As Libby stood, in the quiet of a Sunday morning in the shell of her shop, she thought of Grandad Ernie and how he would read to her. Were there any words as comforting as ‘Once upon a time’, that feeling that new adventure was waiting and you couldn’t dare guess what would happen next?
And just like that the bookshop name that had been alluding her all this time popped into her head and immediately felt perfect.
‘I’ll make you proud of me, Grandad,’ she said to the cavernous space. ‘I’ll make this the place you dreamed of. The place where you could have written that book of children’s stories you always wanted to.’ She felt tears prick in her eyes – she tried to head them off at the pass. She resolved that they were happy tears and that the only thing that mattered now was avoiding any further distractions and keeping the project on the move. She had eight weeks left until the planned opening, and still so very much to do.
Libby allowed herself a little cry, dabbed at her eyes and decided to treat herself to a coffee to bring herself round a bit. As she walked up the street towards Harry’s shop, she found herself hoping he would be working. There was something about Harry that had won her over. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of her grandad, with his broad smile and sense of humour. She also realised she’d come to look forward to finding out what issue would be the subject of his rants each day.
Harry was old-school and, it seemed, indefatigable. He seemed to run his shop single-handedly. There was talk of an assistant who worked part-time, but Libby had yet to meet them. Libby got the feeling that Harry’s life revolved around his work and that if he retired he would find himself at a total loss at not being able to see all the comings and goings on Ivy Lane each day.
She was smiling by the time she reached the shop and found herself cheerily wishing Harry a very good morning as he launched into a rant about the number of supplements and advertising brochures included with the Sunday papers.
‘Lifting these will give me a hernia,’ he said. ‘And most of it’s nonsense that goes right in the recycling bin. There’s few people from round here interested in property pages which only feature ridiculously priced houses in London. A million quid for a two-bed flat? Sure, they call it an apartment to make it sound posh, but a flat is a flat. Imagine what that kind of money could get you here? A palace, that’s what!’
He wasn’t wrong. Property prices in Northern Ireland were incredible, far removed from the stratospheric prices in big cities. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a listing come in at over a million pounds here, and even the most extravagant of homes would generally still get you change from half a million.
‘I’ll stick with my wee shop and my flat.’ Libby laughed, emphasising the word ‘flat’ and Harry laughed.
He laughed loudly and Libby laughed along too.
‘You do right, and, sure, why would you not be happy? This is a great street and a great community.’
‘Do you live on the street yourself?’
Harry laughed. ‘Not quite. Two streets over mind. My Mary said if we lived on Ivy Lane, I might as well set a bed up in the shop and sleep here and she’d never see me at all.’
Libby laughed, mostly because she knew that Harry’s Mary probably wasn’t far wrong. ‘You do love your work, don’t you? Would you never think of retiring? Or slowing down even?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Sure, why would I do that when I’m fit and able to stand behind this counter? And I get to see my friends and neighbours, day in and day out, and hear all the gossip too. I couldn’t stand having nothing to do with myself.’
‘Ah, but you have to look after yourself too, Harry. None of us are getting any younger!’ Libby took care not to imply it was simply that Harry was getting on in years.
‘You’re only as young as you feel,’ Harry said. ‘Anyway, Libby, you’re one to talk. You’ve been in every day since you started work on that place. You’ll end up exhausted yourself! All work and no play, you know?’
‘Harry, it doesn’t feel like work half the time,’ Libby replied softly. ‘And I really do want to open on schedule. Get at least a little of the summer tourist trade if I can.’
He nodded. ‘Well, I wish you well. Between you and Noah Simpson up in the pub, you’ll have this street attracting more and more people. It’ll be good for us all.’
Libby made her coffee and stood at the counter, for once not eager to get back down to the shop. ‘Have you been running this place long, Harry?’
‘A lifetime and then some,’ Harry said. ‘Since 1967, when I wasn’t all that long married and we had our two boys both still in nappies. There were none of them disposable ones either – not in our day. Towelling nappies all the way. Mary used to love the sight of them all hanging, bright white on the line. She would help me out in the shop here sometimes – but her hands were full with those boys of ours. Rascals they were.’ Harry chuckled. ‘But, yes, a lifetime – and I’ll be happy to keep going until they carry me out in a box!’
‘Well, hopefully not for a long time yet,’ Libby said, glancing at the clock on the wall, which told her she really should be getting back to the shop. She wanted to decide once and for all how many power outlets she would need. She might even venture up to the flat, just to see how bad it looked.
‘That’s my plan,’ Harry said, cutting into her thoughts.
The bell over the door rang and another customer walked in. This was the perfect time for Libby to make her excuses and leave.
She said her goodbyes, only to be greeted by one of Harry’s offers that simply could not be refused.
‘Here, before you go – how do you feel about crisps?’
Libby couldn’t say she had strong feelings either way, if the truth be told.
‘It’s just I’ve a few bags here just about out of date,’ Harry continued. ‘Well, maybe, thinking about it, they are actually out of date… but not by much. Why don’t you take a few bags down to that shop of yours? Feed those big workmen walking in and out every day? Keep them sweet and they’ll do an extra good job for you,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose as if he was imparting the wisdom of the world to her.
‘Thanks, Harry,’ she said, smiling as he handed her several multipacks. ‘Have a good day now.’
‘You too, Bookshop Libby,’ he said with his trademark dazzling smile.
Back at the shop, she set to work, planning her comms needs to the final detail. Then she climbed the stairs to the flat, threw open the windows, switched on her digital radio to Magic FM for optimum sing-a-long ability and set to work there. She filled a basin from the temporary tap Billy, the plumber, had fitted with sugar soap and water, put on her rubber gloves and set about scrubbing down the few walls that had not needed stripping back and re-skimming. She was able to lose herself in the repetitive action – get a thrill as she saw the layers of grime lift and a relatively clean surface emerge (one that would still need a healthy dose of a nice neutral colour).
She worked until her arms ached and she was covered in a not-so-fine layer of sweat. She wiped her brow with the back of her arm and decided she might just treat herself to a packet of Harry’s dodgy crisps when she heard a knock on her door – followed by the shout of ‘Hello! Libby, are you in there?’ from a female voice.