The Village Green Bookshop: A Feel-Good Escape for All Book Lovers from the Bestselling Author of The Telephone Box Library

by Rachael Lucas

  She checked out and drove north up the A34. This whole area was such a contrast to the uniformity of the 1930s streets where she lived. The fields were busy with tractors chugging away, and the landscape was rolling and bucolic – like something from a poem. She followed the instructions of her satnav and shortly afterwards found herself on the road leading to Little Maudley. It curved around, wending its way over a river. She crossed a bridge, drove up the hill, dipped back down into the valley and waited at one side of another pretty stone bridge as yet another tractor trundled across, the farmer in the cab giving her a wave of acknowledgement. It felt as far removed from Manchester life as it was possible to get.

  And then she passed the sign that welcomed careful drivers to Little Maudley, and squeezed her foot on the brake in an involuntary motion. A man walking two shaggy-looking red setters gave her a knowing smile and she drove on. Two neat rows of honey-coloured terraced houses lined the street. A discreet sign etched on a window indicated that a beauty therapist worked there, behind the shaded glass. It was almost impossibly tasteful, and so clean that she felt as if her slightly scruffy Ford Focus was going to lower the tone as she drove over the river bridge and up the narrow hill towards the main street. Here, more terraces were interspersed with the occasional chocolate-box white thatched cottage. And there was a signpost, hung with a basket of newly planted geraniums, pointing towards the local shop and post office.

  Up the hill and over, where a huge, solid church of blonde stone stood behind a wall festooned with colourful bunting. The trees were hung with coloured flags. There must have been some kind of village fête going on – the thought of it made Hannah fizz with excitement and then laugh at herself. Maybe if they moved here, she could become the sort of person who went to WI meetings and made jam and owned a pair of green wellies. She could imagine Ben’s scornful face.

  And there on the green was the famous telephone box library – decorated, too, with bunting, and stuffed full of books. She pulled up alongside it and wound down the window, intrigued by the sign stuck on the outside of the door exhorting villagers to please not add books to the shelves without asking permission.

  On the street opposite sat a white thatched cottage, window boxes stuffed full of flowers, looking ridiculously picturesque. All the doors and woodwork in the village had been painted the same colour, Hannah noticed. She drove again, turning left and feeling a jolt of excitement as she saw the sign for the village shop.

  She pulled up outside it and looked out of the window. A postman was loading sacks of mail into the back of his van. It was like stepping into an episode of Postman Pat; she half-expected a black-and-white cat to appear, wending between her ankles as she made her way inside. But instead, there was Beth, bursting out of the door with her make-up-free face wreathed in smiles. She was back in her usual outfit of a loose shirt and jeans, hair tied back from her face in a workmanlike ponytail. She dusted her hands off on a black apron that had ‘The Old Post Office’ embroidered on it in a modern, stylish font.

  ‘Oh my God, you made it. I honestly wondered if it was one of those things you say when you’re a bit pissed and regret the next morning.’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘No, I’m definitely here.’ A knot of apprehension made its presence felt in her stomach. The shop was even prettier than she remembered, and the village was almost too perfect to be real.

  ‘Come on then, let’s show you round.’

  Inside, the place looked immaculate. Fresh bread and newly laid local eggs stood under a prettily hand-chalked sign, and the shelves were laden with expensive-looking deli products as well as the usual washing powder, tins of baked beans and emergency candles. But alongside the emergency in-case-of-power-outage six-pack of table candles, there was a collection of expensive hand-poured, essential oil and soy wax candles in tins.

  ‘Made by Helen Bromsgrove, who lives in the village. It’s her new thing. Not that she needs a thing, considering she never stops, but – anyway. It’s a fundraising project.’

  There was a noticeboard studded with neatly laid out signs and posters for village events, and a reminder that the WI meeting would be taking place a week late this month owing to unexpected events.

  Hannah had taken a peek at the Little Maudley village Facebook group while eating her breakfast. It was clear that being a good villager was a fairly high priority on everyone’s list, which was ironic given the number of mildly catty posts objecting to over-full bins the day before collection day or the untidiness of houses where the gardens weren’t up to scratch. There had been several names that kept popping up and if Hannah remembered correctly, Helen Bromsgrove was one of them. Not only did she make candles, but she seemed to be very much involved in every aspect of village life.

  There was a jingling of bells as the shop door opened and a slim, neatly dressed woman with expensively highlighted hair walked in. She glanced from Beth to Hannah and gave a confident smile. ‘Hello,’ she said, reaching for one of the wicker shopping baskets stacked just inside the front door.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ said Beth, under her breath. And then she said in her normal tone, ‘How funny, Helen – we were just talking about your candles.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Helen looked pleased with herself.

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah said, picking one up and inhaling the scent of lavender and jasmine. ‘They’re lovely.’

  Helen softened slightly. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘They’re selling like hot cakes,’ Beth said, adding, ‘or hot candles,’ as an afterthought.

  ‘Good, good.’ Helen put a box of eggs and a loaf of freshly baked bread into her basket. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’ She made her way around the shop, checking a neatly written list, then placed her basket on the counter. Hannah, meanwhile, had been standing still, trying to imagine what it would be like if this were her life. It was so peaceful and small and lovely. No sirens were blaring outside, and the only traffic that passed by as she looked out the window was a tractor rattling a trailer laden with bales of hay.

  ‘I must have a word with George about the next parish council meeting,’ Helen said, pulling out a red spotted Cath Kidston purse from her handbag as she waited for Beth to ring everything through the till. ‘We’re still using far too many plastic bags in the village. I’ve been seeing people coming out of the shop with them all month.’

  ‘I’ve been selling lots of these,’ Beth said, pointing to a display of tote bags hanging behind the counter. They were stamped with an image of the village shop and the words ‘Little Maudley Loves the Environment’.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know. But people just don’t make enough effort.’ Helen tutted, looking disapproving. ‘You need to try and push them a bit more or we’re never going to raise the money we need for the village hall kitchen.’ She glanced at Hannah and held out her hand in greeting.

  Hannah shook it. ‘Hello, I’m Hannah Reynolds, Beth’s cousin.’

  ‘Goodness, you don’t look at all alike.’ Helen looked at them both in surprise.

  ‘Well, no.’ Beth looked nonplussed.

  ‘Well, lovely to meet you, Hannah. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.’

  Beth shot Hannah a sly look and nudged her. ‘Sooner than you might think,’ she said, making Helen frown slightly. ‘It’s a long story.’

  Beth waited until the door had clicked shut before snorting with laughter. ‘Oh God, Helen’s a perfect example of why I’m desperate to escape this bloody place.’

  ‘She seems quite nice to me,’ Hannah said, watching as Helen crossed the village green and stopped outside the telephone box library. A moment later, she’d straightened a sign that was taped inside and stood for a moment with her arms crossed, admiring her handiwork. ‘Very . . . community-minded.’

  ‘That’s one word for her. She’s such a queen bee.’ Beth leaned forward on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. ‘I mean, her heart’s in the right place, but she’s one of those people that has to be involved in everything, if yo
u know what I mean?’

  ‘What’s the deal with the village hall kitchen?’

  ‘Well, funnily enough, I don’t think we’re going to make enough money selling tote bags and Helen’s scented candles to rip out the old one and put in a new one, but that’s the aim. We’re getting a grant – they’re going to match whatever we make by the end of the year – but . . .’ She stopped herself. ‘I have no idea why I’m telling you all this stuff. It’s hardly going to persuade you to come and live here, is it?’

  Hannah didn’t say anything. She was thinking that it sounded as if everything Beth had had enough of about village life seemed pretty much perfect to her. Maybe it was just about perspective . . .

  The door jingled again as a woman with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail backed into the shop, staggering under the weight of a huge box of books.

  ‘Can I just put these with the others in the store room?’ She balanced the edge of the box on the counter and looked beseechingly at Beth, who tutted, half-joking.

  ‘Oh my God, Lucy, we’ve got millions in there already.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to do with them. We’ve got doubles of doubles, and most of them are almost new.’

  Beth reached over and peered at the books that were visible on the top of the box, flicking through a hardback about gardens. ‘This one doesn’t even look like it’s been read. Lucy, this is my cousin Hannah. Lucy’s another incomer – she’s from Brighton. She came here to visit and never left. She’s with Sam, the guy I was telling you about last night who makes the treehouses?’ Beth rattled on, seemingly unaware that Lucy seemed more than a little uncomfortable about being the topic of discussion. Picking up her box of books, she headed across the shop to a little window alcove where several other boxes were already stacked up.

  ‘Can I just shove these here for now?’

  ‘You’ll need to get your Sam to come and make a shelf for them at this rate.’

  Hannah looked at the alcove. It was a pretty arched shape, and the window overlooked the village green. If this was her place, she’d . . . Well, there was no point thinking about that. Last night’s conversation had been lovely, and being here felt like stepping into an old-fashioned novel, but back home she knew she had a mountain of washing to catch up on, a house that would probably look like a bomb site and a son who was up to goodness knows what.

  ‘It all started with the telephone box library,’ Lucy explained, after she’d put the box down and straightened up again. ‘Only we can’t keep up with the donations, and we’re running out of places to put all the books.’

  ‘So somehow, muggins here has ended up as a sort of book depository.’ Beth shook her head.

  ‘We keep trying to tell people to cool it a bit, hand them on to the charity shops or something instead; but nobody seems to get the hint.’

  ‘You should sell them second-hand,’ said Hannah, almost without thinking. ‘You said you’re trying to raise money for the village hall?’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Beth. ‘Helen’s got to you already.’

  ‘Hardly,’ Hannah laughed. ‘It just seems like a logical thing to do.’

  Lucy and Beth exchanged glances.

  ‘She’s got a point,’ said Lucy. ‘A village bookshelf to go with the library?’

  ‘Hello?’ A voice came from the far end of the shop. ‘I’m trying to reach the top shelf, and I can’t quite manage it.’

  ‘Two secs,’ said Beth, leaving Hannah standing with Lucy.

  ‘It’s mad, isn’t it?’ Lucy picked up a brand new book, still with the supermarket sticker on it. ‘Can you imagine giving away books?’

  Hannah shook her head. ‘Not really one of my problems. I’ve got bookshelves in every room, and I keep promising I’ll hand some on to the charity shop, but they’re like old friends.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lucy smiled. ‘I’ve still got loads of the books I read when I was young.’

  ‘Me too. I thought I’d pass them on to my son, but he’s not exactly a massive fan of books.’

  ‘Nor is my partner. He’s dyslexic, and he’s never really got over how shitty they were about it at school. Thank goodness things are different now.’ She paused. ‘I’m a teacher – we’ve got so many ways to help dyslexic kids who are struggling with reading.’

  ‘My son isn’t dyslexic – he’s just not very keen on reading.’

  ‘No, not everyone is. It’s hard to get them to focus, isn’t it, when there’s the lure of social media and all that stuff?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Hannah had spent years trying to find the perfect book that might lure Phil or Ben in – sports biographies for Ben, interesting books on personal development or business stuff for Phil. All of them sat untouched on the bookshelf in the hall at home.

  ‘So,’ Beth returned. ‘Hannah’s full of ideas for the shop, aren’t you?’

  ‘It was just a thought.’ Hannah felt slightly uncomfortable with the attention.

  ‘A good one,’ said Lucy. ‘Anyway, I need to go. We’ve got Bunty coming for a visit later on.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said Beth. ‘Give her my love. I haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘She’s doing much better after her op.’ Lucy pulled the door open and paused for a moment. ‘Nice to meet you.’ She smiled at Hannah.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘See,’ said Beth, triumphantly. ‘You’re a hit with the locals, too.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Hannah fiddled with her sleeve, picking at a loose thread. ‘But I can’t just give up everything and come and live here and run your shop.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got responsibilities.’

  ‘You can bring them with you.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘It is,’ Beth said, crossing her arms. ‘It is, if you want it to be. Seriously, Han, you need to think about it. You can’t spend your whole life pleasing other people and not yourself.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said, mainly to get Beth off her back.

  ‘Right. That’s a deal. Now, I’m going to hand over to this afternoon’s volunteer and then make you some lunch. How does that sound?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Beth led Hannah through the little passageway that linked the shop with her cottage. Tiny and almost ridiculously quaint, it had been built at the same time as The Old Post Office where the shop now stood. The sitting room was low-beamed and dark, with two deep-silled windows that looked out over the village green and down the street. A brick fireplace took up most of the side wall and a huge, sagging sofa was stuffed with pillows. Beth motioned for Hannah to sit down.

  ‘I’ll get us some lunch. Are you in a rush to get back?’

  Ben was playing football, and she’d had a brief text from Phil to say he was working and not to rush home. She shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good. That gives me time to work on you.’ Beth gave a cackle and disappeared into the kitchen. ‘You sit there and imagine what it’d be like to live here.’

  Hannah didn’t sit down. Instead, she went over to the bookshelf, which was filled with an odd jumble of some of Lauren’s schoolbooks and the sort of celebrity biographies people give for Christmas when they’re not sure what else to give. Houses without books always seemed weird to her – and the idea of all those boxes of books in the shop was nagging at her. It wouldn’t take much to turn that little alcove into a mini bookshop. For a moment, she let herself daydream about mornings spent running the shop and afternoons sorting through secondhand books. Phil would be off working, and Ben happy at school. The village was probably full of people who loved books and she could chat away to them, comparing notes on which Jane Austen novel was the best (Pride and Prejudice, of course, although she still had a soft spot for Mr Knightley in Emma).

  ‘What are you up to?’ Beth called through from the kitchen, a few moments later.

  ‘Just looking at your bookshelf.’

  ‘You won’t find much there; I’ve never been muc
h of a reader. Hang on, I’ve got something to show you.’

  Beth came back into the sitting room and clicked on the mouse beside her computer. A moment later she was scrolling through a complicated-looking Excel spreadsheet, which was colour-coded and had a list of names running down the side. Hannah tried to focus on it, but spreadsheets had always been a mystery to her.

  ‘I just needed to double-check something, but actually, it’s a good thing for you to see. Basically we have one person that manages the place – that would be you –’ Beth gave her a meaningful look – ‘and the rest are volunteers.’ She tapped the end of a biro against her teeth, then pulled a slightly battered Post-it note off the side of the monitor and crumpled it up in her hand. ‘All you have to do is turn up, do your bit, and then let the others get on with it.’

  Hannah looked sideways at her. ‘And everyone just turns up?’

  ‘Well, that’s the theory.’ Beth rolled her eyes. ‘I mean, sometimes someone doesn’t turn up, and you’ve got to chase them a bit . . .’

  That sounded more like it. Hannah looked around the little sitting room again, taking in the possibilities. She could imagine standing behind a counter with an apron on, chatting to the locals, feeling like part of a community. It was exactly what Ben needed. If she could get him down here and away from the bad influences in Manchester, maybe things could go back to the way they’d been before hormones and teenage grumpiness had hit. And a bookshop . . . it was as if someone was offering her a dream come true on a silver platter.

  There was absolutely no way she could do it. That was the only minor detail.

  Chapter Four

  The whole way home, the idea went round and round in her head. How the hell had she ended up being such a wet blanket? Beth and Katie had pointed out to her in the space of a couple of days just how much of a yes-woman she was. She went back and forth on the idea – chugging up the motorway, trapped in a sea of cones between huge HGV lorries, musing on what sort of person would uproot everyone in their family just on the basis of a whim.