Chapter Twenty-Five
Also in The Little Book Café Series
An early morning sea fret stole around Amy’s feet as she struggled to fit the key into the lock of the enormous double doors of the book café. Really ought to squirt some WD-40 in it, she thought, just as it unexpectedly gave way and she fell in. Switching on the outside lights, Amy peered out into the swirling mist which shrouded Berecombe harbour and hid it from view. It was cold this morning and a shiver ran down her spine. Glancing down, she dropped her bags in shock. The pumpkins, which she had spent ages carving and had arranged carefully on the outside step last night, had been destroyed! Getting closer for a better look, she saw that all three pumpkins, which she had whimsically named Mummy, Daddy and Baby Pumpkin had been stamped on. Whoever had done it hadn’t even wanted to steal the things; they’d just mindlessly flattened them and made an unholy mess in front of the bookshop.
Amy stared horrified. She had spent most of the weekend taking out the pumpkin innards and carving comical faces into them. It was still only the beginning of October but she had great plans for the shop at Hallowe’en. Getting the pumpkins ready had been hard work, but fun – and it had filled yet another empty weekend. If this is what some Berecombe residents thought of her efforts, she may as well not bother. Tears prickling, she returned to the shop, stowed away her things and went to find a dustpan and brush.
Just as she was putting the pumpkin filled bags into the commercial bins at the side of the building, she heard someone open the shop door. The bell jangled; its sound cutting through the still damp air, and her heart lifted. It was far too early to be a customer, and besides, she hadn’t turned the closed sign over yet. It must be Patrick. He often popped in for a chat and an early morning coffee. Hurrying round to the shop front, her heart sank back to it accustomed position when, instead of Patrick’s shock of unruly black hair and his dimpled grin, she saw the figure of her mother.
Katrina Chilcombe was holding the shop door sign between her finger and thumb, as if its very touch would infect her. ‘“Sorry, we’ve closed the book for today,”’ she read. ‘“Please come back tomorrow for more wise words.”’ Looking up, she saw her daughter. ‘Oh there you are, Amy.’ Her lips curled. ‘Wouldn’t a simple “closed” sign do?’ Before Amy could stop her, she turned it over and read, with derision, ‘“Come in for a lovely read, comfortable sofas, fantastic coffee and yummy cakes.” Oh really, Amy? It’s hardly professional.’
‘But friendly,’ Amy wanted to say. ‘And sets the tone for how I want The Little Book Café to feel,’ but she didn’t. As usual, when her mother belittled her, she remained silent. Looking down, she scuffed her shoes in a smear of pumpkin that she’d missed. It was turning into a hell of a Monday morning.
‘And where have you been? The place is like the Mary Celeste.’ Katrina sniffed. ‘You really shouldn’t leave the place unlocked like that. Anyone could walk in.’ She swept past, leaving Amy to follow, stuttering out an explanation about what had greeted her when she’d unlocked.
Katrina turned around, her camel coat swirling around her diminutive figure in the dramatic fashion she’d hoped. ‘Well, I told you this was a no-hoper. It’s all very well having a business down at this end of town in the summer, but in the winter the harbour is practically deserted. It’s not safe at all. Has the heating been switched on?’ she added as she pulled her coat collar up to her neck. ‘It’s very chilly in here.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to put it on yet.’
Katrina looked around at the stuffed bookshelves, with their tempting selection, at the table that displayed enticing bestsellers, at the vividly-coloured children’s section with its balloons and posters, at the spiral staircase leading up to the cosy reading space, and dismissed it all with a sniff. ‘Oh I hate this time of year. So dreary.’
Amy couldn’t agree. She loved the dark evenings and the cold crisp days. She loved piling on figure-concealing woolly layers and snuggling by a fire with a good book.
‘Of course, your father and I had plans to spend the winters somewhere warm when we got older. I always liked the idea of Cyprus. English enough but with weather.’ She said the last word with relish. ‘And then your father went and ran out on us and—’ Katrina’s lips compressed and her cashmere covered shoulders began to shake.
Amy went to her mother and hugged her fiercely. She may be infuriating and occasionally a bully, but she had never really recovered from the divorce. When Tony Chilcombe had left them to set up home with the lissom – and very young – Jasmine, Katrina had been left with a substantially reduced lifestyle and had returned to her hometown and a poky two-bed bungalow.
The decree absolute coincided with Amy beginning university and, once she had graduated, she’d joined her mother, a woman who had never really coped on her own. Amy had commuted to jobs in bookshops in Exeter for a while but the travelling had got too much, so when Millie Henville, owner of the newly-opened Little Book Café had offered her the job of managing the shop, she’d jumped at it.
‘Oh Mum. Ssh. You’ve got to move on.’ Amy said the first thing that came to her and patted her mother’s back. ‘It’s been nearly ten years.’
‘Move on?’ Katrina shoved her daughter away with surprising force. ‘What, like your father has, I suppose?’
