The Book Group

Chapter 1. introductions

‘You’re doing that wrong.’

Paul looked down from the ladder. ‘What?’

‘You can’t clean around the books. You have to empty the shelf, clean it, and then dust off the books before you put them all back.’

He looked at her, still uncomprehending. The shop hadn’t opened yet. The sign said Closed. He was still cleaning it out. ‘Who..?’ he began.

‘Use a damp cloth,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘Take all the books from the shelf and place them on very top. Clean the shelf, and then the books, one by one, then replace them. It’s the only way.’ She shook her brolly as she spoke, and drops landed on the hardwood floor.

‘It is?’

She set the brolly by the door, looking around as she spoke. ‘I’m afraid it is rather a task and a half, but you can’t arse around with this sort of thing.’

‘I can’t?’

He climbed down from the ladder so that they stood face to face. He rubbed his hands on the cloth he’d been using, but she wasn’t the type you shook hands with, so for want of something else to say, he said, ‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ she said, the twinkle of a smile around her eyes.

‘I’m Paul.’

‘I used to come here as a child,’ she said. ‘I’m pleased to see the old place getting a new lease of life. These things are so important.’ Her sentences seemed to run on in a staccato, ‘Are you the manager?’

‘Owner,’ Paul said.

‘You should get the place properly cleaned.’

‘I’d rather do it myself and spend the money on new stock.’

She turned away as he spoke, gathering her thoughts. He was tall, she thought, maybe five-ten, reasonably well-dressed. He had sandy fair hair barely long enough to support the hint of a parting above his left eyebrow, a nice forehead. His eyes? She couldn’t tell whether they were green or brown. So, hazel, perhaps? She ran the index finger of her right hand along the book tops. Even that slight contact had her glove smudged with dust. She knew he was watching her.

With her back to him, Paul studied her. Average height, slim, but after six years of war and eight years of rationing, everyone was slim, the hair scraped back into a girlish ponytail was wavy, naturally so, he guessed. A pretty-enough face…

She turned back to him. ‘What happened to the old man?’

‘Old man?’

‘Mr. Strauss, the man who owned the shop.’

‘I was told one of the sons died early on.’ He didn’t have to spell out what early on referred to. ‘Mr Strauss passed away not long after, from grief maybe, or old age, or something,’ he was vague as to the exact details, ‘and so the shop closed.’ He looked around at the store: yellowed paintwork, dust-covered shelves, glass cabinets almost opaque, the windows so filthy he hadn’t noticed it was raining outside, the musty smell that hung in the air. ‘The surviving son hired a cleaner to keep the place up to scratch, but…’ he looked round, ‘that all ended when Strauss junior went to join his family in Palestine.’

‘So, two years since the son left for the holy land?’

‘Eighteen months.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

Paul shrugged. ‘Apart from selling me the shop, I don’t know. Shooting British squaddies, perhaps?’

She ignored his attempt at humour, looked around. ‘You’re not going to fix eighteen months of neglect with a dry rag. This entire place needs a spring clean.’

‘It’s only February.’

She gave him a cool stare that lasted a moment longer than required. ‘Don’t be pedantic, Paul’ she said.

‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘Spring clean, then.’

She nodded. ‘Have you ordered new stock?’

‘Not yet.’

She pointed at a glass-fronted cabinet full of elderly texts. ‘What about rare books, first editions, signed copies?’

‘Wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Staff?’

‘Me.’ He took a breath, ‘Who are you?’

‘This book shop is too much work for one man.’ She looked around. ‘You need new stock, fiction, non-fiction, kiddies’ books, hobbies…’

‘Hobbies?’

‘Scouting for Boys, Model Shipbuilding, Crocheting, that sort of thing.’

‘Hobbies, then.’

‘But you’re in luck,’ she said. ‘I have a friend in publishing, and he can get us a range of new books, popular books,’ she added, ‘though there is still a shortage of paper, so it will probably be in that horrid pulp with the tiny font.’ She brightened, ‘On sale or return. Plus,’ she ploughed on, ‘I know of a number of old houses that are coming up for demolition, wealthy houses at one time but the bloody government is taxing the old families out of existence. Some of those ancient manors have a lot of rather exclusive old books in their libraries.’

She smiled.

It was a rather nice smile, Paul admitted to himself.

‘There are so many jobs to be done before you open,’ she said, adding, ‘When do you plan to open?’

He shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought of it.’

‘Well you should. Shall we say April first?’

‘It’s February tenth,’ Paul said, ‘We can’t…’

‘That give us plenty of time to get this place fixed up.’

‘We?’ Paul said, then, ‘Who are you again?’

‘We need to write a list of tasks that require doing, then prioritise them, divide them up between us, devise a timetable, then get to work.’ She looked around, went to the office door, peered in.‘Does that gas stove work?’

‘I think there’s some left in the bottle.’

‘We’ll have a cup of tea. Have you got milk?’

‘Tinned.’

This time the smile was more of a grimace. ‘Tea can wait. We’ll need to leave a note for the milkman. I have a friend who works on the docks. He can get us coffee.’

She pulled out a chair from beneath one of the reading tables. From her bag she took out a notebook and pencil, sat down. When she saw Paul wasn’t moving she looked up and gave him that nice smile again. ‘I really am trying to be positive, Paul. This place is in rather a state, but it could be wonderful.’

‘You think it could?’ This time it was his turn to smile, even if a little tentatively.

‘That’s better,’ she said, ‘You have nice teeth. Show them more.’

He pulled out a chair. ‘So,’ he said, sitting down.

‘How does one plan a battle?’

‘Strategy, then tactics.’

‘Before strategy?’

‘Logistics,’ he said, feeling like he was a junior officer again, being tutored by some battle-hardened Colonel.

She nodded. ‘Let’s write a list of what we need, and how we’re going to get it.’ As she spoke she could see he was going to ask the question again. Her face softened, and she relented. ‘My name is Penelope Ward. My full name, if you require it for references, is The Honourable Penelope Elizabeth Charlotte Amesbury-Atherton Ward, and if you are half as intelligent as you are sweet-looking, you are about to hire me as your shop manager. And if you do that, then you can call me Penny.’

Paul thought about this for a moment, then sighed. He knew when to perform a tactical withdrawal. And she was pretty, as well as business-like. And he did need some help with this shop. He looked at her notepad. ‘Right then, Penny,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘Let’s write a list.’

‘Righto, boss,’ she said, and with a brief smile to herself she opened a fresh page and wrote the word Logistics at the top, then underlined it.