Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths by Holly Bell (good book recommendations TXT) 📗

I was young, we read proper books. Like Jane Eyre.’

Amanda had made her way through that particular classic when she was seven and concluded, after the last page, that Mr Rochester would have made a rather oppressive husband.

‘It’s a bit gloomy,’ she commented.

‘Well yes, but … what about Pride and Prejudice? That’s a nice happy, funny story.’

Amanda had read that too, when she eight. She had rejected Mr Darcy in favour of Mr Bingly as a spouse, or Colonel Fitzwilliam if he were not likely to be inconveniently away so often fighting Napoleon.

‘I expect she reads them at school,’ Amanda offered reassuringly.

‘Hm, well, let me get another glass of Cava. Would you like anything dearie?’

‘No, thank you, Sylvia.’ She had already sampled the delicacies and supplied Tempest with salmon and caviar.

With Sylvia’s departure, there was a brief moment of peace in which to look at John’s book, entitled No Rest for the Wicket. In the front, he had written.

To Amanda. Yours, John.

She looked up to see a wave from Ryan. They were too separated by the throng to speak. The chatter, the press of people, and the colours around her began to overwhelm Amanda. She retreated to a temporary space, wondering where Tempest might be. He had disposed himself comfortably on Irma Uberhausfest’s fake fur purple coat, cast on a seat in the readers’ section. A misshelved book distracted Amanda. She wondered if she should let Mrs Pagely or Jonathan know and looked around for one of them.

The assistant librarian happened to turn in her direction. She met Jonathan’s eyes. That was the moment. Suddenly, the ground seemed to shake, the light to dim, time hanging suspended.

‘Ammee!’ Little Amir Patel was tugging at her skirt. The spell was broken. Amanda looked down. ‘Reeed!’

She smiled at him, thinking she must have imagined the tremor. No one else seemed to be showing any signs of concern. Jonathan had once more been hidden by the crowd.

‘Of course.’ Amanda took Amir’s hand, and they walked towards the children’s library. Dr Patel was approaching to join them as Alex came up with a plate of cheese puffs.

‘Amanda, would you be an angel and take these over to John? They’re faves of his, and we did them specially, but I must cut up the cake.’

‘How about if Nani reads to you,’ the doctor asked Amir helpfully.

This altered arrangement being acceptable to young Master Patel, Amanda was released to deliver the delicacies, wondering what John had meant by ‘Yours’. Probably that’s what he wrote in everyone’s book, she decided.

More people were turning up. More, surely, than had RSVP’d. Mrs Pagely and Jonathan had their hands full, finding more glasses, plates, and seats, greeting long-lost library users, some of whom had requested new library cards.

Mrs Pagely did not want to turn anyone away. It was an opportunity too good to miss. Keeping up the reader numbers was essential, what with the number of libraries that had been closed throughout out the country.

Amanda retreated to the comparative peace behind the counter, catching her breath and looking up at the calm white of the ceiling. Granny’s words, ‘have fun’ came back to her. Whatever had she meant? Was it possible …? Perhaps, the inspector was going to turn up, as a surprise. She was looking towards the doors of the library, when her reverie was disrupted.

‘Amanda?’

Mrs Entwhistle made up with her lack of stature with sheer force of presence. A fluffy cloud of pale grey hair contrasted with a determined chin above a wiry frame.

‘Hello,’ Amanda replied politely.

‘I need a book.’

‘I’m not a librarian, Mrs Entwhistle.’

‘Almost. You’ve assisted in the past, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but only —’

‘Now I’m sure you wouldn’t want to let an old woman down, not someone who was so fond of your dear grandparents.’

Amanda found herself unequal to the struggle.

‘How can I help?’

‘It’s a particular book. Obscure Observations – avian sightings by a Hertfordshire ornithologist written by Dr Hulberd Brayne. I’ve been trying to find a copy for years so I could have one of my own, but there isn’t one to be found.’ Mrs Entwhistle ended her sentence with a hint of pathos. ‘I first read it here, so I know there’s a copy, but it’s not on the shelf.’

‘Well, please, let me just check,’ said Amanda, going to the computer.

‘Are you saying I’m not capable …?’

‘It might be out on loan …. Hm … yes, it’s listed as on the shelf. You’re sure it’s not there?’

‘Positive. It must be in the stacks. Now be a dear and fetch it. It won’t take you a minute.’

Amanda had been into the basement once before. It had been a highly unnerving experience. Furthermore, Jonathan had been saying for ages that there was something very odd about the place. Actually, Mrs Pagely had said he’d wanted to talk to her about it. Amanda looked around anxiously, hoping to give the job to either of the official library staff. But they were nowhere to be seen in the crowd.

‘Amanda?’

Mrs Entwhistle was both entreating and insistent.

‘It’s very dusty,’ Amanda protested.

The lady produced a large lavender handkerchief.

‘Here, use this. You’ll be back in a jiffy, I’m sure, with your keen eyes. Of course ... if you’d rather not. I don’t want to be a nuisance. It can wait. It’s just,’ Mrs Entwhistle said wistfully, ‘I’ve seen what I’m almost sure is the purple-crested wippling pippet in my garden, and it’s the only book I’ve ever found that has a truly accurate description. These days … since my dear husband … my only real comfort …’

Amanda assumed her dear husband had departed for the great hideout in the sky. Claire could have told her that he’d taken off several years ago with Chastity Prooner, the landscape gardener who had failed lamentably to live up to her name. Mrs Entwhistle’s relief at the departure of her unpleasant spouse had resulted in a discreet soirée organised by Irma Uberhausfest, in which the volume of Bollinger consumed had passed into legend. However, Claire was