Part 15 (1/2)

”Mr. Grey, we're out of chits,” Mr. Voskins said. ”And I need to speak to you about the queue.”

”We'll come back a day early, and you can have Gemma for New Year's,” she said.

”It's nearly to the end of the aisle,” Mr. Voskins said. ”Should we loop it round?”

Margaret started toward the jammed aisle. ”Wait,” I said, ”I have Gemma's present at home. Just a moment.”

I hurried over to the literature shelves and then remembered those books had been moved over under Travel. I knelt and looked for the other copy of A Little Princess. It wasn't wrapped, but she would at least have it for Christmas.

It wasn't there. I looked through the B's twice, and then ran a finger along the backs, looking for the dark-blue cover. It wasn't there. I checked Children's, thinking Yet to Come might have put it there, but it wasn't, and when I stood up from checking Literature again, Margaret was gone.

”I've made it a double queue,” Mr. Voskins said. ”This is going to be a great success, isn't it? Mr. Grey?”

”A great success,” I said, and went to write more numbers on slips of paper.

Sir Spencer arrived at a quarter till two in a Savile Row suit. He settled himself in the straight-backed chair, looked disdainfully at the table and the queue, and uncapped one of the fountain pens.

He began to sign the books that were placed before him, and to dispense wisdom to the admiring queue.

”Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future,” he said, scrawling a squiggle that might have been an S followed by a long, uneven line. ”And an excellent time to plan your financial strategy for the new year.”

Four persons back in the queue was someone who could only be meant to be Marley, an old-fas.h.i.+oned coat and trousers draped with heavy chains and a good deal of gray-green greasepaint. He had a kerchief tied round his head and jaw and was clutching a copy of Making Money Hand Over Fist.

”They're actually going to try to reform him,” I thought, and wondered what Sir Spencer would say.

Marley moved to the front of the queue and laid his open book down on the table.

”In life . . .” he said, and it was a curious voice, brittle, dry, a voice that sounded as if it had died away once and for all.

”In life I was Jacob Marley,” he said, in that faint dead voice, and shook his chain with a gray-green hand, but Sir Spencer was already handing his book back to him and was reaching for the next.

”There are those who say that money isn't everything,” Sir Spencer said to the crowd. ”It isn't. Money is the only thing.”

The queue applauded.

At half-past two, Sir Spencer stopped to flex the fingers of his writing hand and drink his Armentieres water. He consulted, whispering, with his secretary, looked at his watch, and took another sip.

I went over to the order desk to get another bottle, and when I came back I nearly collided with the Spirit of Christmas Present. He was carrying a huge plum pudding with a sprig of holly on top.”What are you doing?” I said.

”Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future,” he said, winking, and started toward the table, but the sleek secretary interposed herself between him and Sir Spencer.

He tried to give the plum pudding to her, still laughing, but she handed it back. ”I specifically requested light refreshments,” she said sharply, and went back over to Sir Spencer, looking at her watch.

Present followed her. ”Come, know me better,” he said to her, but she was consulting with Sir Spencer again, and they were both looking at their watches.

She came over to me. ”The queue needs to move along more quickly,” she said. ”Tell them to have their books open to the t.i.tle page.”

I did, working my way back along the queue. There was a sudden silence, and I looked back at the table. Yet to Come had glided in front of a middle-aged woman at the front of the queue, and she had stepped back, clutching her book to her wide bosom.

He's going to do it, I thought, and almost wished he could. It would be nice to see something good happen.

Sir Spencer reached his hand out for the book, and Yet to Come drew himself up and pointed his finger at him, and it was not a finger, but the bones of a skeleton.

I thought, he's going to speak, and knew what the voice would sound like. It was the voice of Margaret, telling me she wanted a divorce, telling me they had to take an earlier train. The voice of doom.

I drew in my breath, afraid to hear it, and the secretary leaned forward. ”Sir Spencer does not sign body parts,” she said sternly. ”If you do not have a book, please step aside.”

And that was that. Sir Spencer signed newly purchased hardbacks until a quarter of three and then stood up in midscrawl and went out the previously arranged back way.

”He didn't finish,” the young girl whose book he had been in the midst of signing said plaintively, and I took the book and the pen and started after him, though without much hope.

I caught him at the door. ”There are still people in the queue who haven't had their books signed,” I said, holding out the book and pen, but the secretary had interposed herself between us.

”Sir Spencer will be signing on the second at Hatchard's,” she said. ”Tell them they can try again there.”

”It's Christmas,” I said, and took hold of his sleeve.

He looked pointedly at it.

”You'll miss your plane to Majorca,” the secretary said, and he pulled his sleeve free and swept away, looking at his watch.

”Late,” I heard the secretary say.

I was still holding the pen and the open book, with its half- finished S. I took it back to the girl. ”If you'd like to leave it, I'll try to get it signed for you. Was it a Christmas present?”

”Yes, for my father,” she said, ”but I won't see him till after Christmas, so that's all right.”

I took her name and telephone number, set the books on the order desk, and began taking down the posters.

I had thought perhaps Yet to Come would have disappeared after his failure with Sir Spencer like the others had, but he was still there, putting books into boxes.

He seemed somehow more silent-which was impossible, he had never spoken a word-and downcast, which was ridiculous, as well. The Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come was supposed to be dreadful, terrifying, but he seemed to have shrunk into himself. Like Gemma, shrinking against the shelves.

It's Sir Spencer that's terrifying, I thought, and his secretary. And her gold Rolex watch.

”Scrooges are praised and much rewarded for their greed,” Present had said, and so they were, with Savile Row suits and knighthoods and Majorca. No wonder the Spirits had fallenon hard times.

”At least you tried,” I said. ”There are some battles that are lost before they're begun.”

Children's came over to buy a gift. ”For Housewares. I told her I didn't believe in exchanging with colleagues,” she said irritably, ”but she's bought me something anyway. And I'd planned on leaving early. I suppose you are, too, so you can spend the evening with your little girl.”

I looked at my watch. It was after three. They would be leaving for the station soon, and Robert's parents, and the orthodontist.

I cleared away the refreshments. I put foil over the plum pudding and set it next to the girl's book, which I had no hope of getting signed, and went back to help Yet to Come take Making Money Hand, Over Fist down from the shelves, trying not to think about Gemma and Christmas Eve.

The spirit stopped suddenly and drew himself up and pointed, the robe falling away from his bony hand. I turned, afraid of more bad news, and there was Gemma in the aisle, working her way toward us.

She was pus.h.i.+ng steadily upstream through shoppers who all seemed to be going in the opposite direction, ducking between shopping bags with a determined expression on her narrow face.

”Gemma!” I said, and pulled her safely out of the aisle. ”What are you doing here?”