Pedro And Love

Pedro could never resist a bookshop. Even though he was supposedly travelling round and meeting people, listening to their stories instead of sitting in his garden reading, the sight of a bookshop always stirred his blood and made his heart flutter. Melanie’s Books, in the tiny village of Stockton, was no exception. Tucked away behind the village’s little church, and open at highly irregular times, Melanie’s was a goldmine packed with antiquarian books, modern first editions and – best of all for Pedro – a large paperback fiction section. It also had the advantage of being staffed, as often as not, by the most beautiful woman in the world.

Melanie, the owner, sat behind the counter, usually reading a novel herself, but looking up whenever a customer came into the shop. It was when Pedro first bought a book there that he fell in love with her. The book itself suddenly seemed insignificant, except for the fact that Melanie approved of it. “That’s an excellent choice!” she said, beaming at him.

Her eyes were large and brown, her face serious, her hair a frizzy ginger out-of-control mop, and she wore a white T-shirt with the name Dostoyevsky on the front. Her gaze was penetrating but somehow innocent, as though all the customers in the world were innocent of any wicked thoughts. She gave out a message: all is well with the world, and to this message Pedro responded.

“I’ve been searching for this book for ages,” he said, though in fact he’d picked it up out of mere curiosity. “I’m a big fan.”

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” said Melanie of the obscure author of Pedro’s chosen volume. She laid her book down on the desk and flicked through the book as she took Pedro’s money. “Do come again,” she said, wrapping it in brown paper with a seriousness that entranced Pedro further. She was to regret that invitation.

“Oh, I will!” said Pedro. “Thank you.”

Pedro had found a small B&B on the edge of the village, one of a row of terraced houses, some of which let out a room or two. .And when Pedro left the shop to go there his face was filled with smiles, though at the time he couldn’t see why.

Only when he’d eaten at the village’s only restaurant, and later settled down in his room, stretched out on the narrow single bed, to read his latest purchase, did the enormity of what had happened seize him. For Pedro was visited by Love.

At least, she called herself Love, when Pedro, startled from the printed page, looked up and saw, sitting in the second of the room’s two hard chairs, a young woman in a pretty red dress. Her hair was dark and shining and her eyes twinkled. Pedro noticed immediately that the one that twinkled the most was blue, while the other was brown.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” asked Pedro. Strange occurrences were no surprise to him, but the appearance of this young woman was stranger than most.

“Oh, I’ve been with you since you saw Melanie,” she replied. “I’m Love, Pedro. You’d better get used to me.”

“As long as you don’t disrupt my reading,” said Pedro, picking up his book, the one he had enthused about to Melanie only hours before.

“I would never do such a thing.”

But Pedro found the book tedious; long passages of description, with nothing happening. After only a few pages, he put it aside and rooted about in his case – for he always carried books with him – for something more entertaining, perhaps a favourite fantasy book to re-read. Something by his favourite author, Nathaniel Gibson, perhaps? But he couldn’t settle to that either; the image of Melanie kept coming into his head. “I must get to know that woman,” he muttered.

So began Pedro’s courtship of the fair Melanie.

She was flattered at first. When, a couple of days later, Pedro appeared in the shop with a bunch of red roses, she’d smiled at him and thanked him profusely, and he didn’t notice how flustered she became as she searched for a vase to put them in. When Pedro purchased one of the shop’s most expensive volumes she seemed genuinely concerned.

“Are you sure you can afford this?” she whispered, her big brown eyes widening in amazement. “It’s very expensive.”

“It’s very rare,” explained Pedro.

The very next day he spent a full afternoon in the bookshop, searching among the poetry section, finally seizing on the volume he wanted. This time, when Melanie came to wrap it he held up his hand. “No, no,” he said. “That volume is for you.”

“Oh!” If there was a tiny look of concern, of worry, in Melanie’s eyes, Pedro failed to see it. Instead he beamed at her. “It’s a selection of Love Poetry,” he explained.

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly.

“Not at all,” said Pedro. “I wonder – are you doing anything this evening? I’ve finished the book, you see, and I thought I could take you for a meal and we could discuss it.”

“Tonight? Oh, that’s a shame,” said Melanie. “You see, I have this elderly aunt and I’d promised to see her tonight.”

What a thoughtful girl this was, Pedro thought. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Busy at the shop until quite late. It’s stock taking, you see.”

Undaunted, Pedro ran through the days of the week, realising that obviously one so lovely would be much sought after. In the end, they agreed on Thursday evening, at seven o’clock sharp, in the restaurant. “I could pick you up at home,” Pedro offered.

“No, no. I’ll see you there.”

The days seemed to drag for Pedro, but finally the moment arrived and there he sat, in the special window seat at the restaurant, waiting for Melanie. Seven o’clock came and went, but Pedro wasn’t worried. Half past seven passed. Eight o’clock and the waiter was anxious to take his order. Only then did Pedro start to have the tiniest doubts. Doubt gave way to anxiety, then to outright worry. What if Melanie were ill? What if, on her way to meet him, she had been assaulted, kidnapped even? Images of Melanie in danger flooded his mind, and he decided that he would have to go the bookshop, whether his stomach were rumbling or not. Explaining in a flustered manner to the waiter that he had to leave on urgent business, and oblivious to the waiter’s complete lack of interest in this, Pedro got his coat and left.

The bookshop was not far away, and Pedro hurried, keeping his eyes open should Melanie meet him coming the other way. Then, all would be well; no doubt she would be worried at being late, but he would be magnanimous and wave aside her apologies.

Only when he arrived at the shop and found it in darkness did he begin to entertain the idea that Melanie had simply not turned up. Maybe she had forgotten? He had made the place and time quite clear, though, so it couldn’t be that. Maybe.

“Maybe she didn’t really want to go,” said a voice. Pedro looked round, startled. There behind him was Love.

“You again!”

“I told you – I’ve been with you ever since you saw Melanie.”

“I can’t get her out of my head,” said Pedro, a little desperately. “This has never happened to me before…”

“No, no – it’s me that’s in your head, Pedro. What do you know about Melanie? Next to nothing! Come. Let’s go back to your room.”

Pedro waved a finger in a sudden inspiration. “I will write to her,” he decided. “I will write her a poem. A love poem!”

“No, Pedro!” said Love.

But Pedro was resolved, and he spent the twenty minutes’ walk back to the B&B muttering to himself, and trying out different rhymes. “Love… above… dawn… born… heart so bold…” Beside him, Love hurried, casting anxious looks at him, which he failed to notice.

Later, he sat on his bed and got out his pen. Purple ink, that’s what he would use! A Royal colour, a colour for a Princess. And special calligraphy for the writing. If only he had a calligraphy pen… On her seat, Love sighed and gazed out of the window. Now and again she would try to attract Pedro’s attention, but he was focussed on his Poem.

It took until three in the morning to finish, and to write out a fair copy, in a decorative, stylish text. Pedro read it again and again, and was satisfied. Placing the poem on his bedside table he got into bed and was quickly asleep. Love, at that point, picked up the paper, read it, and shook her head sadly.

The following morning, Pedro was up early. He was the only guest there for breakfast, and the landlady served him his bacon and eggs as quickly as she was able, trying to draw him into conversation; one of the reasons she had started taking guests was for the company, and she liked to chat.

“Up early this morning!” she said brightly. “My other guest lies in every morning – I’m lucky if she’s down before nine. It’s a pleasure to meet such an early bird. My husband – he died, you know – was an early bird, like us. We’d be up at dawn in the summer, out walking. There are some lovely walks round here, you know. Do you walk?”

“Hmmm?” Pedro looked up at her.

“Oh, nothing,” said the landlady, going back into the kitchen.

Pedro finished his breakfast and stepped outside. It was a fine morning, with a bright sun on the cobbled streets of the pretty village. He glanced at his watch: the bookshop would be open in five minutes! Breathlessly, he took out his Poem, checked it over one final time, and then set off.

“Oh!” Melanie’s eyes widened and her face seemed to fall a little when she saw who her first customer was. “About last night…”

Pedro waved away her protests. “We’ll say nothing of it. You were delayed, I imagine, by the work here? No matter. We have many many evenings ahead of us, Melanie…”

“Yes.” Her voice was a soft and faint, her expression a little resigned.

“And I thought also that you might not have realised how strong my feelings are,” Pedro went on.

“You’re very nice,” began Melanie.

“I’m not the most articulate chap, I know,” said Pedro, oblivious to her responses. “So I thought – why not do it, express my feelings, that is, in a poem? Isn’t that what they do?”

“Who?” said Melanie, shuffling papers on the cash desk a little nervously.

“Why, them – the Romantics! Who else?”

“Listen, Mr…”

“Pedro, please!”

“Pedro. It’s just that we’ve known each other such a little time and…”

“I know! And I can hardly think of a time when we didn’t know each other! So!” And with a flourish, Pedro pulled out the Poem from his jacket pocket, and thrust it into Melanie’s hands as they fluttered nervously before him. “You don’t need to read it right away…”

But Melanie’s curiosity was aroused now, and she slowly and carefully unfolded the sheet and began to read.

My Golden Dawn

In travelling through regions cold,

Where flowers fade and love is cast

Into the darkness of the past,

Where dwells the heart of one so bold,

And dreams survive and faith grows old,

I came upon you and was born,

The sun that brings the golden dawn.

“Oh my,” said Melanie, but her mouth gave away a little smile, and she carried on reading.

While lost within the darkest night

Where spectres dance and demons screech

And angels stand beyond my reach,

Where devils too distort my sight

And dark clouds flood the inner light,

I found in you a chance to live,

The sun that light to Earth shall give.

While stranded in my darkest hour

When fearful thoughts pervade the air

Infringing on my bleak despair,

Like blooms upon a wilting flower,

My hopes and joys by fear devoured,

I came on you and rose above,

To find through all I still could love.

As Melanie reached the end of the poem, she held her hand to her mouth. Pedro assumed she had been stricken speechless by his verses. But then he saw the glint in her eyes, and saw that she wasn’t stricken at all. In fact, there was a distinct snigger in her voice as she replied.

“It’s very nice Pedro. Why don’t you send it to the papers?” Her voice broke then, into a fit of giggles.

Pedro’s face flooded red. He did not know whether to feel embarrassed or angry or a mixture of the two. In the end, he snatched the paper away from her. Then he stabbed a finger at her. “Two hours I waited for you last night,” he began. This wasn’t true at all, and Melanie knew it.

“Why, you fibber!” she said. “I saw you outside here just after I’d closed up!”

“Aha! I knew it. You just didn’t come. You didn’t turn up and and and” But Pedro could think of nothing more to say, and he turned and stormed out of the bookshop.

What a place! He wouldn’t stay here a moment longer. He looked up and down the street, expecting to see Love. He would give her a piece of his mind too! But she was not about. Well then, he would leave, move on, find someone more worthy of his talents. His face set in a frown he stomped along back to the B&B. He would pack and settle up right away! He would –

As he strode along the hallway to the stairs, the door to the front room, where breakfast was served, opened, and out came a woman – the late sleeper, no doubt. She was engrossed in a book, and carried a mug of coffee in her hand. They collided, and both book and coffee mug dropped to the floor. Coffee splashed against Pedro’s jacket and he looked at the woman in exasperation.

“Why don’t you look…” he began.

“I’m terribly…” she began, stooping to pick up the book and mug. Then they stared at each other. “I’ve always got my head in a book,” she said. “I’m most awfully sorry. And your jacket…”

“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Pedro dismissed her protest with a wave, his eyes never leaving her. She was not a bit like Melanie, but there was something… something… very fetching about her. Was it the red T shirt? No, far too ordinary. But nevertheless… The he looked at her book.

“Nathaniel Gibson!” he cried.

“Yes. Have you read him?”

“Yes, yes,” said Pedro excitedly. “Oddly enough, I have a copy of that very book in my room. And look – yours is stained with coffee!”

“I was taking my coffee upstairs to read a bit before I go out,” said the woman. “My name’s Ann. You must be the other guest – the early bird!”

“Yes.” They stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Look,” said Pedro finally, “There are coffee making facilities in the rooms, you know. Why not come up and I’ll make you a fresh one and look for my copy of the book I’ve ruined by dashing into the house like I did. I’m Pedro, by the way. I’m on the first floor.” Without waiting to see if she was following, Pedro dashed up the stairs two at a time.

His hands were trembling as he undid the lock on his door. Perhaps she wouldn’t have followed him up? Perhaps she thought him far too odd? But no, as he opened the door, there she stood beside him. But what about Love?

He stepped into his room and looked about cautiously. It was empty. He crossed to the window and looked outside, up the street and down. No sign.

“What are you looking for?” Ann asked, stepping into the room.

“I’m looking for Love,” said Pedro absently.

Ann laughed. She pointed around the room, small, poky, with just the two chairs, the single bed, the old wardrobe. “I don’t think you’ll find love here, Pedro. Will I do?” she added brightly.

Pedro looked at her. There was a certain twinkle in her eye. The right one, which looked just a little.

“I think you will,” he said with a smile. “Now where’s that book?”

Minutes later, Pedro and Ann were seated on the two hard chairs, both engrossed in Nathaniel Gibson.

- THE END -