He’d reached his hand over to hers and given it a squeeze, while her mother had dabbed at her eyes with a tea towel. They were both still grieving themselves, Libby knew. Grandad Ernie had lived in the Quinn house for thirty of her thirty-four years, her dad intent on making sure his father never wanted for anything, most of all company.
‘I wish we’d done this when he was still here,’ her dad had said, and she’d watched her mother lay a hand on her husband’s shoulder to comfort him.
‘Now, Jim. Come on. We’ve always said things happen when they’re meant to happen. Let’s just focus on how happy the old fart will be, sitting up there watching our Libby chase her dreams!’
Although Linda Quinn had a selection of choice descriptions for her late father-in-law, there was a genuine affection in her voice when she spoke of him.
‘It will be hard work, mind,’ Linda had told her only daughter. ‘You’ll have to get those hands of yours dirty.’
‘Sure, I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty, Mum,’ Libby had quipped. ‘Didn’t I take on that house and get stuck in?’
‘I’ve a feeling, love, this shop of yours will be a bigger job than that house. And I’ll imagine you’ll want to turn it around quicker than you did that house too.’
‘She’ll have me and the boys to help her,’ Jim had said. ‘And I know you can be handy with a mop and bucket too, Linda.’
‘No rest for the wicked,’ her mother had said, rolling her eyes, but Libby had spotted the warmth in her father’s expression when he’d turned to his wife and reminded her: ‘And even less for the good.’
Now, in the shower, however, Libby was starting to panic about just what might lie behind the peeling paint and cracked render of number 15 Ivy Lane.
She took a deep breath. The stars had aligned to get her to this point, she reminded herself. She just hoped they were up for an extra bit of aligning over the next weeks and months.
The property had been bought sight unseen, a bold move, Libby knew. But her dad had walked around the outside of it, tapped the walls, looked up at the exterior with an eye only a builder could have and had told her it had the ‘bones of a good building’.
But, regardless of her dad’s keen builder’s eye, she felt increasingly nervous as the big moment neared. In a little over two hours, she would have the keys to her future in her hands. She would open the door to her big investment and see exactly what she was facing.
Ten years was a long time to lie empty. God knows what leaks and infestations may have set in in that time. She shuddered. The word ‘infestation’ made Libby Quinn sick. If there was one thing in this world guaranteed to reduce her to a quivering wreck, it was little furry creatures scampering across the floor. She wouldn’t even bring herself to say the ‘m’ word.
‘Focus on what you do know,’ Libby reminded herself as she rinsed the shampoo from her shiny chestnut-coloured hair. ‘Accentuate the positive,’ she said aloud. Pest control were only ever a phone call away.
And Jim had called in favours from all his building pals. A spark would be over later to check on the electrics before she dared to switch anything on. Allegedly, the water supply was still live, but if there were issues, a plumber was on call to look at them. He’d be round at some stage to check the pipes anyway. ‘You can’t be too careful with old buildings. Could be lead piping, or asbestos in the walls. A full survey will give us a full picture,’ her dad had said, adding that he wouldn’t be surprised if the damp course was compromised. But she wasn’t to worry, he’d said, on seeing her stricken face. He knew people. He could get mates’ rates.
And she had to remember, she’d got the shop for less than she had been willing to pay. She had more money than she’d originally thought to play about with, but still her budget was by no means unlimited. She’d be doing a lot of the work herself. Getting her hands dirty, just like she’d told her mother. She looked at those hands now, as she towelled off after her shower, the soft pink gel manicure she’d had done just the week before wouldn’t last much longer. She’d be saying goodbye to such fripperies over the coming months.
But, she sighed, no matter what the cost, she was doing this. Libby Quinn was doing it! She was taking an unused, unloved shop on the corner of Ivy Lane and fulfilling not only her dream but that of her grandad. She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t fail.
Libby knew the bag for life at her feet, crammed with cleaning products, would be just as woefully inadequate for the task ahead as a spoonful of Calpol would be to a woman in labour, but still she insisted on bringing it with her. She’d use everything in it, and more – much more – over the coming months, but bringing it with her gave her a sense of making the place her own before she even picked up the keys. Her plan, after all, was to move into the flat upstairs as quickly as possible so that she could work on the refurb morning, noon and night. A teeny, tiny, hopelessly optimistic part of her held on to a glimmer of hope that the flat would be a stylish time capsule of a home, ready to move in to bar the flick of a duster and a quick spray of Zoflora.
‘Are you sure we can’t come with you?’ her dad asked as they sat around the breakfast table. Just like Libby, both Jim and Linda Quinn had been unable to lay on in their beds and had been fizzing with a sense of shared excitement.
‘I need to put on my big-girl knickers and do this myself,’ she told them. Which wasn’t exactly true. Her boyfriend of eight months, Ant O’Neill, was going with her to pick up the keys from her solicitor’s office. An accounts manager for a nationwide banking chain, he exuded an air of calm and professionalism which none of the Quinn family seemed to be in possession of at that moment. He would be able to help her keep her emotions in check and not sob all over the young solicitor who had finalised the paperwork for her. ‘You can meet us there in a bit,’ she said. ‘When I’ve had a moment to adjust. Maybe eleven or so?’
Jim nodded. ‘Of course, pet,’ he said. ‘Your grandad would be very proud, you know,’ he said, his voice cracking, and Libby was forced to wave him away, unable to say anything else for fear of her own floodgates opening.
Thankfully any chance of an emotional breakdown was tempered by the sound of a car pulling up outside and the loud beep of a horn.
‘My chariot awaits,’ Libby said as butterflies danced in her stomach.
‘Before you go,’ her mother replied, ‘we have a little something for you.’
Libby knew by the look on her mother’s face that she was about to endure an emotional ambush and she placed her hand softly on her stomach as if to settle it.
‘It’s just something small, for the shop,’ her mother said, handing over a small paper bag folded over on itself.
Libby carefully unfolded the bag, and shook the contents out into her hand. Through tears, she glanced down at the picture of her and Grandad Ernie encased in a plastic keyring looking back up at her. She was, maybe, eight or nine in the picture and they were both grinning at the camera. Her heart constricted with love and loss.
‘I love it,’ she croaked, just as another loud beep grabbed her attention.
‘You’d better go,’ her dad said as she kissed them both on the cheek.