Scrapbook Page 7

  “Are you sure?” I will say which usually results in a retort along the lines of,

  “Do you think I would wait in a queue for an hour and ten minutes if it was working? I can see it is blinking red from where I am sat!”

  “Look again.” I always say, clicking my fingers and the line always goes quiet at that point.

  “Green now?” I ask and the answer is always yes. I rather do seem to have a talent for this job I must say, and it is so easy! So much easier than wishes!

  Anyway. I must not tarry. I have work to do. Here is a call now!

  “Thank you for calling Maximus Telecom.” I say. “My name is Jinnie. How can I help you Mrs. Winters?”

  I do my usual of course and soon the connection is fixed. So wonderful! Yet habits die hard, and before I finish the call I find I cannot help myself.

  “Tell me Mrs. Winters,” I hear myself say, “If you could have one wish…… what would it be?”

  The BookWorm

  This is such a curious story I felt I had to write it down, because I feel that if I do so it will all begin to make sense of what was somewhat of a rollercoaster ride. So where shall I start? Perhaps I will begin with my name. I am Ruth Hughes, and I am the manager of “Telling Tales”, a book shop in a small village in the county of Cheshire. I promise that all I am about to write down is true, even the parts about squeaking doors and brooms.

  When I was four years old my mother took me to a library. My first impression was that it was a wonderful place! It was so quiet, people walking around, their shoes tap-tapping on the floor, all looking at books and reading. A book to me then, and probably even now, was a thing of wonder, for it could take you to places that you had never seen, or as I was to come to discover over the years, places that do not even exist. I remember equally the very first time that I was taken to an actual book shop for I was horrified to discover that you had to buy books! The very thought of it! Yet my love affair with book shops has never faded over the years. It is something to do with the smell of fresh ink mingled with dust and the clean smell of crisp new paper. It is a magical place for me, and so working in a bookshop as I now do feels like heaven.

  Or at least it should do.

  “I am not selling coffee!” shouted Stevie, her glasses almost dropping to the end of her nose as she ran her eyes up and down the till receipt that was showing the day's takings. It was a depressingly short list of takings for a Saturday I will admit, and she was looking at it with disdain, a frown forming on her face. Myself, Ginnie and George stood around the till, having locked the door to the public at five thirty prompt, leaving just ourselves inside. I am as I said the manager although nobody around here calls me that, though it is what it says on my email signature. Stevie is the owner. The owner that is of, “Telling Tales”, probably the most old fashioned bookstore in Cheshire. and although it seems to be the way of independent bookshops in general we are still probably the most financially challenged too.

  I looked at Ginnie, who was looking at Stevie and frowning too. Ginnie was the early thirties something daughter of one of Stevie’s friends and she was the till operator, merchandiser and everything else in-between. Head cook and bottle washer was the title reserved for myself of course, but we all “mucked in” and most days we found ourselves doing each other's jobs more often than not. Dusting was an especially frequent task these days, as trade was slow. Very slow. I personally however found Ginnie to be more than a little alphabetically challenged, and Stevie had on more than one occasion whispered the word, “Dyslexic” into my ear. She did make a very good cup of tea however.

  George was generally the odd job man about the place, and as far as I know not related to or friends with Stevie in any way at all. He saw himself as the janitor I think, and he was forever replacing light bulbs and wandering around looking handy in the DIY reference books section. He is I would say in his early fifties, though I know he still lives with his mother and is what can only be described as, “socially awkward” though I believe his heart is in the right place and he is after all is said and done very good with a squeaking door hinge.

  I, as I say, am Ruth; divorced, fifty-five and manager of the store that was at present not even taking enough money to cover our wages, such as they were. Yet Stevie was adamant, and always had been. It is one of her less strong points shall we say, and it is that once she has made her mind up she will not be budged. Not in a million years.

  “Nobody even mentioned coffee.” I said, taking the till roll from her and looking at the total at the bottom myself, cringing as I did so.

  “Well it is not going to happen.” she said. “A book shop should not smell of espresso or soup. It should smell of paper and ink; punctuation. That’s all. Nothing else.”

  “Well if it counts for anything I agree.” I said. “Besides. There is a perfectly good coffee shop next door.”

  “They do a nice tuna baguette too.” said Ginnie rather unhelpfully, beaming her usual vague look that would seem to suggest that although the wheel was turning, the hamster was in fact quite dead. Ginnie had been working in the bookshop longer than I had. The previous manager had left at rather short notice as he had suggested a cafe no less to be incorporated into the bookshop, and Stevie was having none of that at all. Difference of catering opinions as it were. So I had sort of inherited Ginnie, and although that was nearly two years ago I still had no idea what her real name was, or even what “Ginnie” was actually short for. I had asked her of course, but she always replied, “Just Ginnie.” and gave me the same smile that she was beaming in my direction right at this moment in time. Vague. Vague but harmless.

  “I don’t understand all the fuss about coffee anyway.” said George wearily, leaning on the brush he had been sweeping the floor with just a few minutes before. “I mean. You wouldn’t see anyone getting all worked up about pies like that would you? Pie flavour this, pie flavour that.”

  “I think you will find that is called, “Greggs”, George.” said Stevie sourly.

  “Ah yes.” said George, colouring a little and starting to brush the floor around his feet in a slightly distracted fashion.

  “Well I don’t know.” said Stevie with a sigh. “But I do know we are not going into the catering business anytime soon. It is books or nothing, and judging by this till receipt it is going to be nothing sooner rather than later. Sales have to pick up. They really do.”

  With that she flounced off into the office and I saw that she was already putting her coat on. As it was Saturday and we had yet to consider whether to venture into the dark troubled waters of Sunday trading or not it was customary for Stevie and I to retire to the pub three doors away for an hour or so after work and discuss the week’s trade, plans for the next seven days and so on. It was very informal - with Stevie everything always was - and it was not in any way expected, but I thought that this week it was going to be gloomier than usual, though trade had been steadily slipping away for at least a year now. This was our worst week so far though by a long measure.

  It was a fact of life of course that the online retailers had eroded the typical bookshop trade to the extent that book selling was now a particularly cut-throat business. Once the supermarkets began to sell cut price paperbacks too, the writing was on the wall for most bookshops, and the independents were apparently closing by the score every week.

  Diversification was the key we knew. Make your bookshop a meeting place. Make it the social hub of the village. Make it a place that people came to meet and perhaps talk about books, and if that was alluded to in the name of the shop then all the better. Yet it also incorporated coffee at the lesser end of the scale, and soup at the other end. Probably cakes, buns and sandwiches in between, and Stevie would hear none of it.

  I was quite glad to hear this as I was not completely enamoured with the idea of combining catering and bookselling either. I am rather a traditionalist I think, but market forces seemed to be weighing heavily against us.

  “There will be
nothing for it soon.” said Stevie, putting her coat on the back of her chair in the pub as Charlie Horse, licensee of The Bucket and Shovel pub in which we were sat approached the table and placed our two glasses of wine upon it.

  “There we are ladies.” he said politely. Not every customer got this treatment we knew, for sometimes Charlie Horse could be quite an irascible character. However, he saw us as “fellow traders” he had said once, and when we had once involved him in conversation with regards to catering we had been surprised to find that he was very much in agreement with our line of thinking as well. “Nothing fancy food wise in my pub here.” he had smiled, “Peanuts and crisps. Little bags of cheese and crackers. Pickled eggs.” I had turned my nose up at the mention of the eggs and Charlie had smiled.

  “I know what you mean about the eggs.” he whispered in an almost conspiratorial fashion. “I don’t care much for them myself either. Still. They are pickled in vinegar.” We must have both given him a blank stare then as he smiled and leaned in close. “Makes people thirsty.” he laughed, tapping his nose and then returning back to the bar.

  “Nothing for it soon?” I enquired, sipping my wine. It was cold and sharp and just what the doctor ordered.

  “Well unless takings increase we certainly cannot buy any more stock. We are on hold with three of the wholesalers as it is. No more credit means no more deliveries or special orders. Unless things pick up I will have to start letting people go.”

  “I see.” I said. I realised then that things must be particularly desperate. Stevie had never mentioned or even alluded to this before as our sales had continued to shrink and shrink even more over the last year.

  “Sorry Ruth.” she smiled, touching my arm briefly. “I cannot afford to sink any more money into the business. I have a second mortgage on the house as it is. Now I am on my own it is just my income I have to live on.”

  “I know.” I said. “I cannot think what we can do to turn things around.”

  “Well as long as it does not involve coffee I am open to any idea.” she said, and so we carried on sipping our wine and trying to think of something radical that would make the business more viable. Sadly, we could not think of anything.

  The weekend came and went and on Monday morning we carried on as usual. Monday was always a busy day as we had to change the charts and unpack and put on the shelves the new releases. This week however was different, and it brought home to me just how desperate the situation was, for this week no new releases arrived at all. A quick call to Stevie confirmed my worst fears. The wholesalers would not extend us any more credit and so we would not be receiving any new stock until our account was back in the black again. No more new releases then.

  “I am sorry, Ruth.” said Stevie down the phone. It was ten o’clock in the morning and we rarely saw her before noon. A morning person she most definitely was not. “But I cannot throw any more money at it until we start selling things. The shop has over thirty thousand pounds’ worth of stock in it. We need to turn some of that into money first.”

  “That much?” I asked, surprised it was that much of an amount.

  “That much in moneys owed anyway.” sighed Stevie, “Like most things, book values depreciate.”

  “I see.” I said and returned to where the charts were currently showing blank spaces for six of the top twenty paperbacks, and eight spaces for hardbacks. I decided to take a radical approach, and enlisted Ginnie to help me. It was not as if she was busy doing anything of course, for we had yet to actually have a customer.

  “Ginnie.” I said, “We are not having charts any more. We shall have a new and recommended section instead. Take the numbers down and fill the gaps with what we sell best. I think that will work better.”

  “I see.” said Ginnie, “Well I will try a few “Harry Potters” and Tom Clancy’s. Always worth a go.”

  “Great.” I said, glad that she seemed to get the idea.

  “Feet up ladies.” said George, gliding past with his brush. It was time for the ten o’clock sweep and we all stood aside as he went past. The fact that nobody had stepped across the doorstep other than us seemed not to dissuade him from his routine at all, and he swung past, brushing furiously as he went.

  We carried on hiding the charts and soon it was just before lunchtime. We always took our lunch breaks in turns so that the shop did not have to close. I was looking after the floor when the first of our regulars arrived.

  “Morning Sally.” I said as the old lady pulled her shopping trolley into the shop behind her, squinting through her milk bottle NHS glasses as she came into the shop. Personally I was convinced that she only came in for a warm. She arrived every day and as far as I knew in the last year had never ever actually bought anything at all, and I would know for she always came in at precisely the same time and I was at that time manning the till.

  “Morning.” she said. “Just browsing.”

  She always said this, and as per usual I left her to it as she left her trolley by the front door and disappeared up the aisle where we kept the detective books, from where I heard the sound of books being opened and removed from the shelf before being replaced again.

  A few hours later our second regular of the day arrived. I always found it curious that people could visit a bookstore every day, hence my theory about Sally just coming in for a warm, but Joe the window cleaner was hardly geriatric. In fact, he was I would say early thirties, and Ginnie always had a shortened lunch hour just so that she could “bump into” him as she returned to the sales floor. Joe wasn’t as reluctant to buy anything as Sally, a few John Grisham’s and Peter James’s being purchased by him every now and again. Whether he actually came in to see Ginnie I really do not know. It was possible, I suppose but I never really noticed, for as soon as Ginnie returned from her lunch I went on mine.

  Once mine was done it was George’s turn, though he did usually seem to struggle with the thought of leaving us all alone despite the fact that he was only in the back room anyway. George was definitely a mother hen, and he spent most of his time making sure we were okay, and of course that the floor was extravagantly brushed on an extremely regular basis.

  At four o’clock Chris came in. Chris was still at school, and his purchases were definitely limited by the funds he had available to him, for he was still in school uniform and had yet to even take his “O” levels. I think he was about thirteen, possibly fourteen. He was a big science fiction and fantasy fan though, and he usually bought something at least once a week. He did not come in every day. In fact, his visits did appear to be quite random, and never of a weekend. I suspected he lived nearby, for his school uniform was that of a school a good twenty-minute bus ride away, and I suspect he came in during the week on his way home from school.

  George and Chris did not get on at all, sadly. George eyed the youngster up with distrust for no good reason that I could easily discern, but Chris did not help himself by constantly rubbing up George the wrong way. Some days I swear it was the only reason he came into the store at all. Of course I also knew better. Chris was a reader. I knew the look almost on sight. Working in the book trade does that to you. I could spot a reader a mile off.

  “Door hinges are squeaking again George.” he said aloud today as he came in, the brass bell ringing over the door as he did so.

  “They most certainly are not.” said George, frowning and taking hold of the door, swinging it backwards and forwards as he did so, the bell over it filling the shop with the noise on every swing. Even Stevie peered around the door from the office, eyebrows raised in a silent question. “I oiled them myself just this morning. Not a peep out of those hinges. As silent as the grave they are.”

  “Well I can hear them.” said Chris, grinning from ear to ear as he disappeared behind the shelves of the fantasy section. “Squeak squeak.” he mimed from within the shop and I could not help but smile as I saw George flapping the door wildly backwards and forwards, ear bent to the hinges. It sounded like church bell practice an
d I caught George’s eye and sent him a silent “Stop doing that. Right Now.” look that sent him scurrying away from the door and contemplating his four fifteen sweep.

  Our last regular of the day was Alf, who always rolled off the bus across the road and into the shop at approximately five o’clock. Alf always dressed as if he was some sort of manual labourer, but none of us had ever got round to asking him exactly what it was that he did for a living as he was always in such a rush. He did not come in every night, but we were sure to see him several times a week, though never at the weekend.

  Alf was a good customer though, even though he did drive us to distraction with his constant questions.

  “The first James Bond novel written after Fleming’s death.” he said. “Never been a film.”

  “Colonel Sun.” I smiled. You did not get to work in books for nearly thirty years as I had done without knowing something about everything. “Kingsley Amis.” I smiled, “Not one of the best for either Mister Fleming or Mister Amis I think, but a curiosity nevertheless. I think we have a copy here somewhere.”

  “I’ll take it.” said Alf, “And I think I saw a biography somewhere of Roger Moore. I will take that too if you can find it.”

  It was not always James Bond with Alf of course, but it did seem to loom rather large in his literary musings. Luckily I found both. I wrapped the books and bagged them. We were an old fashioned bookshop after all, and I took great pleasure when I was manning the till in wrapping the books, though all of the staff did this as well of course. Tissue paper we used, as if the books were delicate or made of fine china. I loved the idea of wrapping books up and felt it all added to the atmosphere of what we were trying to do in the shop; the atmosphere that we were trying to create as it were. Alf however was always in a rush so I wrapped and bagged them quickly and he was off once again, rushing back onto the street mere minutes after he had arrived.