by Jan Ellis
As she drove along the town’s narrow high street for her meeting she took a peek at her neighbours to see who was busy and who was not. Passing some charity shops, the baker’s and the fishmonger, she noticed that the hardware shop had already put out piles of brightly coloured buckets and spades and flimsy plastic windmills that whirred and span in the brisk spring air.
The high street sloped down to the sea and she soon reached the road that scooped around the bay and gradually climbed up out of town, twisting and turning up onto the moorland that surrounded them. After twenty minutes she had arrived at her destination – an Edwardian pile with extensive views of the coastline. It was a wonderful spot, but the big old family house was expensive to run so its owner, Malcolm Pearce, was down-sizing: selling up and moving to a bungalow lower down the hill. He had a lifetime’s worth of books in the house, and his children had told him firmly that he couldn’t keep them all. Now, after several weeks of hard work, Mr Pearce had some bare shelves and Eleanor was about to acquire a motley selection of titles that she was moderately sure she could sell. One of the things that people liked about her shop was the serendipitous nature of it: old and new books hugger-mugger on the shelves and in enticing heaps on a big oak table in the back room.
As she pulled into the wide driveway, Malcolm came out of the house to greet her.
“Good afternoon, my dear. How kind of you to pop by.”
“It’s always a pleasure to come up here, Mr Pearce.” She looked up at the big old stone house and the garden full of camellias and hoped that the people who bought the place would love it as much as its current owner plainly did.
“Good, good,” he said, smiling and leading her into a sunny sitting room where the boxes of books were stacked in neat piles. “I shall be very glad to wave farewell to this lot.”
Eleanor had already helped him to take a load of books to charity. What was left was for her to take away and – hopefully – sell. She looked at the boxes and hoped that she could fit them all in the van. “Right. Let’s get started!”
Malcolm insisted on helping and together they soon shifted everything out of the room. Eleanor brought the last box into the hallway and stepped outside into the spring sunshine. Later on she would sort through the boxes again properly and see if there were any unexpected treasures among them. In the past she had come across quite rare editions at similar house clearances, which she’d managed to sell to collectors over the internet. She knew there were some early editions of local histories that would find an audience. Other boxes contained children’s albums from the 1950s and 1960s: bumper story books for boys and girls, adventure stories and tales of derring-do with wonderfully evocative illustrations of swarthy foreigners in far-off lands. “I’ll go through everything back at the shop and let you have a cheque as soon as I’ve checked the value.”
“Splendid! Now let me see if my son’s around to give you a hand loading these heavy boxes into your, er, vehicle. I think he’s toiling in the garden somewhere.” Malcolm opened the side gate and a small brown shape dashed towards them, closely followed by a tall, dark-haired man in worn corduroys and a faded green sweater.
“Hello Crumpet,” said Eleanor, bending down to greet the furry bundle at her feet. “Er, sorry I don’t know your name. I’m Eleanor Mace – Bella, Welsh Spaniel.”
“Daniel Pearce. Border terrier,” he said, frowning as he removed a gardening glove to shake her hand. She recognised him as a peripheral member of the local dog-walking gang.
“Thanks for taking this lot away,” he said, nodding at the heaps of cartons. “I can’t imagine what you’re going to do with dad’s junk.”
Eleanor could feel herself prickle. “I wouldn’t call it ‘junk’. Your father has a very interesting library. Anyway, it’s my idea of heaven to rummage among old books.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place then. Is that your van?” He gave the Combi a pained look that she’d seen before in people who just didn’t get it. Probably drives a Saab, thought Eleanor as she scratched Crumpet behind the ears. Shame your owner doesn’t have your engaging personality, she said to herself.
“Be a good lad and help Mrs Mace to load up while I make us some tea.”
Daniel Pearce gave his father a look that suggested he had much better things to do with his time, but he walked over to the boxes nonetheless. Eleanor got in the van and backed it right up to the porch so they wouldn’t need to carry everything too far from the hallway. Opening the side door, she arranged the boxes on the floor as Daniel silently passed them up to her. Working together it didn’t take long to get the books moved and they had almost finished by the time Malcolm came out of the house with three mugs on a battered tea tray. “Really father,” said Daniel taking his cup. “The rubbish you hang on to.”
“This was a wedding present, I’ll have you know. Your mother would never forgive me if I threw it away.”
“I think it’s charming,’ said Eleanor, helping herself crossly to a custard cream. This man really is an oaf. “They call it shabby chic, you know. In London it’s all the rage.”
“Hmm, no doubt. Well, I’d better get back to the garden.” Daniel drained his mug and handed it back to his father. “Nice to meet you properly, Eleanor.”
“Thanks for your help.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that it had been nice to meet such a rude man.
“I apologise for my son,” said Malcolm, sighing as Daniel left them. “He’s a super chap normally, but he has been a grumpy so-and-so since Freya left him.”
Freya! So that was the name of the rather glamorous woman she’d often seen striding over the hill with Crumpet. Looking down at her own ancient jeans and baggy jumper she suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for young Mr P: what must it be like to be married to a woman who wears full make-up to walk a small shaggy dog in the middle of nowhere at eight o’clock in the morning? No wonder he looked miserable.
“Oh, dear. That must be difficult for him. For you all. Do you have grandchildren?”
He nodded sadly, “Yes, we have a granddaughter – I mean, I have a granddaughter. My wife passed away some years ago. Ah well,” he said, brightening, “everything will all sort itself out eventually, I’m sure. More tea?”
“Thanks Malcolm, but I’d better be off. We’ve got a big event happening tomorrow evening, and I’m nowhere near ready.” She brushed the last biscuit crumbs off her chest and climbed into the van.
“We’ve got Lavinia Threlfall booked to do a signing session.”
Malcolm Pearce frowned. “Lavinia . . . ?”
“Oh, you may not have heard of her. She’s a local author who writes rather sensational romantic fiction.” Eleanor could see that Malcolm was not entirely won over.
“Do come if you can – there’ll be a reading, drinks and snacks.”
“Thank you my dear. I may well do that.”
“Great. I look forward to seeing you there.” Eleanor started the engine and pulled out of the long driveway. The road took her back across the moor and down into town. Getting the boxes into the shop was going to be a team effort, so she decided to leave them in the van and sort everything out after the launch party.
Back at the shop, Erika had had a busy afternoon and was looking quite pleased with herself. “We’ve had a group of walkers in who bought maps and guidebooks, the primary school has placed a big order for next term, and Mrs Elliott came by and bought a stack of paperbacks for her grandchildren.”
“Excellent,” said Eleanor. “I can see that I should leave you alone more often.” Squinting at her watch she saw that it was home time.
“Let’s close the shop then Bella and I will go for a stroll.”
Getting herself a dog had been one of Eleanor’s major indulgences on leaving London. “You can’t just go for walks on your own,” her new neighbours had told her. “People will think you’re peculiar.” To begin with, Eleanor had thought that was ridiculous but now, when she was out with Bella and saw a solitary walker on th
e moors in the rain, she too found herself wondering what they were doing there. When she’d mentioned this to Jenna, her sister had raised an eyebrow in a way that conveyed her increasing belief that all her predictions had been spot on and that Eleanor was getting more eccentric by the day.
Collecting Bella and heading up onto the cliff top she wondered which of them enjoyed those outings more. She especially loved their walks along the rocky paths that snaked around the headland. The view wasn’t beautiful: on this side of the country the sea was generally the colour of weak cocoa except when the sun shone on the water and turned it green or slate grey. Nonetheless, the area had a wildness that Eleanor found exhilarating. Some days she’d be entirely alone, but more often than not she’d encounter other dog-walkers, all bundled up against the wind that swirled in off the sea, summer and winter.
Striding along, hands stuffed in her pockets against the cool evening air, she nodded a greeting to an elderly gent with a whippet. Alfie, she thought it was called. One of the unexpected facts of dog-ownership was that everyone knew the names of the dogs but not necessarily those of the owners. Eleanor smiled when she thought of some of the interesting conversations she’d overheard along the lines of, “You know who I mean – Mitzi (long-haired dachshund, yappy), she’s split up from her husband and has taken up with Jaffa (golden retriever, dribbles a bit, but sweet natured).”
“Well I don’t think much of Mr Crumpet, that’s for sure,” she murmured to herself, her feet crunching on the dry sand as she strode back down the path and along the beach. Bella rushed back and forth, nose and tail in feverish activity as she dashed from seaweed to driftwood to seagull. Eleanor smiled at the dog’s evident joy and thought how lucky she was in her new life.
Chapter 2: The Launch Party
The next day, Eleanor tried to go about her work as normal, but she was excited by the prospect of that evening’s launch. Persuading This Book Press to hold the party at her shop rather than the big chain store in the next town had been a real coup. She had worked hard at it mind, with promotions, window displays, a guess-the-author’s weight competition – okay, she didn’t actually do the last one, but she had managed to entice Lavinia Threlfall to The Reading Room for the launch of her latest novel. The books were a potent mix of historical fiction, romance and the occult set on that stretch of the Devon coast and had a fervent local and national following.
All afternoon Eleanor and Erika had been busy decorating the room where the event was to be held. The publishers had stumped up some cash for drinks and Eleanor had done a deal with the bakery next door to get some handmade cheese straws. It was the sort of extravagance that her accountant disapproved of, but Eleanor believed that people would be more inclined to buy something if they’d had a good time. She brought an old-fashioned standard lamp from the cottage and arranged velvet shawls and paisley throws over the sofa that lived by the back wall. With the lights dimmed, the space looked suitably Gothic and romantic. “It looks like we’re planning a séance,” said Erika, as they stood back to admire their work.
Eleanor laughed. “So long as we only conjure up good spirits, I don’t mind.”
Right on cue, the door opened to reveal their author. Lavinia Threlfall turned out to be a rather dumpy woman, not in the first flush of youth, with bright copper hair and emerald nail polish. She was accompanied by her publicist, Georgie, a striking young woman with perfect teeth. Elegantly dressed in a black suit and wearing impossible heels, everything about her just screamed ‘London’. “Hello ladies. Where do you want us?”
Erika led them over to the area they had prepared for their visitor and Georgie set to work putting up posters and rearranging the piles of books that Eleanor had already put out. Later, Georgie shepherded customers over to the table where Lavinia sat in state and kept her charge supplied with wine and snacks throughout the evening.
They opened the doors to customers at 6pm and by 8pm the shop was packed with people wanting to meet Lavinia and to get signed copies of her rather torrid fiction. Among them was Malcolm Pearce who seemed fascinated by her and even bought a copy of the book. He took it over to the cash desk, looking rather shifty.
“Don’t tell my son – I’m supposed to be shedding books, not buying more!”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Erika, as she wrapped up his purchase.
Eleanor was circulating, chatting to regular customers and offering wine to those clutching books, when, just at that moment, she glimpsed Daniel Pearce across the room scanning the gardening shelves. He caught her eye and nodded.
She weaved her way over to where he stood, a bottle of wine in her hand. “Hi! I didn’t have you down as a fan of romantic fiction.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh. Well, is there anything else that catches your eye?” she said, indicating the shelves packed with glossy books.
“Not really,” he said looking about the crowded room. “I’ve really just come to give my father a lift home.”
Right, she thought. I’m not going to make a sale here, but never mind.
“Can I top you up?”
“Better not, as I’m driving,” he said, handing Eleanor his empty glass. “Thanks anyway.” He wandered off to collect his father who gave Eleanor a cheery wave as they left the shop.
She waved back, then carried on where she’d left off, topping up glasses and smiling encouragingly at the people who were waiting to get their books signed by Lavinia. After a little while she felt a tap on her arm.
“Hi, I’m Jim Rowe from the Gazette.”
Eleanor turned around and smiled. “Gosh, you’ve turned up. I didn’t think you’d come.” Their paths had crossed before at other events, and it had been Jim who had interviewed Eleanor three years before when she had taken over the shop from a Mr Williams, who had run it for nearly thirty years. She had been slightly embarrassed at Jim’s treatment of her as a heroine, come to save the town’s oldest bookshop from the clutches of wicked developers who hoped to open yet another coffee shop. However, apart from the hyperbole he had done a good job – and taken quite a flattering photograph of her – and the interview was now framed and had pride of place on the wall behind the counter.
“Slow news day,” he said, between mouthfuls of cheese straw. “A coachful of French tourists got jammed in a lane in North Yarnton, and we had an escaped sheep on the beach. Apart from that not much happening, so I decided to swing by and see what our local celebrity was up to.”
“Well I’m glad you did. Publicity is always welcome. I’ll introduce you to our star.”
“No need. ‘Lavinia’ and I went to secondary school together. She was plain Susan Green then.”
At that moment Georgie sprang into action and hurried over to where they stood chatting. “You must be Mr Rowe? We spoke earlier. Have you had the press pack? Lavinia can’t wait to meet you,” she said, turning towards her author. Lavinia, resplendent in ankle-length green velvet, swooped over to them wearing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Sue love,” said Jim, shaking her hand, “how are things? Haven’t seen you for ages.”
“It’s Lavinia to you. Still working for the local rag, I see.”
“I certainly am Sue, er, Lavinia. And you’re still knocking out the old bodice-rippers?”
Lavinia looked deeply unimpressed by this description of her work. “I prefer the term Gothic fiction.”
“Ouch,” said Erika under her breath, “We’d better split these two up fast.”
“I think this corner here would be perfect for your photograph,” said Georgie, smoothly taking control and escorting Jim and Lavinia away.
Eleanor went back to topping up glasses and chatting to old and new customers. At the end of the evening when the few remaining books had been packed up and the promotional flyers all tidied away, Eleanor stepped outside to find Georgie and Erika sitting on a wall across from the shop each with a large glass of white wine.
“We’re just having a sneaky
fag,” said Erika. “Come and join us.”
“When you write your memoirs, sweetie,” said Georgie, patting Erika on the knee, “I insist on being your publicist. What a story!”
“Cheers to that!” said Erika, clinking glasses. Her slim figure and smart hair cut made it hard to believe that Erika had actually started life as Eric. After twenty years in the Manchester Police Force, Eric had retired on a handsome pension and left the city to begin a new life as the person he had had to subdue for so long. Now Erika was officially female and Eleanor’s one full-time member of staff and right-hand woman. She had got the job at The Reading Room because she was very experienced, immensely thorough and good with the administrative tasks that Eleanor loathed. She was also well read and had an easy manner that customers soon warmed to. Another of her talents was an unerring ability to spot and deter potential shoplifters before they made away with the goods. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes there would be a coachload of French schoolchildren in town bent on acquiring a few ‘free’ souvenirs. Word would go from shop to shop that they were on their way and Erika would always be ready for them.
Now she shifted along to make room for her boss. “Eleanor, why don’t you sit down and join us?”
“That is a very tempting offer, but it’s freezing cold out here, and I have to finish tidying up.”
“Darling, let me help you,” offered Georgie, slithering down from the wall.
“No, you stay there. You’ve both been brilliant and it won’t take a minute.”
“Oh well, if you insist.”
“Actually, shouldn’t you be looking after our author?”
“No need. Lavinia has gone to have dinner with an old flame, so I’m off the hook.” Georgie rummaged around in her bag. “Okay, one last ciggy then I’m off to my B&B. This sea air is really quite exhausting.”