Page 5 of The Undercover Bookshop

“I’ve heard about you.” He stretches out his hand.

Blue eyes strike my hazel ones, but I can’t hold on to the connection. I cringe, for I can only imagine what he’s heard. “That I sent Mr. Hastings to hospital with a broken hip?”

He laughs and a dimple, only in his left cheek, pops into view. “I did hear that, but I also knew it wasn’t true. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Gemma Brown.”

The warmth in his voice fills me from toes to nose with an equally warm feeling. “Nice to meet you too, Charlie.”

His eyes cloud with confusion, and I realize two sherries are at least one too many. One doesn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t nickname a man the second one meets him. I pull my hand from his and hold it out, palm spread between us. “I didn’t mean— I’m sorr—”

He shakes his head. “No, I like it.” He stares at me and repeats the name “Charlie” as if it’s a delight rather than a presumption.

Peggy sits staring at me with a wide-eyed, slightly shocked look. The instant our eyes meet, she schools her expression, motions to a chair, and invites Charlie to join us.

He does.

Too embarrassed to say anything more, I sit silent for the rest of the evening—but I no longer yearn for my solitary bedsit and my book.

And I’m not so exhausted anymore either.

Chapter 3

Thursday, 5 January 1950

“Gemma?” Mr. Hastings calls across the store.

I straighten with a jar of Blue Bell silver polish clutched in my left hand and a more expensive brand in my right. Mrs. Taylor, on a widow’s pension, does not need to spend pounds when pennies will do. I give her a nod to excuse myself and lift onto my toes to see over the store’s central aisle.

As soon as I catch my boss’s eye, a broad grin splits his face, making his eyes almost close in a mass of wrinkles and glee. “Are you ready to open your bookshop today?”

I thrust the jar of Blue Bell polish at Mrs. Taylor—with a “This one really is so much better. Cheaper too”—and race down the aisle to the back counter, then to the door into the storage room.

I approach at well-near full speed, and, thankfully, Mr. Hastings steps aside. It only takes me a second to find it. Right there, at the service door to the back alley, sits a massive wood crate. “That’s them? They’re here? All of them?”

He moves behind me. “I certainly hope that’s all of them. The crate’s big enough to ship an elephant. How much inventory did you buy?”

I run my fingers over the crate’s top, tripping them lightly so as not to catch a splinter. I need to be near them. I need to touch them. “Not a single book more than you approved. I promise.”

Mr. Hastings laughs that deep chuckle I’ve come to know well these past several weeks. “I don’t doubt it for a second. Stay back here and get them sorted. I’ll ring up Mrs. Taylor’s purchases.”

“Not at all.” I turn back towards the store. “I can finish working the front today. You’ve been very generous with this book idea. I’ll record the inventory tonight after we close and get the books shelved before tomorrow’s opening. You have my word.”

He waves a hand at me. “Nonsense. This is as worthy a way to spend your time as any. No, you open that up and sort everything now. If this little bookshop corner, as you call it, does well, it’ll be good for both the store and the village.”

He walks away, and I return to the crate, dread replacing joy. That’s what I promised him, of course. I assured my boss that setting up a corner of his store with books, just as the dry goods store near the factory where I worked in London did, would be a profitable use of space. I even shared with him an article I found in the Oxford Times a few weeks ago that reported people have more leisure time than they’ve enjoyed in years, and accordingly, book sales are on the rise. Furthermore, I added to my argument that the nearest lending library is in Chipping Norton, a full three miles away, and the nearest bookshop is in Woodstock, seven miles beyond that. It’s a cultural imperative, I added with flair, for the village of Great Rollright to have its own bookshop, and his general store provided an ideal location.

And, to be fair, it won’t hurt me either. I tried walking in the slush to Chipping Norton a couple of weeks ago to find a new book and ended up soaking wet with a hacking cough. And the bus, which I tried a few days after that, broke down on the way to Woodstock, so we all had to walk the last mile anyway.

So my motives weren’t entirely altruistic. But I’m not wrong. At least I hope I’m not. People love books. They are the one thing a person can get lost within and find sanctuary, comfort, adventure, and more, all while sitting safe and sound in a comfy armchair. And if you’re anything like me, they also take you outside of yourself—which is a good thing.

In a book you become the character. The best, the most capable, the most esteemed. I am Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, Inspector Grant, Harriet Vane, or Lord Peter Wimsey. I am astute rather than scattered. I am wise rather than wearing. I am never alone and, most certainly, never lonely.

And as this decade opens, a new one without war, this move and this bookshop sound like a jolly good way for me and all of Great Rollright to begin.

Thankfully Mr. Hastings agreed. When I presented him with the idea and the maths I’d worked out, he said he’d think on it. Then he came to work the very next day with more than a yes. He arrived with a full plan, drawn out by Mrs. Hastings, who loved the venture, delineating exactly where everything in the store’s back left corner would move to make room for the new “corner bookshop.”

As he spread the drawing before me, he remarked, “I think she felt it best not to leave you to your own devices in the rearranging.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, as I hadn’t messed up nearly as much as I had in my earliest days, and we both had already found humor in my initial exuberance.