I mutter to myself as I go over and pack pens, charcoal sticks, erasers, sharpeners, and approximately 48,283 pencils back into his bag, stand the sketchbooks in and go to return Pentamerone to its usual shelf under the stairs. There are a few chairs stacked in the office so I drag them out and set them up near the reading area, but there’s nowhere near enough for all the names on the tea and coffee list, so I go and grab some of the kids’ ones from upstairs too, frantically wishing I’d had time to prepare. Book clubs are supposed to have questions and intelligent discussions led by a leader, and although I’ve read the book, it was years ago, and I intended to flick through it again to refresh my memory before this afternoon arrived, but now I’ve got no chance.
Dimitri comes dashing back in with an armful of packets of biscuits, which he dumps on the counter along with a clatter of change. I look at the selection in bewilderment. There is literally a packet of each Great British Biscuit rolling around on the countertop, from Rich Teas to Malted Milks to Custard Creams.
I pick up his bag. ‘Here’s your—’
‘Thank you.’ He grabs the bag from my hand, his fingers lingering on mine for just a second too long. ‘I’m not here. Good luck – you’re going to need it.’
And with that, he’s gone. Disappeared into the shelves where he hides when it’s busy, not giving me a chance to consider that touch or how much he seems to be over-reacting to a few old people coming in to chat about a book they’ve recently read.
I can still hear him panting from the run as the first group of old ladies enter, all clutching the blue-striped book, and I take their momentary distraction at the window display as a chance to surreptitiously grab a packet of Chocolate Hobnobs and shove them to the back of a shelf behind the counter. If there’s an event that requires this amount of biscuits, I’m going to need a Chocolate Hobnob to myself, although I don’t know what he’s so worried about. It’s a book club. What could possibly go wrong?
***
Oh, God, they’re everywhere.
When I go upstairs to make drinks, I have the brilliant idea of writing the names from the list Robert left onto Post-it Notes and sticking them to each mug as I make it rather than trying to remember which one is which, and by the time I’ve taken the risk of carrying a full tray of mugs down the stairs, there’s a woman called Pauline behind the counter serving a customer, another one trying to sell a young student on the merits of Jilly Cooper, an old man having a snooze in the reading area, and another old man with a grandson who’s trying to show him how to use an iPad while the little boy looks like he’s swiftly losing the will to exist.
Every chair has been occupied and every inch of sofa and table in the reading area is overtaken too.
There is biscuit carnage on the counter. And the tables in the reading area. And the sofas. The Bourbon Creams are nearly gone, and that’s without cups of tea to dunk them in. The rest of the packets look like they’ve been torn into by a troop of famished hyenas, and the constant squawking babble in the shop is also reminiscent, and I glance out the window, wondering if we’ve accidentally turned left and ended up on the African savanna and we’re about to see herds of wildebeests and prides of lions sweeping past while giraffes nibble the bunting overhead.
There’s a vacuum cleaner in the office and I briefly consider getting it out and leaving it running full time and just sort of swishing over everyone’s clothes each time they move to suck up some of the biscuit crumbs that are currently being trodden into my carpet. That wouldn’t be terribly rude, would it? ‘Another Fruit Shortie? That’s fine, just have a quick swoosh with Henry first. Thanks.’
I have to look away from the carpet. It’s stressing me out too much.
‘Hallie!’ they squeal in unison when I appear, waking the snoozing bloke with a jolt.
Old ladies swarm around me as they come over to hug me and introduce themselves, and by the time they’ve all taken their cups of tea and settled themselves back into their chosen chairs, I’m feeling distinctly oxygen deprived. I’m also terrible with names. There’s a Hilda and a Tilda and there might even be a Milda. No, that sounds like something you’d be bleaching out of bathroom corners, I must’ve got that wrong. There’s a Pauline and a Francine, and Barbara’s married to Percy who’s definitely got the right idea about having a Garibaldi and going back to sleep.
‘Did everyone read the book?’ I ask.
No one answers. No one heard me. They’re too busy gossiping about their neighbours’ gardens and whose what is flowering and who looks like they’ve sabotaged someone else’s hydrangeas. I’ve never been in a room with twenty old ladies before, but hydrangeas seem like an unnaturally popular topic of conversation.
I repeat myself, and this time they do hear, but making my presence known was a mistake. I’m immediately surrounded by the Tilda, Hilda, or Milda, and questioned on my age, relationship status, and whether I’ve got my eye on anyone in the village as they start drawing up a list of Buntingorden’s most eligible bachelors.
‘Ooh, have you met the chap who runs the souvenir shop?’ Hilda cries, and a chorus of agreements follow. They are basically my mum in surround-sound.
Somehow the packet of Gingernuts has remained unopened and Tilda or Milda tears into them, accidentally breaking the wrapper and scattering biscuits right the way across the low coffee table in front of the brown leather sofas, breaking as they land, and the ladies set upon the broken smithereens like hungry birds when you throw a handful of seed out on a snowy midwinter’s day and more crumbs fly around, worse than that time I made the mistake of buying glittery wrapping paper.
‘Speaking of gossip, did you see that letter from The Stropwomble of Bodmin Lane in the paper this morning?’ Tilda or Milda says. Maybe it was Vilda? No, that’s a brand of mop, isn’t it?
‘Complaining that the swans are too noisy, for goodness’ sake,’ Pauline says. ‘Swans are the most silent bird in existence.’
‘And last week it was starlings. Too many starlings, he said. Trying to get people to sign a petition to ban starlings from Buntingorden. I put out extra food for them just to spite him.’
‘Whatever will it be next?’ Barbara says. ‘Complaints that the dawn chorus comes too early? Petitions to stop badgers having pedicures? Death to all earthworms?’
‘Oh, not him again,’ I mutter, my mind going back to the little boy called Charlie and his stories about the monster of Buntingorden.
Of course, of all the things I’ve tried to say so far, that’s the one they choose to hear.
‘Have you met him?’
‘No, but I’ve heard of him. I hate people like that – people who can’t find anything better to do with their lives than complain and spoil things for everyone else.’
A collective sigh shakes the room. ‘No one’s ever seen him, you know,’ one of the ladies says. I should get name badges made up because I’ve got so muddled that I can’t remember her name.
‘They say he’s a hideous monster, disfigured and cold to a world that’s turned its back on him,’ another one says.
‘You sure that’s not The Hunchback of Notre Dame? He hasn’t got a couple of talking gargoyles, has he?’ My sarcasm goes straight over their heads.
‘He’s this nasty, evil presence. Whenever something nice happens in Buntingorden, you can be sure that he’s lurking in the wings to find a way of ruining it. The whole town would be so much nicer if he wasn’t here.’
‘And look at that house on Bodmin Lane. It used to be so lovely, and now it’s all crumbling and overgrown, and he’s got this great big iron fence with barbwire on top. I think he killed the previous owners and took over the place and that’s why he never comes out, because he’s a murderer on the run,’ Tilda says. Now I remember her name because of the brand of rice.
‘A fugitive!’ Someone else claps.
They sound abnormally excited by the prospect of a murderous fugitive in town, while I wonder if I’ve accidentally stumbled into an episode of Midsomer Murd
ers.
‘We were hoping you’d have met him. He likes to complain about everything – we thought he was bound to have come in and complained about the bookshop.’ Milda, the biscuit crusher, sprays crumbs as she talks.
‘You’ve still got bowls of water outside for thirsty dogs, and you let dogs inside. He’s always writing to the local newspapers complaining about how unhygienic it is,’ says the man who’s given up on his iPad and is watching his grandson playing on it now.
‘I love dogs. Who wouldn’t want them inside? One of the nicest things about this village is that it’s dog-friendly and you can’t go far without meeting a dog to scruffle. It’s not uptight like other high streets where dogs aren’t welcome. It’s great considering we’re in the middle of a touristy dog-walking spot.’
‘And that roof terrace.’ Hilda ignores my monologue on the benefits of allowing dogs in. ‘You had that open the other day. There’s no way he would’ve let you get away with that. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d come straight over to demand you close it at once.’
‘It was open for ten minutes,’ I say incredulously. ‘How would he know about that? How do you even know about it?’
They ignore me. ‘You can bet your best socks that he’s written to the council complaining about it. You’ll probably get a letter from them soon saying they’ve received a complaint.’
‘And your window display,’ the one called Barbara says. ‘It’s very pretty, but he’s always writing letters to the local newspaper whenever something changes on the street. He’ll say that’s a visual hazard or an invitation to thieves because it blocks some of your visibility.’
I glance at the mermaid window. It’s about time I changed it, actually. Dimitri’s chalk scales are being accidentally rubbed off by hands reaching for books in the display, and my selection of mermaid-themed books are getting thin on the ground. ‘That’s not fair. Why would anyone complain about it? It doesn’t affect him in any way.’
‘He would’ve called it an eyesore. He’s done it with every shop – written to the council complaining about the things on display in their window.’
‘That’s awful. My friend did those scales – they are not an eyesore.’ I feel ridiculously protective of Dimitri’s artwork.
‘Ooh, that gorgeous young chap who sketches here?’ Tilda asks, but the question is obviously rhetorical because a wave of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ sweep through the group at the mention of him.
‘Oh, if I was thirty years younger,’ one of them says, kicking off a squabble with her neighbour who has the gall to suggest that fifty is more accurate.
‘I want to set him up with my granddaughter but he’s never here on Saturday afternoons,’ another one adds.
‘He’s delicious,’ Milda says. ‘And single too, you know?’
‘Is he? I had no idea.’ My voice goes high and unsteady, even though there’s something adorable about a group of old ladies thinking he’s the best thing since chocolate was invented.
‘Are you going to ask him out?’ Tilda says. ‘I think you’d make a lovely couple.’
A chorus of agreements follow from everyone else in the group. I know my face has gone red, which is kindly pointed out when one of them squeals, ‘Ooh, you must like him – you’ve gone red!’
I sincerely hope Dimitri can’t hear any of this from his hiding spot.
Percy sits up long enough to say in a deep, booming voice, ‘Hush now, you’re embarrassing the poor girl,’ before going back to sleep. I suspect he might be faking it to get out of book club.
I decide it’s well past time we stopped talking about gorgeous men who sketch here and pick up a copy of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. ‘So how did you all get on with this month’s read?’
The sooner we can get on with the book club discussion, the sooner I can get those crumbs hoovered up.
‘A refill!’ Tilda shouts.
‘Have you got any more biscuits?’ Milda asks.
More biscuits? They’re not having my Chocolate Hobnobs, and they’ve wolfed down nine packets already. No wonder this is only a monthly occurrence. I’d have to buy shares in McVitie’s otherwise.
I take another round of orders for tea and coffee and leave them muttering about my pathetic lack of biscuits. It’s almost like they know I’ve got one hidden and are trying to sniff it out.
By the time I get back downstairs with more drinks, I’ve lost them again as Hilda holds court with a story about her postman’s canary. Even Heathcliff is hiding inside his aquarium castle, and he’s usually all over a bit of gossip. Even a Shih Tzu walking past outside isn’t enough to tempt him from his hiding place.
‘Shall we get onto the book?’ I say loudly. I’m sure I can hear Dimitri’s laughter echoing out from the shelves under the stairs.
They all turn to look at me.
‘I read it years ago. I remember not liking the sound-a-like words, even though I see the innocence the author was trying to convey, and I thought Bruno was unrealistically dense to not realise what was really going on. But that ending. That’s an ending I never, ever saw coming, and I’ve never forgotten it since. What did you all think?’
I get a chorus of ‘oh, yes, that’ and ‘excellents, goods, and greats’. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure that not one of them has read it. And if they have, then they definitely didn’t come here to discuss it.
A customer makes her way through the biscuit crumbs with a couple of hefty Shakespeare plays and I go behind the counter to serve her, and there I stay, wishing I could risk a Chocolate Hobnob without being seen. The other old man goes to sleep on the sofa and the grandson with the iPad turns up the volume on whatever game he’s playing, so the soundtrack to the afternoon is a series of bloop-bleeps as he shoots down pixellated aliens, and a whole slew of gossip about people I’ve never met.
At five to five, they all put their cups down in unison, pop their books back into their handbags, gather up their coats and cardigans, which have been strewn an impressive distance across the shop, and start filing out. Hilda drags me out from behind the counter and envelops me in a hug. ‘Lovely, Hallie. Just as good as Robert ever did it.’
Each one follows in her footsteps with a hug and a variation of the same thing. ‘Better, even. More biscuits to choose from.’
‘See you again next month.’
‘Don’t forget to put June’s book up on Monday. We’ll all be in for a copy.’
‘Can you get the double-pack of Custard Creams next time?’
‘I wouldn’t mind some Jaffa Cakes. Ooh, how about a packet of Fig Rolls?’
I can still hear them discussing various biscuits as I shut the door behind them and flick the book-shaped sign to ‘closed.’
I let out a breath that feels like the first one all afternoon. I see why Dimitri went into hiding.
I go through to the back half of the shop and duck around shelves until I get to the little corner under the stairs where Robert stored rare or valuable books. I knock on the edge of the shelf like it’s a door and put my head round it. ‘They’ve gone – you can come out now.’
It’s a short aisle with shelves down either side and one across the back wall, and Dimitri’s sitting in the corner, surrounded by cushions, reclining against the back shelf with his head resting on the right-hand shelf. Pentamerone is on the floor beside him and his sketchbook is open on his knees as he draws.
He looks up at me sleepily. ‘No, I can’t, because that would require moving, and I’m way too comfortable to move.’
He does look comfortable. And I’d thought the sofas were looking a bit bare because he must have every cushion from the reading area.
I lean against the shelf. ‘So when you said it wasn’t a book club, but a monthly biscuit-eating contest … Why didn’t I take you seriously?’
He gives me a soft smile. ‘Some things you have to learn for yourself. A rite of passage, like your first Stephen King novel or the first time you find out a bandicoot is a real animal or disc
over it’s not really Christopher Plummer singing in The Sound of Music.’
To be fair, my first Stephen King novel was a lot more enjoyable than my first Once Upon A Page book club, although equally terrifying.
‘Word to the wise though – do not buy Jaffa Cakes next time. Robert did once. They were here for three days having the “cake or biscuit” debate. And don’t buy Jammie Dodgers, the chewiness leads to all sorts of denture-related pandemonium.’
I really hope he’s exaggerating.
He looks so relaxed that he could fall asleep, different to the usual way he sits hunched over his sketchbooks on the table. His eyes are heavy lidded behind his thick glasses when he looks up at me again and pats the empty cushion beside him. ‘Come and sit here.’
I gesture towards the shop. ‘I have to clean up.’
‘Hallie.’ His voice is gentle but firm, and I don’t need any more persuasion.
I get an idea and point at him. ‘Hold that thought.’
Steadfastly ignoring the biscuit crumbs, I dash upstairs and make two cups of tea and snag the hidden Hobnobs on the way back.
Dimitri’s face breaks into the widest smile I’ve ever seen when I reappear at the shelves. I’ve always thought a smile lighting up a face was a myth, a trope that romance authors use to convey happiness but I didn’t think it was something that actually happened. ‘You’re a star, thank you. I was just thinking how much I wish I’d nicked a packet.’
He pulls Pentamerone under his legs to make space for me, and knowing how clumsy I am without me needing to say it, he takes both cups off me and sets them carefully in the space at the front of the shelf he’s leaning against, and holds his hand up to help me down.
I’m quite capable of sitting down without assistance, but I don’t miss an opportunity to slip my hand into his and lower myself onto the cushion beside him, and he produces another one from seemingly thin air and I stuff it in behind my back, surprised to find it’s comfier than it looks down here. It’s not exactly roomy though, and I’m sort of tipping towards him on the uneven cushions. I wriggle around a bit, but one arm is already pressed against the shelf to my left and the other is pressed against his.
The Little Bookshop of Love Stories Page 18
