by Debbie Young
I stared down the garden to consider where I might put a shed. “But what am I thinking? I’ve already got the very thing.” I pointed to the small stone outhouse at the end of the garden. I’d never been allowed to play in it when staying with May as a child. “What a perfect writing den that would make! Who could fail to be inspired down there? I wonder why Auntie May never used it herself.”
Joshua gave me what Auntie May would have called an old-fashioned look. “Oh, but I think she did, in her younger days, but not for the purposes you have in mind.”
I wondered what on earth she’d got up to in there.
“Go on, go and take a look. There are no monsters in there, I assure you. Perhaps it’s not what you’re expecting, but it’s provided the perfect spot for quiet thought for generations.”
Unsure of his meaning, I ventured down the garden path. Before opening the door, I looked back at him for reassurance, and he nodded encouragement. I lifted the ancient rusting latch and pulled hard on the handle. It swung back all of a sudden to reveal the outhouse’s unmistakable purpose. Before me was a broad horizontal wooden plank from wall to wall, with a large oval-shaped hole in the centre. Beneath the hole stood an old-fashioned enamel bucket. Half way up the stone wall, hanging from a nail, was a handful of newspaper squares strung together. I bent closer to examine them. They were dated 1947.
Joshua called out to me down the garden path. “It was a great day when they brought mains plumbing to the village after the war.”
Gently I pushed the door to and lifted the latch to close it securely.
“I’ll think on it,” I conceded, retracing my steps back to Joshua.
“You won’t be the first. But stick to following in your great aunt’s footsteps, my dear, and all will come right in the end.”
I nodded. “Auntie May thought so too, even though the careers advisor at school told me that writing could never be a viable career. That’s why I took up teaching instead. Even so, Auntie May always used to tell me there was money in books. I think she thought I’d get round to it eventually. She approved of my travelling to find subject matter to write about, even if it wasn’t the adventurous kind of travel that she did.”
Before tucking into a scone, Joshua stared at me for a moment. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to tell me. I thought I’d better not press him, in case it was something I didn’t want to hear. Instead, I poured us each a second cup of tea.
Only when I was clearing away the tea things after he’d gone did I realise that neither of us had touched the honey.
8 Back to the Writing Desk
Although I wasn’t sure yet what I should write, that evening I sat down at Auntie May’s old-fashioned wooden bureau. I pulled down the flap to expose the maze of pigeonholes that used to fascinate me as a child. Each was filled with a different kind of stationery, the essentials of her craft: lined paper for handwritten drafts; plain paper for sketches; her latest diaries and notebooks that provided the raw material for her next book; pencils, pens, erasers, rulers, staples, treasury tags. All neatly stored in little boxes within the many nooks.
On the shelf above was a dusty old travelling typewriter. This had been her workhorse in the early years of her writing life, though latterly it had been more of an ornament. Her modern laptop was concealed in a drawer below, and her printer was on the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to log in to her laptop yet, though it crossed my mind there might be some unfinished manuscript lurking there that I should send to her publisher.
Like May, I’d travelled extensively, but I was more of a tourist. I may have become familiar with the local museums, parks, galleries and restaurants, but I never really went native. Would anyone else want to read an account of my experience in each city? A shudder ran through me. No, the only travel book I was qualified to write was a cautionary tale on how to be a tourist instead of a traveller.
One summer, when I was about fifteen and staying with May, a sumptuous glossy brochure had arrived in the post, offering her and a companion of her choice a free trip on the latest upmarket cruise ship in return for her writing about it. By the time I’d pored over the alluring pictures of the glamorous life on board, I was longing for her to ask me to be Passepartout to her Phileas Fogg. I’d nickname her Philomena Fogg on the journey, and I hoped I could persuade her to take a carpet bag.
I’d been horrified when she turned down the offer without even reading the brochure.
“It’s not for nothing that my monthly column in the Traveller magazine is called ‘Under My Own Steam’,” she reminded me. How I wish now that I’d accompanied her on some of her self-styled adventures, instead of only ever spending time with her at home in her cottage. I’m sure I could have had the opportunity, if only I’d asked her. I could have gone on to write books about the pleasures of travelling with my aunt.
Or I could have been Henry Pulling to Aunt Augusta – the staid, unadventurous nephew given a new perspective on life by his aged relation, according to the blurb on the back of the Graham Greene book that Hector had given me earlier.
The realisation of what now would never be made my eyes fill with tears and my heart heave with shame at my ingratitude. I wiped my damp hands on the soft velvet of May’s long skirt, now hugging my legs. I continued to stroke it long after my hands were dry.
I started reading Travels with My Aunt that evening with a glass of wine in a hot bath, seasoned with Auntie May’s favourite lily of the valley bath salts. After twice dropping the book in the bath, I climbed out, slipped on my nightie and hung the book on the washing line in the garden to dry. Then I decided to reacquaint myself with May’s own books in bed.
Even without the bookshop in the village, there was plenty to read in May’s cottage. It was jammed full of books, including copies translated into different languages. I used to lie in bed, staring at the black and white photos of her waving from the back of a camel, lounging in a hammock in the tropics, or strolling round the deck of an ocean-going liner. It was hard to equate the lithe, sporty figure in solar topi and shorts with the bent old lady that I knew, but when I read her writing, she seemed forever young.
I hated to confess, even to myself, that I hadn’t opened any of her books since I used to stay as a teenager. I wondered how much different they’d seem now I was reading them with an adult perspective.
I was about to reach for the special shelf in her bedroom where she kept a first edition of each of her books when I noticed the green Moleskine notebook that I’d spotted the night before. I’d left it where it was, nervous of intruding on Auntie May’s personal space. Emboldened now by having a job and feeling a little more like I belonged here, I picked it up and opened it, expecting to find a poignant final diary entry, written the last night she spent in her own bed. Instead I discovered the book was entirely empty, apart from a note on the first page addressed to me in her familiar, neat sloping curling hand.
“My dear Sophie, whatever you do, live a life worth writing down. Then write it down. Ever with you, Auntie May”.
I set the book back on the nightstand. Could I really do that in this village? “Write what you know,” they say. But what did I know? How to teach English to foreign students? Or how to get bogged down in a disastrous dead-end relationship? Not much inspiration there.
The thought made me gladder than ever that I’d landed the job in the bookshop. It would buy me time to reconsider, even though I wasn’t entirely sure it would cover my bills. Although I had no rent, I’d still have to pay council tax, and for electricity, food and transport. And I didn’t have so much as a pushbike, so probably ought to buy a car. And learn to drive.
With a start, I realised that Hector hadn’t mentioned the rate of pay, and I hadn’t asked. Maybe he wanted a free intern, happy to make do with only the tips from the tearoom. That would explain why he’d been so fast to appoint me.
What had begun as a simple proposition – to live in a rent-free cottage, in a pleasant, stable community, whil
e pursuing the writing ambitions that I’d held since childhood – now seemed fraught with traps, difficulties and dangers. I put down the diary gently on the nightstand and settled back to sleep, curled up beneath Auntie May’s ancient Indian silk counterpane, savouring the sounds and scents of the village drifting in through the open bedroom window, and trying to cast my worries from my mind.
9 The Cream of the Bookshop
I awoke refreshed, reminded for the second night in a row how comfortable feather beds are. Leaping up to make a cup of tea, I then took it back to bed to drink while I read The Bookseller. I thought it would put me in the right frame of mind for my first day as a bookshop assistant. From its pages, I planned to pick up the trade’s jargon quickly and so impress upon Hector that he had hired the right person.
An hour later, I wondered with a start what a giant moth was doing on my face. It was The Bookseller, open at pages two to three, sticking to the corner of my mouth where I’d dribbled slightly in my sleep. Peeling it off, I set it to one side on the counterpane and reached for my mug of tea, now stone cold, so it was clearly time to get up. May’s clock revealed that I’d slept through my alarm.
I threw on the clothes I’d had the foresight to lay out ready the night before – I’d selected my own leggings and an arty Indian silk tunic of Auntie May’s – and was in and out of the bathroom within five minutes. Then, chewing on a dried-up scone as a token gesture at breakfast, I ran up the High Street. I arrived at Hector’s House just as he was turning the “Closed” sign to “Open”. I tried not to pant as I crossed the threshold, as if I’d strolled up leisurely, on time, and in control.
Hector, not fooled for a moment, looked pointedly at his watch. “The school mums will be with us any minute for their post-school-run revivers.”
“You mean the alcoholic tea?” I asked, heading for the tearoom area and looking about me for clues as to what I was meant to do next.
Hector looked askance. “No! Not at 9am! What do you take them for? Or me? Only Billy starts that early.”
I felt embarrassed at my blunder until he continued.
“No, save that for when they really need it – when they’ve collected the children in the afternoon.”
Making up my new routine as I went along, I gave the three tin tables a quick wipe with a damp cloth and laid them up with sugar bowls and newly-filled milk jugs. There was no room on the tiny tables for menus, so the choices were chalked up on a blackboard beside the cake counter. The glass domes that had yesterday guarded cakes now enclosed nothing but air. I replenished them with the contents of a couple of Tupperware boxes that had been left on the counter, presumably delivered that morning by Mrs Wetherley . Then I set out teapots, cups and saucers ready for the first customers.
I’d just set the lid down on the last pot when the first of the mums entered the shop. Hector clicked on some relaxing New Age music as a soothing soundtrack after the frenetic school run – the perfect antidote to children’s breakfast television jingles. Soon half a dozen ladies were clustered round the tables, drinking the pots of tea I’d served them and tucking into Mrs Wetherley’s cakes. I gathered this was their breakfast. It was more mouth-watering than mine.
My presence appeared to surprise them. Perhaps they were disappointed to be served by me rather than the handsome Hector. Said bookseller was making the most of his new freedom by lounging behind the shop counter, typing something into the computer. I’d always assumed that the only thing booksellers did when they weren’t selling books to customers was to read them.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” asked a lady cuddling a small baby girl with one hand while picking at a cupcake with the other. “You look familiar.”
“I used to spend some of my holidays here when I was a teenager.”
“No, I only moved here four years ago.”
I sighed. “You’ll be thinking of my aunt, then.”
She brightened. “Oh yes, old May Sayers down the road. You’re really like her. So sad, poor May, dying like that. Still, to be expected at her age, I suppose.”
I explained how she’d left me her cottage, enabling me to start a new life as a writer in the village after four years of travel. I hoped she might assume my itinerary had been as exotic as my aunt’s.
“Have you always worked in bookshops?”
“No, but I’m glad to be working here now. I used to be an English teacher, working overseas.”
“An English teacher?” one of the other mums on the next table chipped in. “Do you do coaching? My Jemima really could do with some extra help with her reading.”
“I’m afraid my special subject is English as a Foreign Language, not literacy.”
“It might as well be a foreign language, Jemima’s that bad at it. Would you consider giving her some extra help after school anyway? No-one else offers coaching in this village. I’m happy to pay the going rate.”
I glanced over to Hector to check whether he was listening. There’d still been no talk of my pay. I wondered whether to accept.
“The thing is, I’ve just started working here now.” I spoke loudly, so Hector would hear. “So I’ll be in here every afternoon when the children come out of school.”
Hector hit “enter” decisively and looked up from his keyboard.
“Here’s a plan,” he said with a winning smile to the mothers. “Sophie will coach your children here after school. She can use the desk in the stock room while you enjoy a cup of tea, a bun and a good book here. That will save you going home and coming back at the start and finish of each lesson.”
“And if the children work hard, you could buy them a cake or a biscuit afterwards,” I added. “I’m free any afternoon that suits you.”
Before I knew it, we had three pupils scheduled on alternate weekdays and the promise of more interest from their friends. After the mums had headed off to take their younger children to playgroup at the Village Hall, I scooped up the tips from beneath the saucers. I wondered whether there’d ever been a more brazen moonlighter.
“Well done, Sophie, that was entrepreneurial of you,” said Hector.
“I didn’t do anything. It was all down to you.”
“Not at all. You’ve just got us some extra tearoom business, created another vital role in the community for the shop, and boosted your salary to boot.”
I wasn’t comfortable taking all the credit. I wondered how to repay him for his kindness.
“If I need any special books for teaching purposes, I’ll order them through the shop.”
“What teamwork! At least now I can stop feeling guilty for paying you minimum wage, as you’ll be topping it up with teaching fees. Even if it is multitasking, of which, as a man, I have to disapprove on principle.”
I had a sudden panic. “Are you sure it’s not illegal?”
“Not if you fill in the right forms for child protection. I do know about health and safety, you know. I’m not completely irresponsible.”
The rest of the morning continued less eventfully, with Hector serving a few customers who came in to collect specific orders, and directing a couple of browsers in search of postable presents. After a while, I began to spot a pattern.
“How is it that every time you see a new customer coming, you change the track on the music player?” I’d been enjoying the violin quartet that had accompanied the visit of an elderly man. Hector had despatched him with a copy of John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga.
Hector looked pleased with himself. “All part of the olde worlde bookshop charm. Makes a customer feel comfortable and at home, and when they’re relaxed, so are their purse strings. Next on my playlist will be the dulcet tones of the local silver band. What better overture to the Village Show Committee meeting, due here at midday?”
He must have thought I was looking blank. “Haven’t you ever been here for the Village Show?”
“No. It falls at the end of the summer, and I had to be back at school in Scotland in mid-August, so I always missed
it.”
Hector looked genuinely sorry for me. “You’ll see for yourself in a couple of months what it’s all about. In the meantime, do your best to keep the Show Committee sweet. I sell the Show programmes in here all through the summer, and often flog a few books to people who come in for them, so I’d be loath to lose them. I order in seasonal gardening books especially, to help local gardeners boost their chances of winning a prize. The Committee puts a lot of business through the tearoom too. I’ll show you before they get here where I keep the cream – the special cream that Billy likes so much. But for now, could you cut along to the village shop and buy a couple more pints of milk? We’ll be needing them.”
After the cool atmosphere of Hector’s House, stepping out onto the hot pavement in my sandals, I was reminded that we were approaching midsummer. I strolled slowly along the road to the village shop, where I found Carol fanning herself with a copy of the parish magazine.
“So tell me about the Village Show,” I said casually as I searched out the milk in the chiller cabinet, where it lay between the ham and the pasties. I set the milk cartons down on the counter so as to fish my purse out of my pocket. “What happens? And what’s so special about it?”
Carol looked at me as if I’d just beamed down from another planet. She needed no further prompting to share her enthusiasm.
“Oh, the Show! The Show’s the best day of the whole year. There’s a huge marquee for everyone’s competition fruit, flowers, vegetables and crafts, and a funfair, and a carnival parade in fancy dress down the High Street. And entertainments in the arena – we had sheepdog demonstrations last year, and a falconer, and some nice young gymnasts come up from Slate Green with terrific acrostic skills. Then there’s the tug-of-war and the tractor pull and the Morris Men and the rare breeds and—”