‘It’s gone,’ Greta repeated, the thought curdling in her head. And for a terrifying moment, she wondered if the shop had ever been there at all.
Chapter 26
GRETA TRUDGED TOWARDhome through the park, noticing the door to the conservatory was open. She slipped inside where the air was damp and earthy, infused with the heady scent of orchids. Plonking herself down onto a wrought iron chair, she attempted to gather her thoughts.
What had happened to the coffee shop? Why had she only seen the decrepit version she’d shown to Jim? She hoped it hadn’t gone for good.
The more she tried to hold everything together, the more it seemed to slip through her fingers.
No one in her life could understand what she was going through, unless they’d experienced the unusual coffee for themselves. Jim even thought she might need medical help.But there is someone.
At this thought, Greta sat up straighter. She opened Face- book on her phone and navigated to the local forum, where she’d exchanged messages with Edgar.
She let out a relieved sigh when she found them, like a beacon of hope in a storm.
Glancing at his profile photo again, she assured herself he didn’t look like a serial killer. She hadn’t yet replied to Edgar’s suggestion to meet up, but desperation gnawed inside her.
Greta re-read their exchange, then began typing a message that didn’t give away her anxiety.
Meeting up would be great! I can come over to Barker’s Treasures today if you’re free?
She hit Send, chewing the inside of her cheek. She hoped her request wasn’t too short notice and that Edgar would reply quickly.
Fortunately, he responded within seconds.
I’ll be in the shop all day. Feel free to drop in any time before 4pm. Looking forward to meeting you.
Greta quickly looked up the shop’s location. It was situated next to the high street of a village she knew, just outside Manchester.
She left the conservatory, jogged home and grabbed her car keys. Then she set off to meet Edgar.
*
THE FRONT OFBarker’s Treasures was old-fashioned. Its faded teal paintwork was charming in a shabby way. Vintage mannequins stood in the window, dressed in clothes from other eras. The polyester dresses with bold geometric prints looked more dated than trendy.
‘Hello,’ Greta called out. Her nerves jittered as she stepped inside. Her initial intrigue and urgency about meeting Edgar now felt more like apprehension.
The smell of the shop was overpowering, a mix of old leather, mothballs and something musky yet floral, as if perfume spritzed decades ago had never quite faded. The space was crammed with old clothes, jewellery, worn handbags, faded posters, and trinkets, either piled around haphazardly or displayed in glass cases.
‘In my workshop,’ a voice called out. ‘Back of the shop.’ Greta wove her way through narrow aisles, edging past all the clutter until she found herself peering into a dimly lit workspace.
An old man hunched over a workbench, tinkering with a carriage clock. Greta paused, trying not to stare. Edgar looked much older than his photo, less dapper in a dirty apron and jeans. His grey hair had thinned, and his skin was lined like parchment.
He looked up, greeting her with a tired smile. ‘Hello, my dear,’ he said, wiping his hands on a cloth before extending one to her. ‘I’m Edgar. Nice to meet you.’
She returned his shake. ‘You look a little different to your photo.’
Edgar nodded. ‘Ah, yes. It was one of my wife’s favourite photos of me. She used to say I looked smart in that one. I’ve never gotten around to changing it.’
Greta hesitated, noticing he’d spoke about her in the past tense. ‘She’s not . . . here?’
Edgar’s smile fell away. ‘No. Very sadly, Eliza passed away a couple of years ago. Barker’s Treasures was very much her baby. Everything in here, she picked it out, polished it and gave it fresh life. I’m just the caretaker, really. Keeping the shop going helps me to feel close to her.’ He paused, rubbing his hip. ‘Though I’m finding it a bit much at my age.’
Greta glanced around. The shop was chaotic, but full of charisma. ‘You’ve got some fascinating stuff.’
‘Some folks call it junk. Others call it treasure. My wife could see the beauty in everything, and I’m trying to follow her lead. Though I’m finding it hard without her . . .’ Edgar looked away, tears welling in his eyes. He shook his head, as if to rouse himself. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ he asked.
Greta nodded, feeling like she needed a friendly face and an understanding ear more than anything.
