It all began in October 1949 when New York-based writer Helene Hanff reacted to an advertisement for out-of-print books by London’s Marks & Co and wrote to them. “I am a poor writer with an antiquarian taste in books…,” she explained, but “if you have clean secondhand copies of any of the books on the list, for no more than $5 each, will you consider this a purchase order and send them to me?” The shop’s manager, Frank Doel, replied to Hanff, starting a correspondence that lasted over two decades.
Published in 1970, it was an instant success, and Hanff, a self-admitted failed playwright, saw 84 Charing Cross Road being adapted for stage both at London’s West End and New York’s Broadway, and a film version as well.
Kosher stuff
Hanff was a voracious reader and kept Doel or ‘FPD’, as he signed in the first few letters, on his toes with her demands ranging from essays by Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, Samuel Pepys’ diaries “for long winter evenings”, Chaucer, Jane Austen, to “a book of love poems with spring coming on.” Soon they were sharing personal news about each other; and other staff members of the bookshop too began corresponding with Hanff.
In early December 1949, after she heard of the post-war rationing in Britain, Hanff sent them a Christmas present with a six-pound ham in it. She dashed off a second letter marked ‘FPD! Crisis!’, worried that it will arrive in a kosher office. “I just noticed on your last invoice it says: ‘B. Marks. M. Cohen.’ Are they kosher? I could rush a tongue over. Advise please!”
Kiss it for me
She endeared herself to everyone at Marks & Co with her wit and marvellous sense of humour, and also by sending them parcels of food for every occasion, including real eggs at Easter. Soon the ‘Miss’ was dropped for Helene and Doel invited her to Britain and stay at his home. Unfortunately, Hanff couldn’t afford a trip to the city she grew to love through literature till 1971. By then Doel was no more and the shop had closed down.
In fact, Charing Cross was written in grief, after she received a letter in January 1969 that Doel had died of peritonitis following a ruptured appendix. In his last letter he had said he was “alive and kicking” though a bit exhausted with so many tourists at the shop buying “our nice leather-bound books.”
Hanff wrote to a friend visiting London in April 1969: “The blessed man who sold me all my books died a few months ago… If you happen to pass by 84 Charing Cross Road, kiss it for me! I owe it so much.”
The writer looks back at one classic each fortnight.
