Books at Christmas

A Christmas story by Michael Mullen

JOHN Smith was the last of the book sellers at Charing Cross Road. He was stubborn, as his told him. All the others had departed. They met at the Porcupine Pub and wept at the passing of good times. They were all warm-hearted men. Their only hope was that someone would discover Shakespeare’s First Folio by John Heminges and Henry Condell. That would restore their fortunes.

There was no such luck and luck had run out like sand in an egg timer.

The one place they could go to was on the South Bank of The Thames and close to the Globe Theatre. Some purchased book barrows and, like hawkers, they went from place to place. John’s old friend, who was Chinese, called them the Itinerant Book Sellers. When they stopped in some respectable place the police were called and they were advised to move away.

“These are respectable people. You need a licence to be a hawker. Ask any bone and rag man and he will advise you.”

“I am from good people. I went to Cambridge University. I studied Latin and Greek.”

“Tell that to the marines.”

“I don’t know any marines but I know some ambassadors.”

“If I see you here once more I shall throw you in jail. They don’t read books here. They read Hallo magazine and Vogue and magazines on the royal family.”

The old book seller wept quietly. It should not have happened. He quoted Virgil. In this passage, Aeneas gazes at a mural found in a Carthaginian temple dedicated to Juno that depicts battles of the Trojan War and the deaths of his friends and countrymen. Aeneas is moved to tears and says “sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt”. “These are the tears of' things and mortal things touch the mind.”

Some were insulted by young thugs. Some had thrown paint over their book barrows. Others had their books burned.

He recalled the Nazi book burnings. It was a campaign conducted by the German Student Union to ceremonially burn books in Nazi Germany and Austria in the 1930s. The books targeted for burning were those viewed as being subversive or as representing ideologies opposed to Nazism. These included books written by Jewish, pacifist, religious, liberal, anarchist, socialist, and Communist authors.

In Charing Cross fancy shops opened. They sold Russian fur coats, jewellery and the latest fashions. Beautiful women walked down catwalks in fashionable clothes. Young ladies with old men arrived in expensive cars.

Sometimes one or two of the drivers arrived at his shop and purchased books. Some spoke several languages.

He sold the Works of Francois Villon to one in French. He was greatly impressed.

“These people don’t read and these young women are not their wives. Most of the men are bankers or gangsters, which equates to the same thing. What happened all the book stores along here?”

“The rent was increased and then increased again. It became impossible.”

“And what happened to the book sellers?”

“Some gave up and took on new jobs. They became bus conductors, street cleaners, grave diggers, forgers and one became a successful thief. He brings us to his mansion every Christmas.”

“He must be good.”

“Good. He’s the Rembrandt of thieves.”

Each year on Shakespeare’s birthday they gathered together and compared notes. Amongst them was Martin Stone. He had a sharp eye for a first edition. One day he had purchased a book by one of the Rossettis. He purchased it for six pence and sold it for £1,000.

“And what made it so important, Martin?” they asked.

“It was written by their son and there are only six copies in existence.”

“Trust you to know that. You were lucky. You played for Chilli Willi & The Red Hot Peppers. We all should have a second string to our bow.”

Martin Stone still moved between London and Paris. He worked at Shakespeare and Co. and was in constant trouble with George Whiteman, an illegitimate descendant of the poet.

The bookseller had some friends who called in to see him.

They brought a bottle of wine, knowing that he was partial to Chateau Margaux.

His Chinese friend brought him sorghum wine. It made them both merry. They spoke in Chinese and the old man sang ancient Chinese classics while he played on an ancient Chinese guqin.

December was coming. It was not a pleasant time and the booksellers down at the Globe Theatre gathered their books into rusty vans and went home.

The bookseller’s wife was growing impatient with her husband.

“Sell out. Take what they are offering you and retire. Sell books from home. You are growing old. It is cold down at Charing Cross.”

“No,” he replied.

“You are stubborn.”

At this point all seemed lost. However, hope was approaching from the most unlikely place.

A demolition team were tearing down an old building. They took out an old trunk and opened it. It was filled with manuscripts in Chinese. “For the fire,” one said.

“I know an old antique book dealer. He is interested in Chinese things. There could be some drinking money here.”

They stopped at the shop. The bookseller was talking with an old Chinese friend.

“Boss. We have some Chinese papers here you might be interested in.”

They carried them inside and placed them on a table. He gave them fifty pounds and wished them a happy Christmas.

They examined them. Then they danced with joy. They had bought the most important collection of Chinese manuscripts outside China.

“We got us a million,” the antique book buyer said.

And so it all ended well. The manuscripts even fetched more than a million.

John Smith purchased a great house close to Hay on Wye, which was the most important book centre in England.

He became a legend.