Soon I have my first customer, a young mother who wears her baby in a sling across her chest. She enters the van slowly as if unsure and emits a gasp when her eyes adjust to the light. ‘Ooh la la,’ she cries. ‘Enchanté.’
‘Welcome! Can I get you a cool drink? Ice-tea, sparkling water?’ The heat is merciless, and the young mum’s cheeks are pinked from sun and the extra warmth of having the baby cocooned against her. ‘Oui, ice-tea would be lovely.’ She wipes her brow with a sigh of relief.
As she unstraps the baby, I toy with which of Rosie’s literary teas will most suit. She looks adventurous, so I pick French Kiss, a charming blend of rose and berries that will perk her up on even the hottest day. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
I take the glass tea pot from the fridge and add a helping of ice to two mismatched glasses. She takes a long gulp of the tea, and her eyes widen in surprise. ‘The flavours are incredible.’
‘My friend Rosie hand blends the tea using all natural and organic products, and I have the matching book … around here somewhere.’ Of course, I know exactly where it is, but I like people to stay awhile in the Little Bookshop, to absorb the weight of words and peruse at their leisure.
‘I’d love to see what book it pairs with.’
I find the book, French Kissing by Catherine Sanderson. ‘May I?’ I hold my arms out to take the baby, and she shoots me a grateful look as we swap warm bundle of baby for slightly dusty book.
‘She gets heavy after a while for such a petite little enfant.’
I cuddle the baby close, marvelling at her chubby cheeks and bright-eyed gaze, so wise for one so young. I inhale that precious baby scent, sweet like the breath of a puppy. She coos and I babble in baby talk back to her not in the least fazed that I must sound ridiculous. ‘She’s beautiful. What’s her name?’
‘Marie-Claire. And I’m Lisette.’
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Aria.’
‘You’re British?’
‘Yes.’ I go on to tell her about our French adventure and where we’ve come from.
‘You pop up just like that?’
I nod. It always surprises people when we explain the Van Lifers movement and the band of nomads who travel the world on a hope and a breeze, putting their trust in the fact things will work out. ‘Yes, we research ahead and make sure there’s enough going on and then we hit the road and see where it takes us.’
‘Don’t you get scared? What if you run out of money?’
I shrug. ‘It’s always at the back of my mind, but we’re all pretty frugal and squirrel away whatever we can for those lean times. And we have each other.’
I rock Marie-Claire gently in my arms as her eyes grow heavy.
‘It sounds so adventurous. I wish I could do something extraordinary like that.’
‘Right now what you’re doing is pretty extraordinary.’ I grin and look down at the softly sleeping baby in my arms. She’s so beautiful, I pretend for a moment she’s mine. Would my babies have looked like TJ? Grown-up like their dad with his endearing gap-toothed smile and impossibly long eyelashes? ‘How lucky you are to have such a treasure.’
‘She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. But I am alone. Her papa decided he wasn’t quite ready for fatherhood.’ She speaks so matter-of-factly, as if it’s just one of those things, like it raining when you planned a picnic – not ideal, but not the end of the world. Probably a good way to deal with forks in the road but it saddens me he left her at such a vulnerable time.
And it goes to show you can never judge a book by its cover. Here I’d pegged Lisette as well-to-do young mum who had the perfect husband cooking up a three-course lunch at home while she took in some fresh air at the local fete. ‘Do you manage OK?’
‘So far.’ Her mouth pulls to one side. ‘You know what’s saved me?’
I can guess … ‘Reading? Doesn’t that save us all in the end?’
She gives me a warm smile. ‘Oui, of course you’d understand. It’s the only thing that stops panic from setting in at times. I love reading about other women who’ve gone through the same things and come out the other side. My maman says I’m crazy, those girls are fictional, but I don’t care if they are. They make me feel better.’
‘And fiction has to come from somewhere, right?’
‘Exactly. And so, like them, I know that when it’s time I can dream big for us, but right now I’m just concentrating on one day a time, while Marie-Claire learns how to sleep a little longer each night.’
When life is pared right back, that’s when you realize what’s important. For this young mum it’s the bare essentials like sleeping right now. And that’s how van life is. Sometimes you go without, but in the bigger scheme of things, we’re gifted with this incredible journey and we don’t need much to survive.
Besides, a girl who finds comfort in reading can get through anything. ‘You’ll do great things when the time is right.’
‘Maybe you’ll see me and Marie-Claire on the road one day?’ Lisette brushes a length of hair behind her ear. I notice she is still very well groomed for someone snatching sleep hours at a time. I imagine myself as a mum, my already messy bookworm hair a bird’s nest atop my head, and the best excuse to wear PJs day in, day out.
‘You never know what’s around the corner, literally, when you’re a Van Lifer.’ I want to tell her about the many single mums travelling the same roads as us, their babies being raised by a village as everyone pitches in to help. The children on the circuit bring us so much joy, in the innocent, uncomplicated way they see things. But that would be Lisette’s gift to find out if she chose the same life as us.
A couple of hours later she leaves with a bag full of books and a baby who is happy being wherever her mum is. I make a silent wish that she’ll follow her heart and live life on her own terms, and do only what’s best for herself and Marie-Claire.
A trickle of customers wander in and spend time eking out books hidden high and low, until eventually I deem the morning successful and go back to my book and shut the real world out for a time. One can only talk about books so much until reading them becomes as necessary as breathing. Jonathan’s characters have a firm hold of my heart. I have this notion that when you put a book down, they pause and wait for your return. I’d left my lovers in a bar staring angrily at each other, ready to break up, and I hoped the time I’d been away they’d managed to cool down and were ready to make amends – wild, right?
I prise open the pages and plunge back into the story …
Later, the sound of laughter breaks through my reading fog but I’m so close to the couple finding their resolution! Begrudgingly I peek up and am startled to see a queue snaking from Rosie’s van, all the way past mine. I bookmark my page and go to join her.
‘There is a god,’ she says, her face red with exertion. ‘I’ve been run off my feet.’
‘You should have yelled out.’ I tie on an apron. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘If you serve, I’ll catch up on the milkshake orders.’
‘Sure.’ I butcher the French language as I speak to the customers patiently waiting; some give me looks of confusion, others speak in halting English. One thing that doesn’t need translation is Rosie’s food. It goes down a treat and people come back and order seconds. I’d have thought the French crowd would have gone for their French favourites, like macarons and madeleines, but instead they choose Rosie’s simple English fare.
When I get a minute to look up, I notice that Max is busy too. His lean, green café has a long queue. He’s regaling them all with some story, gesticulating wildly, and they stand enthralled. He’s like an action hero come to life and I bet they don’t see that much around here, by the way they’re ogling him. Rosie calls it the Max-Effect.
Alongside Max, French vendors smoke in huddles and chat to Van Lifers from around the globe. They seem to find our way of life amusing and are keenly questioning them about how we manage life on the road.
‘Right,’ Rosi
e says returning, taking a deep breath. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Great, we’ve almost sold out here. But … you look like you’ve run a marathon; do you want to take a break?’
‘Do I? Bloody hell,’ she says checking her reflection on the microwave door. ‘I’ll just fix myself up, be right back.’
Rosie doesn’t like to appear dishevelled, whereas it’s my natural state. I’m always a little rumpled like I’ve just woken up. Reading most of the day tends to do that to a person.
The customers ease to a trickle, ordering what’s left – plates of pear and almond cake and boxes of jammy dodgers.
When I get to the last person in line, I stifle a groan. ‘You made it,’ I say, managing a wooden smile.
‘I sure did,’ she says, grinning, but as ever there’s a hint of malice to it. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun, now would I?’
Pop-up Pimm’s van Tori has arrived. And again, I’m struck by the why. Out of everyone on the circuit, she zeroed in on Rosie and me the most when it came to spreading malicious rumours. So why come and travel alongside us?
‘Are you staying at the same park as we are?’
Her mouth pulls down. ‘Yeah, but I’ve been given a space by the main road which is completely unfair. The manager pointed out your spot by the river – just goes to show it’s not what you know, right?’
Internally I do a karmic take that. ‘Shame.’
She waves me away. ‘I’m going to ask Max to have a word with them. Surely I can fit between you guys …’
‘We’re pretty squished as it is.’
‘We’ll manage. We’re not here for long.’
Marvellous.
‘Sure you will,’ I give her a dazzling smile that belies my true feelings. ‘Well, I’d better get back to it. I’ll see you later, yeah?’
‘Yeah, tell Rosie I’ll be there when she gets back. I’ve got a Pimm’s with her name on it.’
‘Will do.’
While I wait for Rosie, I go to the little outdoor eatery, collect the dishes and give the tables a wipe-down. Tori is over at Max’s, flicking her hair and making a spectacle of herself trying to win his attention. He pays her no mind and focuses on cleaning the fold-out counter of his juice bar.
‘Hey, thanks,’ Rosie says, returning looking revived. ‘I needed that ten minutes.’
‘You should have called out earlier, I would’ve helped.’
She shakes her head. ‘You’re always helping but I feel bad calling you every time I get busy.’
I frown. It doesn’t make sense. I’ve helped Rosie since day one when she joined the festival circuit back in Bristol. ‘I don’t mind, you know that.’
She fiddles with her apron. ‘I snuck my head in at one point but you had your nose so firmly pressed in Jonathan’s book I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.’
There it is. ‘That’s why you didn’t disturb me, because I was reading Jonathan’s book?’
Rosie’s let herself be overwhelmed in the hopes I’ll fall in love with his prose and then him! She really is as much a hopeless romantic as the rest of us.
‘You’re disillusioned, my friend. Your cunning plan is all set to fail.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. So tell me, is it as good as it sounds?’
I let a silence fall, just to keep her in suspense before saying, ‘It’s even better! It’s all about the power of love in an uncertain world in all its messy, complicated glory.’
‘It’s a romance?’ Her eyes go wide with surprise.
I consider. ‘Yes, it’s beautiful, a modern-day romance. You can see these two characters should be together, but they can’t make it happen. They’ve got these complicated pasts – I’m spoiling it. I’ll let you read it first.’
We take the empty milkshake glasses to the serving awning, as sun shines off the paintwork making me squint. ‘No, I’ll forget by the time I’m ready to read it. Keep talking.’
‘It’s all about chance meetings and these two people, they seem so real, almost as if I know them. He has really painted such a detailed picture with his crystalline prose.’
‘Oh, they feel real, do they?’ She nods as she gathers empty glasses.
‘Yes, very real.’
‘Familiar, even?’ She gives me an odd look. Quite suddenly, all colour leeches from her face.
‘Yes, yes, familiar, the sign of a good writer when their characters are so three-dimensional – are you OK, Rosie?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I just feel so lethargic all of a sudden.’ Wiping her brow, she exhales. ‘The heat has zapped me today.’
‘Have you drunk any water? Had anything to eat all day?’
‘No, there hasn’t been time.’
Poor Rosie has been run off her feet and is probably suffering heat stroke from running about trying to keep up. ‘Let me tidy and you can sit and have a late lunch?’
‘OK that sounds good to me.’ She follows me back into her van, and I dump all the dishes on the side board and fill the sink.
Our roles reversed, I plate her a warm slice of quiche and pour a glass of water. ‘Drink up.’
She downs the glass of water, and stares at me for an age which means something is brewing in that complex mind of hers. You can’t rush her or she starts peppering conversation with French words or turns robotic and goes glassy eyed. It’s her quirky way of coping when her brain overloads. I take her glass and refill it and still she doesn’t speak. Maybe she’s exhausted, I bet she spent half the morning worrying Jean-Pierre would show up, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.
Back to the sink, soap suds rise up and I can’t help but blow some over Rosie.
‘You are such a child!’
‘You love it.’
‘I do.’
Humming, I wash the dishes and stack them to dry while Rosie eats her lunch and then potters around her bedroom. Before long she’s back and holding Jonathan’s book. ‘Oh, you’re getting started so soon?’
‘Your description got me interested.’
‘Great. Oh, by the way, Tori’s here somewhere. She stopped to tell me she’s not happy with the allotment she’s been given at the park.’
‘Maybe she’s anxious about being alone in a new country?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
Rosie drums her fingers on the book. ‘Hopefully she’s not here to cause trouble. It does seem weird though since she really didn’t gel with us all that well back home. Do you think she’s into Max?’
I think back to her flicking her hair and giggling like a schoolgirl and Max’s complete disinterest. ‘Even if she was, Max isn’t having it.’
‘You know, I’m sort of sympathetic because I’ve been that person on the outside, most of my life. Breaking into the robot when I’m intimidated or feel like I’m the odd one out. Part of me wonders if she’s the same and is putting on this persona thinking it’s her way in, but getting it wrong, you know?’
When Rosie first joined the circuit, her quirks made her noticeable but it was adorable and not cunning like Tori is. Still, I see her point and vow to be kinder to Tori in case it is as simple as that.
‘Yeah, Rosie, you always see what lies beneath, I need to take a leaf out of your book.’
‘Looks like you’ve got a few customers too,’ Rosie says, pointing out the window. ‘Please tell me you locked your cash drawer?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ While Rosie has laser-like focus and set rules in place for her business, I tend to be laxer. I leave a sign saying pay for what you take, with an arrow pointing to an unlocked cash tin. I’ve never run into any problems with it, sometimes losing a book or two. And I figure if they need the book that bad, then they can have it – but this attitude makes Rosie almost break out in hives.
I go back to my Little Bookshop van and meet a cluster of newly arrived nomads who want to stock up on English books. We get talking and the rest of the day escapes.
After packing u
p from the fete we head back to campsite with a bunch of new Van Lifers. We agree to meet for drinks by the river later that evening so we can get to know them better. Most of them are following the same fete/festival circuit as us so it makes sense to stick together and share stories.
I’m a little annoyed to see Tori’s van in my spot, blocking me from Rosie and Max but I bite my tongue and park next to her. I’m keen to read the diary and have some quiet after such a busy day. I close the curtains, turn on the fairy lights and light my scented candles. My life, while chaotic, has these blissful moments of solitude every day and I relish that I get to live like this.
It’s not all Brontë and butterflies, but what is?
Falling back on the bed with a groan of pleasure, I take TJ’s diary and flip it open, desperate to reconnect on some plane with my husband.
Writing this bleary-eyed and watching my bookworm as she has a lie-in late this morning. She’d been reading into the early hours of dawn, a common occurrence for my book-sprite, and the light kept me awake. I didn’t have the heart to tell her though. Between bouts of restless dreaming, I woke, and caught glimpses of her glued to the pages of the novel as if her whole life depended upon it. It’s one of the things I most love about her. That she can consume words like others consume food. Mundane things like life are forgotten when she creaks that spine, she loses whole days to other worlds. I guess that’s why I’m writing this, in case one day she needs to remember that I loved her with every twenty-six letters of the alphabet and then some.
And I loved him just the same back.
Chapter 11
Blois, Loire Valley
After a glorious ten days in Rouen we say our goodbyes to the campsite manager, Antoinette, and leave with a promise to be back. Our new band of friends drive in convoy. It’s like old times with a bunch of us following the open road together. A French girl called Violetta takes the lead in her lime green van, and hoots and hollers out the open window. Some kind of death metal screams from inside her cabin, it’s a wonder she can hear herself think.
Aria's Travelling Book Shop Page 9
