Libby was starting to lose confidence that there might be a coffee machine here ready to dispense a large latte with caramel syrup. She walked around the small shop on a reconnaissance mission, and was greeted by an elderly man who had appeared as if from nowhere and was now behind the counter.
‘Ah, it’s yourself,’ he said. ‘The new girl from the old drapers. I hear it’s a bookshop you’re opening – we sell a few books here,’ he said, pointing to a lone shelf of fairly tattered romances complete with bare-chested hunks and wanton maidens on the front, along with a few sporting biographies. ‘But I bet you’ll have a better selection, won’t you?’ He laughed. ‘And those e-book yokes too, I bet. Why anyone would want to read off a computer is beyond me. Paper and print – that’s what it does. Technology will be the end of independent businesses, so it will. Libby, isn’t it? Jo from the pub told me. I’m Harry.’ He finally took a breath before extending one soft clammy hand for her to shake. As he did so, he broke into a wide smile, the glint off his sparkly white dentures almost blinding her. She put him at maybe seventy, or seventy-five. Slightly younger than her grandad had been, perhaps. She wondered why he was still working at his age, but she’d guess this shop marked his life’s work. There was something proprietorial in his stance. A pride in his surroundings.
‘Nice to meet you, Harry,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’m Libby – Libby Quinn – and we won’t be selling e-books or e-readers. Print all the way. I’m a lover of the classics. I just thought I’d pop in for a coffee before the day starts properly.’
‘Ah, I suppose it will be a latte or a cappuccino or something you’ll take. The machine’s over there,’ he said, gesturing to the back of the shop. ‘Hard to believe there was ever a time when people came in for a cuppa or a coffee, and I just boiled a kettle up and stuck a teabag in a polystyrene cup for them. They wouldn’t go for that these days.’
‘I’m sure your teas and coffees made from the kettle were as nice as any of these new ones,’ she said, internally delighted to find she had been wrong and there was a coffee machine after all.
‘Oh God, no. They were rotten. My Mary always told me they were fit for nothing but down the sink.’ He laughed. ‘But still, more innocent times. No health and safety and fancy coffee shops getting in the way of things.’
‘Indeed,’ Libby said, as she located the machine and pressed the button for an extra-large latte. She decided it was best to avoid telling Harry that she had plans to open a coffee bar of her own in the shop. She might not get out of there alive if she did.
‘That’s why it’s nice to see some new life coming into this street,’ Harry’s voice carried from the front of the shop. ‘And a bookshop too. It’s traditional values, isn’t it? Stories. Getting folk to read. Better than sitting in front of those Gameboy things,’ he said. ‘We’ve a grandson – well, he’s twenty-five now, but he’s constantly on one of those gaming things. Hard to get a conversation with him at all. A nod if you’re lucky.’
The poor grandson probably couldn’t get a word in when he tried, Libby thought as she carried her cup to the front of the shop.
‘Things have definitely changed,’ she said, ‘but, as you said, hopefully we can keep a bit of life in the street. I like it here. Near enough to the town centre to get some footfall but not to be rammed with parking and buskers and the like.’
‘Don’t even get me started on buskers,’ Harry said, crossing his arms over his rounded tummy – the buttons on his striped shirt straining over his white vest. As he took a deep breath and started to talk, Libby had a feeling he was getting started anyway.
What she had intended to be a quick two minutes to the shop and back ended up more than twenty – but Harry had given her a free packet of near date Ginger Nuts as a welcome to the area, pressed them into her hand, saying there was no need to say thank you and had smiled that dazzling smile again at her. She could see that, in his youth, he had probably been a very handsome man, and by the way he talked – and talked, and talked – she sensed he was lonely. That he enjoyed being at the heart of the community. She wondered if he and Grandad Ernie would have gotten along. She imagined they would have, although how either of them would ever have managed to get work done would have been a mystery.
As she sipped the latte, felt the caffeine surge into her bloodstream, she vowed she’d make a point of getting to know Harry a bit better. To keep a wee eye out for him.
Libby smiled as she crossed back over the street and unlocked the door, pushing it open again. She sat at the counter, on the stool she had brought with her, and sipped her coffee, doing her very best to practice positive visualisation. She even allowed herself to crack open the Ginger Nuts before she could mentally hear Jess’s voice warning her about the many free-floating germs in the shop.
So, instead, she put the biscuits in her bag and opened her Pinterest account on her laptop. Smiling broadly, she looked at all the pictures she had pinned. Rich green walls. Copper light shades. Polished wooden floor. Vintage upcycled desks and chairs. Prints of classic book covers she would frame and hang around the shop. Reusing old shelving units – repurposing – that was the word, wasn’t it? It would be quirky – different – homely. Exposed brickwork at the coffee bar. Plants trailing ivy leaves. Quirky sundries for sale at the counter. She could fix the old glass-front drapery unit to stock pins and postcards, tote bags and badges. A bibliophile’s dream.
She was high on the thought of it, until pest control arrived and confirmed that, yes, all but one of the traps they had set contained vermin. Rats and mice. Double joy. The man laughed when she asked if he thought that was all of them, then?
‘Not likely, my love,’ he said. ‘But we’ve an idea of where they’re getting in. Hate to say it, but all this refurb work is likely to bring them out of hiding for a bit. My advice to you would be to let us lay the poison, but be prepared that we might need to work at this again and again until the heavy lifting is done and we can seal off any and all entry points.’
Libby’s skin crawled at what she now imagined as an army of furry friends scuttling between the floorboards and in the cavity walls.
‘I’ve seen places in worse states,’ Mr Pest Controller said. ‘You wanted to see it when that old derelict factory beside the Craigavon Bridge went up in smoke. It was the bloody Pied Piper of Hamelin on the Foyle Road. Hundreds of the wee bastards running for cover.’
Libby shuddered.
‘Yours is nowhere near that.’
‘I suppose that’s some reassurance,’ she said, although she felt anything but reassured.
Libby pondered over the fact that the rat catcher was exceptionally cheerful for a man who spent his day chasing vermin and infestations. The thought made her mildly nauseous – but she suppose it took all sorts. She made a mental note to invite him to the grand opening. She needed cheery people around – as long as he didn’t reference the scuttling vermin to her guests.
Next, Ant’s handymen arrived, complete with a second large skip, which caused Harry to peep his head out from his shop and offer her a big thumbs up as it landed with an unceremonious clunk on the road outside the shop.
‘Hard to beat a good clear-out,’ he shouted, before disappearing back indoors.
The men started on the yard first, clearing all sorts of detritus in super quick time.
Libby sent Ant a text, thanking him and telling him the men were doing a great job. He sent a smiley face back and a simple:
You can thank me later?
Libby rolled her eyes, but she was feeling positive, so it was in a playful way. She didn’t normally see Ant on a Monday, but just maybe she could make an exception and take a very quick visit to his that evening.
See you after work?
She typed back, and was rewarded with a grinning face emoji as a response.
When the shopfitter arrived to discuss her plans, she was positively glowing with excitement. She wasn’t even fazed when he told her that while he could help with design, fixtures
and fittings, including the stockroom, and with the coffee bar, it might be worth scouting some vintage markets or auctions herself for the older pieces she wanted.
‘We could work on getting you some stuff – but, to be honest, it would be more economical for you to go with some reproduction stuff. A similar look for less money,’ Craig, a tall, skinny redhead with a thick Glasgow accent said.
Libby pulled a face. Maybe he was right, but she had fallen in love with the idea of bits and pieces which had stories of their own.
Craig noticed the look on her face. ‘If you have your heart set on the real deal, and you want the best deal – then shop around. I can get you a list of upcoming markets? I think there’s one in Belfast soon that tends to be good. You probably have an idea of what you want, but I’d recommend looking at ercol furniture. I think it would suit the look you’re going for. It’s pricey – especially the mid-century stuff – but it’s hard to beat, quality wise.’
Libby smiled. Shopping around was something she could do.
She liked Craig, she decided. There was something about him that made her feel reassured that not only was he on board with her vision for the shop, he was also not going to overcharge and underwork. His enthusiasm for the project was obvious.
They were leaning over the counter, scrawling sketches of what they thought the shop could look like when Libby was distracted by the sound of someone coming in through the door. She looked up and saw Noah walk through the door, with Paddy trotting dutifully behind him, sniffing the air.
9
The Old Curiosity Shop
‘Ah, Libby,’ Noah said. ‘Paddy and I just fancied a nosy. Given that the door was open. It’s already looking better in here.’ He nodded towards the newly cleared floors of the shop and where some of the old plasterwork had been stripped out.
He dropped Paddy’s lead and the dog padded over to Libby and rubbed his head against her leg, his tail wagging furiously.
‘He remembers you!’ Noah said. ‘And I think he’s forgiven you for stepping on his tail.’
Libby blushed. She didn’t want Craig to hear about that entire sorry episode. ‘Well, it wasn’t my fault…’ she began before Noah laughed.
‘I’m only teasing. Honest. But he does like you.’
Libby looked down into Paddy’s big brown eyes. She imagined that dog could get anything he wanted with just a glance. She reached out and patted him, tickling him under his chin.
‘Noah! It’s you!’ Craig said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s going well, mate. Can’t complain anyway. I saw your van outside and wondered if it was you or one of the other fellas. How’s things?’
‘Busy, you know. But that’s not a complaint,’ Craig said. Libby gave Paddy another pet and then looked pointedly at Noah, hoping that he would leave and she could get on with chatting things through with Craig.
It seemed Noah had other ideas. ‘We’re looking to do a little work to the rear bar area and beer garden and I’d been meaning to give you a call. I hope you’re not too busy to have a look at it for us.’
Libby wanted to say that, yes, actually, Craig was too busy because he was here with her, talking about her shop and he didn’t have time to discuss an upgrade to The Ivy Inn just now. She didn’t though, much to her chagrin. She needed to be more assertive.
‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ Craig said. ‘Might be six weeks or so though. With summer coming, that mightn’t suit you.’
Noah nodded. ‘I see what you mean. I suppose when we have a full idea of what we’re looking at we can make a proper decision. Let me know when you’re free to call over.’
‘Well, I’m in the neighbourhood now,’ Craig said, ‘so how about I pop round when I’m done here. We can get the ball rolling at least.’
‘Great,’ Noah said, enthusiastically. ‘Perfect.’
Libby expected that to be the end of the conversation. It was not. She anticipated that Noah, and Paddy, would leave the shop and she and Craig could go back to their discussion and preliminary sketches, but this did not happen.
Noah just changed the topic of conversation. ‘Are those your ideas for here?’ he asked, nodding at the notebooks on the counter. As if they could be anything else, Libby thought.
‘Yes. Early stages, you know,’ she said.
‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ Noah asked as he edged closer to the counter.
She fought every instinct to pull the papers to her chest. Was it churlish that she felt so protective over her plans? Especially at a stage when they were a mess of ideas and perhaps half-baked dreams? Would he think it all very twee? Her little writer nooks? Her ideas for fairy lights and copper framed terrariums, funky prints and vintage coffee cups? Her plan to use repurposed shelving units and vintage desks – creating a book lover’s haven?
Noah turned the notepads towards himself, and glanced at the open Pinterest board on her laptop. She blushed as he took it all in.
‘These are for writers?’ he asked, pointing to the four dedicated workspace areas she had planned.
She nodded. ‘A desk-for-hire kind of thing – a place to work among the books, with their own desks, coffee on call, et cetera.’
‘For hire? But if any writer can just lift their laptop, go to Starbucks or any coffee shop, plug in and write among the coffee beans for the price of a latte – why would they pay to hire a desk here?’
‘Well, it’s a bookshop. It will have its own ambiance. A creative vibe.’
‘The noise of customers coming in from outside? Will you have a radio playing? Will the coffee machine bubble and fizz? Will people look over their shoulders as they sit there writing? Could it take on a zoo-like feel? I mean, I’m sure you’ve considered all this, but…’
It was Craig’s turn to cough uncomfortably while Libby felt her anger growing, and more than that, she was shocked to feel tears prick at her eyes.
‘The spaces will be quite secluded, behind shelves, but with natural light from the windows. The hire charges will be minimal – with the chance to have their work featured on our social media pages and promoted through our mailing lists. I’ve been talking to a few literary magazines about accepting submissions or coming to the shop for events. The same with published authors. I have thought this through – you know. I’ve done my research. I’m not clueless. It’s about building a community.’ She was annoyed at herself when she felt a small tremor in her voice. Who was he to hint that her plans hadn’t been fully thought out? Clearly he underestimated her.
‘Oh God, I’m not suggesting you’re clueless. Sorry! Shit. I just know how brutal it can be setting up on your own. We had a false start when we took over The Ivy Inn. Pitched it wrong,’ he said, looking apologetic. ‘We had to make big changes, fast. Costly changes. Sorry, I must sound like an arrogant asshole.’
Libby choked out a small laugh. ‘Well…’
‘Sorry, I worked in financial management in a previous life. Proper rat race stuff in London. I swear I still have PTSD from it.’ He laughed a little, but there was something in his expression that told her he wasn’t that far off the mark. ‘I have profit margins drilled into me and sometimes they come out again. You’ve your head screwed on if you’re already thinking about community though. I think that’s what makes or breaks a new business these days. And it’s what really matters.’
Libby flushed, with pride this time. Actually, she felt a little dizzy from the roller-coaster of emotions she’d been through in the last ten minutes alone.
‘If I could offer one suggestion, and you can feel free to tell me to get stuffed, but from the pub, I know people do like privacy,’ Noah said, clearly not wanting to extract his nose entirely from her business. ‘I imagine that’s even more the case when writing than when drinking in a pub. We created our nooks just for that – with Craig’s help to design them. When we were going over ideas, we looked at curved stone walls – about four feet high – tonnes of character. Do you remember that, Craig?’
>
Craig nodded. ‘Yes, I think I still have some pictures of where it was done elsewhere… hang on,’ he said, logging into his iPad and scanning through. ‘That’s a cracking idea actually – just the right amount of privacy – maybe not stonework here, but something – reclaimed wooden cladding? It wouldn’t add much to your budget, but it would be quite effective.’
When Craig showed her the pictures, Libby couldn’t help but think that Noah may just be onto something. She knew, despite her bravado about having done her research, it would still be a battle to give the spaces the edge – especially for impoverished writers. All the marketing in the world couldn’t change basic economics. This would make the spaces extra cosy – secluded – away from distractions but close to a creative buzz.
‘Actually, that’s not the worst idea,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘No worries, Libby. Sure, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? Trying to keep our businesses going? Trying to make Ivy Lane a place people want to visit and be a part of? It’s in our mutual best interests to work well together – all of us traders.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m going to introduce myself to some of the others later. I’ve already met Harry.’
Noah’s face broke into a wide grin at the mention of Harry’s name. ‘He’s a legend,’ Noah said warmly. ‘He’s the very heart of Ivy Lane.’
* * *
A full skip was lifted just before five and when Libby walked around the flat, it was little more than a shell of bare floors and walls. The old kitchen and bathroom suites had been pulled out and it was the very definition of a blank canvas. It felt bigger – already expanding with potential before her eyes.
The Hopes and Dreams of Libby Quinn Page 7