Excerpt from One Puzzling Afternoon by Emily Critchley, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I reach into my pocket, checking for our tickets, the smooth paper slipping through my fingers. Then I see it: a black speck on the horizon growing steadily larger. A cloud of white steam.

I can hear it now too, the train's panting approach, the gentle chug chug as the familiar scent of the sweet oily smoke fills my nostrils. I watch as the small hand of the station clock shifts over to eleven and the train whistles its arrival. My chest hitches and I make no attempt to wipe my eyes, pricking with tears.

Where is she?

1
2018

I first see Lucy Theddle standing outside the post office on Tuesday afternoon. Looking exactly the same as she did in 1951.

I am on my way in when a young man accosts me, carrying a tray and wearing a paper hat.

"Free sweets," he says, pushing the tray under my nose.

"Free sweets?"

"It's our open day," he explains, gesturing to the small shop squashed between the post office and Sandy's Shoes. The shop used to be a key-­cutting place. Before that, it sold sports equipment and school uniforms. The sign over the door now reads RETRO SWEETS. ALL YOUR CHILDHOOD FAVORITES.

"No, thank you."

"Oh, go on. One won't hurt." He nudges the tray toward me.

I peer down and there they are: Parma Violets. I reach for them. I can't help myself. "These used to be my favorites," I murmur, but the man isn't listening. He has spotted another customer and has dashed off. "Free sweets!"

I unwrap the tube and pop one of the tiny disks in my mouth. The taste is sweet and soapy. They remind me of spring flowers and warm days, of cycling down to the sea with the sun on my face, of secret whispers and kept promises.

That's when I see Lucy. She's standing next to the postbox, wearing white ankle socks and the school uniform we used to wear: a green pleated tunic over a blouse. Her hair is in two neat plaits; she's carrying her satchel and her violin case.

"Oh, hello, Lucy," I say.

A woman in a blue coat is coming out of Sandy's Shoes. She gives me a sympathetic smile. It's a look I am familiar with, one I don't like. When I glance back at the postbox, Lucy has vanished. I blink then crunch the sweet down, swallowing hard. A chill runs through me and I shake my head, trying to push the image of her from my mind; she's nothing to do with me anymore.

I quickly shove the rest of the Parma Violets into the pocket of my mackintosh raincoat and enter the post office, shuffling forward past the stationery and up to the counter.

"Ah, good morning, Edie."

"Hello, Sanjeev." I am pleased to have remembered Sanjeev's name, pleased it had been there for me instead of that awful void that exists, more often now, where a familiar word should sit.

"And what can we do for you?" Sanjeev smiles as his good-­sized wife busily pastes labels onto packages behind him.

What is it I came in for?

"I'll have twelve stamps, please."

Perhaps I came for stamps. Everyone can always use a few extra stamps.

"Keeping well, are we, Edie?"

Sanjeev speaks loudly, probably because of the glass partition. I can tell by the way he leans forward that he wants his voice to carry.

"Very well indeed," I reply, trying to match his loudness.

"Autumn now," he says.

"Leaves everywhere," I offer.

He slides the stamps to me under the glass and I pay for them. I notice the collection box and the tray of red paper poppies with their green plastic stems. It must be that time of year again, the time for remembering. I slide a pound into the collection box, then fix a poppy to my buttonhole.

"Take care now, Edie," Sanjeev says cheerfully.

When I exit the post office, the boy with the sweet tray is offering a drumstick lolly to a man on a mobility scooter. I look around cautiously but can see no further sign of Lucy. Above me, the clouds are gathering; there is a gust of wind and I shiver, pulling at my coat.

Excerpted from One Puzzling Afternoon by Emily Critchley. Copyright © 2023 by Emily Critchley. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks Landmark. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.