Page 7 of The Battle of the Bookshops
But Flo needed her now, she told herself briskly. And Jules hadbeen neglecting her long enough. Did she secretly wish her mother would step up a little better? Maybe... but it was hardly Flo’s fault her mother was so useless.
“Well, I, for one, think you staying for a few more days sounds very sensible,” Maggie said, looking more cheerful than she had all morning. “You can move in here until Aunt Flo is back on her feet and then go back to London and pick up where you left off. The hours you put in... they owe you some time off.”
Jules was pretty sure “they” wouldn’t see it that way. “It’s only for a couple of weeks max,” she warned, before her mother got carried away. She decided not to ruin the mood by pointing out her mother was going to have to step back into the breach when she left. It was just nice for her and Mum to agree on something for a change.
Flo, the cause of all this unspoken haggling, looked from one woman to the other, frowning. “Well, I don’t know... I can’t say I’m not grateful...” Then she conceded with a reluctant nod. “Thank you, darling,” she said, grabbing Jules’s hand and giving it a grateful squeeze. “Just two weeks, mind? We’ll have fun!”
It had taken literally years to break into publishing. She would never admit it to Flo—it would just upset her—but Jules feared she would never get another chance if she blew it with her current job. Because it wasn’t just losingthatjob; it was the impact of losing her foothold within the whole teetering, often toxic edifice of publishing in London. Even though a tiny voice in her head had been growing ever louder just recently, making her wonder if she still really wanted to achieve that life goal. Because if not that, then what?
In the end, she was brief and to the point: She hoped her boss would understand, but family pressures required her to spend the next couple of weeks in Portneath. She was very sorry for the inconvenience, but she was owed the leave. Perhaps she could even do a bit of work remotely, if that helped?
“I feel terrible about you doing this,” Flo told her over tuna sandwiches and some truly delectable Bakewell tart from Freya’s when they stopped for lunch.
Jules tried hard to wipe any sign of strain off her face. Clearly, judging by Flo’s expression, she failed.
“No. On reflection, I forbid it,” Flo announced, wiping her mouth with her paper napkin and throwing it decisively onto her plate. “You must go back. Today. I’ll manage.”
“Not your decision. Anyhow, it’s done,” Jules told her. She glanced at her phone nervously for the hundredth time that day, but there had been ominous silence so far, even though her boss was famous for firing off email demands during the weekend. It seemed she was less good at reading incoming ones.
Waking the next morning and remembering her promise to Flo, happiness flooded Jules’s mind, making her smile before she had even opened her eyes. It was the start of a new week, and a fortnight of freedom stretched before her. Her mood catapulted her back to the intoxicating mix of excitement she had felt as a child on the first day of the school holidays. Two full weeks away from London! A proper break from work, her cramped little room in the house share, the grotty, grimy commute, and all that job stress. Heaven. She stretched extravagantly, trying not to imagine whether her boss had yet read the hopeful, apologetic email. Surely Caroline would rather Jules did a couple of weeks of working from home than lose her altogether? Now wasnotthe time to lose her job... She tried not to think about it.
Sleepily, Jules watched the sunrise paint pink and orange streaks across the sky and listened to the first hopeful chirps of the dawnchorus getting underway. The window of the little bedroom under the eaves faced out, not over the high street, but over the little streets behind, with views of the beach and the higgledy-piggledy rows of fishermen’s cottages, painted in ice-cream colors. It was a crisp and cold late-winter morning, but Jules was toasty in Flo’s high iron bed, with its white linen sheets, a pleasingly heavy layer of silk-edged wool blankets, and topped with a puffy feather quilt. Jules smoothed the quilt with her fingers. It was the same one she had snuggled under as a tiny child, when she would slip into her great-aunt’s bed in the early morning for a cuddle and a chance to debate the relative merits of the adventures the day might hold.
Jules stretched again and entertained beguiling thoughts of freshly brewed coffee. Of course, there was going to be no coffee unless she got up and made it herself. Worse, poor Aunt Flo was completely reliant on her to bring coffee and, being an early riser, was probably already gasping for some. Galvanized, Jules got up and slipped on yesterday’s clothes. She was grateful that she had at least grabbed some ancient underwear with dubious elastic and a couple of worn-soft T-shirts she usually wore in bed from Gamekeeper’s Cottage the previous day. It was lucky there was no one in Portneath she needed to look glamorous for. Now, there wasn’t even the option of popping across to Bootles for an economy pack of underpants. Hurriedly brushing her teeth and hair, she splashed her face with cold water, trying to avoid looking too closely at the London pallor she saw reflected in the mirror.
“You are an absolute darling,” said Flo as Jules handed her a steaming mug. She was sitting up in her narrow bed, hair loosely flowing down her back, looking effortlessly lithe and elegant. If the winter sunshine slanting through the French doors hadn’t been illuminating each line and wrinkle, she could have passed for a woman in her forties.
“How oldareyou, Aunt Flo?” asked Jules, too curious to resist.
“As old as my tongue, and a little older than my teeth,” Flo replied with a chuckle. “Funny question, all of a sudden.” Her sweet smile made it clear no offense had been caused. “I’m eighty-six, since you ask,” she conceded, giving Jules a sideways look.
“Howold?” Jules squeaked in shock.
Now Flo laughed out loud. “You’re going to have to tell me whether you’re surprised that I’m so much older than I look or look so much older than I am.”
“The first one,” explained Jules, somber now. “Definitely the first one, but...” She sipped her coffee thoughtfully.
Flo was rapidly reaching an age where she would need more help regardless of mended broken bones—at least with running a big shop like this full-time. What support was Jules going to be able to offer from London? Not much. And somehow she didn’t think her mother was going to be stepping up.
“Time passes whether you like it or not,” Aunt Flo continued briskly. “It’s rubbish getting old, but it’s a darned sight better than the alternative. You’re here for now at least, and it’s miraculously lovely to have you. Let’s crack on, shall we?”
Jules refused to let Flo get stuck back into her administrative work until she had brought down some porridge with cream and brown sugar from the flat. Then she helped Flo into the little bathroom and stood anxiously outside while her aunt had what she called “a jolly good wash.”
They spent a quiet morning, with Jules in the office at the back, sorting through a rather large pile of filing. The shop was always closed on Sundays and Mondays, giving Flo a belated weekend to recover from what was usually a busy Saturday. Less so these days.
“Now, my darling, it’s twelve thirty already,” called Flo after a while, “but let’s have lunch later. I’m still full of porridge, aren’t you?”
“I am, and—you know what?” said Jules, coming through from the office. “I want to do something more physical for a bit.” She rolled her shoulders, stiff from bending over paperwork. “How about these windows?” she declared, delving into the cleaning cupboard and reemerging with a spray bottle of vinegar.
“I have taught you well, my child,” said Flo approvingly. “Use newspapers for the final polish. There’s a pile in the office here, look, on the floor...” She pointed.
Soon Flo was at work on the book orders in the office, and Jules had carefully cleared away the window display that—in March—was still focused on Christmas, with stacks of potential book presents along with some dusty tinsel. Flo would never have gotten so behind with that kind of thing in the past, she thought, chewing her lip anxiously. She got on with polishing the insides of all the little windowpanes with her newspaper and vinegar. It was fiddly but absorbing work. It was when she was mindlessly polishing the newly clean glass that she noticed the black hoardings from what used to be Bootles had quietly disappeared.
Of course,she thought.It’s the grand opening today.
Hopefully it would be a tea shop. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she and Flo had bonded over a good cream tea. They were both great fans of the Devonshire delicacy and made a point of giving marks out of ten on a number of quality indicators, from the fatness of the scones, to the fruitiness of the jam, to whether the tea shop was mean enough to giveeitherbutter or clotted cream, when obviously the correct provision was both.
Yes, Jules mused as she worked, if it was a new tea shop, she and Aunt Flo would treat themselves to a visit on day one. Perhaps for a late lunch. Her reading glasses were blurring her long-distance vision too much for her to see what was what, so she pushed them up onto her head.
