The Village Green Bookshop: A Feel-Good Escape for All Book Lovers from the Bestselling Author of The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  ‘I’ve been Googling,’ Ben said, from the kitchen table. Despite the fact they’d just been out and spent a small fortune on fast food, he was buttering a mountain of toast and had poured a pint of milk into a glass. He caught her looking. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Hannah smiled at him fondly. ‘You’re just like a bottomless pit.’

  ‘I need all the energy I can get,’ he continued. ‘Particularly if I’m going to make it into the team down there.’

  ‘There’s a team? You mean at the school?’

  ‘No, there’s a football academy place. I reckon if I worked hard, I could get a place there and go next year, after GCSEs.’

  ‘Okay, that sounds positive.’

  ‘And David Beckham has a house near there. Maybe he’ll spot me and I’ll get scouted.’

  ‘I can’t imagine he’s in the habit of wandering around looking for football players,’ she said, and immediately regretted it. It sounded like the sort of negative thing her mother would have said when she was growing up – the sort of thing she tried to avoid. She wanted Ben to grow up and think all kinds of things were possible, not that they were out of reach.

  She started again.

  ‘That sounds really good. There’s probably a decent local team until then. If we move over the summer holidays, that’ll mean you can sign up when term starts.’

  ‘If they’ll have me.’

  ‘Of course they will.’

  Ben shrugged. He picked up his phone and was lost for a moment, staring at the screen.

  ‘I’m going to go out for a bit, if that’s okay?’ He gave her a look. It was the look of someone who was absolutely chancing his arm. One eyebrow raised, hopefully, a half-smile at the corner of his mouth. It was this exact look that drove his teachers crazy, but despite everything, Hannah was enough of a soft touch that it made her heart melt. She could remember the same expression on his face when he was a chunky-legged little toddler, messing about in the park after reception class.

  ‘Okay. Just don’t get into trouble.’

  When the doorbell went at eight thirty, she assumed it was him having forgotten his key. She opened it, and was halfway through ‘You need to remember to take it with you . . . what if I’m out?’ when she realized she was addressing a very stern-looking police officer. Behind her, parked on the road right outside the house (where she could already see Mrs Harris from across the road twitching her curtains furiously) was a white police van.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you Mrs Reynolds?’

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ve got your lad in the back of the van here. Caught him and a couple of other boys messing about with a load of spray paints down at the railway bridge, and I’m just delivering them home out of harm’s way.’

  ‘Oh God.’ Hannah pushed her hair back from her eyes and felt a lurch of horror.

  ‘Right you, out you get.’

  There was a clonk as the back door of the van opened and a moment later a sheepish-looking Ben slunk out. Hannah was relieved to note that he looked more than a little scared.

  The police officer stood back, arms folded, watching as Ben made his way up the little front path and stood beside a tattered-looking rose bush that had never really taken to life in a pot. He picked off a leaf and fiddled with it, not looking Hannah in the eye. His expensive trainers were apparently the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

  The police officer looked from him to Hannah and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m certain by the look on her face that your mother will have more to say. Now if I were you, I’d get inside, and I’d think hard about what you want the rest of your life to look like, because if you’re not careful, you’ll be back in my van and I’ll not be delivering you home to your mam.’

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Ben.

  ‘I should think so too,’ said the police officer. ‘Get inside with you and don’t let me see your face again.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Hannah began.

  ‘No need.’ The officer cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. ‘I was in enough trouble like that for wagging off school when I was his age. If someone hadn’t given me a short sharp shock, goodness knows where I’d have ended up.’

  ‘Was he with anyone?’

  ‘Bunch of older lads. Couple of them got a warning, couple of them are in the back there, being delivered home with a clip round the ear – metaphorical, mind – and a warning.’

  ‘I only let him out because he acted like he was—’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, love. Just keep him on a tight leash.’

  Phil eventually returned home at nine thirty, by which time Ben was upstairs in a bath (which seemed the safest place for him) and Hannah was halfway down a bottle of corner-shop red wine that was so acidic it made her feel slightly sick. She swallowed the last mouthful from her glass as he walked into the kitchen, where she was sorting washing at the table.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Apart from our son being delivered home in a police van and you being incommunicado all bloody afternoon and evening, yes.’ Hannah folded a tea towel as crossly as she could (not as easy as it might sound) and put it down, looking at her husband and crossing her arms.

  ‘Oh God, don’t give me a hard time. I’ve been in a bloody meeting all day and then a sales thing that went on for ages.’

  ‘And I’ve been explaining why we’re moving to the Cotswolds and dealing with soft lad upstairs getting into all sorts of trouble.’ Her accent always got stronger when she was angry – not that she tended to get riled often, but Phil’s matter-of-fact attitude was really pissing her off after what had been a very long day.

  ‘I thought he was grounded?’

  ‘Oh God.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He was. Yes, I know. Then he was really good about the whole move idea, so I gave him a stay of execution.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like that went well.’ Phil reached over and poured some wine into her glass, before heading to the kitchen cupboard to find one for himself.

  ‘Not my best idea,’ Hannah conceded, sitting down at the table. Phil sat down at the other end, and they surveyed each other across a landscape of folded clothes and bedding.

  ‘So I’ve been thinking about this move thing all day.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m insane?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘We need to get Ben out of this place. He can’t get in trouble if he’s living in the back end of beyond and there’s nothing to do.’

  ‘He could.’ Hannah made a rueful face. ‘I mean, if anyone’s going to, it’s him.’

  ‘True enough.’ Phil picked up some of Ben’s football socks from the washing pile, and started pairing them. ‘But it’s got to be safer than living in the suburbs of Manchester, right?’

  ‘You’d think.’

  ‘Okay.’ He seemed surprisingly settled with the idea, considering she’d only mentioned it this morning. ‘So I’m thinking what we need to do is get you and Ben down there ASAP before September term starts, and I’ll hang back, get this place sorted, and then we can rent it out for – six months? A year? What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Beth said a year to start with. It feels like a decent amount of time to see if we like it.’

  ‘Okay. A year. And then if it’s working out, we can sell it and maybe buy something down there.’

  Hannah didn’t like to point out that the difference between the cost of houses in the leafy, expensive-looking Cotswolds and their little street was astronomical. She just nodded agreement and decided to focus on celebrating the fact that she’d somehow managed to get her own way over a suggestion she’d expected would cause major ructions. She got up from the table, a wave of exhaustion washing over her.

  ‘I think I’m going to go up to bed.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Phil was distracted already, looking at his phone. He placed it face down on the table beside the pile of washing.

  ‘Bed.’

  ‘Okay, love. I’ve got a bit to do
– I’ll see you later.’ He swiped his hand in her general direction, landing a vague pat on her thigh as she passed his chair.

  Climbing the stairs, Hannah wondered what it would be like to be their friends Rowan and Jack, who – ten years older, in their mid-forties – had been together for twenty years but still fancied the pants off each other and couldn’t help showing it. They didn’t say goodnight with a pat on the leg, she suspected.

  Chapter Six

  Jake knew as soon as he turned his car off the A41 and onto the expensively tarmacked surface of the drive at Ridgeway Grammar (est. 1896, old boys including cabinet ministers and the great and the so-called good of society) that he had made a massive error.

  There was a split second when he wondered about just swinging round in the huge turning circle outside the big house, crunching up a spray of gravel and heading back home. But that split-second moment of weakness was his downfall . . .

  ‘Ahh, Jake,’ cooed Melissa Harrington, the glamorous and charming head teacher. Somehow she had her head in the window of his Range Rover before he’d even pulled it to a halt, and was beaming at him from close quarters, the car filling with the heavy, heady, seductive scent she wore. Her grey silk blouse had one button too many undone, so as she leaned in the passenger window he had to avert his gaze to avoid looking straight at the swell of her breast rising out of a lace bra the colour of red wine. He swallowed. This was going to be a tricky sort of day.

  ‘Let me just hop out,’ he said, switching off the ignition and climbing out. He dusted his hands down the front of his trousers and held out his hand for her to shake. She was round his side of the car, taking his hand and swooping in for a kiss on the cheek, murmuring ‘Let’s not be too formal,’ into his ear at close range.

  The interior of Ridgeway Grammar wasn’t anywhere near as posh as he’d expected. Wooden floorboards sagged and creaked, the walls were chipped, and classroom doors had scuff marks all around their bases – just like the school he’d gone to when he was young. He’d expected the place to be as luxurious as a five-star hotel. It bloody well should be, he thought, following Melissa towards her lair. The fees were £30,000 a year and he knew whole families of footballing friends were there, the kids wanting for nothing. Somehow he’d been roped into being the figurehead for a posh school soccer (they never called it football, he noticed) contest.

  ‘Make yourself at home – Louis will look after you.’ Melissa stood back as a tall, gangly boy with a huge mop of dark curls opened the door to what looked like an expensive sitting room. ‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make and then I’ll be with you.’

  ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’ Louis pushed a hand through his hair and lifted his chin to gaze at Jake directly – he had the confidence and self-assurance that came with money. Jake tried to imagine his sixteen-year-old self faced with an adult of any kind, let alone an ex-England player. He’d tended to avoid adults, unless he was being picked up for loitering (in which case he was being slung into a police van) or getting detention for skipping lessons to play footy at the back of the field when he should have been doing his GCSE English coursework.

  ‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘And one sugar, please.’ Posh people always had it strong and black. If he was completely honest he actually preferred instant, but that was a no-no in the circles he was moving in. Louis measured spoonfuls of ground coffee into a cafetière and set it on a tray with a little bowl of rough brown sugar cubes, a Cath Kidston jug full of cream, and a plate of tiny chocolate chip cookies.

  ‘There you are. Miss Harrington won’t be long, I don’t think. If there’s anything else?’ Louis glanced fleetingly at the door.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks, Louis. You get off.’

  He poured himself a coffee and took it across to look out of the window. Huge, impeccably manicured lawns stretched out, dotted with ancient oak trees and flanked with low stone walls. In the distance a ha-ha dropped away and beyond that he could see the football and rugby pitches, huge and professional standard, and on them a team of lads clad all in white doing some warm-up work with colourful plastic cones. It was a far cry from his childhood football experiences.

  On the table lay a neatly fanned out stack of prospectuses. The front cover suggested that Ridgeway was a welcoming, diverse school, open to all. He sat down on the arm of a chair and started leafing through one of them. Everything about it suggested money – the thick, expensively laid paper, the glossy photographs of even glossier children. The sixth form had recently become co-ed and as a result the back half of the prospectus was filled with glamorous and self-composed looking young women with expensively straightened teeth and hair which hung to their waists in a way that would have made his old PE teacher have a blue fit – he’d been a stickler for hair being tied back.

  Melissa returned a few minutes later, and bustled him out into the corridor.

  ‘Morning, miss,’ said a huge, tawny-haired boy as he jogged towards them, dressed in the all-white football kit. He was holding a couple of bottles of water, and looked flustered and apologetic.

  ‘Running late, Ollie?’

  ‘Forgot my shin pads.’ He did a double take as he realized that Jake was walking alongside her. ‘Morning, um, sir.’

  ‘Jake is fine.’

  Ollie’s eyes widened slightly. He gave a brief upwards nod of acknowledgement and then jogged off ahead of them.

  ‘He’s our star goalkeeper.’

  ‘He’s the right size and shape, isn’t he? Built like a brick sh– outhouse.’ He corrected himself in time. Sometimes remembering who he was and where he came from wasn’t such a good thing.

  He stood by the side of the pitch and watched the two teams warming up, taking note of the attitudes of the players, the way they attacked the ball, which of them communicated well with their teammates. They were proficient but not stellar by any means. The other team were of a similar ilk – all of them looked a little bit like they’d be more at home on a rugby – they’d probably call it rugger – field. None of them were small and wiry and fast – and the game he watched reflected that. It chugged along for ninety minutes and he took some notes on his phone as he watched. ‘Twelve needs to come up front and mark his man more – eight is communicating well but he’s losing the ball at crucial moments . . .’

  Afterwards, they headed back to the changing rooms.

  ‘Right everyone, we’ve got a special guest here today to talk about the game, and I’m hoping he’s going to be spending some time every month in the new term coming along to talk about how you’re doing, as we attempt to reclaim the Norris Hawes Cup from Giddingham.’

  Mark Lewis, the PE teacher and football coach, wasn’t posh. He jiggled from side to side as he spoke and bit his nails when he was concentrating. The boys clearly saw him as a bit of a joke, Jake noted, which was a pity because he was a nice guy with no side to him.

  ‘Hi,’ said Jake, giving them a brief nod of greeting.

  ‘If you guys go and get changed, we’ll meet you back at the sports hall and we can have a debrief.’

  As one, the whole team scrambled to their feet, laughing and joking, and headed off to the changing rooms.

  ‘They’re good lads,’ Mark said, watching Jake watching them.

  ‘Not a worry between them,’ Jake said, and realized that there was a note of something – was it envy? – in his voice. He had no idea what they had going on in their lives. Maybe football was their escape, too – but somehow he doubted it. They didn’t have the hunger that he recognized in the lads he’d grown up with, most of whom had something they wanted to escape from. This lot had it all handed to them on a plate.

  The vague sense of unease gnawed away at him as he waited in the sports hall for the team to return. When they did, dressed from head to toe in expensive designer-label sportswear and shod in the sort of trainers that cost £200 a pair, he had to swallow back a rising sensation of bitterness. He sat on th
e sidelines and waited for the rest of the team to come in, once again looking back on himself at the same age.

  Back then, aged sixteen, he’d gone to football training in second-hand trackies and the cheapest trainers his aunty Jane could find in the local market. When he’d been scouted – quite by chance, in a league cup game where his team had found themselves in the final – he’d been wearing the kit supplied by the team manager, who he found out years later had subbed the extra money for Jake’s kit because he knew his family couldn’t afford it. The football kit was a great leveller, though – everyone looked the same and nobody could be judged on what they wore or where they came from. Afterwards, though, when everyone got changed and headed home – getting lifts from parents or riding home on expensive bikes – that’s when it became apparent that he had nothing.

  Maybe that’s why all these boys, sitting in their posh kit looking smug and self-satisfied and wanting for nothing, made him feel so bloody pissed off. He shook his head. He needed to get a grip.

  He put his professional head on and chatted to the boys about their game, taking in the positives and the negatives, finding something to praise for each one and remembering his motto, which was to treat everyone with humour and respect. It had worked all the way through his career. Hopefully doing so now might teach these boys a lesson they’d take into their future lives, where they’d all be leaders of industry or cabinet ministers . . . not one of them, he was certain, was secretly dreaming of an England cap.

  On the way home, he stopped at the village shop in Little Maudley to pick up a paper. There was a flustered-looking girl outside – well, not a girl, because she was shooing a tall boy of about sixteen or so into a car and he called her Mum – with her hair tied back in a ponytail, wavy tendrils falling loose around her face. She didn’t look more than mid-thirties – young to be a mother of a teenager.