‘A mill?’
‘Mmm, cotton mill. And there’s a mum, she’s dead. And a vicar father, maybe? And a daughter? They end up living by a big ugly mill? You know the one?’
‘It’s ringing a bell,’ I say.
‘Yes, there’s bells ringing in it! A mill bell, for the workers? And there’s a strike, and she gets hit by a stone? You must know it!Umm, what else? He’s all haughty, and his mum’s a nightmare, and he’s all like,stuff you, Mum, I’m proposin’!’ He says this in a terrible Manchester accent (by way of Warsaw) and that’s when it hits me.
‘Oh my God,North and South!’ I yell, triumphantly. ‘Elizabeth Gaskell.’ Told you I was good at this stuff.
‘Yes! That’s the one! Have you got it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
We spend a while browsing the fiction shelves, but it’s not there. ‘Sorry,’ I say, defeated.
‘Never mind, I’ll get it online.’
‘Oh, all right then.’
He’s about to leave when he turns back. ‘I’m Izaak, by the way. Nice to meet you.’
‘You’re a local?’
‘Yes, I’m the estate caretaker. My booth’s Up-along between the visitors’ centre and the entrance to the estate gardens. Can’t miss it. I saw your man out running this morning. Big, isn’t he?’
‘Um, he is tall, yes. He’s not mine, though. I mean, we’re not together. I don’t know him.’ I’m wittering now. ‘My name’s Jude, by the way.’
‘Oh!’ A renewed interest lights Izaak’s dark eyes. ‘So, you’re single then?’
For a horrible moment I think he’s going to hit on me, but his smile breaks into something kinder. ‘Better make sure Mrs Crocombe from the ice-cream cottage doesn’t find out, she’ll be setting up her sweepstakes again, if she hasn’t already.’
‘What?’
‘All newcomers to the village who aren’t paired off end up in her tote book. You’ll see. Half the Siren will want a say in the matter.’
‘What matter?’
‘Well, whether you and The Muscles will… you know.’ He’s winking at me. It’s very disconcerting.
‘His name’s Elliot, and no, we won’t be… you know.’ I let my annoyance show in my voice, and he draws his neck back.
‘No offence meant. It’s just Mrs Crocombe’s a bit of an old romantic. That, and her daughter’s the head teacher at the local school and if the village isn’t procreating, the school won’t stay open for many more years.’
‘I’m not going to populate Clove Lore primary school in a fortnight, thanks very much.’
‘You say that, but the Burntislands turned up at the bookshop as strangers, and they live out on the headland now with two kids. They arrived a little over two years ago, and since then Mrs Crocombe’s had her book running. You don’t have to marry the big fella, any of the locals will do.’
‘Oh, well, that’s OK then.’
‘Best of luck, with the shop… and everything.’ Izaak gives an amused little shrug.
‘Thanks for dropping by.’ I usher him towards the door, just as Elliot bounds down the stairs in a white summer shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned over a white scoop-necked t-shirt and dark pants. His hair’s wet. He seriously needs to invest in a hair dryer – the glistening locks thing is too much. Even Izaak pauses inside the doorframe to stare at him. I’m glad it’s not just me Elliot has this effect on.
‘Who’s getting married?’ Elliot asks as he approaches the desk.
‘Nobody,’ I say. ‘We’re talking about Mr Thornton and Margaret inNorth and South.’ I give Izaak a firm look.
‘Ah, I liked that BBC adaptation. Remember that?’
