December 18th, Borders Bookshop, Stockport, UK
Borders was a brand-new bookstore—an unusually large one that stood out in The Peel Centre, a shopping centre (or a mall, as my non-existent American friends might call it). But rather than an enclosed mall, it was more of a strip mall, with each store housed in its own separate building. Borders itself looked sleek and modern, with black-and-white signage that seemed to gleam differently depending on the light. It was located at the most distinctive landmark in the centre: a triangular-roofed building with a circular window known as the oculus. The whole scene felt unmistakably British, you could almost see the Tesco at the corner.
I urged my parents on, but I asked them a question.
"I thought we were going to Manchester."
"'Course we are, son," Oliver, my father replied.
I found it funny that I was going to play Oliver in the Oliver Twist play. Some sort of twisted fate? Who knew.
"Me mate worked on this place before it opened. Some fancy American store—or so he told it. Wanted to take a look, is that fine with ya?" Pa said.
"Aye," I sighed in reply. My dad had what is usually called a working-class accent, so I spoke like a Yorkshire bumpkin to him every time he spoke like how he did with his workmates.
"Gaha," wheezed my father, who seemingly enjoyed me doing a northern accent.
"Let's get us some pen and paper, tomes fer' ye, tomes fer' me—ahh," I struggled as my mum slapped my arm.
"Don't make fun of people's accents," Mum replied in her very Welsh accent.
Dad and I looked at each other before bursting out in a mimic voice of her accent, "Don't make fun of people's accents." We blurted out before she slapped both of us. I was thankful she was gentle on me, but Father had an imprint on his face — he still smiled all the same.
•✦—✦•
The bookstore was a brilliant place. I had some revelations come to me, and each title I read interested me and intrigued me — who was I in the past? What did these choices say about me? But more on that later, perhaps much, much later. I had come here for a singular book, and I hunted for it until I found it in the children's section under new releases.
It was a red book with cover art depicting a boy with round glasses, his hands on his mouth. His shock was explained by a train that seemed to be moving towards him — it had the golden text "Hogwarts Express" emblazoned on a green background.
The boy who lived had the lightning bolt scar visible, with a red and gold scarf. The plaque for 9¾ was hanging from a post.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone — J.K. Rowling. The title card was yellow, white, and black. At the bottom of the cover stood the words: "A terrific read and stunning first novel" – Wendy Coolidge.
I stared at the book, taking in its details both with my eyes and in my brain, matching it with the revelation that had been injected within me. I took the book and looked at the back, where I knew an error would be that would eventually price this book at £100,000. Unfortunately, I found nothing on the back that matched what I knew. There was supposed to be a typo, but I couldn't find it — and the nameless wizard that I saw on the back seemed to mock me as he dragged on his pipe.
"Wilfred Price, wouldn't give up," I told myself, as I had become used to saying. Henry was beating me up in almost every rehearsal. We had done so much in the last month and a half, and we would soon be doing the play in front of our parents right before Christmas holidays. Henry had a smile for mile and mile. Dodger was so perfect for him, and I was annoyed by how much I was starting to like Henry Harrison.
It saddened me that the book was indeed there, but seeing twenty-five more copies made me worried. There were only a few hundred books, as the revelation had told me — and sure enough, every book had a back cover with no typo of any kind.
"Is this the book you wanted?" my dad called out to me as he held the show copy at the top of the shelves, away from my reach. "Why is he being run over?"
"Oh my god!" I swore. "Dad, can I see that book? Please, please."
"Oh, no, not that easy. I'll trade you for it," Dad said.
I huffed. "I won't kick you in the shins, if you hand it over."
Dad held both his hands up. "Easy does it, boy. Erin, you are a terrible role model."
"Your son's right, you know. I traded for this ring and married you. Now look at me…" Mum sighed.
"Oww, surely you don't regret it," my dad said, genuinely hurt. But I needed my book, and I needed it now.
"Oww…" my father genuinely cried out as I kicked him in the shin — not too hard, mind.
"Fine, have it." He handed it over.
As I turned over the book and ignored the banter between my parents, I read the back.
"Acclaim for Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone," I read, and smiled. The famed typo that had just earned me a hundred grand. I loved my revelations, and I wanted to know more. My eyes roved over to the bottom of the book: Bloomsbury logo with a £4.99 price tag. I smiled to myself as I put it under my armpit to keep it safe.
"Dad, is there any more copies of that book up there?" I asked.
"Hmm, let me look," he said. "There you go." He handed me three more. But I saw that all were the same as the dozens I had checked before my father had handed me his copy.
"Mom, can I ask for a favour?"
"'Course, Wilf. Do you want the book?" my mom cooed. I didn't like that voice — she used it to baby me.
"Erm, if you could ask the staff if they have more copies of this…" I pointed to the book under my armpit before holding two different copies in each hand, with the back shown to my mother.
"I think this one is special — look at this. It is misspelled and has no 'o' in the word Philosopher's. I checked all of them and only this one has the wrong spelling," I explained.
"Well, you can just have this one then." My mom tapped the copy without the typo.
"No, Mum. I mean that I want the one with the error," I explained.
"Now that's silly. What if it has errors in the book itself?" Mum gently chided me, finally dropping her baby voice.
"I think it's special. But I want to know if there's any more with this error. Can you ask the staff if they've got more stock?" I asked, making sure to sound as nice as possible.
"Let me see that," Father reached out for my copy, and I stood next to him as I pointed at the typo. Even my mom looked at it curiously.
"That's interesting. I'll find out. Don't worry, lad. I only ask one thing in return," my father said, his voice turning serious.
"What?" I asked, stupidly.
"You'll never kick me shins again," Father spoke in a deep and assertive tone, but with his silly accent.
I employed some of my new acting skills as my eyes widened in shock, as if I had just realised I was outplayed and tricked by my father. But he was the only fool here — he did not know my final goal: expensive and rare book. My shoulders slumped, maybe a bit too much and too suddenly. I chided myself for that. I sighed as I closed my eyes, shaking my head side to side slowly.
"Fine. Deal." I extended my hand for a handshake while my feet tapped the floor impatiently.
"My god, when did you become so dramatic?" my mom cackled nearby. But my eyes stared at my father's. Our eyes met, and without either of us blinking, we shook hands slowly and intently.
"Oi, cut it out." Mom broke the two of us from our manly activities.
My father nodded at me, and as he turned, he burst out laughing. I smiled too, before I held my mom's hand.
"Do you want to browse around?"
"Sure," Mum said as she led me.
I saw many books — some triggered memories, and some didn't. The Adventures of Captain Underpants looked eye-catching in that it was proudly American and looked different from English books. We went through the aisles, lifting up books with funny-looking covers or odd titles. Mum stopped abruptly on a book titled Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. She handed the book over to me and pointed at the title.
"What does it say?"
"Bridget Jones' Diary… by Helen Fielding?*" I asked.
"Yes, but do you see anything else?" I read the other lines and the review on the cover before my mum sighed and took it away, then pointed at it again.
"No 's after a word ending in s," Mum pressed. "Anyone can write anything now."
A revelation came into my mind as soon as the error was pointed out to me, and I was shocked. My mum was right of course — but she was also wrong, and the topic seemed to be an interesting way to get her frustrated but also do something fun for both of us.
"Some might disagree, Mum," I shook my head. "I think singular or plural has an effect on it. Mrs. Ramsdale said it depends on the possession too."
Mum shook her head lightly. "It doesn't sound right. It should be Bridget Jones' Diary. Have you heard yourself say the line? What did you say?"
I was shocked to recall that I had called it Jones' Diary.
"See, you know it — you don't say Jones-iz Diary. I mean, that sounds silly." Mum continued.
"Maybe it's an American thing?" I said awkwardly, as I tried to recall more on the subject I had just learned.
"I suppose. But it doesn't make it right. English is from England, mind," Mum said.
"I thought it was from Wales," I laughed. She cuffed my ear.
"No, Welsh is from Wales. Paid â bod yn dwp!" said Mum in Welsh. She had tried her best to make me learn the language, and so far I had resisted — but I was fairly sure that meant "Don't be daft." I huffed in indignation.
"My god, that Drama teacher is spoiling you," Mum laughed.
"She's really good! Also really scary." I shuddered.
"I think I'll like her."
"You would!" I agreed. We continued our little disagreement, but I ended up conceding to my mum. My revelation said that both were acceptable, but my mum didn't accept it — and I was eight years old arguing with an adult. But I felt that I would be losing arguments to her no matter how old I would be.
"Boo!" My father shook me and lifted me up. As mature as I thought myself, I ended up screaming in shock.
My mum and dad laughed, and they both kept me between themselves until I laughed too. They were the nicest parents that God could give me. Maybe there weren't gods, but...
"I've found another one like tha' book with you," Father said.
I couldn't help but smile brightly at him, before looking away, embarrassed.
"Can I buy three books?"
"Oh, have you picked more?" he asked me. I shook my head.
"I want these three." I pointed to the first print and second print books I had in my hand and gestured to my father's copy — another first print.
"Now you're just being silly," Dad laughed.
"No kicking in your shins," I said in a clipped tone.
Father seemed to understand what was at stake.
"Aye, no kickin' me shins," he said, in a very serious accent.
Maybe there were gods in the world after all.