I’m saved by the lumbering appearance of Elliot, looking a mixture of ridiculous and impressive in a little white apron, his hair tied up messily at the back, long strands falling down over his ears and neck. He’s taken the glasses off, which seems a shame.
‘I come bearing scones! Morning, Jowan. Will you stay for one of Jude’s scones? She’s from a baking family, you know? Here, you can have mine.’ He seems more chipper than I’ve seen him so far. Maybe he’s cut out for running a café by the sea.
Jowan takes a bite and, nodding approvingly, makes his way to the door. ‘Very nice. I’ll be off then, if there’s nothing you need me for?’ There’s a little wistfulness in his voice that makes me think he’d quite like to stay, but he leaves anyway, and all the time he was here Aldous never once lifted his head to greet his owner.
The morning passes in a jumble of long, quiet moments where I try to familiarise myself with the stock, mixed with frenetic bursts of activity when tourists suddenly arrive at once and queues form quickly because I’m being slow at the till.
I don’t know how I’d have coped on my own running the café as well as the shop, and every time I hear the café door open I’m grateful someone else is there to take care of it all.
I only made twenty-four scones this morning and Elliot calls through to let me know they’ve all sold out by half-twelve so he’s running a barista service of only tea and coffee for the rest of the day so I make a mental note to triple my quantities tomorrow, even though that will mean getting an earlier start on baking.
As I’m thinking I’ve got a handle on this bookselling business, the bell over the door trills and a tall, imposing blonde bursts in, dressed in tweeds, hunting boots and a wide-brimmed waxed hat. ‘Get your gun!’ she calls out jauntily before disappearing out the door again.
I’m still gaping at the door when she reappears carrying a banana crate piled high with books and I rush to help her inside.
‘Are these for me?’ I ask, settling the box on the front desk and she informs me in very well-bred tones that of course they are.
‘Your pricing gun’s under the desk.’
‘But where did they all come from?’ My eyes must be as big as saucers.
‘Oh, you know, house clearances, sales, charity donations, that sort of thing. I help Jowan find new stock, and in return he helps me with the Christmas harbour lights committee.’
I’m shaking my head and looking none the wiser, making her roll her eyes pityingly at me as though I should somehow know all this stuff.
‘I’m Minty. Proprietor of Clove Lore House and Gardens?’ She shakes my hand briskly but I couldn’t say that information helped me much. ‘Come up and have a look around the grounds one day. Tell the visitors’ centre you’re from the bookshop and they’ll waive the ticket fee.’ She reads my expression and gives me another exasperated look. ‘The whole village is part of my family’s estate. You must have driven past the big house on your way down to the village? It’s open to visitors in the season. National collection of camellias?’
I don’t want to tell her I neither noticed a big house nor knew about its existence, so instead I thank her and set about rummaging through the box and enthusing about how a crate of used books is a better present than a fancy box of chocolates any day. That’s when Elliot comes in, knocking his elbow on one of the shelves while peeling his apron off, which in turn makes his hair fall loose. It’s quite something to behold.
‘All locked up, I can help out in here now it’s gone three, oh, hello.’ He stops in the middle of the shop, filling the space. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you had a customer.’
The woman looks a little put out and I try to introduce her but make a mess of it. ‘Elliot, this is,umm, the lady from the big house…?’Did she really say Minty?I have to give up. I’m terrible with names; they never seem to stick in my mind. Names, phone numbers, important dates – they have a habit of slipping away from me somehow.
‘Araminta Clove-Congreve, Minty to my friends.’ She’s looking at Elliot as though he’s fallen from the sky somehow, and I get the impression she is definitely not inviting him to be her friend or to call her Minty. Elliot offers his hand to shake, but she doesn’t take it. ‘Have we met before?’ she asks him distractedly.
‘I don’t think so.’ Elliot’s eyes dart around and he begins to back away. ‘Well, it was nice to meet you,’ he says, shuffling off up the spiral staircase.
Minty watches him go, still narrowing her eyes. ‘Well, yes, right.’ She smooths her hands over tweedy jacket pockets and collects herself. ‘I’ll be off then. That’s the last of the books, for now. Toodle-pip.’
The door closes and I’m left alone in the shop with the sunshine casting a bright triangle of light into my little spot behind the till. Elliot doesn’t seem to be coming back down any time soon and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep up there, he’s so quiet. But I don’t mind. I have a whole confection of books to sort through before closing the shop. So, I grab my gun and reach inside the box.
This is where I come into my own. I might not have the best memory or a head for dates and numbers but what I am good at is knowing who wrote what, and I can recall the plot of a book or details of an author’s life without an iota of difficulty. That stuff’s imprinted indelibly in my mind.
The pricing doesn’t take long. I’m just guesstimating how much they’re worth and not one of the titles gets priced at more than ten pounds. It’s shelving them that’s tricky.
First I tackle the nearly new hardbacks, all biographies, each of them fresh and fat, not a dog ear or faded cover in sight. They all go on the top shelf under Isolda de Marisco’s hand painted sign, ‘Life Writing’.
Then comes a cornucopia of crime paperbacks, unapologetically shiny and colourful, stuffed full of fusty old detectives looking for clues, chalked lines and grizzly morgue scenes. I squeeze most of them into the shelf marked ‘Police Procedurals’. I don’t quite know where to put the bundle of SAS-inspired action adventures so I add them to the general fiction shelves which sprawl all along the far wall that leads to the low café door.
Next, there’s a handful of Young Adult books; their spines a rainbow of colour. I find a spot for them on the edge of the children’s section, though I feel they deserve a special spot all of their own. Then I shelf two big, blousy bonkbusters involving sexy equestrians, followed by stodgy political dramas penned by a shamed MP.
Then come the treasures, choked with dust that makes my skin itch. Clad in covers of burgundy and emerald, mahogany and even gold cloth, these are books printed more than a century ago. I wonder how many shelves they’ve lived on during their long lives. I don’t recognise any of the authors’ names. There are slender volumes on aesthetics, three decker novels reminiscent of Oscar Wilde’s Miss Prism, and a decorous collection of poetry by a minor war poet, everyone long since dead.
I add them to one of the table top displays alongside the dour temperance pamphlets rubbing up alongside Rabelais. I can do what I like, remember? This is my shop. The whole thing takes longer than I thought, and it’s almost six when Elliot appears on the stairs.
‘Are you done? I was reading upstairs in the window seat, lost track of time.’
His voice makes me jump. I’d forgotten he existed. He’s wearing his glasses again and is holding the same book I saw earlier.
