Three Wee Bookshops at the End of the World Extract

Read an extract from Three Wee Bookshops at the End of the World by Ruth Shaw.

CHAPTER

WHO WERE YOU, RITA?

I want to pop in here a little story about a woman called Rita, who I met in 1970.

I was working in a retirement home in New South Wales. Night shift involved checking on the residents to ensure they were either asleep or safely tucked up in bed with their bedside light on, maybe reading or just quietly drifting into and out of their own world of remembrance.

Rita was in a room of her own. The only photo on her set of drawers was of her late husband, handsome in his military uniform, a cheeky smile on his clean- shaven face. Every night when I checked she was awake, sitting up with three pillows supporting her back, the fingers of one hand playing with the top of the blanket as she held a book in the other.

My third night on duty, I asked if she would like to have a cup of tea with me. We could sit together in silence if she wanted. ‘I would like that,’ she quietly replied.

And so it was that I slowly got to know Rita, who generally kept very much to herself, preferring her own company, immersed in a book that not only entertained her but also formed a barrier between her and the other residents. When I asked the other nurses about her, they said, ‘Oh, Rita keeps to herself ’, or, ‘She doesn’t want to chat to anyone, she is in her own little world.’

Her medical record was brief: she had been admitted nine months prior, at the age of 82. Born in England in 1888, she had been in the military during the First World War, and married a sergeant from the Australian army who died in 1965. No children or relatives were mentioned. Her health was excellent — the only record of note was that she had had a hysterectomy. Her doctor had admitted her to our elderly care facility after she suffered a number of falls.

Initially Rita and I sat in near silence, drinking our cups of tea with the bedside light on. When we began talking it was often about books, as we both loved reading. I sensed that her long life held many secrets, a burden we shared but did not discuss.

I started to take books in to her. I had just finished The White Rabbit by Bruce Marshall, about F.F.E. Yeo- Thomas, a British undercover special agent in the Second World War. With Rita’s military service I thought this might interest her.

‘I have a great book for you, Rita,’ I said as I sat down.

‘Finished it early this morning.’

My copy was well read, the card cover creased and some of the pages slightly loose. Rita held it with reverence, the fingers of her right hand caressing the pages.

‘I know this book, Ruth. I read it when it was first published and I will certainly enjoy reading it again. What made you read this book?’

‘Ever since I read Anne Frank’s diary I have been interested in how people survived war, and how brave and courageous many of them were,’ I replied. ‘I often ask myself if I would have been as brave. I mean, would I be like the White Rabbit or Nancy Wake? Or would I break under torture?’

‘None of us know that until we are in that situation,’ she replied. ‘Sometimes we find courage that we never thought possible.’ Rita closed the book and reached for my hand.

Her skin was nearly translucent, the veins prominent, her fingers slightly bent with arthritis. Her fingernails were perfect except for the thumb and forefinger on her right hand, which were scarred and deformed.

Our relationship developed over the following months. We often held hands, and I always kissed her goodnight. It was Rita who led the conversation, asking me questions while avoiding answering my own. I learnt to respect her wish to remain private, even though I was dying to know her story. What did she do during the war? Who was her husband and when did they come to Australia? When and why did she have her hysterectomy?

I had known Rita for nearly a year when I was again on the move, leaving for Sydney. When my last afternoon shift ended I dropped in to say goodbye. We sat, both in tears, clasping hands, not wanting to face our final separation.

‘Rita, may I please ask you one question before I go?’

She nodded.

‘What were you during the war?’

There was a long silence, her hand trembled and then she sighed. ‘I was a radio operator, a spy.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Now go, my lovely dear girl.’

‘What happened to your hand?’ I couldn’t resist.

‘Only one question!’ she answered sternly, and with that she slipped her hand from mine. My last kiss on her forehead was tender. I held her head close to my body, feeling her frailness.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered, then turned and left.

Three Wee Bookshops at the End of the World

by Ruth Shaw

This stunning sequel to The Bookseller at the End of the World continues Ruth Shaw's story with more heartwarming tales from a woman who has lived a brave and fascinating life.

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