Page 13 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

Louise smiles at the book analogy, and then remembers Jack’s words that buildings can have a new chapter too.

She takes a deep breath. ‘Someone told me this thing about buildings having their own stories, like people do. And the story of this building is that it was Granny’s bakery and then your bakery. And I know you wanted it to be my bakery too, and I wish I wanted that, but I don’t. But I did wonder if I could run a different business here. Mum, I don’t want you to feel you have to say yes, but I would like… I wondered if…’ She’s rambling and she knows it. She shakes her head. Her whole career has been devoted to putting words together, but at the important moments of life, the ability to put them together in a coherent manner always seems to desert her.

‘What kind of business?’ Her mother steps in, helping her out.

‘A bookshop.’

‘A bookshop?’

‘When Miss Anderson said I’d never be good enough to be a writer, I always thought I’d run a bookshop one day. And failing that, that I’d work in a library or teach English.’

‘A bookshop,’ Elizabeth repeats.

‘What do you think?’

Her mother turns around slowly, looking at the space as if seeing it properly for the first time. She takes a step backwards and runs a hand along the surface of one of the tables as if stroking a beloved cat. ‘I don’t know. People would miss the bakery. It’s been the heart of the community for many years.’

‘But they’d have somewhere to buy books,’ Louise says hopefully.

‘I suppose so. We lost the local library in the pandemic, so they might be glad of a bookshop. Although there is a library in Skipplewell. And a bookshop.’

‘I could sell guidebooks for the local area,’ Louise says. ‘Route maps. For the tourists.’

‘Yes, but when they come back from a long walk on the fells, they want cake and a cuppa, and there’ll be nowhere for them to go.’

‘I’ve always wanted to work with books. My whole life.’

Elizabeth turns away, but not before Louise glimpses her mother’s eyes filling with tears. The pang of guilt that follows feels almost like a stab wound. Not that Louise has ever been stabbed, but it’s the only way she can describe it.

Once again, she compares her life with those of the fictitious heroines of the novels she edits – used to edit. Jobless and loveless, they’d arrive in some quaint little town and find themselves running a gorgeous little business, selling cupcakes or chocolate or indeed books. It wouldn’t all be plain sailing – couldn’t all be plain sailing or you’d have a short story, not a novel – but everything would work out beautifully in the end. There’d be some sad times, of course. The heroine might suffer some heartache – some grief or loneliness perhaps – but at no point would they have to endure those ugliest of emotions, shame and guilt. Shame and guilt seem to dog Louise’s every step: shame at her massive screw-up with Sheila’s book, and guilt that she doesn’t want to run the family bakery.

She’s about to tell her mother to forget the bookshop idea, when Elizabeth turns back to her, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘Louise, if your heart is set on becoming a bookseller, then you have my blessing. You can turn this place into your shop.’

Five

Looking back, it had been a little too easy.

Louise fires up the coffee machine. A huge pot of tea is already brewing, keeping warm under a knitted cosy. She places jugs of milk and cream, a stack of side plates and a freshly baked ginger cake on a tray, and she asks herself for the umpteenth time why she is doing this.

‘Just once,’ Elizabeth had pleaded. ‘For old times’ sake.’

‘Oh, I dunno, Mum.’ It really was the last thing she felt like doing.

‘It’d mean the world to my friends. It’ll bring back old memories.’

Her mother’s ‘coffee morning friends’, Louise had learned, always used to meet in the bakery before it shut down. Three times a week, usually Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays unless someone had a prior appointment on one of those days, in which case they tried to be flexible. When Elizabeth had reluctantly turned the sign in the door to ‘closed’ for the final time, they began to meet in each other’s houses, taking it in turns to host. Today, it’s Elizabeth’s turn, but rather than having everyone come round and squash into her small sitting room, she’s decided to hold their coffee morning in the bakery.

‘I suppose I can bake a ginger cake,’ Louise had said.

‘And I’ll make some scones,’ Elizabeth had added. ‘It’ll be like the old days, baking side by side in that kitchen like when you were a teenager.’

Louise had looked at her mother’s tired face and said, ‘Don’t worry, Mum. I can make scones and a ginger cake. Let me wait on you for a bit.’

It was the least she could do really; over the last few years, she feels she’s neglected her mother.

Somehow, she’s ending up waiting on all of them, her mother and her friends. Her mother had offered to sort the drinks, but Louise said she’d do it, suspecting that her mother would far rather be catching up on all the gossip.

And now it feels suspiciously like she’s running the bakery.