Bibliobibulis

This is a sequel to All You Need is a Cat (found on my

page!) , but it can be read as a standalone.

Winston never liked cats. He found himself irritated by their constant need for food, lack of affection towards him, and long, drawn out meows when he tried to interact with them. He and Rosemary had owned dogs, fish, guinea pigs, and even an iguana over the years, but no felines. 

If someone had told Winston six months ago where he would be now, he practically would have laughed, though no one would hear it; Winston Edward Grey laughs on the inside.

Rosemary is dead, yet Winston is not alone. He has Oscar.

The gray cat with green eyes had single-pawedly changed Winston’s way of life. 

Before, he had woken up in the bed he had shared with Rosemary, already dreading the day ahead of him. He had shuffled around his cottage like a robot, completing his daily tasks: eat, read, stare out the window, sleep, repeat. 

Every day had been a trying effort to live with his grief.

Then, Oscar arrived in his life. 

Oscar was a strange, socially awkward cat, not unlike Winston himself.

Oscar’s favorite activities included clawing at the postman through the front door slot; knocking over every glass of water he sees; watching Downton Abbey, swishing his tail angrily every time Mr. Bates appeared on screen; and making a bed for himself in Rosemary’s old Liberty London tote bags. 

Oscar and Winston had developed a grudging coexistence which morphed into a mutual admiration after many shared episodes of Downton and salmon. Season 3 of Downton was their preferred, and their favorite fish was a German varietal that Winston specially ordered from the market in town.

In the two months since Lili Pontbridge showed up at the Grey residence with shortcake and a cat, Winston and Oscar had established a daily routine of eating, sleeping, and staring contests.

Today, however, the routine has been thrown aside for spontaneity, a concept Winston cannot seem to wrap his head around. 

Lili Pontbridge has invited him to her fortnightly book club meetings approximately five times, each of which Winston has declined, citing conflicts involving the care of Oscar (“Oscar insists on maintaining his schedule each day, and I cannot ignore his wish.”). 

Lili, with her incessant chatter and sprightly demeanor, is more than Winston can handle on a quiet spring morning. Heaven knows a gaggle of her book club friends would simply make him keel over.

She had finally worn him down when she mentioned that the club’s next read was Anne of Green Gables. It had been Rosemary’s favorite book, and she and Winston had visited Prince Edward Island in the first few years of their marriage. 

Winston picks up Rosemary’s copy of the book from his nightstand, his fingers tracing the gold flowers engraved into the pale green cover. He flips through the dog-eared pages, worn by years of reading by the fire. 

Rosemary had left small notes in the margins, highlighting certain lines and remarking her thoughts on Anne Shirley and her very favorite character, Marilla Cuthbert. She always said that Marilla reminded her of her mother, Fan.

Winston carefully shuts the book, tucking the sweet memories into his heart. He says goodbye to Oscar, who is now awake and kneading on the afghan at the edge of the bed.

Perhaps this was a sign from Rosemary, telling Winston to have tea and cake and discuss her favorite book with new people.

Winston fixes his woolen cap atop his head, takes a quick look in the mirror (his reflection never changes; he is forever a seventy-something year old fart), and begins his journey into town.

The walk to the cafe takes him across the meadow, over the covered bridge above Faye Pond, up a small hill, and down a few cobblestone streets. 

Tucked behind a dressmaker’s shop, Pippa’s is a pink-shingled three-room cottage which had been renovated and turned into a café by a local family. Its white climbing roses around the oak door and yellow shutters on the windows attract customers from all over Yorkshire to stop in for a cuppa. 

Several people Winston recognizes from around Bakewell are sitting around the front room, drinking tea and coffee and breezily chatting the morning away. He doesn’t see an empty table and contemplates leaving (because really, what is he doing there?) until a voice hollers, “Mr. Grey!”

Winston takes a deep breath to prepare himself for the bomb that is Lili Pontbridge.

She prances across the room like a gazelle and swoops him into a hug. “I was worried you wouldn’t show! Now, come and meet the others! They’re so excited to have a new member!”

Lili guides him to the far corner of the cafe, away from the din.

Sitting at a round oak table are four interesting, to say the least, characters on mismatched armchairs and stools. They greet Winston with warm smiles and a chorus of hellos as Lili introduces

them one by one.

First is Ophelia Islings, a 4’10” birdlike woman in her mid-fifties, though her tangerine sweater set and matching frilly hat manage to take off at least ten years. She gives Winston a bright smile and winks flirtaciously.

Next to Ophelia is a much taller woman with the posture of a ballerina whom Lili calls Bette Shipley. Her mouth is set in a prim line until Lili says her name and her lips quirk into a friendly beam. 

Already tucking into his blueberry streusel muffin is Percival Danner, a stout middle-aged man with a thick ginger beard. “Would you like a bite? Pippa makes ‘em fresh every morning and they’re just lovely.”

He puts out a crumb-riddled hand to a disgusted Winston, who takes it gingerly and gives a polite smile and a shake of his head. 

The last member of the club has her head down and seems to be fishing around in her purse for something. Percival nudges her, and she rises with her reading glasses in hand. 

“Ah-now, who is that? I can’t quite see…” She plops her glasses onto her nose and peers at Winston for a moment, appraising him.

Her eyes trail from Winston’s nose, slightly crooked due to a fall from the monkey bars decades ago, and sharp chin, down to his neatly tucked tie, printed with a cheerful pattern of honeybees. She gives a slight nod, seemingly giving Winston her stamp of approval.

“Mildred James. You must be our newest member?”

Winston nods and gives Mildred his own once-over. 

She looks rather proper for a Tuesday morning breakfast, dressed in a silk blouse and perfectly pressed trousers. Her thick white hair is tucked into a bob behind her ears, which are studded with small pearls.

A mother-of-pearl brooch in the shape of a book catches Winston’s eye. Its diamond BB cursive engraving in the center sparkles against Mildred’s cashmere-laden bosom.

Winston must be staring at it for a second too long, because Mildred follows his gaze and unpins the brooch, holding it in her palm for him to see. 

“It’s the traditional talisman for the president of BB, given to the club by the Commissioner of UK Book Clubs. It’s quite the prestigious honor for a small town club such as ours,” she tells him, a hint of self-importance in her tone.

“Ah. Eh, what’s BB?” Winston asks, confused.

“Bakewell Bibliobibulis, of course.” 

Winston must still appear puzzled, because Mildred adds, “The name of our club. BB for short.”

Percival leans in towards Winston and gets so close that he can see the gray tinge of his blue eyes. “Bibliobibuli refers to the type of person who reads excessively, if that even exists. While others shy away from the term, we embrace it!” He clasps his hands together in a prayerful way. “There’s just nothing like reading, you know? I can’t imagine a world without books. Quite a sad one it would be. Almost as sad as one without chocolate cake.”

His face darkens slightly and Winston thinks he might just cry.

Oh no. Winston Grey cannot deal with tears. 

Luckily, Bette seems to notice too, so she swoops in and says,

“Percival came up with our club’s name! Before him, it was just known as the Club, and everyone in the Bakewell book community knew it as such, but we wanted it to have a special name.”

“Percival knows all sorts of quirky words,” Lili adds. “He’s a…wait, Percival, what do you call yourself?”

Percival smiles, any glimmer of sadness fading from his face.

“Logophile. Lover of words. That’s me, alright!”

Mildred clears her throat, and the rest of the group turns toward her. 

“Anyway, now that you know the meaning behind our name, Mr. Grey, you should know our reason for existence,” she rises, accentuating her already-perfect posture and obviously warming to her subject. “BB is not the average small town book group. It’s a society for refined readers to congregate and discuss a particular book in ways that go beyond the usual rehashing of funny quotes or love scenes. As bibliobibulis, we believe there is never a book long enough nor a cup of tea large enough to suit us-”

“Lewis. CS, not Carroll,” Ophelia interjects, igniting a dirty look from Mildred.

“My point is, we don’t accept just anybody off the cobblestone street. Lili was very lucky to be allowed to invite you today, but you mustn’t take our generosity for granted. There are rules you must follow.”

“Rules?” Winston asks, puzzled.

“Lili, you have the contract, don’t you?” Mildred turns her gaze expectantly to Lili, who is already flipping through a sheaf of papers. Bette finds the one she’s looking for, a yellowed sheet of parchment with illegible scribbles.

“Lili’s the only one who can read the contract,” explains Percival. “Eighteenth century English is too much to ask of us old farts. Lili studied Classics at uni, so she’s well-versed in this type of text.”

He gives Lili a warm, paternal smile and Winston feels an odd sensation in his chest similar to heat. He can’t put a finger on it, so he tries to forget it.

Lili accepts the paper from Bette and begins to read aloud, 

“Contract of the Bakewell Book Club. Dated January the 28th, 1783. First, each member of the Club is sworn to secrecy. Anything discussed at gatherings may not be disclosed to civilians. Second, books read and discussed at gatherings must not be written by American authors. A mere mention of the US may result in dismissal. Third, new members of group must be nominated by a current member. New member will be brought to a vote at the May meeting. If accepted, new member is required to host meeting at his or her home and offer a gift to club. Fourth, meetings must end with a champagne toast to founding mothers of the Club. No exceptions to rules will be discussed nor approved.”

What in the world, Winston wonders to himself.

“Thank you, Lili,” says Mildred, reclaiming her position as main speaker. “Now, Mr. Grey, if you find that you would like to be a part of our club, you must sign here.” She flips the page over and points to a dotted line. “Any questions?”

So many, Winston thinks to himself. But he just says, “Who are the founding-”

“That’s at the end. Now, sign,” Mildred cuts him off, whipping out her Montblanc pen and putting it in his hand.

Winston realizes at this moment that he doesn’t have a choice.

Oh well; he supposes that he never has when it comes to strong women in his life. 

He accepts the pen and signs his name carefully.

“Wonderful!” Mildred’s blase expression turns to a slightly conniving yet genuine smile.

She gives a meaningful glance to the waitress, who has reappeared with a bottle of Bollinger and a tray of mismatched colored glass champagne flutes. 

Mildred helps her pass a glass to everyone at the table, and when Winston gets his, he gives it a sniff. “Champagne? Before ten?”

“But of course,” Ophelia replies for the group, sneaking a quick sip from her own glass.

“Rules,” Lili adds, “in the contract.” She drops a cube of sugar into her glass and watches as it fizzes wildly among the bubbles. “Would you like one?” she asks Winston, offering the china pot.

He shakes his head no just as Percival stands up and clears his throat dramatically.

“A toast! To Lissie Rhodes, Tabitha Prue, Finola Frontain, and Ada Mae James, may their legacy be a shining light upon us always!” The others clink their glasses together and cheers happily. 

“Those are our founders,” Bette tells Winston, taking the teensiest sip from her glass. Next to her, Ophelia downs the whole drink in one impressive swallow. 

Winston looks on with his own flute, swirling the liquid around, untouched.

He gazes at its color, a pale amber which holds so many memories.

Instantly, snapshots of every champagne toast over the past seventy-eight years flash through his mind. 

Five minutes after he popped the question to Rosemary outside of the pub where they met. 

Lunch on the day of their Cambridge graduation.

Moments before their wedding at London’s City Hall. 

The day Rosemary made partner at her firm. 

The first night at their house in Bakewell. 

Seconds after Rosemary got the all-clear call from her oncologist.

The last memory is a painful one, tugging at his heartstrings and reminding him that life isn’t good anymore.

He will never be happy again.

Not without Rosemary.

He simply doesn’t deserve to.

“Not a fan of bubbly?” Mildred asks, popping up next to Winston, momentarily startling him.

“No, not quite. My late wife loved it, but I prefer spirits.”

“I find it’s better to be washed down with a splash of something harder,” Mildred says wryly, withdrawing a slim silver flask from her purse.

She unscrews the cap and tips the brown liquid into her half empty tea cup.

Glug, glug, glug.

Winston would consider it more than just a splash, yet he allows Mildred to do the same to his cup. She cheerses with him rather forcefully, leading Winston to suspect this isn’t the first time this morning that she pulled out the flask.

“So, when are you going to host?”

“Host?” Winston asks, feeling a sense of dread.

“Every new member must host the following club meeting. It’s in the contract,” Mildred chides. She smiles and takes a long sip of her dirty English Breakfast.

And that is how, exactly one two weeks later, Winston ends up rushing around his living room as fast as his tender joints allow, fluffing pillows and dusting every surface. 

Oscar looks on from his customary spot on the sofa, twitching his tail as Winston disturbs his entitled peace. The cat has been privy to Winston’s woes over hosting book club for weeks, and, quite frankly, he’s sick of it. He can’t wait for someone to spill their tea on the carpet and ruffle Winston’s ever so delicate feathers.

All of a sudden, the oven starts beeping madly, reminding Winston that it’s time to take the cookies out. He turns toward the kitchen, just as-

Ding dong.

“Oh dear,” Winston murmurs. Oscar stares at him with large green eyes, unblinking, as if to say, “Not my problem.” He slinks away in search of a patch of sunlight to bathe in.

Ding dong. DING DONG.

“Helloooooo? Winston? You there?”

Apparently, the Bakewell Bibliobibulis are not patient guests. Winston files this away for the future. If his hosting this ghastly book club is to be another occurrence, that is.

The second he opens the door, his four new acquaintances (not quite yet friends) tumble in with a gush of chilly air and squawks about the ridiculously cold front that the local weatherman did not predict. 

“I mean, he really ought to quit at this point!” Ophelia says to Bette, holding her arm to balance herself as she struggles to take off her snow-covered boots. “He may be pretty, but looks don’t matter when I’m freezing my arse off in October after I heard we were in for a warm autumn!”

Winston ushers the group into the living room and excuses himself to put the kettle on.

As he’s padding back in a moment later, he hears Percival ask in a terribly executed whisper, “Is this a bad time to say that I’m allergic to cats?” Lili gives his foot a hard kick that Winston pretends not to see as he places a tray down on the coffee table. 

“Winston, thank you so much for hosting today,” Mildred says, pouring herself a cup. “Your home is just lovely.”

“Beautiful,” Lili echoes, “Mrs. Grey had the most wonderful taste.”

Winston smiles wistfully and finds himself saying, “She would’ve loved my being in this book club.” This surprises him, so much so that he continues, “Just as much as I love it. Thank you all for inviting me and bringing me into the group. It means more than you know.”

“You’re welcome,” Percival replies automatically, and Lili elbows him. “Sorry.”

Oscar reppears out of nowhere and hops up next to Ophelia. She waggles her bright blue-painted fingers at him. “Well hello. I’m just chuffed to finally meet the famous Oscar Grey!”

Oscar blinks at her with huge green eyes, then curls up in the space between Winston and Ophelia on the couch. A soft rumble travels up through his stomach as he rolls on his back and drifts off to sleep. 

Winston’s fellow BBs watch the cat, mesmerized. Cats will do that to you, Winston thinks, surprising his past self from just a few months ago. 

“His cuttycrumbing is just perfect.”

No one except Winston hears Percival’s mumbling. He raises an eyebrow in Percival’s direction.

“Purring.”

Ah.

Oscar stretches out slightly and lets out a soft meow, as if to say, Good one.