Tamara sagged against the counter and took a few deep breaths before straightening her back. She would cope, because that’s what she did. By herself.
* * *
‘Bye, lads, and thanks. See you in the morning. It’s looking great.’
Gage waved the painters off with a sigh of relief. The electrician and plumber had been and gone first thing this morning and thankfully had found no additional work that needed doing.
It was half five, so he hoped the pub was open. Wednesday had been a long day, but now it was time for a well-earned pint.
Not looking like this, it’s not.
No one would need to ask what colour he’d chosen for the interior of the new shop because his clothes were splattered Jackson Pollock style in splashes of pale green and soft white. He’d persuaded the supervisor to give him a paintbrush so he could lend a hand.
A few months ago, Gage had joined an online forum of independent booksellers, which was a goldmine of useful advice. But he’d chosen to go against the general consensus that shops needed to be bright and cheerful to draw customers in. Some of the pictures that other bookshop owners proudly posted made his eyeballs hurt. Whenheentered a bookstore, it was in search of a sense of peace. A haven from everyday life. Somewhere he could lose himself and potter around, for hours if he felt inclined, without being pressured by desperate sales assistants. That might not sound like a moneymaker, but Gagewas convinced he could make it work. Time would tell if his USP — Unique Selling Point — would pay off.
Even after the first coat of paint, the shop’s main area had already been transformed from a dark and dingy space. Tomorrow’s weather forecast was good, so the supervisor had told him they’d paint the outside first thing. Gage couldn’t resist having another look at the sign that had arrived that afternoon and was ready to hang over the door. The dark-green background and simple gold lettering were exactly as he’d envisaged.
The Mighty Pen
New and Used Books
Despite spending over half his life living by the sword, as it were, he had a strong belief in the power of the written word so this seemed appropriate for the next stage of Gage’s life.
Gage had moved his things over from the guesthouse yesterday, so it’d be simple to go up to the flat and strip off to have a wash and put on clean clothes.
Ten minutes later he locked up the shop and crossed the road. He hesitated before deciding to turn left, instead of right towards the pub. He hadn’t bargained on how swiftly his tea-making supplies would disappear and if they weren’t restocked, he could have a strike on his hands in the morning. Buying what he needed in the village shop would kill two birds with one stone by giving him the chance to meet his business neighbour.
The Penworthal Stores weren’t the enemy, or even a direct competitor, but it was ingrained in him to find out as much as he could about the people and places around him. Instead of being dusty and outdated as he’d half expected, the shop boasted sparkling clean windows, behind which an eye-catching display of items was highlighted with big red arrows announcing this week’s sale prices.
An easel set up on the pavement tempted customers with the promise of fresh sandwiches, hot pasties and pizza. Gage stepped around a galvanised bucket jammed with plastic-wrapped bouquets of colourful flowers, and an old-fashioned bell jangled as he pushed the door open. That was an addition he’d be wise to buy before opening his shop. He’d be working alone until he could afford to hire an assistant, so it could function as low-tech security.
A low wooden beam almost caught him out, but he ducked just in time.
‘I wondered when you’d show your face.’ A gruff man’s voice came from somewhere at the back of the shop.
‘Me?’ He navigated down the narrow main aisle to the long wooden counter. A short, stout, older man with unnaturally ink-black hair peered at him from behind round wire-rimmed glasses.
‘No one else here, so I must be talking to you.’ The man huffed. ‘You’ve bought Gummow’s old place across the road. Must need your head tested. No one’s made a go of that place for donkey’s years. I’ll give you till Easter.’
His officious manner reminded Gage of Captain Mainwaring inDad’s Army. Although Gage hadn’t been born when the show first came out, he had fond memories of watching the repeats with his father on a Saturday evening.
‘Georgie tells me you’re selling books of all things.’ The man’s cackling laughter filled the shop.
‘Georgie?’
‘Georgie Rowe. My cousin. He and his lads are doing up your place.’
The penny dropped. ‘They’re good workers. I’m Gage Bennet, by the way.’
‘I know that.’ The shopkeeper scoffed. ‘Vernon Bull.’
He shook the man’s outstretched hand.
‘Where’d you get your gammy leg?’
Gage didn’t mind the intrusive question. It was better than people sneaking furtive looks, too polite to satisfy their curiosity. ‘Sudan. Royal Marines.’
‘I s’pose it could’ve been worse. I expect a lot of your mates weren’t as lucky,’ Vernon said matter-of-factly.
