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Kitabı oku: «The Little Bookshop of Love Stories», sayfa 2

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‘It could be a toad’s armpit and it would still be better than where I’m living now.’

He hovers in the office doorway to keep an eye on the shop while I go up and let myself in the cream door at the top. The flat inside is an odd shape, long but narrow, warring for space with the children’s area on the other side of the dividing wall. The front door leads to a small kitchen and living area in one. A door divides that from a bedroom that is barely big enough for the single bed and wardrobe it currently holds, and squeezed in at one side is a bathroom.

The bedroom window looks out on the high street, and I rest my elbows on the sill and pull the net curtains aside. The fountain burbles away in the town square opposite, and I watch a young boy hopping up and down the steps while his mother talks into her phone. I remember sitting there reading on my way back from the library when I was young and so eager to get started on the books I’d taken out that I couldn’t even wait as far as getting home.

The sun is shining down, making the water glint with the reflection as the noise of the street filters up, muffled by the thick triple-glazed window. Back across the flat, there’s another window that overlooks the green bank of the river that flows past Buntingorden, and a back door that leads down a fire escape and out into a tiny patch of unmaintained garden and then onto the river footpath.

It might be small, but it’s amazing. It’s so much better than where I’m living now, and I’m still convinced I’m going to wake up in a minute because how can this be real? The unluckiest person in the Cotswolds has somehow won a bookshop and a flat, all in one day. My usual types of days are the ones where you lose your job, flood your flat, and walk in on your boyfriend snogging someone else all in the same afternoon. I’ve had more than one day like that. More than one boyfriend like that too.

When I’m done, Robert is still standing in the office doorway and looking like he’s been on his feet for too long. From the bottom, he directs me around the flat’s kitchen to make two cups of tea, and when I take them downstairs, he’s sitting on one of the leather sofas in the reading area. It’s almost in the centre of the shop, down a bit from the counter and surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. You often see students sitting there to study and people poring over books and furiously scribbling notes.

Robert spreads paperwork across the table in front of him as I put the two mugs down and one wobbles in my hand, nearly spilling its contents right across the important-looking documents. I breathe a sigh of relief once the mugs are safely out of my hands. That would not have been a good start to this adventure.

‘This isn’t just a big joke, is it?’ I ask as he lifts his tea with a shaky hand and sips it.

He laughs. ‘I’m not a joker, Hallie. You’ve been coming in here long enough to know that. The shop and flat above it are yours. It comes with only one condition – that when you are done with this place, whether it’s in two months’ time if you decide bookselling is not for you, two years when you meet a nice young man and want to settle elsewhere, or in many decades when you’ve given this shop all you have to give, you will find someone to pass it on to.

‘Once Upon A Page must never be sold. Its legacy is in the love for it. That is why it’s thrived for so long. Ownership is passed from one person to the next, like I’m passing it on to you now. I took over forty years ago from a very dear friend of mine. He had taken over from his father, who had run it for a number of decades, and I believe it had been passed to him from a distant cousin. The chain goes all the way back until it was founded in the 1870s. Each owner has taken over only because they love books and want to share that.

‘There have been hard times, but the shop has always survived. From hardship comes greater strength. The roof terrace was the result of a bomb during the war, and the innovative owner at the time chose to make the best of a bad situation rather than give in to despair. He took out the rest of the fallen roof, reinforced the floor, and built a set of steps up to it.

‘Once Upon A Page’s legacy is in the love of the written word, and you must agree to that condition before we sign any of this paperwork. This is not a property to “flip” or sell to the highest bidder – and believe me, there are high bidders who are desperate to get their hands on it – but when you decide to give it up, you must do as I have done and give it away freely. It doesn’t matter who you choose; it can be a family member, a friend, a customer, or a stranger, as long as you know they will love it as much as you do, and will agree to being part of the same legacy – to give it away when their time is done.’

I nod. This is a dream job – the last thing I want to do is sell it. And it’s unthinkable to talk about giving it up already. I can’t imagine ever wanting to give it up. This is a gift, something that will change my life, certainly not something to make a quick profit from. ‘How did you know everyone who entered the prize draw would be genuine?’

‘I didn’t. I just had to trust my instincts. I carefully observed who I offered tickets to. When money-grabbers came in enquiring because they’d heard it was up for grabs on some mysterious grapevine, I sent them packing. I firmly believe this shop is special, and that it has a little hand in its ownership. I didn’t think it would steer me wrong.’

‘You don’t have family to leave it to?’ I ask gently. I’ve never asked him about his family before.

‘I’m alone in the world, although I believe that anyone who loves books is never truly alone, and that’s always been enough for me. I would’ve loved a family, but it was never meant to be. I lost the love of my life years ago, but don’t you worry about me. I have many good friends all over the country and all across the world, both real and fictional. My head is alive with a million characters who have stayed with me over the years, and now it’s time for me to fulfil my final two dreams – to let Once Upon A Page live on with someone who loves it like I do, and to retire to the beach in Cornwall. I’ve wangled myself a flat at an assisted living facility on the southern coast, mere steps from the door to the sand. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for my autumn years.’

His words make me tear up, and I pick up my tea and turn away for a moment to compose myself under the guise of taking a sip. Pure joy gives way to a little nudge of fear. What if I let him down? Beyond a few Saturday shifts in the now-closed local library when I was sixteen, I don’t know anything about bookselling, and even less about owning a business. Is passion for reading really enough? It feels like it is at the moment, but I can’t begin to imagine how much learning I’ve got ahead of me.

Like he can read my mind, he pats my shoulder with an age-spotted hand. ‘I was in engineering when I took over. I’d never even considered working in retail. I learnt as I went, and it wasn’t always a smooth curve, but the rewards are worth it. Seeing customers happy when they finally come across a book they’ve been searching for. People asking for recommendations and then coming back to tell you how much they’ve enjoyed something you’ve recommended. Seeing children’s faces light up as they get lost in the magic of a story. It’s not always easy – the hours can be long, the constant carrying and stacking of books is physically hard work, and you’ll often have slow weeks when you feel guilty for taking even minimum wage for yourself. But this shop has stood here for a century and a half. I can’t imagine a world without it. I’ve always found it worth any hardship that has come my way.’

I kind of appreciate that he doesn’t make it out to be all flowers and rose petals. I know he’s always worked extremely hard in this shop. It seems like he’s dedicated half his life to it. I only hope I can be worthy of the gift he’s giving me.

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Hallie,’ he continues. ‘The shop isn’t in the best financial position. There have been a few … shall we say, lean years? I’ve feared closure more than once, but Once Upon A Page has always managed to bounce back, and I believe it will again, but it needs someone new at the helm, someone to reinvigorate it.’

Reinvigorate it? Me? I do the opposite of invigorating things. There are straw-stuffed scarecrows standing in fields that are better at invigorating things than me. ‘How bad?’ I swallow hard.

‘You need customers. Lots of them. Something to pull people in. This is a busy little street and plenty of folks walk past, but I mostly rely on my few regular and loyal customers. Without something to breathe life back into this shop … I think we’ll be lucky to see Once Upon A Page still open by the end of the year.’

Flipping heck. I knew the shop had been quiet when I’d come in lately, but I’d always blamed it on the time of day because my hours can be quite odd around my shifts at the pub.

‘But if I thought that would faze you, I don’t think your ticket would’ve come out of that hat.’

I gulp. It does faze me. He’s not just giving me a bookshop – he’s giving me a bookshop I have to save. Or lose in a matter of months, thereby wiping out a legacy that goes back 150 years.

‘There’s still time to back out, Hallie …’ he offers gently, holding out a pen.

I take it and twist it in my hands, turning it over and over between my palms. ‘No.’ I push down my fears. This is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s inconceivable to think of walking away because it’ll be a challenge. Maybe a challenge is what I need. My life needs reinvigorating too. Maybe me and the bookshop can reinvigorate each other. ‘I love this place. No matter what it takes, it’s not going under on my watch.’

‘I knew you’d say that.’ He signs some of the papers and hands them to me, getting up to go and fiddle with something at the counter and giving me time to scan through the documents. Title deeds and Land Registry transfer of ownership forms. I try to read them but most of the words go right over my head, and I sign the dotted lines he’s pointed out anyway.

‘Congratulations.’ He sits back down and clinks his mug against mine in a toast. ‘You’re the new owner of Once Upon A Page. How does it feel?’

‘Like I could do with a few books on how to run an ailing bookshop?’

He laughs as the bell above the door jingles the arrival of a customer. Buntingorden is always active. We’re in a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and tourists love the quaint charm of the high street. People come for holidays in the hills of the surrounding area, the scenery is beautiful, there are plenty of rivers and lakes that make popular holiday spots, and the walks are endless and loved by locals and tourists alike.

The customer comes over and asks if Robert’s got a book I’ve never heard of, and he thinks for a moment and then directs him to aisle seven and tells him to look on the third shelf along at the bottom, and I can’t help but be impressed that he could know that without looking it up on whatever stock system he uses.

He must notice because he laughs again. ‘When you’ve worked here for over forty years, you’ll know the place like a well-read book too … I’ll leave you the basic instructions, but I don’t want to tell you what to do. This is your bookshop now. I want you to put your stamp on it and do things your way. It’s survived for so many years because new people do fresh things and keep it up to date. Your generation understand what people want better than this old fogey does. You can do whatever you want to make sure it stays here for centuries more.’

It makes me feel a bit teary again as he sorts out the paperwork, keeps what he has to file with his solicitor and gives me the relevant documents that I need. I get the feeling he’s been preparing for this day for a long time.

He disappears into the shelves and hobbles back with a book from the Nineties about how to succeed in retail and gives it to me as a present because it’s the closest thing he’s got to ‘How To Run A Bookshop’, a fictional book that I really wish existed.

He hands it to me with an aged grin. ‘I hope the old place brings you as much happiness as it’s brought me, Hallie. I have a sneaking suspicion it will.’

It makes me feel more excited than I’ve ever been before and more nervous too. Everything in my life has always gone wrong and I can’t help worrying that this is destined to be the same. It’s more than I ever dreamed of and I don’t know how I can ever be worthy of continuing the sprinkling of magic this shop brings to our little corner of the world.

Chapter 2

I still can’t believe it’s mine as I stand in front of the door with the keys in my hand at 8.30 a.m. on a Monday morning two weeks later.

Robert moved out over the weekend and is hopefully safely ensconced on the Cornish sands by now. I came over on Saturday evening to collect the keys and see if I could help, but he had half the village over to cheer him on his way, helping to pack up boxes and load them into a van that one of his friends had hired to drive him down to Cornwall.

Now the flat’s empty, Nicole and Bobby are bringing both their cars and helping me to move in tonight after work, although I do wonder if we’re going to need at least a month and a fleet of double-decker buses just to shift my books. Mum’s already been trying to make me get rid of some, in between squealing, ‘Ooh, you’ll be just down the road! I can pop in and see you every day! Have you visited that lovely man in the souvenir shop yet? He’s single, you know …’

Single men in souvenir shops and moving closer to my mother than strictly necessary aside, I can’t help the fizzle of delight as I look up at the building in front of me. The same sandstone bricks as the rest of the street, with it’s greyish-blue door and matching fascia above the window frame with ‘Once Upon A Page’ etched in a fairy-tale-esque font and ‘Home to 30,000 books … and counting!’ printed in solid letters underneath. It’s detached on the left, and the staircase up to the roof terrace is to the right with heavy chains crossing its entrance and a big ‘Keep Out’ sign blocking it off, while the boards covering the windows of the empty shop next to it stare hollowly back at me.

I put the key into the lock and push open the door of my very own bookshop. The bell tinkles to itself, and once I’m inside, I lock up behind me. Half an hour to get myself sorted before opening time. I could’ve done with longer but the bus was late. Obviously. Buses are always late on the days you most need them to be on time. I put my shoulder bag on the counter and breathe in the smell for a moment, looking at the darkened shelves of all those books, untouched by customers for over twenty-four hours since the shop closed on Saturday night.

When I live here, I’m going to sneak down in the middle of the night and stand silently in a corner to see what happens to the books when the lights go off. It’s impossible to believe they stay still, their stories silent inside until someone else picks them up. It would be much more believable to think that they toddle off and go to visit their friends on other shelves, sharing their stories with each other when humans think the world is dark.

I give myself a shake and silently remind myself that I am a thirty-five-year-old woman and I should have outgrown fantasies about inanimate objects coming to life at least thirty years ago.

I go to find the light switches inside the office door and flood the shop with light, almost positive that I see a book sidle itself back into a shelf out of the corner of my ey— Oh come on, not the goldfish.

Any movement I saw came from the window display, where Robert’s goldfish is still swimming around in its bowl. I crouch down and gently tap my fingertip against the side, and it swims into a castle at the bottom of the tank, only one eye visible through a window as it peers out at me.

Oh no. How could he have forgotten his fish? And to me, of all people. I don’t drive, so I have visions of hours on a coach with the goldfish bowl on my lap to return it to Robert in Cornwall. As if the bookshop wasn’t enough responsibility, now I’ve got to keep a fish alive too until we can arrange a way of returning it. Keeping things alive is not my strong suit. I don’t know the first thing about fish, other than it couldn’t have had anything to eat since Saturday, and after a search that involves running upstairs to the flat and tearing apart the kitchen, I eventually find a tub of goldfish food in the office drawer and sprinkle a few flakes into the oversized bowl. I stand back to watch the orange fish wiggle to the surface and gobble it up. ‘I don’t even know your name, Fishy.’

I try to get my breathing back under control from the mad rush to find goldfish food, well aware that my forehead must be glistening and not in a good way, and my hair has definitely got a touch of the frazzle about it. I try to smooth it down as I glance at the clock on the wall above the stairs, visible from both floors. 8.58 a.m. How much worse can it get than a late bus and a forgotten fish on your first day? I’ve had no time to find whatever instructions Robert was going to leave me and no time to get myself sorted and ready for the day ahead. I’d intended to have a walk around and refamiliarise myself with the bookshelves in case anyone asks where something is. I’ve only ever browsed before, never with the intention of being able to answer queries from customers.

I haven’t even had a cup of tea, and if I run up to the flat and make one now, I won’t open on time. I weigh up the options and then decide I’d better open the shop, and tomorrow, I’ll bring the kettle downstairs to the office. God knows how Robert managed here on his own with no one to take over when he had to pop to the loo or have a cuppa.

The sign on the door is a wooden book with its pages open and the words ‘open’ and ‘closed’ etched on either side in burnt calligraphy, and the second I flip it around from closed to open, a man appears.

At first I have a horrible feeling he might be the bloke from the souvenir shop that my mum has somehow bribed to corner me and introduce himself when I can’t get away, but his suit looks like it cost more than a yacht and the gelled-back hair doesn’t scream souvenir shop.

Well, this is a good sign. Nine a.m. and customers are already appearing.

I pull the door open with a beam. ‘Good morning! You’re eager. Are you looking for something specific?’

‘Indeed I am.’ He gives me a smile that shows off predatory-looking teeth and I immediately feel uneasy. ‘Your shop.’

‘This shop?’

‘Drake Farrer, of Farrer and Sons property developers.’ He hands me a business card and walks across to the counter, pushing my bag aside as he places his shiny briefcase down and unlocks it with a snicking sound. ‘I own the empty shop next door. My company intend to buy this shop too and knock the pair of them down to make way for a new leisure centre.’

I rush after him. ‘The shop isn’t for sale.’

‘No, the shop wasn’t for sale. Now it’s under new management, it’s your choice what to do with it. And I advise that it’s for sale.’

‘You advise? I didn’t ask for your advice.’ I go in behind the counter like it might give me some authority. Who does this man think he is? I give his briefcase a pointedly annoyed look as I take my bag off the counter and uncover a bullet-point list in Robert’s spidery handwriting. Instructions for using the till.

Drake Farrer looks at it with a sneer on his face, like it clearly demonstrates how inexperienced I am. ‘Rumour has it that you’re not a bookseller by trade, and I’m sure you know as well as I do that bookshops are failing at a rate of a thousand knots in these days of Internet giants and discount superstores. All bricks-and-mortar properties are in trouble, and just like you, plenty of the shops on this high street are only clinging on by a thread. My father and I work together at Farrer and Sons to take over failing shops and make them into something better, and save the owners all that nasty business of going into administration when their businesses inevitably fail. Just like I did with that bakery next door. Bought them out at the last moment, just as they were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. A lot of other businesses around here are in the same position, yours included.’

‘The business isn’t failing.’ I cross my arms and push myself up to stand taller even though I haven’t had a chance to look at the state of the shop’s finances for myself yet. From what Robert said, it almost certainly is failing, but I’m not about to let this condescending man know that.

He shrugs. ‘If it’s not now, it soon will be. Especially with a non-bookseller in charge. Good thing I’m here to help you.’

He is not here to help me. ‘Men like you exist only to help themselves.’

‘The dear old fogey warned you about me, then?’

‘No. Not a word. You warned me about yourself the moment you swept in and decided you had a right to buy my shop.’ Calling it my shop buoys my confidence and I stand taller.

‘All right, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. My apologies. I must’ve got overexcited to see someone new and pioneering at the helm who might be open to fresh ideas and new approaches.’

That makes me sound like Christopher Columbus, but the only thing I’d like to see him approach is the door on his way out of it.

‘I don’t think you’ve realised who I am,’ he says before I have a chance to direct him that way. ‘I’m not just your friendly local property developer – I’m also your neighbour. As the owner of that ex-bakery next door, I share access to your ugly, unsafe, and probably condemned roof terrace.’ He points behind him, towards the set of stairs outside and the empty shop to the right.

‘Robert didn’t say anything about sharing ownership.’

‘Well, you know Robert, always keen on burying his head in the sand, especially when it comes to money troubles. The roof terrace is half mine and the access is shared. You can’t do anything up there without my permission.’ His tone of voice leaves me in no doubt that his permission will not be given freely. He pulls some paper from his briefcase, a photocopy of another title deed, and I take it and read it, nodding occasionally like I understand a word that’s written on it.

‘I had no plans for it.’ I try to hold my nerve under his sharp gaze. I haven’t even seen the roof terrace, let alone made any plans for it, but the idea of sharing it with him makes a shiver creep down my spine. I put the sheet of paper down on top of Robert’s instructions, mainly to hide ‘how to unjam the till’ from his searching eyes. I get the feeling he’s looking around for a weakness he can home in on.

He waves a hand across his shoulder without taking his beady eyes off me. ‘I’m also in discussions with several other shop owners about acquiring their shops. We’re looking to modernise and update this tacky old street, and Mr Paige has been a thorn in my side from the very first moment I approached him with my ideas, a real old stick-in-the-mud. But you – you’re fresh and innovative. You’re not stuck in the old traditions like that silly old fool was.’

His hair really is unnaturally shiny where it’s slicked back against his head. Like someone’s tipped chocolate mirror glaze on him by accident on The Great British Bake Off.

‘With your shop and mine flattened, picture a shiny new leisure complex in this space. The tourists will love it. We’re going to have a big swimming pool, a multi-screen cinema, yoga classes, a spa, all sorts of acupuncture and hot stone massages and all that trendy stuff hipsters love.’

Acupuncture? Well, having needles pushed into my skin definitely seems preferable to talking to him for much longer. ‘The majority of people who live around here are elderly. What do they want with a cinema and leisure complex?’

‘Well, they have leisure time, don’t they? They watch films, don’t they? We’ll make sure the speakers are hearing-aid friendly and between you and me, there are a few folks around here who could do with a good shower, if you know what I mean.’ He waves a hand with neatly trimmed and filed nails in front of his face like there’s a whiff in the air, and it would almost be funny if he wasn’t so patronising.

‘I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse.’ He whisks another sheet of paper from his briefcase and waves it in front of me. ‘Thirty thousand for the building. I don’t even want the contents. You can keep all your silly books and relocate elsewhere. That’s more than enough to buy another property if you’re so committed to the bookshop, and if you’re not, then congratulations, you’ve just won the lottery. Thirty grand in your pocket for doing absolutely nothing. That’s an impressive rate of return on the thirty quid you paid for your raffle ticket.’

The fact he knows how much the tickets were makes me even more uneasy, and I have no doubt that he’s one of the ‘highest bidders’ that Robert did warn me about. ‘Once Upon A Page wouldn’t be Once Upon A Page if it was anywhere else. This isn’t about the money. I’m sorry, Drake, was it?’ I purposely pretend I’ve forgotten his Mallard-like name, even though I get the feeling that Drake Farrer is a name many people on this street are all too familiar with. ‘The shop isn’t for sale, and it never will be.’

‘Ah, the old “this shop has always been given as a gift and its legacy must live on forever” line?’

I glare at him.

‘All it takes is one forward-thinking person to be brave and change that ridiculous, outdated concept and think realistically about the future. This isn’t about the shop. It’s about you. Thirty grand in your bank account for, what, two minutes of work you’ve done this morning? You could use that to do something you’ve always wanted to do. Go travelling, see the world … The old boy wouldn’t even have to know.’

‘I go travelling and see different worlds every day through reading. I’ve been coming to this shop all my life. It’s worth more than money. Books can change people’s lives. They can be friends when there’s no one else to turn to. They can help people. They can be an escape. They can—’

‘Ah, a bookworm, eh?’ He puts unnecessary emphasis on the worm part. ‘I’ve got one of those in my family too. Honestly, I’ve never met a bigger bore. Always on about “Have you read this?” and “Have you read that?” nonsense. Trying to get me interested in the most boring plots and talking about fictional characters like they’re real people.’

‘Do you honestly think insulting fellow bookworms to a bookworm is going to help your cause?’

Who has got the time for all that reading? Some of us are too busy living to get lost in books for hours on end. If a book is worth reading, they’ll make a movie of it eventually.’

I try to school my face into not showing how much of an insult that is. ‘But the book is always so much better. Authors spend years researching and writing, and there are so many little touches and details that can’t possibly be re-created on film. You miss out on so much by trying to condense a four-hundred-page novel into an hour and a half of screen time—’

He does an exaggerated yawn, and I stop myself because it’s pointless. He isn’t interested in a word I’m saying. I despise people like him who look down on reading and think books exist solely to fill cinemas further down the line. All he wants is this shop, and he is not getting it.

The paper is still dangling in his hand and I grab it and stuff it back into his briefcase, screwing it up in my fingers as I ram it in and slam the top down with a resolute click. ‘The shop’s not for sale – not now, not ever. I will not be the one to break tradition. Thirty grand doesn’t tempt me. This is my dream job. It’s not up for grabs to the highest bidder.’

‘Everybody has a price, Miss Winstone. It’s just a matter of finding it.’

A shiver goes down my spine. I’m utterly creeped out by the fact he knows my name and it’s taken him this long to mention it. Thankfully the bell above the door jingles and a woman carrying a ‘Books Are My Bag’ tote bag comes in.

‘Good morning!’ I greet her in my cheeriest voice, sounding shrill because of the change from anger at Drake Farrer to delight at the sight of a customer. The simple fact of not being alone with him makes me feel less edgy than I have until now.

She returns it with a smile and congratulates me on being the new owner.

As she wanders around browsing, I give Drake Farrer a sarcastic smile. ‘There’s the door.’

He lifts his briefcase from the counter and smiles a wolf-like grin. ‘I always get what I want. Persistence is my middle name.’

‘That must be very awkward on official forms,’ I call as he starts walking away. ‘I bet you get questioned about that at the passport office every time you leave the country.’

The bell jingles again as he leaves, and I pull out his business card and tear it up into tiny pieces, vaguely aware that he’s outside the window watching me.

‘Wolves at the door already?’ the customer asks as she walks around the picks-of-the-week table near the counter – a selection of Robert’s weekly choices with twenty per cent off.

‘Something like that. An actual wolf would’ve been much more welcome. At least then there’d be a handsome hunter along in a minute to fill its belly with rocks and drown it.’

She laughs and picks up a book from the table and puts it down again, not hiding the look of disappointment.

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Yaş sınırı:
0+
Hacim:
395 s. 9 illüstrasyon
ISBN:
9780008331221
Telif hakkı:
HarperCollins
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