Читать книгу Confessions of a Bookseller - Shaun Bythell - Страница 25

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Sunny morning, but I fired up the gas heater in the big room anyway and moved the stereo in for Petra’s dance class. Five people turned up, including Gina, the Kiwi woman who’s working in one of the cafés.

Nicky arrived on time, with a wide-eyed look of excitement on her face—‘You won’t believe what I’ve got for you.’ In nervous terror I guessed that it might be a ‘Foodie Friday’ treat. (Every Thursday night, after her Jehovah’s Witness meeting at Kingdom Hall, Nicky scavenges the supermarket discount shelves in Stranraer.) With undisguised delight she replied, ‘You’re RIGHT,’ before pulling from the pockets of the brown overcoat that she occasionally wears over her ski suit—like a Midwestern gunslinger—two bottles of some alarmingly synthetic-looking beer that she’d found reduced in Lidl.

While they were all thumping around upstairs, I processed the mailing for the Random Book Club, then drove to Newton Stewart to drop the mail sacks off at the sorting office. On the way back the road was blocked on the straight section at Baltersan farm by the dairy herd crossing. I usually try to avoid travelling at this time of day as at around 3 p.m. the cows are moved across the road from the field where they graze to the dairy for milking.

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