The Book Lovers

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘I’m just going outside,’ he’d call to Eleanor and she knew that, if he was taking a book with him, he would be gone for at least two or three hours. If there was no book in his hand, he would be much longer.

  As Eleanor bustled around the table now, she stopped briefly to admire her husband’s display of multi-coloured dahlias which sat shaggily on the sideboard as well as at the centre of the table. They were such joyful flowers, she thought, and so lovely to have in the house, even if it meant the occasional earwig crawling across the woodwork. She remembered the first time Frank had brought one into the house. It had been a brilliant sulphur-yellow flower and he’d tucked it behind her ear where it had looked so bright against her dark hair. Of course, her dark hair came out of a bottle these days, but it was still naturally thick and wavy and she wore it loose over her shoulders just as Frank liked it. Not long ago, she’d announced that she was going to get it cut.

  ‘A nice short bob,’ she’d told him. He’d nearly exploded.

  She walked across the room and gazed out of the French windows towards the emerald lawn which sloped down to the herbaceous borders. How lucky they were to have this place, she thought, not for the first time, and how lucky they were to still use it as a family.

  It had been difficult maintaining the Sunday lunch tradition over the years as her children had left for university at different times and then gone on to work, get married and make families of their own. Well, Sam and Polly were the only ones to have married and that hadn’t ended well for either of them – if Polly’s had, indeed, ended, which nobody was at all sure about since Sean Prior had gone missing three years ago. Polly was also the only one to have provided her and Frank with a grandchild: dear Archie. He was six now, and a little livewire.

  Then there was Josh, Bryony and Lara. Bryony was currently working her way through a succession of very bad dates and putting on a brave face about it all, saying that it didn’t matter and that she was dedicated to her work, but Eleanor could see the pain in her eyes and knew that her daughter was desperate to fall in love.

  Josh, on the other hand, seemed to have no interest in falling in love at all. He had thrown himself into running his bookshop. Eleanor and Frank were so proud of the ideas he’d brought to the store, but a life couldn’t be made up of books alone and Eleanor was worried that he was never going to settle down and make a family of his own. He just didn’t seem interested. Mind you, Eleanor thought, Frank Nightingale hadn’t been a bit interested in marriage until the day she had walked into his shop. She smiled at the memory, and hoped that all her children would be lucky in love one day soon.

  The sound of a car pulling up on the gravel driveway brought Eleanor back to the present and, making sure the two family dogs, Hardy and Brontë, were out of the way in the boot room, she went to open the front door. She knew who the first arrival would be: Sam. He was always the first, arriving with a nice bottle of wine and then spending the minutes before lunch prowling the family bookshelves, seeing if there had been any new arrivals or if he was in the mood to borrow any old favourites.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said as he joined her in the hallway a moment later, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

  ‘You look tired, Sam,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter,’ he said.

  ‘No? Are you sure? Grandpa said–’

  ‘What? What’s Grandpa been saying?’

  ‘That you should get out more.’

  Sam shook his head and gave the sort of smile that had no joy in it at all. ‘I get out plenty.’

  ‘Like when? When was the last time you went out?’ she asked him.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Tell me,’ his mother said.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Why is everyone picking on me?’

  A screech of tyres outside marked the timely arrival of Josh, and Sam made the most of the opportunity by fleeing the scene.

  ‘I’m not done with you yet, Sam!’ Eleanor said before she was greeted by her youngest son, Josh.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek and thrusting a bunch of flowers into her arms.

  ‘Thanks, darling,’ she said. ‘Have you cut your hair again?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I liked it longer.’

  ‘I like it shorter,’ he said with a grin and Eleanor realised, not for the first time, that she could no longer dictate her wishes to her children anymore. She could only voice an opinion which she hoped might be heard.

  ‘Mum?’ a voice called through from the hallway a moment later.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen, Bryony,’ Eleanor called back through.

  ‘Look who I found in the lane,’ Bryony said as she appeared.

  ‘Lara!’ Eleanor cried, rushing towards her youngest daughter and embracing her. ‘I thought you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘I nearly didn’t,’ Lara said, pushing her long hair out of her face. It was the colour of dark honey and was wavy like Eleanor and Bryony’s. ‘My car broke down again.’

  ‘Oh, not again!’ Eleanor said. ‘I do worry about you in that old thing.’

  ‘That old thing is all I can afford,’ Lara said.

  ‘Well, your dad’s offered to buy you a new one.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! You know I–’

  ‘I know!’ Eleanor interrupted. ‘You want to do things for yourself.’

  Lara nodded. ‘I’ve got a new Saturday job at a garden centre. It doesn’t pay much, but it helps a bit.’

  ‘You should just catch the train and get one of us to pick you up at the station. Anyway, it’s good to have you home.’

  ‘I brought some washing,’ Lara said.

  ‘I would expect no less,’ Eleanor said with a wry grin.

  ‘The washing machines in our halls of residence are disgusting,’ Lara said with a grimace. ‘You don’t want to know what I found in one last week.’

  ‘I do,’ Josh called through from the hall.

  ‘Not before we’ve eaten,’ Eleanor said in a warning tone.

  The conversation continued as the Nightingale family prepared to serve lunch, making their way into the dining room. The seating arrangements were the same that they’d always been, with Frank at the head of the table and Eleanor to his left. Next to Eleanor was Sam, Polly and Archie. Grandpa Joe sat at the far table end with Nell to his left and then there was Josh, Bryony and Lara. It was always the same. If there were guests, they would be squeezed in as comfortably as possible next to the person they’d arrived with.

  Now, Eleanor, Bryony and Lara brought in the food: a traditional roast with all the trimmings.

  ‘Where’s Polly?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Oh, she rang before. She’s running late,’ Eleanor told her husband.

  ‘Not again. She’s never on time, that girl.’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot to sort out when you’re a single mum.’

  ‘She should be used to it by now,’ Josh said and received a glare from his mother in response.

  ‘How can you say that? Her situation is not something you get used to,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Don’t forget it’s the anniversary today,’ Sam said. ‘You know – since Sean–’

  ‘How could we forget that?’ Bryony said.

  ‘I’m just reminding you. Don’t go saying anything inappropriate,’ Sam said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Not you, Bry. I meant Josh.’

  ‘Why would I say something inappropriate?’ Josh said with a wounded look on his face.

  ‘Because you usually do,’ Bryony said.

  Josh shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I come here every week to be insulted.’

  ‘Because you’d miss it if you didn’t,’ Bryony said, giving her brother a little smile.

  It was then that the front door slammed.

  ‘We’re here!’

  ‘Come on through, Polly, we’re just serving up,’ Eleanor called through.

  Polly appeared in th
e doorway a moment later, her dark hair had been neatly pinned at the back of her neck with a tortoiseshell hair grip that she’d had since high school and her face was pale and make-up free. Beside her was Archie with a big grin on his face.

  ‘We nearly got squished by a tractor!’ he said with glee.

  ‘We did not nearly get squished,’ his mother told him.

  ‘He said bad words to you,’ Archie said.

  ‘Yes, well, some people don’t have very good manners,’ Polly said. ‘Now, go and wash your hands before you eat.’

  ‘I washed them before we left home,’ Archie said.

  ‘Yes and we don’t know where you’ve put them since,’ Polly said, patting his bottom in the direction of the cloakroom before sitting down at the table. ‘This looks nice,’ she said.

  ‘Your father’s parsnips,’ Eleanor said.

  Josh laughed. ‘That sounds really rude, Mum!’

  ‘Everything sounds rude to you,’ Bryony said.

  ‘I’ll tell you something really rude if you want,’ Josh said.

  ‘Must you at the dinner table?’ Eleanor said with a weary sigh.

  ‘No – not rude as in filthy,’ Josh said. ‘Rude as in bad manners.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s okay I guess,’ Eleanor said as she handed round the blue and white dish of roast potatoes, golden and crisp in their skins.

  ‘Who’s been rude?’ Archie asked as he entered the room with his hands newly scrubbed.

  ‘Well, little nephew,’ Josh said, ‘let me tell you. That crazy woman was in again.’

  ‘What crazy woman?’ Grandma Nell asked from her end of the table.

  ‘The one who keeps asking for that monstrous book,’ Josh said.

  ‘What monstrous book?’ Grandma Nell asked.

  ‘The one that’s been in all the papers and on the news,’ Frank told his mother.

  ‘The sexy book?’ Grandma Nell said. At eighty-three years old, she was still on the ball when it came to all the latest book gossip.

  ‘Grandma!’ Polly cried, nodding towards Archie.

  ‘What’s a sexy book?’ Archie immediately asked.

  ‘It’s a filthy dirty book that I refuse to sell in my shop,’ Josh said.

  ‘Why don’t they clean it if it’s dirty?’ Archie said.

  ‘That’s a very good question, Arch,’ Josh said.

  ‘I don’t know why you don’t just stock it,’ Grandpa Joe said. ‘You could sell hundreds of copies in a week, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Josh said.

  ‘But I thought that was the whole point of running a shop,’ Grandpa Joe said, his dark eyes sparkling with glee.

  ‘You know that’s not true, Grandpa. If making money from a shop was the only objective, I doubt very much if one would choose a shop selling books.’

  Grandpa guffawed and then stuffed a parsnip into his mouth, obviously enjoying the Sunday lunch show immensely.

  ‘I don’t know where you got your standards from,’ Eleanor told Josh, ‘because it certainly wasn’t from your father. He stocked any old book that sold.’

  ‘I did not!’ Frank said with a little grin.

  ‘Frank Nightingale, you know you did and I know where you kept them all as well for your special customers!’

  ‘Is this true, Dad?’ Josh said, his eyes wide in surprise.

  ‘They were literary classics,’ Frank said in his defence.

  ‘Literary filth more like,’ Eleanor said.

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘Well, I’m not having that book in Nightingale’s,’ Josh said.

  ‘Good for you,’ Bryony said. ‘One has to have standards.’

  ‘I don’t know why that woman keeps coming in,’ Josh said. ‘It would have been quicker for her to have bought it somewhere else, but she’s got a real bee in her bonnet about it now. I’m going to have to get a restraining order on her or something.’

  ‘Why don’t you just buy one copy for her? You don’t have to have it on display. Just keep it under the till,’ Frank said.

  Josh shook his head. ‘It is not going to happen. I’m not having that book sully my shop.’

  Eleanor smiled at her youngest son’s convictions.

  ‘Sam had an interesting visitor to his shop this week too,’ Grandpa Joe said.

  ‘Oh?’ Frank said.

  ‘Grandpa!’ Sam said, a warning tone in his voice.

  ‘Yes!’ Bryony interrupted. ‘Callie Logan!’

  ‘The writer?’ Polly said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bryony said, ‘but Sam won’t ask her to do a signing at the shop, the meanie!’

  ‘Why not?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Castle Clare could do with a bit of livening up in between the literary festivals.’

  ‘She’s not that kind of person,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t think she’d be interested.’

  ‘What’s she like, then?’ Polly asked. Sam didn’t answer so Polly turned her question to her grandpa. ‘What’s she like, Grandpa?’

  Grandpa Joe stroked his chin and took his time in answering, enjoying being the centre of attention. ‘She’s a wispy, dreamy sort,’ he said. ‘Like “a faery’s child”.’

  ‘Keats,’ Josh said without a pause.

  ‘Well done, son,’ Frank said. He’d done his best to cram as much good poetry into his children as they’d grown up.

  ‘I really think you should let me ask her to do an author event,’ Bryony said with a pout. ‘It would be a great way for her to get to know everyone.’

  ‘There’s no way he’s going to ask her,’ Polly said, ‘not when you remember what happened with that dreadful Miriam Morley.’

  Bryony tutted. ‘That was just one unfortunate incident!’

  ‘Unfortunate incident?’ Polly said. ‘She made Tilly Brady cry!’

  ‘How was I to know she didn’t like kids?’ Bryony protested. ‘I didn’t know children’s authors were allowed to hate children.’

  Sam sighed. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ he said. ‘Can’t we have this meal in peace?’

  Silence descended and everybody stared at him, and then the laughter began.

  ‘No chance!’ Josh said.

  ‘It wouldn’t be normal, would it?’ Bryony said.

  ‘No, I guess not,’ Sam said, resigned to the fact that, as long as he was a Nightingale, he couldn’t hope for a single moment’s peace.

  Chapter 5

  A week after her first visit to Nightingale’s, Callie found herself back in Castle Clare. She parked her car near the castle and walked the short distance into town, browsing in the enormous antiques centre and wondering if she could justify the purchase of a chaise longue. Deciding that it was a little too pretentious for her humble cottage, as well as a little too expensive, she made her way to the little local supermarket in the town square. How nice it was to shop in a small space, she decided as she picked up a basket and wandered down the tiny aisles. She’d been used to years of shopping in ginormous supermarkets with shelves full of endless choice and things flown in from abroad whether it was the season to eat them or not. Now, as she browsed the shelves, she saw locally-sourced seasonal produce and that made her unexpectedly happy.

  Two bags of groceries later, Callie left the shop and found herself in Church Street. She hadn’t intended to go there but, she told herself, the smallness of the town meant that she had found the street easily enough as she’d been window shopping.

  She walked by the independent bookshop and stopped outside the window of the secondhand one. If she went in, would Sam Nightingale think she was hassling him with her order? Would he think her pushy? She hesitated and, in that moment, Sam Nightingale walked into the main room of the shop and spotted her through the window. There was no escaping him now and she found that she actually didn’t want to.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, entering the shop with her two bags now in one hand as the bell tinkled above her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, his brown eyes warm in welcome behind his glasses.

  ‘I h
aven’t come in about my book,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m not hassling you or anything.’

  He smiled. ‘That’s okay even if you were,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind being hassled. I’m afraid there’s no joy yet for Perdita’s Key but my secret army of book spotters is on the case!’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Good to know.’

  ‘How’s Kingston?’ he asked.

  ‘Kingston?’

  ‘The book you bought,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ Callie said, the light dawning on her. ‘Kingston is very well. He’s sitting on the coffee table in the living room whilst I admire that lovely blue and gold cover.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I do that with new books all the time. Each one has a special place on a table somewhere before being safely shelved.’

  ‘Do you have books out on your tables all the time?’ Callie asked.

  ‘A few,’ he said. ‘Nice big hardbacks which demand their time in the spotlight. I have a lovely hardback about Benton End. You know the Cedric Morris place here in Suffolk?’

  Callie shook her head.

  ‘He was a painter and set up something of an artists’ drop-in. The gardens there were magnificent and artists from all over would come to paint there and swap gossip. That’s the book I’m flipping through at the moment, looking at the pictures, reading the highlighted paragraphs before diving into the main text. I like that slow way of getting to know a book.’

  ‘I do too,’ Callie said. ‘It’s like taking a tiny bite out of a delicious meal just to see what the flavours are.’

  He laughed. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘So which book are you nibbling at the moment?’

  Callie looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve got a number of them around the house, actually. There’s a book about herbs on my coffee table which I’m flipping through with the greatest of intentions of actually growing some myself now that I’ve got a garden. There’s also a wonderful book about chocolate which a friend bought me for Christmas. She really should know better as I eat far too many sweet things. Then there’s a romance novel in the bathroom for lazy soaks in the bath and a book in my study about woodlands which I’m reading for research for the new story I’ve just started.’