I wouldn’t make friends with Grace. I wouldn’t even talk to Mum properly, but I did mind the shop for her on Saturday morning while she went to Tesco. For a long time we had no customers whatsoever. I roamed round and round the shelves, picking up odd volumes here and there, sifting one pile of books and shunting others into corners.
Dad had always had his own idiosyncratic display system. He divided his stock into categories – fiction, biography, art, general paperbacks, juvenile, etc. – but his cheap shelving wasn’t flexible, so large art books and children’s picture books were over on the big shelves near his desk and little Everymans were crammed willy-nilly into odd corners. For years now newly-bought stock had simply been stuffed wherever he could find a space.
There was a special locking cabinet of supposedly precious books but he’d lost the key long ago and so he’d had to jemmy the door open. We were supposed to sit at the desk in front of the cabinet, on guard, but this was pointless. No serious collector wanted Dad’s precious books. There were a couple of illustrated Rackhams but some of the colour plates were missing; then there were several sets of Dickens and the Brontës, but very faded and foxed; there were various first edition modern novels but mostly without their dust wrappers. All our books were as faded and out of fashion as our family. No wonder we had fewer and fewer customers.
I dealt with one old lady looking for a book she’d loved as a little girl, and a middle-aged man came in looking for Rupert annuals. Then a whole hour went by with no one. I flicked through an old water-stained book of favourite artists through the ages. I wanted to find someone who painted Rax-style men but didn’t have much luck. He was long and lean and soulful like an El Greco, but the men were too effeminate and pop-eyed. He was pale with a pointy beard like a Veronese or a Titian, but their men were too square-shouldered and muscular. He was dark and pensive like Picasso’s Blue Period men, but they were too angst-ridden and melancholy. I flicked through the book to the end and then started sketching my own Rax on the back page. I knew every feature so well it was as if he was posing in front of me. I was lovingly shading in the hollow under his cheekbones and highlighting the sweet curve of his mouth when the shop bell rang. I looked up, wondering if I could possibly have conjured him up out of sheer longing.
It was Toby.
I slammed the book shut. ‘Not you again!’
‘That’s not very welcoming,’ said Toby. He came over to the desk and touched the art book. ‘Let’s see.’
‘No,’ I said, hands tight over the edge of the pages so he couldn’t open it.
‘You’re not supposed to draw in books,’ said Toby.
‘It’s not worth anything, and it’s my book anyway,’ I said, shoving it under the desk. ‘Just go away, Toby. I don’t want to see you.’
‘I’m a customer,’ he said, pretending to look at the books.
‘Yeah, a customer who can’t read,’ I muttered, but not loud enough for him to hear.
‘Seriously, I want to buy a book. I’m really getting into reading now. What would you recommend?’
‘Oh Toby, you’ve got us both into enough trouble with your wretched reading.’
‘I’m sorry about Rita and the other girls. I thought they’d have stopped giving you a hard time by now.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I don’t know what I ever saw in her. She came round to my house last night and said she was prepared to take me back.’
‘Well then!’
‘But I said I wasn’t interested.’
‘Then she’ll really have it in for me on Monday morning.’
‘We could have fun together, you and me, Prue. Just as friends, like. I could help you out in the shop, clear up all this stuff on the floor. You just tell me where you want all these boxes to go, I’ll shift them for you.’ He seized one as he spoke, lifting it a little too recklessly. The soft cardboard sagged and twenty-odd volumes fell out all over the dusty floor.
‘Whoops!’ he said.
‘Careful! Honestly, Toby, will you leave them alone.’
‘Hey, look at these!’
Toby was looking through the old volumes of Victorian pornography, his mouth an O of astonishment as he pored over the colour plates of the Reverend Knightly and his cavorting congregation.
‘Where did you get these dirty books?’ he said.
‘They’re not “dirty” books. It’s Victorian erotica,’ I said haughtily, though I couldn’t help blushing.
‘Fancy your dad selling porn!’
‘It’s not. All sorts of highly respectable people collect it.’
‘Yeah, and you and I know why. You’re such a weird girl, Prue. Here’s you looking at hot stuff like this as cool as a cucumber, and yet you get all fussed when I simply try to kiss you.’
I wondered what he’d think if he saw the way I kissed Rax. It all seemed so sad. There was Rita wanting Toby and Toby wanting me and me wanting Rax – but Rax wanted me back. He did want me, I knew he did. Though why had he seemed so unhappy last night, in spite of everything?
‘Prue?’ said Toby.
‘What?’
‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve got a pain.’
‘No. No, I’m fine. I just want to be on my own for a bit, Toby. You go now. Look, take one of the naughty vicar books. If anything will encourage you to read, he will. And if it gets too much of a struggle you can always look at the pictures.’
‘Are you sure? I’ll buy it. How much is it?’
‘I haven’t a clue. It isn’t priced. Just take it.’
‘Well, I’ll just borrow it if you don’t mind. Can I have a bag or something? I don’t want my mum or my sisters to see it!’
Mum and Grace came into the shop while Toby was leaving. Mum looked disappointed.
‘Can’t you stay a bit, lad? We’re just going to have a cup of tea and some shortbread. And if you can wait half an hour or so, I’m making a batch of rock cakes to take to the hospital this afternoon.’
‘Do stay, Toby,’ said Grace. ‘Mum’s rock cakes taste so yummy when they’re hot out of the oven.’
So Toby stayed, holding his book bag very gingerly, as if it was burning his hands.
‘What have you got there, then, Toby?’ Mum asked.
Toby went scarlet. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said foolishly.
‘Nothing?’ said Mum. ‘It’s one of our books, isn’t it? What have you been buying?’
I waited to see what he’d say. He seemed at a total loss for words.
‘Toby’s a bit embarrassed about it,’ I said, teasing him.
Toby looked agonized.
‘It’s actually an old Rupert annual. He used to love them when he was little, but he feels silly wanting a kid’s comic book.’
‘Oh, sweet,’ said Grace. ‘I always loved Rupert, Toby. Hey, my friend Figgy told me this great joke. What’s Rupert’s middle name? Can’t you guess? It’s “The”. You know, Rupert the Bear.’ She went into peals of laughter.
Toby laughed too, relieved. He was very kind to Grace, chuckling at joke after stupid joke. He was very polite to Mum, chomping up the last of her shortcake and then eating three rock cakes, rolling his eyes and kissing his fingers in a pantomime of appreciation.
I was grateful to him but irritated too. My sister’s silly jokes were excruciating. My mum had simply made a batch of boring old rock cakes, for goodness’ sake.
‘I wish my mum made cakes,’ said Toby.
‘Rock cakes are very simple, lad. I’ll write you out the recipe. Your mum could whip you up a batch in a jiffy.’
‘My mum isn’t a whipper-upper. She’s a shove-it-in-the-microwave lady,’ said Toby. He nodded at Grace and me. ‘You’re so lucky! It must be wonderful to have real home baking.’
‘We are lucky,’ said Grace, giving Mum a hug.
I felt such a pang. Why couldn’t I be nice like them? Why did I always have to be so prickly and grudging and difficult?
Oh God, did I take after Dad?
‘Tell you what, you ought to sell your shortbread and rock cakes in the bookshop,’ said Toby. ‘Yes, serve coffee and home-made cakes. They do that in bookshops now – the one down the shopping centre’s got a coffee shop; it would be very popular with your customers.’
‘What customers?’ I said.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mum. ‘Prue’s right. We really don’t seem to get many customers nowadays.’
‘You want to advertise your books on the Internet. That’s how everyone does business nowadays,’ said Toby. ‘I could help you set it all up. I can’t really type it all out for you, I’d get the words mixed up, but Prue could do that.’
‘But we haven’t got a computer, Toby. They cost hundreds of pounds.’
‘No probs! My eldest sister’s going out with a guy who works in this fancy office and they’re forever upgrading their equipment and chucking the old stuff out. He could get hold of a perfectly good PC for you for next to nothing. Then you could surf the Net, look at e-bay, see what sort of book bargains people were offering. I bet it would make all the difference to your business.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Mum said, leaning forward eagerly.
‘I know so,’ said Toby, swaggering a little. ‘That’s how most businesses are run now. You can trade on the Internet and send the books off by post. Grace could package them all up for you, couldn’t you, Grace?’
‘Ooh yes, I could do. I’m good at doing parcels. And I love bubble wrap, it’s such fun to pop,’ said Grace.
‘That way you’d attract a new type of customer. Then if we also tidied up the shop a bit, gave it a lick of paint, advertised your coffee and cakes, it would appeal to your traditional book buyer too.’
They were staring at him as if he was a second Moses and he had Ten Business Commandments straight from God. They were good ideas too. This boy who could barely read had far better ideas than I’d ever had.
‘Toby’s right, Mum,’ I said.
Toby flicked his hair out of his eyes and gave me a huge, dazzling grin. Grace sighed. Mum sighed too.
‘I know Toby’s got some very good ideas,’ she said. ‘But what would your dad say? You know what he thinks about computers. He’d never agree to have one in the shop. I’m sure he wouldn’t like the coffee and cake idea either. He’d think I was trying to turn the shop into a café.’
‘You could do it while Dad’s still in hospital,’ I said.
‘Oh Prue, I wouldn’t dare,’ said Mum. She paused. ‘Would I?’
She went on about it after Toby went off, clutching his Victorian volume in his carrier bag. She talked about it on the bus all the way to the hospital.
‘Perhaps now he’ll see we have to change with the times,’ she muttered. ‘We could try out this computer idea, especially if we got it for almost nothing. And I could maybe ask one or two customers if they’d fancy a cup of coffee. I could try it out for free first, to see if they liked the idea. What would be the harm in that?’
‘That’s it. Mum, you tell Dad,’ I said.
But when we got to the stroke unit Dad had something to tell us.
He wasn’t in bed as usual. He wasn’t even in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He was sitting bolt upright on one of the plastic chairs, dressed in his old suit, the one he’d been wearing when he’d had his stroke. He even had his tie neatly knotted. He clutched a notebook on his lap.
‘Oh Bernard, you look wonderful, dear! Quite your old self!’ said Mum.
‘You look ever so smart, Dad,’ said Grace.
‘Hello, Dad. You really do look great,’ I said.
He nodded at us all, taking his time, like a king on his throne waiting for his unruly courtiers to settle down. Mum wedged herself into another plastic chair and Grace and I perched uncomfortably on the end of the bed.
Dad cleared his throat. We sat expectantly. He raised the notebook lopsidedly, his good hand doing most of the work. He fumbled with the pages, trying to get it open at the beginning. Mum leaped up to help but he glared at her furiously, so she subsided again. Dad fiddled with the flimsy paper. I saw my own careful printing. It was my truncated version of his Magnum Opus! It hadn’t got lost at all.
Dad cleared his throat once more. ‘I – Bernard King – think – think – think – my – home-town – of – Kingtown – reflects – the – moral – degeneracy – of – our – current – unstable – and – unsatisfactory – age.’
He said it very slowly, without expression, struggling at each word, his mouth working as if he was chewing toffee, his eyebrows going up and down with the effort. But he said it, the entire sentence.
‘Bravo!’ said Mum, clapping him, tears pouring down her cheeks.
‘Brill, Dad! Like, wow!’ said Grace.
Dad winced at each word but for once let it ride. He looked at me triumphantly.
‘I thought you’d thrown it away, Dad!’ I said.
‘Aha!’ said Dad.
‘You seemed totally fed up with the whole idea of reading aloud,’ I said.
‘With – you,’ said Dad.
‘So you’ve been secretly practising all by yourself?’
Nurse Ray put her head round the door. ‘I should say so! He’s been at it night and day for weeks, head in that book, mutter mutter mutter. I offered to help him but he wouldn’t be having it. Wanted to teach himself, bless him.’
Dad huffed, irritated by her tone.
‘Ooh, don’t get shirty with me now, Bernard,’ Nurse Ray said. ‘You know you love me really, don’t you, darling?’
Dad rocked backwards and forwards at her presumption, and she laughed at him.
‘Have you told them your good news?’ said Nurse Ray.
‘Good news,’ Dad agreed.
‘It’s splendid news, Bernard, seeing you reading your own book!’ said Mum. ‘Can you manage a bit more?’
Dad shook his head. ‘Good news – going home!’
‘Yes, dear, you carry on making progress like this and you’ll soon be better and able to come home,’ said Mum.
Dad tutted at her. ‘Going home now,’ he said. ‘Today. Now!’
‘Well, not just yet, dear. When the doctors say so,’ Mum said, flustered.
Nurse Ray was nodding at her. ‘He’s right! That’s why we’ve got him all dressed up a treat in his suit. Dear God, I had to tie that tie for him three times and he still wasn’t satisfied. Like I said, Bernard, you need a nice comfy sweatshirt and a pair of trackie bottoms, then you can whip them on and off in seconds.’
Dad said a very rude word to show what he thought of sweatshirts and trackies.
‘He can come home right this minute?’ said Mum.
‘Now!’ Dad said impatiently.
‘We had a case conference yesterday and we all agreed that Bernard’s more than ready to leave us,’ said Nurse Ray. ‘He’s made that perfectly clear!’
‘But he can’t walk!’ said Mum.
‘He can stand, and shuffle a few paces with his Zimmer if he puts his mind to it. We’re willing to arrange some out-patient physiotherapy – if His Lordship co-operates!’
Dad shook his head at this.
‘But how will he get about?’ Mum said weakly.
‘We’ll let you borrow a wheelchair from the unit, and if you get in touch with this phone number here someone will come out and assess the sort of chair Bernard will need for the future. They’ll install hand supports in the bathroom and give you a commode if necessary.’
‘Not!’ said Dad. ‘Right. Home. Now.’
He looked at us. His eyes swivelled from Mum to Grace to me. He breathed more quickly, his mouth working. ‘Not want me?’ he said.
‘Oh Bernard, of course we want you back! It’s just such a shock. But it’s lovely, a lovely surprise,’ Mum burbled.
Grace and I were still so stunned we couldn’t say a word.
‘I’ve got Bernard’s bag all packed, and he’s got all the medication he needs for the next few weeks. Make sure he takes his Warfarin.’
‘Rat poison!’ said Dad.
‘Yes, but you’re not a rat, darling, and it’s thinning your blood nicely so you don’t have another stroke,’ said Nurse Ray, putting her arm round him. ‘I shall miss your grumpy little ways, Sugar Lump!’ She gave him a big kiss on his whiskery cheek.
Dad huffed again, but he patted her with his good hand.
Then we had to get him home.
‘Will the ambulance men come and collect us?’ said Mum.
‘No dear, we can’t spare an ambulance. Can’t you take him in your car?’
‘We haven’t got a car,’ said Mum. ‘We can’t take my husband on the bus!’
We had to call a minicab and manoeuvre Dad into the front, Mum and me heaving him onto the seat and tucking his legs in, while he snapped at us impatiently. Then Mum squeezed into the back seat, Grace and me squashed in beside her, with the wheelchair collapsed in the boot.
It cost £11.50 to get home. Mum could only just scrape up enough money from her purse, and the cab driver had to do without a tip.
We sat Dad in the wheelchair and then struggled to get him up the step and into the shop. Dad snuffled up the stale smell of book as if the room was full of roses.
‘Home now,’ he said.
