Secrets are buried in all sorts of different places – top secrets in documents, in plain sight in photographs or hidden in the darkest recesses of the mind.

Barbara’s secret, though she did not know it, was buried in the second-hand bookshop at the top of Connaught Avenue, Frinton -on-Sea. Or maybe it was not Barbara’s secret but mine.

The first time I visited the bookshop Barbara Johnson was busying herself re-stocking the fiction shelves.

A striking woman with a lovely smile that she flashed in welcome. She had long dark hair tied up in what I thought was called a ‘chignon’ but which she informed me was not.

‘No, Chignon is French for Bun’ she said categorically.

‘Mine’s possibly a top knot but it is just piled up on my head and pinned as I was in a hurry.’ She was always beautifully dressed. A nice sweater or bright blue shirt – her colour - casual

linen trousers cut slightly above the ankle and Birkenstocks.

Barbara was a lovely open-hearted woman always happy to chat and I took to visiting the bookshop on a regular basis.

Sometimes to buy a book.

We both loved second-hand books. Not just the stories but the artefacts themselves. The smell and the feel of the dry pages. Many with dedications giving tantalising glimpses of the

lives of previous owners. We began to talk about all sorts of things as well as books. Our younger selves, past jobs,

past relationships, our disappointments. Our stories.

I looked forward to these chats and hoped she enjoyed them as much as I did. It’s hard to tell.

Sometimes people, often but not exclusively men, think that strong feelings are reciprocated through some sort of strange psychological resonance. It’s rarely the case.Either way at £2.00 per book it was very cost-effective therapy.

One day when I went in looking for a holiday read Barbara seemed sad, as though she had been crying. There was an opened letter in front of her which she quickly put away under

the counter. ‘…bad news?’ I asked tentatively.

‘No, it’s nothing, I’m fine. I was just thinking about when people die they sort of completely disappear and it made me sad. They might live in the memories of their families and friends

for a few years but then they are just official dates – birth, marriage, death.’ 

‘I don’t want to disappear for ever. Thinking about it made me sad that’s all’ she said. I knew it was not my place, and the thought overstepped the bounds of acquaintance, but I

dearly wanted to do something to give Barbara a chance at eternity.

Heroes and villains and great artists and writers and their subjects are remembered but she was neither hero nor villain and I was no poet or painter. It was true, ordinary people, even lovely, funny, caring, compassionate and beautiful ones

just evaporate in the end.

The next day I returned to the bookshop. I knew she didn’t volunteer on a Thursday. One of the first stories that she had shared with me was about long sunny summers at

school and how she wanted to be, but was not, very good at sports. I found a slightly battered copy of ‘Know The Game – Athletics’. A popular ’How To’ series published in the 1970s and took it to the coffee shop next door. I opened the book and on

the inside cover wrote in capitals: AWARDED TO B JOHNSON – FIRST PLACE IN THE 100 METRES – SUMMER 1976

Then in a headmistress-y copperplate ‘Well done Barbara, excellent effort!’

Later that afternoon I went back to the bookshop and furtively replaced the book on the shelves.I continued this secret operation for several weeks. I would remember a story she had told me. I would buy a book which related to the story. Write a suitable dedication on the frontispiece and replace the book.

I became obsessed with telling Barbara’s story.

In a few weeks there was a version of her life told entirely by book dedications in nearly 20 books. Books that would be bought, re sold and passed on forever.

Life with Food by Peter Langan, Bloomsbury 1990

To Barbara, apologies for my drunken behaviour, it’s just what gets the punters in. Peter XX. Peter was scrawled out in angry biro and replaced with IDIOT!

A Rough Guide To Paris, Kate Baillie and Tim Salmon 1992, Rough Guides. 

Hope this is useful, enclosed is the fiver I owe you suitably translated into Francs, If this hasn’t scared you off let’s meet up when you are back from Paris. Freddy

Sentimental Education by Gustav Flaubert, Penguin Classics

To my lovely bride July 18th 1995. Thanks for marrying me – despite your doubts I am nothing like Flaubert’s Freddy! Freddy xx

The Snail and the Whale by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler, Scholastic 2003

To Mummy, Happy Birthday. Love you to the moon and back. Isabella aged 6 xxx

And many more. Her story over the decades.

I had not seen Barbara in the shop for a couple of weeks and assumed that she was away or working different days. Eventually I asked another volunteer whether Barbara was on holiday.

‘Are you a friend of hers?’ she replied.

‘Not really’

‘I’m afraid Barbara died. Quite suddenly, she had some test results only recently, it’s very sad. Shall I pass on your details and condolences to her family?’

‘No that’s alright thank you – I had just missed her in the shop these past few weeks. Yes, that is very sad’

In shock I went to make my way out of the shop. Near the door I noticed on top of a pile of Graham Greene novels The End of the Affair, a story of the obsessive but unreciprocated love of a man for a woman.

I bought it and went to the coffee shop.

I opened the book and wrote:

To Barbara, gone but never forgotten, love Michael x