An Unexpected Affair
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Authors: Jan Ellis
An Unexpected Affair
Jan Ellis
© Jan Ellis 2013
Jan Ellis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Chapter 1: The Bookshop
SHE CAREFULLY SLIPPED THE BLADE of the knife under the tape and cut. Peeling back the flaps, she lowered her face to the contents and inhaled deeply. Erika, her assistant, smiled conspiratorially.
“You’ve gone over to the dark side. You’re definitely one of us now.”
“You’re right,” said Eleanor as she lifted the pile of paperbacks from the box, sniffed them and set them on the counter. “My name is Eleanor Mace and I am addicted to books.”
It was three years since Eleanor had bought the bookshop. Three years since she’d left her boring office job and caused her friends’ collective jaws to drop by announcing that she was leaving London and moving to Devon. She might as well have said she’d got a new career as a yak herder for the consternation this had caused. They clearly thought she was deranged, though only her sister Jenna had told her so to her face.
“Just because you’re divorced from Alan doesn’t mean that you have to lock yourself away from the world.”
“Jen, I’m moving to the English countryside, not entering a convent.”
“I can see it now,” said Jenna, ignoring her. “In six months’ time you’ll have stopped shaving your legs, embraced tweed and discovered jam-making.”
“Now you’re being silly,” said Eleanor, thinking that it had already been some time since her pins had seen a Gillette disposable. “It’s not the end of the earth, Jen. There’s a train station and you and Keith can come and stay any time you wish.”
“I’d rather come on my own,” said Jenna, wrinkling her nose as she tipped the last of the Chardonnay into Eleanor’s glass. “You finish it. They probably don’t run to white wine where you’re heading. And what on earth will you
do
down there?”
That had been easy to answer: with the money from her divorce Eleanor could afford to buy a slightly crumbly bookshop with an adjoining cottage in a small, unfashionable seaside town. It had been a huge leap and scary at times, but running the shop made her happy, and her enthusiasm for what she sold and her knowledge about the books and their authors was undoubtedly behind the small success that she had managed to build for herself. She’d made sure the shop was a welcoming place with comfy sofas to sit on and coffee and homemade biscuits on offer. With help from her son Joe, she had built a kind of den at the back of the shop where children could read, and there was always an eclectic selection of new and second-hand books to browse through.
“Don’t forget that you’ve got that house clearance to go to this afternoon,” said Erika, bearing coffee and biscuits.
“Nope, it’s in the diary,” said Eleanor, eyeing up a chocolate cookie. “Do you think you can control the rampaging hordes for an hour or two while I’m over there?” she asked, looking at her watch.
‘Oh, I think we’ll cope, won’t we Bella?” said Erika addressing the Spaniel who was stretched out in a patch of sunshine, wagging its tail. The dog was one of the draws of the shop, and local school children would often drag their parents in off the street on their way home just to see her.
“I’ll be back in time to lock up,” said Eleanor as she patted the dog, grabbed her bag and walked up the road to her van. It looked rather gaudy in the afternoon sun and she smiled at the recollection of that supper with her sister when she had laid out her plans for what would become The Reading Room. It hadn’t been until they were mid-way through the second bottle that Eleanor had admitted to swapping her sensible black Volvo for a lime-green camper van, or a ‘hippy wagon’ as Jenna had described it. Okay, it wasn’t the easiest vehicle to manoeuvre around the vertiginous roads and narrow lanes of her new home, but the Combi had lots of room for boxes and she could also use it when she went to book fairs and local events, as she told herself. Aside from the practical considerations, it was fun and she loved driving it. She found the throaty rumble of its engine strangely comforting and every time she started it up she had the feeling that an adventure could be just around the corner. Driving it gave her a sense of freedom, although she suspected that people thought it was an inappropriate vehicle for a woman who was rapidly hurtling towards fifty. She might still have been a few years away from the big ‘Five O’, but she was technically middle-aged.
As she drove along the town’s narrow high street for her meeting she took a peek at her neighbours to see who was busy and who was not. Passing some charity shops, the baker’s and the fishmonger, she noticed that the hardware shop had already put out piles of brightly coloured buckets and spades and flimsy plastic windmills that whirred and span in the brisk spring air.
The high street sloped down to the sea and she soon reached the road that scooped around the bay and gradually climbed up out of town, twisting and turning up onto the moorland that surrounded them. After twenty minutes she had arrived at her destination – an Edwardian pile with extensive views of the coastline. It was a wonderful spot, but the big old family house was expensive to run so its owner, Malcolm Pearce, was down-sizing: selling up and moving to a bungalow lower down the hill. He had a lifetime’s worth of books in the house, and his children had told him firmly that he couldn’t keep them all. Now, after several weeks of hard work, Mr Pearce had some bare shelves and Eleanor was about to acquire a motley selection of titles that she was moderately sure she could sell. One of the things that people liked about her shop was the serendipitous nature of it: old and new books hugger-mugger on the shelves and in enticing heaps on a big oak table in the back room.
As she pulled into the wide driveway, Malcolm came out of the house to greet her.
“Good afternoon, my dear. How kind of you to pop by.”
“It’s always a pleasure to come up here, Mr Pearce.” She looked up at the big old stone house and the garden full of camellias and hoped that the people who bought the place would love it as much as its current owner plainly did.
“Good, good,” he said, smiling and leading her into a sunny sitting room where the boxes of books were stacked in neat piles. “I shall be very glad to wave farewell to this lot.”
Eleanor had already helped him to take a load of books to charity. What was left was for her to take away and – hopefully – sell. She looked at the boxes and hoped that she could fit them all in the van. “Right. Let’s get started!”
Malcolm insisted on helping and together they soon shifted everything out of the room. Eleanor brought the last box into the hallway and stepped outside into the spring sunshine. Later on she would sort through the boxes again properly and see if there were any unexpected treasures among them. In the past she had come across quite rare editions at similar house clearances, which she’d managed to sell to collectors over the internet. She knew there were some early editions of local histories that would find an audience. Other boxes contained children’s albums from the 1950s and 1960s: bumper story books for boys and girls, adventure stories and tales of derring-do with wonderfully evocative illustrations of swarthy foreigners in far-off lands. “I’ll go through everything back at the shop and let you have a cheque as soon as I’ve checked the value.”
“Splendid! Now let me see if my son’s around to give you a hand loading these heavy boxes into your, er, vehicle. I think he’s toiling in the garden somewhere.” Malcolm opened the side gate and a small brown shape dashed towards them, closely followed by a tall, dark-haired man in worn corduroys and a faded green sweater.
“Hello Crumpet,” said Eleanor, bending down to greet the furry bundle at her feet. “Er, sorry I don’t know your name. I’m Eleanor Mace – Bella, Welsh Spaniel.”
“Daniel Pearce. Border terrier,” he said, frowning as he removed a gardening glove to shake her hand. She recognised him as a peripheral member of the local dog-walking gang.
“Thanks for taking this lot away,” he said, nodding at the heaps of cartons. “I can’t imagine what you’re going to do with dad’s junk.”
Eleanor could feel herself prickle. “I wouldn’t call it ‘junk’. Your father has a very interesting library. Anyway, it’s my idea of heaven to rummage among old books.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place then. Is that your van?” He gave the Combi a pained look that she’d seen before in people who just didn’t get it. Probably drives a Saab, thought Eleanor as she scratched Crumpet behind the ears. Shame your owner doesn’t have your engaging personality, she said to herself.
“Be a good lad and help Mrs Mace to load up while I make us some tea.”
Daniel Pearce gave his father a look that suggested he had much better things to do with his time, but he walked over to the boxes nonetheless. Eleanor got in the van and backed it right up to the porch so they wouldn’t need to carry everything too far from the hallway. Opening the side door, she arranged the boxes on the floor as Daniel silently passed them up to her. Working together it didn’t take long to get the books moved and they had almost finished by the time Malcolm came out of the house with three mugs on a battered tea tray. “Really father,” said Daniel taking his cup. “The rubbish you hang on to.”
“This was a wedding present, I’ll have you know. Your mother would never forgive me if I threw it away.”
“I think it’s charming,’ said Eleanor, helping herself crossly to a custard cream. This man really is an oaf. “They call it shabby chic, you know. In London it’s all the rage.”
“Hmm, no doubt. Well, I’d better get back to the garden.” Daniel drained his mug and handed it back to his father. “Nice to meet you properly, Eleanor.”
“Thanks for your help.” She couldn’t bring herself to say that it had been nice to meet such a rude man.
“I apologise for my son,” said Malcolm, sighing as Daniel left them. “He’s a super chap normally, but he has been a grumpy so-and-so since Freya left him.”
Freya! So that was the name of the rather glamorous woman she’d often seen striding over the hill with Crumpet. Looking down at her own ancient jeans and baggy jumper she suddenly felt a twinge of sympathy for young Mr P: what must it be like to be married to a woman who wears full make-up to walk a small shaggy dog in the middle of nowhere at eight o’clock in the morning? No wonder he looked miserable.
“Oh, dear. That must be difficult for him. For you all. Do you have grandchildren?”
He nodded sadly, “Yes, we have a granddaughter – I mean, I have a granddaughter. My wife passed away some years ago. Ah well,” he said, brightening, “everything will all sort itself out eventually, I’m sure. More tea?”
“Thanks Malcolm, but I’d better be off. We’ve got a big event happening tomorrow evening, and I’m nowhere near ready.” She brushed the last biscuit crumbs off her chest and climbed into the van.
“We’ve got Lavinia Threlfall booked to do a signing session.”
Malcolm Pearce frowned. “Lavinia . . . ?”
“Oh, you may not have heard of her. She’s a local author who writes rather sensational romantic fiction.” Eleanor could see that Malcolm was not entirely won over.
“Do come if you can – there’ll be a reading, drinks and snacks.”
“Thank you my dear. I may well do that.”
“Great. I look forward to seeing you there.” Eleanor started the engine and pulled out of the long driveway. The road took her back across the moor and down into town. Getting the boxes into the shop was going to be a team effort, so she decided to leave them in the van and sort everything out after the launch party.
Back at the shop, Erika had had a busy afternoon and was looking quite pleased with herself. “We’ve had a group of walkers in who bought maps and guidebooks, the primary school has placed a big order for next term, and Mrs Elliott came by and bought a stack of paperbacks for her grandchildren.”
“Excellent,” said Eleanor. “I can see that I should leave you alone more often.” Squinting at her watch she saw that it was home time.
“Let’s close the shop then Bella and I will go for a stroll.”
Getting herself a dog had been one of Eleanor’s major indulgences on leaving London. “You can’t just go for walks on your own,” her new neighbours had told her. “People will think you’re peculiar.” To begin with, Eleanor had thought that was ridiculous but now, when she was out with Bella and saw a solitary walker on the moors in the rain, she too found herself wondering what they were doing there. When she’d mentioned this to Jenna, her sister had raised an eyebrow in a way that conveyed her increasing belief that all her predictions had been spot on and that Eleanor was getting more eccentric by the day.
Collecting Bella and heading up onto the cliff top she wondered which of them enjoyed those outings more. She especially loved their walks along the rocky paths that snaked around the headland. The view wasn’t beautiful: on this side of the country the sea was generally the colour of weak cocoa except when the sun shone on the water and turned it green or slate grey. Nonetheless, the area had a wildness that Eleanor found exhilarating. Some days she’d be entirely alone, but more often than not she’d encounter other dog-walkers, all bundled up against the wind that swirled in off the sea, summer and winter.
Striding along, hands stuffed in her pockets against the cool evening air, she nodded a greeting to an elderly gent with a whippet. Alfie, she thought it was called. One of the unexpected facts of dog-ownership was that everyone knew the names of the dogs but not necessarily those of the owners. Eleanor smiled when she thought of some of the interesting conversations she’d overheard along the lines of, “You know who I mean – Mitzi (long-haired dachshund, yappy), she’s split up from her husband and has taken up with Jaffa (golden retriever, dribbles a bit, but sweet natured).”