‘Grand,’ Noah said, walking in and taking a good look around the shop. ‘It’s really coming on, Libby. It’s looking good.’
She laughed. ‘Really? Do you not think it looks like a giant mess? Good is not a word I would use.’
Noah shook his head. ‘Really? Because I see all the nuts and bolts going in. That exposed brickwork, is that where the coffee bar will be?’
She nodded.
‘Thought so. Keith’s shelves on that far wall? And here, look at this flooring. It’s amazing. You’ve saved yourself a clean fortune there. This is the tough bit. Before you know it, it will all be coming together. When are you getting your comms fitted?’
‘They’ve said two weeks to get it all planned and arranged with the phone company for it go live.’
‘That’s good,’ Noah nodded. ‘So I assume a lot of the heavy work will be done around then?’
‘Well, that’s the plan,’ she said. ‘If we can get the construction side sorted, on the inside at least. But the damp course will need time to dry out, and the front of the shop needs re-rendering. And that’s without even mentioning the flat upstairs. At the moment, it’s a shell with an old sink and little else.’
‘You’ll get there,’ he said, gently. ‘Have faith. I’ve seen more done in less time. You’ve made a great start. I heard a couple of people chatting about it in the pub last night. Asking me did I know what was happening over here. I’d get your sign up as soon as you can, if I were you.’
He had a point. Even if it would take weeks to get all her promotional materials printed up, the sooner she had a sign up outside, people would know what she was at.
‘I have a name for it,’ she said, realising she’d not run it past anyone yet. Not Jess or Ant, or even her parents. It was as if she was almost afraid to say it out loud for some reason. ‘Do you want to know what it is?’
‘Of course I do!’ Noah said, and there was genuine interest in his voice.
‘Once Upon A Book,’ she told him, blushing to her roots for a reason she didn’t quite know.
‘Well, I think that’s just perfect.’
‘My grandad, well his favourite stories were those that began with a good old once upon a time, so…’
‘Well, then it’s doubly perfect,’ Noah said.
Libby felt herself colour at the genuine approval in his voice.
‘Now, don’t forget, if there’s anything we can do to help, you have to just shout. And we mean that.’
‘That’s so kind,’ Libby replied. ‘You’ve all done so much for me.’
‘Ah, we’re all just really nosy, has no one warned you?’ Noah teased. ‘It’s not really about you at all. It’s about everyone wanting to know everyone’s business.’
‘Oh, that’s great to know because I’m fond of a bit of nosiness myself.’ Libby laughed.
‘But, seriously,’ Noah replied, ‘there’s a little bit of magic or something here on Ivy Lane. This might sound really flaky, but Harry once told me he thinks the street attracts people who need it most of all. We’ve all got our stories. We all benefit from being there for each other – helping each other. We are all healing from something, you know? I know that sounds really cheesy, but I believe him. This place has always felt special to me. Even as a child when I visited my grandparents. Did I tell you they ran the bakery here for years? Granny had a reputation for slipping an extra loaf, or a few scones, in the bags of people who looked like they needed a little help. Being decent to people never hurts anyone. Now, I’m hardly likely to slip extra pints to people, but I will help this community in whatever way I can and I know everyone else who lives here or works here thinks the same way. Maybe that’s a bit old-fashioned in these modern times, but I just think we should help each other out a bit more.’
He spoke with such sincerity that Libby couldn’t help but be moved. And she couldn’t help but feel that Harry was right and that Ivy Lane would help heal her own emotional pain over the loss of her grandad. To her embarrassment, she felt the tears she had probably been holding in all week prick at her eyes and she was powerless to stop them falling.
‘I didn’t mean to make you cry!’ Noah said, a little panicked. There was something in the timbre of his voice that seemed to register with Terry and Gerry, who stopped their work and looked at her, and then at each other, trying to figure out what to do next.
‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ Noah said, nodding to the door. ‘We’ll go for a short walk. I’m sure Paddy will forgive me just this once for cheating on him.’
Libby smiled through her tears. ‘Thanks,’ she said.
‘It’s all part of the service,’ he replied.
As they walked, Libby was able to compose herself. ‘I’m mortified,’ she told him. ‘Crying all over you. It’s been a tough week, and then just all that talk about your grandparents, and even saying the shop name out loud made me think of my grandad again.’
‘He was very special to you,’ Noah said, and it wasn’t a question.
‘He was everything,’ she replied.
18
Heidi
Grandad was always there. Always. Libby couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t in her life. Her earliest memories were of sitting on his knee, him with his pipe in his hand – the wiry strands of tobacco peeping out of the bowl, in the same way his nose hair peeped out of his nostrils. Both were kind of disgusting, she could admit in hindsight, but at the time, there was a comfort in the messiness of him. The way, no matter how much Brylcreem he slicked into his increasingly greying hair, there were a few strands that always stuck out at right angles just above his left ear. The way the brown chunky-knit cardigan had been repaired at the elbows – patched and stitched together. How, while he shaved every morning, by the time he sat on her bed at night to tell her a bedtime story, his face would be scratchy with salt-and-pepper sprinkles of bristly stubble. The smell of Old Spice and tobacco smoke. It was strange, cigarette smoke made her nauseous but tobacco smoked through a pipe had a headier quality – a depth that made her feel calm. Like she was sat on her grandad’s knee in his favourite armchair while he read her a story and she rested her cheek on that tatty brown cardigan.
They lost hours, days, in so many different stories. Stories told with happy voices, and scary voices, deep voices and funny princess voices. Stories that made her laugh until her tummy hurt and stories that made her cry until the only thing that would make it better was a glass of milk and a biscuit from the jar on the worktop – the glass jar which was strictly off-limits at all other times to little hands.
There were stories that she felt so keenly that she knew, even as a child, that the characters she heard of became a part of her life. They’d become the imaginary friends she would turn to again and again over the years. And, at the centre of it all, there was this bear of a man who brought those stories to life.
If she was lucky, really lucky, he would tell her one of his own tall tales. Stories from his own childhood, adapted, changed, sprinkled with magic. A speaking dog here, a friendly alien there – stories which held her rapt. Stories she told him he should write down.