The Hopes and Dreams of Libby Quinn

by Freya Kennedy

  Her grin was so wide, it almost hurt, but she couldn’t have stopped smiling if her life depended on it. There was certainly no going back now. Come hell or high water, or even little furry creatures, she was to be the proud owner of a unique fixer-upper and she would work her hardest to fix it up.

  2

  Of Mice and Men

  Ant had helped her draft a business plan. He was good like that. He knew facts and figures, whereas Libby was more inclined to lose herself thinking about just what books she would stock, how she would make the space welcoming for readers and writers alike.

  She had a very clear vision of what she wanted to create. A shop which sold vintage books alongside new titles. A shop which housed a small café area selling coffees and teas and hot chocolate with melting marshmallows, so that people could make book buying a luxurious experience. She wanted to create a hub for book lovers. Little working spaces where writers could hot-desk, book a couple of hours of uninterrupted writing time among the smell of ink and paper. She wanted a shelf which stocked the books she had fallen in love with on her grandfather’s knee when she was a little girl. Roald Dahl’s fanciful tales. The Little Mermaid and The Secret Garden. Fairy tales and, as she grew, works of great literature made accessible by the soft voice of her grandfather and his unending patience with her many questions.

  Even though the book trade was more competitive than ever – and people were more inclined to download the latest title or toss it into their trolley along with their weekly shopping in the supermarket, Libby remained hopeful she would make it work. Even Ant was enthusiastic about some of her moneymaking ideas. Including a coffee bar and rental space for writers and writing groups would definitely help, he’d said. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d looked quite impressed.

  And that had given her the confidence to share her plans with her parents. While they were always supportive, she knew they worried about her. Especially after she had taken Grandad Ernie’s death so hard.

  ‘You do know your Grandad just wanted you to be happy,’ Jim had told her, after Libby had outlined her plans. ‘It’s a big job.’

  ‘Well, you’ve always told me to dream big,’ Libby had said. ‘And I don’t want to spend my whole life wondering what if. This is my chance, Dad, to do what Grandad and I always talked about.’

  Jim had nodded. ‘Then I’ll do whatever I can to help,’ he’d said and she’d known he meant it.

  She just hoped he wouldn’t change his mind when they finally saw inside her brand new property.

  * * *

  ‘Well,’ Ant said, standing on the pavement outside number 15 Ivy Lane. ‘She’s all yours. What do you think?’

  Libby blew out the breath she had been holding in for what seemed like forever. Was it her imagination or had the place fallen into even further disrepair in the few days since she had last visited or was it just the case that reality was starting to set in?

  She nodded and looked at him. Tears pricking her eyes. It was all a bit overwhelming, she realised.

  ‘You can do it, you know,’ Ant said. ‘I know it’s scary, but it’s not beyond you.’

  ‘What if it’s falling to pieces inside? Like really falling to pieces. Rotting from the inside out. Unsalvageable,’ she said. ‘Oh God, have I been really stupid? Throwing all my money in a cash sale on a building I’ve not even looked inside of?’ Panic started to nip at her heels.

  Ant placed his hands on her two shoulders. ‘Libby,’ he said, ‘look at me.’

  She focused on him. On his chocolate brown eyes, on the wrinkles around them. Laughter lines which gave him an air of George Clooney-like charm.

  ‘Don’t freak out. Whatever we find, it’s fixable. You can do this. You’ve just got to be brave.’

  ‘And put my big-girl pants on,’ she said, reassuring herself.

  ‘Are they the ones I like?’ Ant asked, with a cheeky grin. ‘With the lace and…’

  She swiped him away, laughter rising up. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  They both turned and looked again at the peeling green painted exterior.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Libby declared, managing to keep the tremor from her voice.

  She found the key on the red fob – the one with ‘shopfront’ written on the label in blue biro – and took a deep breath.

  ‘This feels momentous,’ Ant said, grinning.

  ‘It does!’ Libby agreed, slipping the key into the mortice lock and, with a little persuasion, she managed to turn it. She had to put her shoulder to the door, heft a good deal of her weight behind it, to push it open. ‘Check for furry things,’ she whispered, closing her eyes, half expecting to hear the sound of little rodenty feet scurrying across the floor. All she could hear, though, was the thumping of her own heart.

  ‘None that I can see,’ Ant said. ‘But it’s dark in here. When did you say the electricity was being turned on?’

  ‘It might be on now, but I’d rather not check until the electrician has had a look around.’

  ‘Ah now, either it’ll work, or it won’t,’ Ant said, and she opened her eyes just in time to see him reach up for a switch close to the door and flick it to the on position. She had visions of the shock of electricity sending him hurtling across the room, but there was no such drama. Just a momentary pop of light which died almost as soon as it had come to life. ‘Fuse will be gone,’ Ant explained. ‘Hope the spark isn’t too long getting here.’ He took his phone from his pocket. ‘We’ll have to make do with what we have,’ he said, switching on the torch and shining it around the interior of the shop.

  Libby followed suit. Although the smell should’ve given her an idea of what was in store for her. It was a glorious mixture of damp and decay, stale air carried dust motes, quite probably containing some sort of deadly virus, around the expansive interior.

  ‘I’ll tear down some of this paper,’ Ant said, walking to the window and doing his best to pull the long-adhered newsprint from the glass panels. What did come off left traces of long-forgotten news stories in print on the panes. Some of it just remained resolutely stuck. ‘We’ll need to soak it,’ he suggested, standing back and wiping his hands on his cargo pants. Two black handprints left their impression on his light-coloured trousers.

  ‘You didn’t really think through your attire, did you?’ Libby asked.

  He looked down and smiled. ‘I suppose not. But clothes can be washed. I’m sure these stains will come out in the machine.’

  Libby wasn’t so sure. This looked like the kind of grime that held on for dear life. She needed more than a bag for life filled with spray bottles of antibac and sugar soap to even begin to lift it.

  She was glad she’d worn her oldest jeans, a grey oversized T-shirt she’d borrowed and never given back from an ex-boyfriend and her comfiest trainers. Her hair was tied back from her face with a red bandana. It was much less likely to collect spider webs that way.

  Yes, the smell was inhuman. And the grime was thick and black. The electricity was shot and the window frames looked like they might actually be rotting, but that didn’t stop the panic in the pit of her stomach being replaced by pure, unadulterated joy.

  She was grinning wildly as she walked the length of the shop to where an abandoned drapery counter still stood, complete with a battered old cash register. Walking behind it, she looked back across the entire expanse of her new kingdom. She could see more than grime and grot and crumbling plaster. She could see it as it would be.

  And it was going to be magnificent…

  That was her last thought before a mouse, and two of his friends, ran out from under the counter and between her legs in a furry convoy that made her scream at the top of her lungs and jump on top of the aforementioned counter.

  ‘I’ll call pest control, will I?’ Ant asked, while Libby tried her damnedest to stop hyperventilating.

  * * *

  Her breathing had slowed to near normal by the time they were back outside the shop and staring at th
e door which provided an independent entrance to the flat.

  ‘What’re the chances that this will actually be the frozen time capsule of perfect fifties vintage style I’ve been hoping for?’ she asked, eyeing the tarnished brass number plate.

  ‘The what?’ Ant enquired.

  ‘You must have seen it on the internet. Every now and again one of those clickbait sites posts a story about someone uncovering a perfectly preserved home, with all original fixtures and fittings.’ She chewed her lip.

  ‘You did see inside the shop, didn’t you?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘And you do know the same person or persons who owned the shop owned the flat and left it to rot for the last ten years?’

  Libby did know that, but the owner hadn’t been from Derry. He lived in Scotland and had inherited the shop after a lengthy search for any living relatives of the very eccentric old lady who had run the drapery store and who had died in 2009. Said relative had most likely never even been to Derry – he had put the shop up for auction as soon as the papers were signed to him.

  ‘You never know though. There’s a chance,’ she said, her optimism decreasing by the second.

  ‘I admire your go get ’em attitude. Never change, Libby Quinn,’ Ant said. ‘The world needs more pure souls like you.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of hopeful optimism,’ she said, looking through the keys on the battered red fob again until she found the one marked 15A, even if she wasn’t quite feeling as optimistic as she stated.

  It took a bit of work to fit the key into the old rusted lock and she needed Ant to put his strength behind it to help her turn it. Even then, when the lock had turned, she found the door itself didn’t seem to want to shift easily.

  Still she persisted, the wooden door moving slowly as if something was blocking its path. That something turned out to be a mountain of yellowing junk mail and free newspapers piled just short of the letter box and which, by the stench, had made for a great litter tray for some animal. Probably multiple animals and definitely creatures bigger than mice, she thought, looking at the size of the droppings and the way some of the paper had been shredded.

  ‘Are those teeth marks?’ Ant asked, and Libby looked at him, eyes wide, but nostrils firmly pinched shut. His cool exterior was, finally, starting to crack.

  ‘Pest control will sort it,’ she replied with forced jollity. Reminding herself to focus on the positive, she looked up, taking in the full picture in front of her.

  The fairly bleak full picture.

  A set of steep, threadbare stairs, poorly illuminated by a dirty window at the top, provided her with a completely underwhelming vista.

  She touched her hand to the discoloured wallpaper inside the door and was disheartened to find it more than a little damp.

  ‘It might just be condensation,’ Ant said, but glancing up, at the yellow staining and cracked plaster of the ceiling, Libby could see that it was much more serious than that.

  Between that and the stench of animal urine, Libby felt tears prick at her eyes. Breathing in (but not so deeply that she inhaled any more of the foul odour), she steadied herself.

  ‘The ceiling can be fixed. The carpet can be lifted,’ she said, optimistically. ‘I can re-floor if necessary. And sand down the stairs – put spotlights in, some stained glass at the top. It can be gorgeous.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ant murmured, his voice flatter than it had been. ‘I admire your vision.’

  She bristled. She needed him to buoy her up now, not start to waver.

  ‘We’ve still to see the flat. Maybe it will be okay?’ she said, her secret hope of a perfectly preserved cosy turnkey home all but disappearing.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Ant said again, perhaps with even less enthusiasm this time.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked. Originally, she had harboured a little daydream that he would carry her over the threshold, but given the risk of slipping on rodent droppings, and his insistence on keeping one hand firmly clasped over his nose to mask the smell, that seemed unlikely.

  Libby led the way upstairs, paying attention to any creaks and keeping her eyes and ears open for any furry friends.

  She was, of course, deluded to think that the flat would be anything more than a fairly rotten shell that looked as if it had been much longer than ten years since anyone had lived there. It was so much worse than she had imagined. The décor could only be described as decrepit and it wasn’t a look she wanted to go for.

  The smell had not improved either. Now there was a certain ‘possibly a dead body somewhere here’ aroma added to the mix.

  Ant had gone a distinctly green around the gills colour.

  ‘I'll air the place out,’ Libby said, walking to the sash windows in the living room, which overlooked Ivy Lane, and rattling them violently until they screeched open, inch by painful, sticky inch, letting in a rush of fresh air which she gulped at. Plastering a smile on her face, she turned around. ‘There’s potential here,’ she said, looking back at the cherry blossom trees, which were in bloom just across the street. They offered a hint of something beautiful that wasn’t visible inside.

  ‘It's a huge job though, Libby. Bigger than I anticipated.’

  She looked around. It was a huge job. Mammoth. There was little to instil confidence. The peeling wallpaper was from the eighties, and the carpet, sticky underfoot, was probably from the seventies. The paintwork was peeling and yellowed. The kitchen held together by grime and probably little else. An old, ugly and quite possibly dangerous gas fire hung from the wall in the living room and in what Libby assumed was supposed to be the bedroom, there were just a few bolts of psychedelic fabric, soggy cardboard boxes and a mannequin, which looked as if it was pleading for someone to put it out of its misery. Libby wasn’t feeling brave enough to look in the bathroom just yet, and by the expression on Ant’s face when he walked out of the small room, she was glad to leave that for later.

  ‘It’s doable though. I mean, it has to be. I’ve sunk too much in now to do anything other than plough on,’ Libby said, while realising she still very much wanted to plough on. This place, even with its faults, still felt like it was meant to be hers.

  She just wasn’t sure where exactly to start. The one thing that she did know was that she was going to need a hell of a lot more than a bag for life containing disinfectant, cleaning cloths and Febreze. She knew she’d have to start small.

  She fished in her pocket for the new keyring her parents had given her, and replaced the battered red fob with it. ‘There,’ she said, ‘it already looks better.’

  ‘It does,’ Ant replied with a smile. ‘And it will only get better from here. My advice is to get a skip here stat. Pay someone to rip everything out. Get it all down to the bare bones and then you can start rebuilding.’

  Libby thought of her budget, which she had realised was going to be tested more than anticipated, and sighed. ‘Skip hire, I can do. But I hoped maybe to rope in a few strong men, or women, to help me clear as much as possible? I have to start as I mean to go on, Ant, and do as much of this as I can myself. My budget is finite, you know that.’

  ‘I’ll help out with the cost,’ he said, smiling. He was a successful businessman, who had known just where and when to invest his money over the years. The result was, he was exceptionally wealthy, and generous with it. He’d yet to meet a problem he couldn’t fix by either throwing money at it or by launching a charm offensive.

  ‘Ant, I have to do this on my own. Moneywise, I mean. Actual elbow grease I will accept, always. Same with soothing massages afterwards.’ She winked. Trying to flatter him into agreeing to throw his toned, Gaelic-football-playing physique behind her plans.

  ‘I don't do the heavy work,’ he said. ‘You know that. Can’t risk an injury on the field. And I would only hold you back – you know. You’re bound to find someone to be able to help out, and if you won’t accept my help financially, then maybe you have to compromise a little?’

  By the way he spoke, you’d think he played for th
e national team not his local club, and increasingly on a friendlies-only match basis.

  Libby felt dejected.

  ‘Libby, now don’t be cross with me,’ he said, pulling her close to hug her. ‘But we have to be sensible.’

  His phone rang and he stepped away to answer it, gesturing to her that he was taking it outside. He pinched his nose and pulled a face to emphasise the fact the smell was getting to him. When she eventually followed him back outside, he was unloading her cleaning materials from his car. For a moment her heart leapt just a little. Had he come round to the idea of helping her after all?

  ‘Look, I have to go. Work emergency. I’ve called pest control and the guy will be round soon. I’ll get on to the skip hire people too. You take some time to get a feel of the place yourself. Without me breathing down your neck. And when you're done playing shop, come over. I'll make us something delicious to eat and we can crack open that bottle of champagne and celebrate in style? And give you that massage?’

  Libby doubted she was hiding the disappointment from her face very well, but she didn’t want to make a scene. She didn’t want to mar this momentous day with a petty argument with Ant. Maybe he was right? She’d be better off without him making her feel uncomfortable about just how much of a job this was going to be.

  ‘Dad will get the skip hire sorted,’ she said. ‘He knows people. But, yes, go on. I’ll see you later. Get that champagne in the fridge.’

  She forced a bright smile on her face and he pulled her close, kissing her forehead. Despite having been together for the past eight months, they weren’t quite at the ‘I love you’ stage yet, but he did whisper that he believed in her, before he, quite gleefully, got back into his fancy car and drove off.

  Puffing up her chest, Libby looked back at the shop. Her shop. Infested as it was with furry friends, and smelling as it did, like a toilet, it was hers and hers alone. She owned it outright and she would make it work.