Читать книгу The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights - Ellen Berry - Страница 12

Without the cookbooks lining the walls, Rosemary Cottage seemed different too. It was as if a vital part of its fabric had been stripped away, leaving empty shelves stretching from floor to ceiling in every room of the house. The place looked ransacked, but then, what else could Della have done? Anyway, soon the whole place would be empty and someone else – perhaps a young couple keen to move from town to country – would look around and think, Hmm, well, it needs renovating, of course, and that antiquated kitchen and bathroom need to come out. But it has lots of potential …

Della ran a finger along an empty bookshelf. It came away fuzzy with dust. Striding from room to room – the cottage already felt rather chilly and stale – she assessed what needed to be done. It wasn’t that she relished the thought of sending the polished mahogany dining table or Kitty’s glass-topped dressing table to the auction house; more that, the sooner it was all dealt with, the sooner she could move on from all of this.

In the rickety utility room she found a wicker basket into which she packed hand-printed silk scarves, elegant handbags and a slim box containing a set of mother-of-pearl-handled butter knives. These, plus Kitty’s handmade wooden sewing box, were just the obvious things to take home for safe-keeping: clearly, Della would be making numerous trips back to the house. She continued to flit through the rooms, gathering up small mementoes along the way. Photograph albums were packed into a faded tartan suitcase, along with reams of paperwork to be sorted through later. Perhaps it was for the best that her siblings weren’t exactly clamouring to help. Without Jeff, Roxanne and Tamsin sticking their oars in, Della felt clear-headed and purposeful.

As she investigated the contents of Kitty’s dressing table, thoughts of that man and his son who’d wanted to see ghosts filtered into her mind. With a smile, she realised now what she’d done: overly sympathised, just because he was a dad in charge of his own child. How many mothers had she seen trying to control screaming toddlers and cheer up sullen kids over the years? And how much notice had she paid, really? That was the thing with fathers, Della decided: they didn’t have to do very much to be hailed as superheroes by starry-eyed women. ‘Some woman came up to me in the park,’ Mark announced, when Sophie was a baby, ‘and said I deserved a medal.’ A medal, for taking his own daughter out in her pram for fifteen minutes! It hadn’t even been raining. Della had dragged the buggy through the park in all weathers – driving hail, four inches of snow – and she couldn’t recall ever being festooned with praise. The woman had probably just wanted an excuse to talk to him, Della had decided, aware of how the presence of a small child – like a puppy – heightened a man’s allure.

Satisfied that she’d gathered up everything she needed at the moment, Della locked up the cottage, placed the basket and suitcase on the back seat of her car and, ravenously hungry now, decided to stroll along Rosemary Lane to the chippy. Another shower of rain had given the solid, stone-built shops and cottages a rather huddled appearance. The tang of vinegary chips tickled Della’s nostrils. Rather than grabbing a take-away to eat in the car, she ordered at the counter and took a seat in the cafe at the back. It was warm and bustling with a large family who had perhaps stopped to break up a journey; despite the chippy having been here since her childhood, Della had never ventured beyond the counter before. Kitty didn’t approve of eating out: ‘Why would I pay those prices,’ she’d declared more than once, ‘when I can make it so much better at home?’ Sitting at a red Formica-topped table with a plate of battered cod and chips hardly counted as eating out, Della thought with a smile, liberally sprinkling everything with vinegar and tucking in.

‘Della? We thought that was you!’

She had almost finished as Pattie and Christine, the haberdashery sisters, made their way towards her. ‘Oh, hello. Having dinner here too?’

‘Yes, we thought we would,’ Christine replied as they took seats at the next table. ‘Far too busy to cook today.’

Della speared a chip, marvelling as she often had how two siblings could exist in such close harmony. She and Jeff or Roxanne would manage twenty-four hours at most. Yet, when the sisters’ husbands had died within six months of each other, they had each sold their home and moved in together into the tiny flat above their shop.

‘You did yourself proud,’ Pattie remarked. ‘At Kitty’s funeral, I mean.’

‘Oh, thank you. It was lovely, actually, so many people turning up.’ She paused. The sisters, who were in their early seventies at a guess, kept glancing at each other, as if barely able to suppress their excitement about something. Della suspected it wasn’t about the imminent arrival of their fish and chips. ‘So, how are things around here?’ she asked casually.

‘Much the same,’ Christine said, peeling off her beige raincoat to reveal a murky green sweater.

‘Nothing ever changes,’ Pattie added. She, too, was wearing a turtle-neck sweater in a dingy hue. ‘In fact, we’re leaving.’

‘Leaving? You mean leaving Burley Bridge? Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I always loved coming into your shop …’ Della stopped abruptly. Perhaps they were selling up due to necessity. Surely, in modern times, a haberdashery shop in a sleepy village would struggle to survive, and of course the sisters might not wish to keep peddling embroidery threads forever.

‘We loved seeing you too,’ Christine said warmly, ‘and Kitty was always a wonderful customer.’

‘But we thought it was time for a change,’ Pattie ventured.

‘So, um … are you selling up?’

‘Oh, it’s not ours to sell. We rent, dear. Always have. No, you see, we moved into the flat above the shop to … er …’ She looked at her sister and smiled. ‘To make our plans and, you know, put a bit of money aside.’

‘What kind of plans?’ Della asked, intrigued.

Christine grinned. ‘We didn’t like to mention it at Kitty’s, erm, gathering …’

‘The day was about her, not us,’ Pattie cut in. She paused, as if about to disclose a salacious secret. Their platefuls of fish and chips arrived, although neither sister seemed terribly interested in tucking in.

‘We’ve been planning this for years,’ Christine added. ‘You see, we’ve always loved Majorca. The four of us went together, year after year, when Phillip and Freddie were still with us, and we’ve finally bought a little place …’

‘You’ve bought a place in Majorca?’ Della gasped.

Pattie nodded. ‘That’s why we’re here. It’s our last supper of sorts. The flat’s all packed up, we couldn’t be doing with cooking tonight.’

‘Well, I’m so happy for you,’ Della said as the waitress placed her bill on the table. ‘So is it, um, a timeshare or something?’

Christine chuckled. ‘No, nothing like that. It’s a little place up in the mountains.’

‘Wow,’ Della breathed.

‘A rather tumbledown cottage,’ Christine added with a smile. ‘But it’s beautiful, with incredible views, and they’re loveliest, friendliest people in the world.’ She met Della’s gaze. ‘We’ve been taking Spanish lessons.’

‘It’s lovely to hear of someone having an adventure.’ In fact, Della was ashamed now of being so surprised that these women – who had resolutely stuck with their old-fashioned cash register and wrapped purchases in brown paper, tied with string – could not only negotiate the internet but were actually moving to another country. Why shouldn’t they, after decades of running the shop? She hugged the sisters goodbye before paying at the counter, and stepped out into the soft Yorkshire rain.

Della strolled past Len’s garage, with its faded shopfront – offering little more than cartons of screenwash and out-of-date packets of Maltesers – and Ian’s immaculate butcher’s shop with its row of gleaming empty metal trays. Next came Nicola’s salon – A Cut Above – and the haberdashery, Sew ’n’ Sew’s, empty now, its interior dark and looking a little forlorn. It had been months since she’d strolled down to this end of the village. She peered into the shop, almost envious of the sisters upping and leaving for a new adventure. Seven years Della had worked in Heathfield Castle’s shop. It alarmed her, how quickly the time had sped by. She, too, should think about doing something thrilling and new, especially with Sophie about to leave for art college. But what would that be? She felt a tightness in her chest, a sense of panic that nothing would change, that she would continue to potter about at weekends while Mark nipped off to golf, and that would be that.

Della strode back along the lane to Rosemary Cottage, climbed into her car and set off for home. The rain had stopped and the sky lifted; the trees were ablaze with copper leaves as if shined up by the recent dowsing. As a change from her usual direct route, she turned off the main road and took the twisting single-track lane that climbed high into the lush rolling hills, offering a breathtaking view of the valley. Della loved autumn, the gentle shift into cooler days, with great swathes of forest turning ochre and burnished gold.

She switched on the radio: she liked bluesy jazz, smoky voices reminiscent of late nights in cosy bars. She wished she and Mark went out more often together, on proper ‘dates’, as they were always referred to in women’s magazines: Rekindle your relationship! Schedule regular dates! But then, she had glimpsed his jam-packed diary on the computer in his consultancy room and couldn’t blame him for being reluctant to schedule his down-time too. The road led Della back down the valley towards Heathfield. The Norman spire of St Cuthbert’s came into view, and the fortified castle was just visible behind the town centre. Della was approaching the golf course where Mark played; an unremarkable one, she had always thought, rather scrubby and not particularly well tended. It looked particularly desolate today. She slowed down to 30 m.p.h. in order to get a proper look, and couldn’t see a single golfer. She doubted it was due to the rain earlier; Mark’s new-found golfing buddies never seemed to be deterred by poor weather. No, she realised now, the sign attached to the padlocked gate made it clear why the place was deserted: HEATHFIELD GOLF COURSE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

She frowned and drove on, on autopilot now, as the lane took her down into town, past the market square and along the high street with its rather bland, generic shops, then along the residential roads of almost identical red-brick terraced houses that led her to Pickering Street.

Della parked in front of her house at the end of the road and took a moment to compose herself.

Of course, there were lots of possible explanations. The course had closed at the end of today, or Mark and his friends had been so keen to whack a few balls about that they’d clambered over the rather flimsy fence with those ruddy great golf bags and played anyway. The thought of grown men breaking into a golf course rather tickled her. Of course, what had probably happened was less amusing; on discovering that the course was shut, they had simply driven on and played somewhere else. Della climbed out of her car, unloaded the bits and pieces from Rosemary Cottage and, still with a sense of unease, let herself into her house.

‘Hey, Sophe,’ she called out, dumping the suitcase and wicker basket in the hall. ‘Have a good day?’

Sophie appeared on the landing. ‘Yeah, just started a painting.’

‘Ah, your favourite part.’ Della smiled.

‘Yeah, the beginning bit before it all goes horribly wrong.’

Della chuckled. Sophie didn’t mean this; she was an excellent painter, possessing a creative streak that seemed to come from nowhere, as Della had never been particularly artistic, and Mark – a science type through and through – reckoned he couldn’t even draw stickmen. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t he home yet?’

‘No, he called to say they’re having a few drinks at the club.’

Della’s heart jolted. A few drinks at the club, which was closed.

‘Did he say which club?’ she asked lightly.

Sophie shrugged. ‘No – the usual, I suppose.’ Della nodded. Maybe it was just the course that was out of action, although she hadn’t noticed any lights on in the rather bleak, pebble-dashed clubhouse, which seemed to hold such allure for him these days. ‘Want to see what I’ve done so far?’

Della flinched. ‘Sorry?’

‘My painting, Mum!’

‘Oh, yes, of course. I’d love to.’

She trotted upstairs, honoured to be shown a work in its initial stages. When she stepped towards Sophie’s easel she marvelled at how much progress had been made. Sophie had captured a September landscape with confident brushstrokes, the sky heavy with pewter clouds over vigorous splashes of copper and pink. It was a stunning work. ‘Oh, love, that’s fantastic. It already looks finished to me.’

Sophie’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘It’s a long way from that. But thanks, Mum. It just seems to be coming together, you know?’

‘It really is. You’re going to love college, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, even if Uncle Jeff thinks I’ve made a terrible mistake, and that I should be designing washing-powder packaging …’

Della laughed, turning as she heard the front door opening. ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ Mark seemed unusually perky as he lapsed into a jokey American sitcom voice.

She headed downstairs, deciding not to comment as he propped his bag of clubs against a wobbly pile of cookbooks. ‘Hi, darling. Good game?’

‘Yes, great, thanks.’

‘Did you win?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Did you win? I mean, it is a competitive sport, isn’t it?’

He peered at her as if she were asking a silly question. ‘Yes, it is, but that’s not really the point, Dell.’

So what is the point? she wanted to ask, knowing she was being prickly as she waited for him to mention Heathfield course being closed. But he said nothing. She watched as he pulled off his shoes, and when he wandered through to the living room she repositioned his clubs so they weren’t propped up against her precious books.

Irritation niggled away at her as she made a pot of tea, then carried it through to the living room and curled up in an armchair. Of course, the simplest course of action would have been to ask, ‘Mark, where did you play today?’ But she had never questioned him about his whereabouts, never endured a moment’s suspicion of where he might be. And it felt all wrong to quiz him now.

There would be a simple explanation, she decided, and she would find a way of asking him without sounding accusatory. She would ask, she fully intended to – but she needed to choose her moment, which clearly, with Mark already snoring softly on the sofa, wasn’t now.