He moved it around every so often. When he found himself tripping over the pile of books on the floor one more time and he knew had to find some space. Books came, books went, that was his view. Some of them he even read. Some of them he didn’t, such was the obsession he had with his books. ‘One day I’ll read it’, he would say to himself and then a fad or fancy would wear off and some other passion would take its place.

Now and then Allan would do a charity shop run and amongst all the other trivia making that final journey out of his doors—stuff which had bubbled to the top of the discard pile—he’d have a ‘library’ clear out as well. Each time he found himself making a decision on the scruffy book, with the substantial brown paper covering (like no-one does any more, he told himself). He’d look at the last page of the story (without reading the ending of course, for that was a heinous crime) and see that it was over a thousand pages long and sigh, put it back on the shelf and tell himself that one day, he would make the time to do justice to ‘Gone with the Wind’.

Back then, he didn’t know the book’s background, but it must have piqued his interest as he, his brother and sister cleared out their parents’ house in those difficult days after they both died. He made sure he put it in his box to take away. Whether it was his love of books; his joy of reading; or the iconic nature of the title, he didn’t know. But somehow, it made it onto the bookshelf in his home, still making the cut over all those years.

He liked to think it was something more significant than fate that brought the two of them together in the end. On the day he, at last, began to read it.

Allan had let things slide a little over the holiday season, so the newest cull came the first week in January, after an accumulation of book gifts people always gave him. He was never surprised to receive books as a gift, because for those who knew him at all, it was an easy solution.

Whether it was because he had just finished his current book or that he had finally made a foray into longer books when he read ‘Ahab’s Wife’in the past year, Allan pulled the brown paper covered book off the shelf, positioned it in a safe place on his desk, and ensured it wouldn’t be confused with the myriad of random titles in the box to go.

He determined, right there and then, to dig into all those pages containing the epic of Scarlett and Rhett.

He never knew what prompted little actions, but as he had gotten older, he had come to trust and embrace serendipity. Sometimes, when there he noticed a moment of doubt, he’d learned to listen to his intuition and hear what it said, letting life come at him with all it had to tempt him with. He looked forward to those trigger moments where his gut twitched and he caught himself thinking, ‘Aha, what’s this about?’

As far as he could recall, he’d never been disappointed. Even when there was nothing at the end of these little inspirations, he appreciated that they had sent him on at least some sort of journey. Above all, he loved himself all the more for his acceptance of the fun and joy of such irresponsibilities.

That morning he picked up the book and took a little time to inspect it, in all its one thousand page glory. He’d known all about the book and its place in both literature and movie history. He’d never seen the film or read the book, but now he wanted to.

Now, finally, something was drawing it to him.

As he opened the book, he saw, on the inside front cover, the blue edged inscribed gift tag, with familiar handwriting.

And for a few minutes, he was transported. . .

***

The snow had lain thick that week. On December days that far North, it so often did. In the early morning gloom, the sight of the anaemic sun speckling the frosted inside of the glass mesmerised Christine for a few moments. She shivered as she positioned the rough woollen blanket over her nose. Her recycled breath gave her some small feeling of warmth. In the other bed in the room, her three brothers snoring broke the silent stillness. 

With a firmly closed window, the fetid air was almost tangible. Boys eh? She peered over to them, and her mouth formed a smile beneath the blanket, for she loved them all. She inched over to the side of her bed reaching under to touch the gifts that lay beneath.

She had made great efforts to choose well for each of the boys and her sister, as well as Dad and Mum. Her work in the Council offices was at last bringing in a steady wage. Most of it went back into the family kitty, but Christine was thrifty and had scraped together enough to buy something nice for everyone.

Down on the open market, she had found a beautifully patterned coverlet for the bed her sister shared with her husband Joe, three streets away in their own little house. In a hurried wedding, they married when he was on leave from the RAF, so that she might capture him before he went back to war. For Derek, Ronald and Leonard, leather gloves, a heavy weave scarf and a claret and blue painted football rattle.

Finally, her hands made their way from the soft cardigan for her mother to the prize she had found for her father. It was a book she knew he would cherish, for, despite his love of reading, she knew he had never read this book.

He hadn’t been well, so this would be something to take his mind off his worries, and she was sure he would enjoy it. The added bonus, when he finished it, was that she could read it too. A passion for reading was a gift he had passed down to her.

***

Putting the inscription to the back of his mind for the moment, Allan began to read. The paper upon which the book was printed upon was from a different era. He marvelled at its gossamer thinness. At first, he found it difficult to separate the pages, often taking two at a time until he discovered a technique that worked.

He had reproached himself when he was tempted to lick his finger, but something about the background of the book stopped him from doing so. He felt it would somehow defile its history.

The tale was compelling, and he continued to read longer than he should. One cup of coffee after another, chapter after chapter he drove on. Once his stomach began to rumble, he looked at the clock, placed his ‘Images of Blackpool’ bookmark in place and put the book down.

As he did, something compelled him to pick it up once more, and he began to investigate the fabric of the book further.

The brown paper cover was almost intact, giving good protection, despite all the years that had passed. With not a little dread, it reminded Allan of a long-forgotten drudgery, where at the beginning of each school year his mother insisted that they cover all their new textbooks. With great care, he unwrapped the outer coverings to find several publisher flyers inside. They did their marketing thing, even back in those days.

Like a magnet, he felt drawn to the evocative gift tag on the inside front cover. And the eight handwritten words that had taken his breath away.

He took a further peek.

He recognised the beautiful fountain-pen royal blue handwriting as his mother’s. He reached out to the inscription, letting only his fingertips brush the magic held in each word, drifting back to when she was alive and young. Within but a few years of putting her pen to this very paper, she would bear him as her first son.

***

As she slipped out of bed, she took her time, for every movement seemed to set the bedsprings off in a harsh clamour. She found her two thick jumpers from the rattan chair at the side of her bed, pulled them over her head and smoothed them out over her flannel nightie. She eased her feet into her fluffy slippers. No-one else stirred in the house, and she wanted to put her presents beneath the little silver tree downstairs before anyone else awoke.

She tip-toed down the wooden staircase, avoiding the two steps which everyone knew creaked if you stood in the middle of them. Skipping over the hard flagstones into the parlour she placed her gifts alongside those from the others in the family, under the tree.

All the gifts except one.

She had been undecided what to write inside her Father’s present. She gazed at the little blue gift tag she’d made and pasted inside the front cover. She went to the corner bureau, found his fountain pen, which he let her use for special letters. She kept her words simple. Words that came from her heart. 

“To Dad, with love from Christine.

Christmas 1950”

She ran the blotter over the top and for a moment admired her work. She hurried with wrapping paper and string to complete the special package for the father she loved so, and placed it out of the way.

That done, her job, being first up, was to stir the coals in the banked-up fire and get some sort of heat flowing. This year would be a Christmas of fun, frivolity and at least a semblance of plenty to go around. Some food, warmth and joy for all.

Lost in her thoughts, she sat by the fire, gently nursing the embers and realised that she was starting to feel happy in her life. She had a new admirer at work, for whom she had high hopes. She enjoyed the work she was doing and apart from her father’s illness, they were beginning to make a better home for themselves. After the poverty they had experienced through her early years and the war, things were beginning to look up.

***

There was excitement around the parlour as they all watched each other give and receive later that morning. Christine had planned ahead carefully and made sure that her gift to her Father was the very last one. As she went to fetch it, she noticed yet again he was much thinner these days, and that he was not well. In her heart, she knew that the signs for him were not good, so she wanted this moment to be very special.

“I have your present for you father.” 

He looked over at her with a fondness he reserved for the daughter who had become the child closest to him. 

“Really. For me?” He feigned surprise as she passed it over to him. 

“Open it. Go on, open it.”

She was as excited at the giving of her gift as she was in the receipt of any she had been given that morning.

He made a great fuss out of unfastening the string. He set it to one side and found his way to the opening of the paper. He unfolded the book from its protection and looked up at her as he did, a joyful smile forming on his gaunt face.

“What is it? What have you got for me, Christine?” He teased her yet again.

“It’s a book, Father. The one you always wanted.”

He turned it over and looked at it, marvelling at the title.

“Why, so it is. ‘Gone with the Wind’.” He showed everyone in the room.

“Thank you, Christine. Thank you.”

“You will read it with me, won’t you Father?”

“Of course. We will read it together.”

And as he hugged her, he made sure she didn’t see the tears in his eyes. And he didn’t know if they were tears of joy or of sadness.

***

Allan marvelled at the story. He wondered if his grandfather ever did read the book and what he made of it. As he turned page after page, he speculated at the impact of Scarlett’s character on him and whether his own mother read the book too.

He knew of her journey, over time, from lowly beginnings to a middle-class world where her own children would never be hungry. They would go on to colleges and their own middle-class lives. What gift did Scarlett give to his mother?

***

She sat up with him all that night, like she had many nights before. Her mother had struggled to support him, driven half-crazy at the thought of losing her husband of over thirty years. Christine read from the same book she had given him exactly four months before, on that Christmas Day 1950, when she wrote her message to him.

Over the last weeks and days, she read the earlier chapters of the story most often. When the cotton was high, the sun shone, and all was well, for he liked them the best. In his most lucid moments, they reflected on the irony of a story about cotton from so far away, their own lives being so attached to weaving the material that came from those bonny fields of Georgia.

One day, as she was resting in the room with him, he spoke out to her without warning.

“I’m so pleased we shared the book, Christine. Thank you for my present.”

She held his hand with a firm grip. She did not want to let him go.

“It has been such a pleasure reading it with you, Father. Such a pleasure.” 

Listening to Christine read the story seemed to give him peace. She mopped his brow, gave him small sips of water and, later that night of April 25^th, 1951, he passed away at the age of 53.

She took the book with her that night and placed it by her bedside. When she herself got married, she took the book with her and kept it, safe in the knowledge of its importance to her. She made sure that once in a while she took it out and read it to herself, just like she read it to her father the night he died.

***

Allan never knew his mother’s father, nor the impact of his early death on the family. He never discussed his grandfather with his mother, for reasons he never knew, and he never can.

Now that Allan has read the old book, he gives thanks to Scarlett and the energy she gave his mother, and in time, to him.

For Fred Shapcott and Mary Haworth (Shapcott)