The Book Box

By Carol Probyn

A novel can become a cherished friend, and the love of reading can forge a bond that lasts a lifetime…

It was October half term and it had been a treat to take my time on a long walk in the countryside, several miles from my usual walks.

Those unique colours and earthy smells of mid-autumn had revitalised me. I loved my teaching job still, but welcomed the holidays!

On the way back I took a short cut down the busy London Road.

Ahead of me, a young lady suddenly appeared from the gateway of one of the houses and deposited a large cardboard box against her hedge on the pavement.

“Ooh, books!” I said as I drew level.

“Do have a browse and help yourself,” the young lady said over her shoulder as she descended steps back to her house. “I’ve already taken loads to the charity shop – this is the last box.”

Naturally I couldn’t resist a rummage through. There were several cookery books in pristine condition and dozens of yellowing paperbacks.

I was pleased to find a copy of The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy but best of all, a lovely hardback copy of the Daphne du Maurier story, Rebecca.

There were books on architecture, a few on churches, and several on exclusion diets which I left behind with the old paperbacks. I tucked Rebecca and The Woodlanders under my arm and felt thoroughly pleased with my gifts – a book is always a gift.

Later at home, my mind drifted back over thirty years to our friendship group at school, particularly my best friend Fiona.

How we had loved our books and films – in addition to Paul Young, boys and dancing to Madonna.

Fiona’s mother said we should read a classic, and had given us Rebecca. She showed us the old film with Laurence Olivier and Olivia de Havilland, which we thought dated but charming.

We studied Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd for O-level and saw the film the following year with Julie Christie and Terence Stamp. The Woodlanders had been a favourite which we’d passed around.

I left school at sixteen, but Fiona went on to do A-levels.

The last I heard she had gone to art school. I had often thought of her over the years and wondered what had happened to her.

I had seen other friends from school who had stayed in the area but no one had heard about her since she had gone to college.

When I picked up Rebecca the next day, something fell out. It was a homemade bookmark, with a delicate watercolour azalea pattern.

To Mum – I know you’ll enjoy visiting Manderley again.

It was touching; the obvious affection from a daughter to her mother. I stroked the cover of that rather expensive reprint and began reading.

I soon became bewitched by Manderley again myself and du Maurier’s wonderful prose. I hadn’t expected to still love the book so much.

Before I knew it, my hubby was home and dinner was late that evening!

Two days later I opened The Woodlanders… and there inside the well worn cover was a faded, scribbled name. Fiona Watson. I recognised her writing, even after all these years.

This book belonged to my old friend Fi, the very person I had been reminiscing about!

I was buzzing, it was almost eerie – I couldn’t believe it!

What an incredible coincidence. Was it the book from her all those years ago?

And did all those books in the box belong to her? Surely she couldn’t have been living in that house, just five miles away from where I’d lived all my life?

I was now on a mission. The following morning I went back to the house on London Road. A large removal van was parked outside.

I made my way down the steps to Number 41, where the door stood open to reveal a hallway where people were packing boxes. I recognised the young lady to whom I had spoken three days ago.

“So sorry to bother you,” I called. “But you see, I picked up a couple of the books you left out on Tuesday, and… well, do you know Fiona Watson? Her name was in one of the books. She was a very good friend of mine. Years ago, but I had to…”

Someone shouted something about packing a kettle.

“I’ll be with you in a sec,” the girl called back. “Listen, you can see it’s frantic here. You say you know Mum? You’d best come in. I’m Rosie, her daughter. She’s Fiona Cameron now.”

We squeezed past the chaos in the hallway.

I followed Rosie into the garden where someone was stacking flower pots onto a tray.

“Mum, I’ve got a surprise for you. An old friend has come to visit… Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Karen. Karen Munslow.”

Fiona turned and our eyes met.

“Karen. I don’t believe it. But I do, I’d have known you anywhere!”

As she walked towards me, I wasn’t sure that I would have known Fiona; she looked very different. Her hair was grey and she looked quite careworn, but this was a traumatic time – moving.

We embraced and studied each other in wonder. We both had tears in our eyes.

“Oh, your lovely skin,” I said, smoothing her cheek.

“Mmm. Steroids. I’m afraid. I have rheumatoid arthritis.”

She spread her hands in front of her and some of her fingers were misshapen. My heart went out to her.

“Never mind, I manage very well, and today is a good day. Some days I hardly notice it. In fact, today is a wonderful day! My old friend, after all these years!”

We giggled like sixteen-year-olds.

I turned to Rosie.

“I apologise once again, Rosie, but I had to be sure I had the right Fiona and…”

“Good job you came today. Tomorrow we would have been in Pershore! We don’t have to leave for another…” she consulted her watch “…hour. But it’s all under control.” She bustled back into the house.

“Come Kaz, we have lots to talk about.” Fiona led me to a bench. Thirty-five years fell away – we were Kaz and Fi again.

“However did you find me?” she asked.

I reached into my bag and showed her The Woodlanders.
“I was walking past on Tuesday. Rosie had just left a box of books at the top, and I helped myself to a couple. When I saw your name in this one I couldn’t believe it!”

She took it from me.

“Incredible! I think that’s the one we passed around years ago. Loads went to the charity shop.

“I hate getting rid of books but Rosie was adamant. There just isn’t the room where I’m going, although I’ve kept plenty, including my art books of course.”

She paused. “How on earth did we manage to lose touch, Kaz?”

I felt a stab of guilt. How indeed?

I could have visited her mother to enquire after her, but had never got round to it.

“We were so much younger then, and fate took us on separate paths. I couldn’t wait to leave school and start work.

“I married at twenty and had two children quite quickly. We worked hard to just keep our heads above water. Later things got easier and ironically I trained as a primary school teacher – I still love it. Main subject art, would you believe.”

“You had talent, you just weren’t interested then. I missed you so much when you left but I was very focussed and ambitious. After art school I met Phil, an architect, much older than me.

“We lived in Scotland most of our married life and moved back here with Rosie to keep an eye on Mum six years ago. Now Mum and Phil have both died. I taught part-time and still paint a bit.”

Scotland, so that explained it. Our lives in a few sentences. But I had a feeling there would be plenty of time in the future to fill in all the details – thrills and spills, ups and downs of the past.

“So where are you moving to?”

Fi sighed. “I couldn’t manage this house with its huge garden, and all those steps out front. Rosie has married a farmer and they’ve converted one of their small barns for me. I shall be independent and have a little studio so I can still paint. And Rosie is pregnant, so I’m so looking forward to being a grandma!”

“Sounds perfect. I won’t hold you up any longer. Let’s exchange details.”

After sharing our addresses and numbers, I slipped my phone back into my bag and felt the hardback.

“Look what else I found.” I held out the copy of Rebecca, and her face lit up.

“Oh, thank goodness! Don’t tell me it was in the book box!”

“It was, and I’ve been reading it solidly for two days! Good job I’m on holiday.”

“It was packed by mistake. I’d never have given that copy away.”
“No, I can understand why. The bookmark told its own story.”

“Rosie’s gift when I first had my diagnosis.” She hugged the book to her.

“I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed it for a couple of days.”

“Of course not – just like old times.”

“I hadn’t read it since the Eighties but it’s still a wonderful read.”

“The best.”

We then began chatting about du Maurier’s other novels, and could have carried on forever until a crash in the kitchen reminded me that I should leave.

“I’m so glad you found Rebecca, Kaz – and me!” Fi hugged me goodbye.

I drove home echoing Fiona’s phrase. Today is a good day – a wonderful day.

A week later I went to see her. She was delighted with her new home with its small studio overlooking a stunning vista of trees. She had already captured the blazing autumn shades on a canvas.

Since then I’ve visited regularly. There’s room for another easel and in the school holidays we paint together.

We’ve shared endless stories and anecdotes of our adventures abroad. But funnily there was one place neither of us had ever visited, so not long ago we spent a long weekend in Cornwall, just the two of us.

Daphne du Maurier – author of Rebecca – lived for many years at a house called Menabilly which was her inspiration for Manderley.

The house is inaccessible but Fi was well enough to walk nearby and together we wandered ecstatically round the Fowey Estuary, the Helford River and Bodmin Moor, settings for other novels.

Next year we plan a weekend in Dorset exploring Hardy’s Wessex.

We are never lost for words.

There is a saying that friends can be for a reason, a season or a lifetime.

I thought my relationship with Fiona had been for a season, but thanks to the book box a new chapter has begun and it seems likely to last for a lifetime.