense.’

‘A bit of nonsense never hurt anyone, did it, carrot-top?’ Alice said cheerfully, yanking one of Anne’s plaits.

‘How dare you!’ Anne said. ‘It’s not carrot-coloured at all! It is auburn!’

‘I only meant it affectionately,’ Alice insisted. ‘Your hair is lovely and carroty. One of my very great friends has hair that is a similar colour, only most of the time he hides it under a hat. I don’t know why you are so touchy about people pointing out what is, after all, a fact that cannot really be denied.’

‘But it is ever so thoughtless to point out other people’s faults,’ Anne said. ‘I would hardly come up to you and inform you that you are quite rude and, if we’re being brutally honest, that I think you’ve shrunk since you’ve been here.’

‘Well, I am not in charge of that,’ Alice said crossly. ‘I cannot help any of it.’

‘And I am not in charge of the colour of my hair,’ Anne retorted.

‘I don’t think you would be Anne at all if you didn’t have red hair,’ Tilly offered.

‘But when it comes down to it I am not so attached to being Anne,’ Anne replied. ‘If, when I was born, I had had beautiful hair as dark as a raven, or blonde hair –’ she glanced resentfully at Alice – ‘then maybe my parents would have been moved to call me something altogether more elegant. Like Ermintrude. Or Cordelia.’

‘I do not agree at all,’ Alice said. ‘Sometimes I feel that my Alice-ness is the only thing I ever know to be true, even when everything around me is acting very strangely indeed. What do you think, Tilly?’ And both girls turned to look at her, waiting for an answer.

‘Oh, I don’t really know. I’m not entirely sure what Tilly-ness is, to be honest, or if I have any of it, or if I’d still have it if I were called something different.’

‘But Matilda Pages is such a wonderful name to have,’ Anne said. ‘It would be a waste if you didn’t think about it just a little. It is a name made for adventuring. It’s a name to be shouted at the head of an army or whispered in magical forests, don’t you think? A name for brave deeds!’

‘Be brave, be curious, be kind …’ Tilly said quietly.

‘Why, exactly!’ Anne said. ‘I knew you understood really.’

‘I just need an adventure to find me,’ Tilly said.

‘Why, you can’t wait for adventure to find you, Matilda,’ Anne said. ‘You must go and find adventure, and shake it firmly by the hand as you set out towards the horizon together.’

‘I agree,’ Alice said. ‘That is the first sensible thing you’ve said. And not to mention you have a whole bookshop with your name to it, Matilda – does it belong to your parents?’

‘My parents died when I was a baby,’ Tilly said, using the same words she always did when someone asked about them. ‘It belongs to my grandparents.’

‘Why, I am an orphan too,’ Anne said solemnly. Tilly felt a skinny hand take hers and looked down to see Anne’s fingers intertwined with her own. ‘It is not something Alice will understand. It is a difficult thing to bear even if you are surrounded by people who are endlessly kind and good to you. But it is not all woe. I used to think that kindred spirits were hard to find, but look: you have found two just this afternoon.’

And, for just that moment, it seemed to be wholly unimportant whether Anne and Alice were real or not.