Chapter 5
Rory’s shop has more customers than I anticipate.
I thought I’d be able to sit with my feet up, playing on my phone, especially when I discovered that Rory has phone reception in his shop. I’d been balancing outside on a bin while he could just tap away in here, in the warm and dry, without a care in the world.
Yes, I’m still keeping score.
How many people ordinarily come into a DIY store anyway?
It feels like he’s lined all these people up to ask for a host of random stuff: shower seals, thermostats, hand tools, sockets, cables – you name it, the people of Ullapool want it.
A village of DIY fiends, apparently. I’m up and down Rory’s little ladder like a jack-in-the-box searching for whatever they want, determined not to call him.
I want to prove that I can run his shop myself, even if I have no idea what an armoured cable is and why you would ever need one.
Luckily, it appears that Rory is meticulously organized.
Every single thing in the store is labelled within an inch of its life, all present and correct.
His workstation is also perfectly primed, with a desk organizer containing all the usual suspects – rulers, rubber bands, a calculator – but also, strangely, some fancy art equipment, like a tin of pencils and a couple of brush pens.
A notebook featuring his to-do list lies open.
The majority of items have been diligently ticked off.
I wonder if he gets the same dopamine boost from marking items as complete that I do.
Sometimes, just to give myself a little thrill, I’ll even write a task down after I’ve completed it, so I get to cross it out immediately.
As I put an adjustable spanner away, I spot a sketchbook lying open on a desk. The shop is quiet for once and I can’t resist checking it out. Rory’s name is written in black ink in the top right-hand corner of the front page, like a child’s school jotter. I can’t help but smile – it’s cute.
I’m not sure what I expected to find as I flick through the pages, but it’s not this.
The landscape drawings feature the mountains I spent hours staring at during my Ullapool visits, alongside beautifully drawn fishing boats and mesmerizing sunsets.
There are vivid sketches of the surrounding area, from a field of sheep and a telephone box in a grassy field to a red squirrel and an eagle, soaring in the sky.
I bend my head to admire an intricately rendered butterfly wing.
There are some portraits of people in the village that I recognize.
The attention to detail in every picture is jaw-dropping.
There’s Pete’s warm half grin and Donna’s sweet blush; he’s even managed to capture some warmth from steely Margaret upstairs. The whole collection is breathtaking.
This is not the Rory I’ve met so far. Seeing this, it’s like I’m getting a glimpse of the real him, like I’ve had a sneak peek into his soul.
I snap the book shut as the bell rings to signal another customer’s arrival. Fleeing back behind the counter, I feel all jittery, guilty somehow.
I recognize her instantly: Margaret, my neighbour and Rory’s biggest fan.
Her face drains of colour as she catches my eye.
‘Where’s Rory?’ she spits as she leans on her walking stick.
‘Oh, hi, it’s Margaret, isn’t it? I’m your neighbour, Ava. I’ve moved in next door.’
With all the politeness and charm I can muster, I smile at her. I’m not going to give her any excuse not to like me.
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘Yes, so I’ve heard. So, where is Rory?’
Hearing her reply in the stern, no-nonsense accent of my granny, I’m suddenly conscious of my own rounded, so terribly English syllables.
I try to tone it down as much as possible, but I can’t change it altogether.
It’s not like I can dive into a full Scottish brogue or start conversing with her in Gaelic.
‘I’m sorry, Rory’s at an appointment just now. Can I help you?’
She frowns, as if a bad smell has overtaken the shop. I’m certainly not going to tell Margaret that her precious Rory was injured by the ladders I’d left lying out. She’s likely to whack me with her stick.
‘I’m here to help you with whatever you need,’ I say, with a tight smile. ‘And I’m looking forward to welcoming you to my bookshop next door, once it’s opened. Are you a reader?’
‘I’ll pop back in tomorrow,’ Margaret says, ignoring my question. ‘See if Rory’s back then.’
With a harrumph, she turns to leave.
What was it Granny always used to say? Kill them with kindness.
As I gallop ahead to open the door for her, she glares at me.
‘Goodbye, Margaret. It was lovely to meet you!’ I call, determined to go high when Margaret goes low.
No response. She does mutter under her breath, though. I think I hear something about a bookshop being a pale replacement for The Old Tea Shop.
After she leaves, her words swirl around my brain.
Tears spring into my eyes and, feeling silly, I blink them back, but I can’t help it.
What if Rory and Margaret aren’t the only ones who think a bookshop isn’t needed here?
Maybe the whole community feels the same.
They may all miss The Old Tea Shop, the gorgeous coronation chicken sandwiches I’d read TripAdvisor reviews of and the delicate teacups that I’d found forgotten in a box under the till.
I’ve been so focused on what I love about Ullapool and what I want that I haven’t properly considered what they might want from me in return.
Certainly, Margaret wants to keep The Toolbox and Rory, patron saint of Ullapool; he’s needed.
Maybe Margaret wanted Rory to place the highest bid and secure my shop too.
Maybe I am just a flighty girl with a pipe dream.
Just because I want Ullapool, it doesn’t mean Ullapool wants me.
I sigh as I peer through the hole in the wall to see the disaster area that is my own work in progress. I see my uneven shelves and my shoddy carpentry. The to-do list on my phone is growing by the minute. Fixing the hole also needs to go on the list now too, thanks to the Tool himself.
I wonder how Rory is getting on at the doctor.
In an attempt to combat the guilty feeling hanging around my stomach after Laddergate, I sweep the floor of The Toolbox and clean all the surfaces until they’re spotless.
I hold off on sending him a text to ask for an update.
I don’t want him to think I can’t handle things here.
He needs to know I can run a shop. I need to know it too.
Instead, I pass the quieter time flicking through his drawings again.
While I’m hardly a member of the Rory fan club, I can’t help but be impressed by his sketches.
Then comes my light bulb moment. Rory is an artist. I need an artist. I appealed for someone on social media, shared the post to local artist forums as far as Inverness and even wrote a press release for local media to find someone to create the mural, but I’ve had no luck so far.
Perhaps the right person has been sitting under my nose all along.
One who strongly dislikes me, and who I’ve inadvertently attacked on more than one occasion, but this is business.
While Rory might not share my vision for the bookshop, maybe I can still get him to create the mural.
It might even bridge the gap between us.
It seems like I’ve found my artist. Now, I just have to convince him to help me.
*
I serve customers with a big smile and a can-do attitude, figuring out along the way where to locate what they need. My eager, over-pleasing mode is met with nods and tight-lipped thank yous, but I slip in mentions of the bookshop where I can.
Gosh, doesn’t retiling feel like a hard bit of Crime and Punishment? Do you know who else liked doing a bit of joinery? George Orwell. I don’t know if that’s strictly true, but I’m sure old George wouldn’t mind.
When one customer confirms they will visit when it’s opened, I do a little victory lap around the counter after they leave.
Rory returns from the doctor with a small bandage around his ankle.
‘Just a sprain. I’ll survive.’
‘That’s a relief. I was worried you were going to sue me.’
‘That’s not a bad idea, you know,’ he muses. ‘I’ll get my lawyers to call your lawyers.’
‘You do that. You’ll need to rest your ankle, though. I can work in the shop until it’s better?’
I pull over a chair and gesture for Rory to sit behind the counter. Although I feel bad about Rory’s injury, I hope he won’t take me up on my offer. I have so much work left to do in my own shop, I can’t afford to look after the Tool
and The Toolbox. Time is money, and I am quickly running out of both. Thankfully, he shakes his head.
‘I’ll be able to take it from here,’ he says, ignoring the chair. ‘Did the delivery come?’
‘Yes, sir, all present and correct.’ I gesture to a large box on the floor. ‘I also had your biggest fan here while you were away.’
‘Michael Roberts?’
‘No.’
‘Jamie Brennan? He’s got a bit of a wire fetish.’
‘That sounds like something you should report to the police, but no, not Jamie. How big is your fan base, exactly?’
‘There’s a waiting list for membership,’ he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Who was it, then?’
‘Margaret. She was not pleased that I had the audacity to stand behind your counter.’
‘Ah, of course. Go easy on her, I think she’s a bit lonely. Lots of people that way up here. Margaret’s husband, Bill, died recently. Not in your flat, in case you’re worried.’
I roll my eyes at Rory’s old joke, but inside I feel a pang of sadness for Margaret. Turns out there’s a lot of lonely people in Ullapool, not to mention myself.
‘Well, it’s good that Margaret’s got you to look out for her,’ I say. ‘The fan club may well double as an anti-book club. She wasn’t much impressed, either, by the idea of a bookshop in the village.’
‘As soon as you change a plug for Margaret, she’ll be like putty in your hands.’
‘That’s not exactly in my business plan.’ I clear my throat. ‘Speaking of which, I have a business proposition for you.’
I stride purposefully to the desk and retrieve the sketchbook, bringing it over to the counter. I lay it open at a sketch of the mountains. ‘You’re an artist.’
The statement seems to take him by surprise. ‘You looked in my book?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ I say. ‘I saw it lying there and I couldn’t resist. I need an artist for the bookshop.
I’ve been imagining a mural of Ullapool for weeks now.
It will be the focal point of the shop.’ I consider my next words carefully.
I don’t want to stroke his ego too much, but I have to get him on board.
It’s a fine line. So I add: ‘You’re good. Very good. Seriously.’
‘Thanks,’ he says, unmoved. ‘But no thanks.’
It’s firm, but nevertheless I persist. ‘I’ve got a fee set aside for it. Plus, I could manage your shop while you do it. I’m basically looking for your entire sketchbook in mural form on my wall. In fact, that’s exactly what I’d like. It wouldn’t have to be—’
‘I said no thanks,’ he repeats, somehow even more firmly. ‘I’ll fix the hole in our wall, though. It doesn’t look good for a DIY store to be falling apart.’
He takes some Polyfilla from the shelf and busies around under the counter as I swallow my disappointment. It’s not as though I asked him a favour. I offered him a fee. But he won’t help me even if I pay him. Does he really dislike me that much?
‘Well… I’d better get back next door – to get everything ready for the mural,’ I say. Rory opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. ‘Why don’t you at least think about it? I don’t need an answer right now.’
The bell gives a jaunty ding above my head as I pull the door open. At least I had the last word this time. Factoring in the hole in the wall and Laddergate, I reckon the score is starting to even up.
Let’s say Rory 8, Ava 7. If I can get him to agree to the mural, I’ll definitely give myself a few extra points.