Page 4 of Whispers from the Past

Eleanor hustled Rose up to the accommodation above the shop floor. It had been her home for many years, but the tight narrow stairs were too much for her now. She’d adapted a small annex at the side of the shop to live in. Once upstairs, Rose realised that she nearly loved the living space as much as the shop. Nearly. Thin wooden stairs at the back of the shop, opened to a large open plan first floor. There was easily space for a table and settee in the kitchen/living area. An ornate arch led the way to a bedroom with a large sash window that overlooked the cobbled street below.

‘Sorry about all the mess up here,’ Eleanor apologised again.

‘Honestly Eleanor, it really isn’t a problem. You should have seen some of the other places I’ve lived in over the years. This really isn’t messy!’ she assured her as she put her hand on the pile of three boxes of Eleanor’s belongings that were still on the first floor of the shop.

‘You haven’t seen the loft space yet,’ Eleanor joked. Accessed only by ladder, she hadn’t been up there for a long while so there were boxes and files that went back over thirty years. But Rose didn’t mind. If sorting through a few boxes was the price to pay for living there, she’d happily do it.

‘I made the bed up for you. I could make us a quick dinner and then show you around the Bay a little before you turn in for the night? I’m sure you’re tired after such a long journey?’

‘That sounds perfect. Thank you, Eleanor’.

Rose helped Eleanor back down the stairs and then left her in her tiny kitchenette to prepare food. She’d offered to help but had been ushered away quite brusquely. Eleanor clearly wasn’t accustomed to people offering to help, but to be honest Rose was quite tired after her journey here so welcomed the time to soak up the peace and quiet of an empty bookshop. She settled herself in the seat by the window and before she knew it she had drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The sound of a kettle boiling nearby woke Rose up the next morning. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, realising that she’d fallen asleep in the armchair by the window at some point before she’d even eaten the dinner the Eleanor had hurried off to prepare. Someone had tucked her in with a warm blanket, and Rose ran her fingers over the soft crocheted design.

‘You’re a devil of a deep sleeper Rose. I tried to wake you a couple of times when dinner was ready, but you were dead to the world,’ Eleanor called from the doorway to the kitchenette.

‘It has been said before. Sorry to put you to the trouble of making me food and then not eating it!’

‘Don’t be daft, you’ve nothing to apologise for. The food will keep for my dinner tonight so it won’t go to waste. You must be hungry now though?’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a slice of toast.’

‘I can do better than that. After missing dinner you’ll be needing a full breakfast.’

Fifteen minutes later, Eleanor appeared again with a plate full of eggs, bacon, beans and toast that had Rose salivating.

‘Now don’t be expecting this kind of service every morning dear. Once you’ve signed on the dotted line, you’ll be making your own breakfast.’ Eleanor’s smile was wide whilst she watched Rose tuck in to the food she’d prepared. ‘Can I just check that it will just be you moving up to the Bay? No significant other or family to be coming or visiting? It’s not a problem, I suppose I’m just being nosey.’

‘Just me. With my mum gone, the only person who I have left who I would call family is Susie.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Rose. It’s something that we have in common though. After my husband died it turned out that I was all alone too.’

‘Thank goodness for Susie then, bringing two lonely souls together.’ Rose meant every word as she finished off her breakfast and grabbed her phone to check on the bus times to plan her long journey back to Hounslow.

Chapter 3

🎵 Car Trouble by Adam and the Ants 🎵

The next week went by in a blur of packing and finishing up in Hounslow Library ready for Sam to complete his takeover of her position. Mrs Robinson had been right, the muddy waters certainly seemed to be clearing, other than having to deal with Sam on a near daily basis over the last seven days, the universe seemed as though it was trying to make amends for past traumas it had inflicted on her as even her usually pedantic landlord had allowed her to terminate her tenancy early. So at 6am exactly one week after she had made the six hour train journey up to Yorkshire, she was shoving the last holdall into the back seat of her Ford Capri. A Cabbage Patch Kid sticker stuck to the rear passenger door thirty years ago caught her eye and she absent mindedly stroked it. She smiled as it brought back memories of the numerous road trips she had with her mother over the years. Instead of destination stickers on a suitcase, Rose was allowed to put a sticker on the inside of her car door. Quickly, she surveyed all the different stickers of the 80s and 90s. As early as she could remember, they seemed to move on every six months or so. Never settling for too long in any one place.

Reaching into her handbag she took our today’s sticker. This one seemed particularly fitting. An eBay search had resulted in a Kevin Costner Prince of Thieves 1991 Topps sticker to add to her door collection. Smoothing it into place, she clambered into the front, and folded the seat back. With the key in the ignition, she set off on her next adventure, hoping this one would last longer than six months. Somehow the 90s movie had become her official companion for the move to Robin Hood’s Bay. It was as if it had been calling to her after she’d thought about it the day she learned about the vacancy in the book shop. So, in addition to the vintage sticker that now decorated the interior of the back passenger door of her car, she had also just slid the tape of the soundtrack from the movie into her cassette deck and nostalgia filled the space around her like a rolling mist when the first song hit the speakers. When Bryan Adams’ voice permeated the car eight tracks later, Rose was secretly impressed that she knew all the words to I do It For You. It was a famous track, but this was like she was performing it on stage; she was totally committed to the song. As she slowed down for a roundabout, she glanced to her right and was faced with a couple of girls in their early twenties staring at her. She must have looked as if she was having some sort of breakdown, especially as coming to a stop had meant that she had both hands free to gesture longingly in the air to her invisible audience. Bringing her hands back to the wheel, she smiled and nodded at the strangers and turned back to focus on the road ahead of her. But something settled deep in her chest in that moment; it didn’t matter what some random people at a roundabout thought of her, this was her Robin Hood era. And she was going to embrace it; even if that meant singing with abandon in the car. If she had a CD player instead of an ancient tape deck she would have skipped back to sing the song again, but instead a track she didn’t know started. Frowning at the anticlimactic end to her moment, she pushed a button to listen to the radio instead and Tom Walker’s Just You and I brought a much needed smile to her face.

Thirty miles from the Bay, the car started backfiring. She pulled over into a small layby and popped the hood of her beloved capri. ‘What’s wrong girl?’ she asked as she shone her phone torch over the engine. ‘Is it the sparks again?’ she gently asked as she unscrewed the valve cover. A benefit of spending over ten years by herself on the road in this car was that she was pretty good at short term fixes. She cleaned out each of the plugs and with her fingers crossed, she got back behind the wheel, dropped her phone into the passenger footwell by her handbag, and prayed that this would be enough to get her safely there.

It was about ten miles from Robin Hood’s Bay that the real trouble started. The backfiring returned with a vengeance that had never happened before. And then the temperature gauge started to slowly rise. With each mile the dial flicked ever closer to the red zone of danger on the dial. Rose stroked the dashboard and coaxed the car to keep going for just a few more miles. A mile from the book store, Rose spotted what she needed; a garage. The forecourt was littered with classic cars in different stages of distress. Set back by a tree-lined footpath sat the workshop. The 1950s brick fronted building had large steel frame windows with vintage signs fixed in place. Her poor car dragged itself onto the forecourt and promptly died in a fog of smoke. Coughing and spluttering as she climbed out of the car, Rose was greeted by a dark haired man in overalls. He was glaring at the car as he strode over.

‘What happened?’ was all he said.

‘Oh well, about ten miles out she started whirring and then the smoke started and-’

‘And you kept driving?’ he almost shouted the accusation at her. ‘This beautiful car was struggling and you kept driving. I dread to think of the damage you’ve done.’

He tentatively stroked the bonnet and then reached by Rose to pop it open. The noise that came next was akin to a sigh; her car was sighing at his touch.

‘Ok, well I didn’t damage her on purpose. I just thought it best to keep going and try and find a garage…’