Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
I couldn’t tell you how the rest of the Blind Date with a Book night went.
The whole evening passed in a blur as I wallowed in my embarrassment, following my confrontation with Jack.
Somehow by the end of the evening the brown paper wrapped books had all gone, and there were gaps on the shelves in the bookshop suggesting that on one level the event had gone reasonably well.
On the other hand, I could have given a blow-by-blow account of how Jack’s night went because after the argument I was hyper conscious of his every move.
Everyone who’d stopped by for a drink had seemed charmed by the venue and even more so by its host. He had laughed and chatted, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him as he poured drinks and went round making sure all his guests were enjoying themselves.
It had been steadily busy all evening at the Jericho Wine Barge right up until closing time, at which point Jack had had to ring an old ship’s bell to indicate it was time for people to leave, a sound which had given me an uncomfortable flashback to my morning imaginings.
The last remaining Blind Date with a Book guests had taken it as their cue to go as well, two new couples departing together, clutching matching copies of Mansfield Park and Great Expectations respectively, to continue getting to know each other elsewhere.
It hadn’t taken me long to tidy everything away, but somehow I’d found myself lingering on the deck, aware of Jack’s steady movements on shore as he collected glasses and started turning off the fairy lights.
It felt like we had unfinished business, but I was unclear what kind it was.
My sleep was disturbed that night, full of stressy dreams about failing to hit my financial target and losing everything.
At dawn I woke with a start, convinced I’d heard the splash of the Bookship starting to sink, but a quiet snore from the dog bed calmed my racing fears, and I managed to doze off again.
But I only managed another half an hour of sleep before I jerked awake with the terrifying sensation of falling.
Tired of lying worrying in bed, I dragged a reluctant Hilda out for an early morning run.
Well, I was running, she was lolloping along at a comfortable trot, not having to put any effort in to keep up with me thanks to her long legs.
Instead of doing our usual Jericho circuit, we turned towards the centre of the city, jogging up past the train station, along Broad Street and turning down Turl Street.
I needed to get away from the bubble of the canal area where everything seemed so intense.
I hoped running among the dreaming spires would help put things into perspective and remind me that despite the challenges I faced, my bookshop dream was not over yet.
The streets were practically empty, just a few students in bedraggled black tie wandering home after a long night at one of the college’s summer balls.
I envied them with their carefree demeanours, although I reminded myself that a cheery exterior was no guarantee they weren’t also battling with interior demons.
I pounded down Brasenose Lane, then slowed my pace as we reached Radcliffe Square, taking care not to trip on the cobbles.
It was exactly the kind of challenge I needed to distract me from last night which was playing on a loop in my head.
Each time I thought about it, I cringed harder, fluctuating between righteous indignation at Jack’s behaviour and an ever-growing doubt that he’d done any of the things I’d accused him of.
I was cross with myself for being influenced by his offended innocent act, yet it had seemed so genuine, his expression one of confusion and hurt, rather than frustration that he’d been called out.
He was either an amazing actor, or I had got things very wrong.
I stopped in front of the gilded gates of All Souls College and let out a growl of frustration which startled the pigeons.
In truth, I didn’t know what to think anymore.
I wondered if the academics behind those grand stone walls got caught up in similar predicaments, torn between conflicting gut feelings, or whether their minds worked on a higher plane.
I smiled to myself. There was probably drama to be found in every environment.
It was how you dealt with it that mattered.
And if I was being completely honest with myself, I knew I should have dealt with the Jack situation better, waiting until I was totally sure of his guilt on my own account, rather than allowing Liam to persuade me of it.
I tried to cheer myself up by purchasing a breakfast bagel from a shop on the High, then took a roundabout route back, putting off the inevitable moment of returning home to do my accounts.
I knew that it would be touch and go whether last night had made a profit.
I could lay the blame at Jack’s door or admit that I’d taken my eye off the ball because I’d allowed myself to get distracted.
Hilda and I wandered along Longwall Street, the majestic walls of Magdalen College on the right, then I let her lead me down Holywell Street.
She paused to have a good sniff around the steps of a building which had been boarded up for ages, but which now had a red banner across the door decorated with a picture of a pile of books and a big ‘Coming soon’ sign.
My heart sank at the sight. I really hoped it wasn’t another bookshop about to open in the city.
The last thing I needed right now was yet another competitor.
I tried to peer between a slight gap in the boards over a window at street level, but it was too bright for me to be able to see what was going on in the gloom inside.
The rest of the world was starting to wake up now, doors banging as students emerged from their lodgings to head to the library, or more likely, to get to the park and bag a prime spot by the river.
I checked my watch and picked up my pace.
The Bookship operated with reduced hours on a Sunday, but I needed to get back soon to open up.
Hilda and I trotted past the Ashmolean, gave a little wave to the books in the Oxford Community Library, then we cut through a few sneaky side streets, weaving our way back to Jericho and home.
As we reached the towpath, I spotted a shadowy figure stepping from the foredeck of the Oxford Bookship back onto the bank.
‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing?’ I yelled across the water, but the unwanted visitor showed no sign of having heard me.
They headed along the path in the direction of the city centre and were soon out of view.
I broke into a run, instantly regretting the breakfast bagel, as I attempted to catch up with the mystery intruder and get a look at their face, but I didn’t get very far.
Hilda had had enough of the morning’s excessive exercise regime and refused to indulge me, her weary plod effectively slamming the brakes on.
I tried to offer words of encouragement, but my breathing was so ragged that she couldn’t or wouldn’t follow my instructions.
I gave up and turned back towards the Oxford Bookship, my heart pounding equally from the exertion and from the anxiety over what I might be about to discover.
I let Hilda off the lead, and she instantly flumped down on the cool grass, watching me balefully as I gave the boat a quick visual check from the opposite bank.
Aside from the damage which the Jericho Wine Barge had inflicted, everything looked neat and shipshape.
But I needed to be closer to be sure, and I was still on the wrong side of the canal.
‘Come on, Hildy-girl, nearly there. Just this final push then no more running today, I promise,’ I pleaded.
With a show of great reluctance, she heaved herself back up and grudgingly conceded to match my jog as we made our way back over the footbridge and along the bank to the Oxford Bookship’s mooring.
I checked the ropes and cast my eye over the roof and deck areas.
Everything appeared as it should, much to my relief.
Everything that was aside from a large object wrapped in brown paper which was now cluttering up the well deck.
‘Great, that’s all I need, some lazy passer-by dumping their rubbish on my boat because they can’t be bothered to carry it to the bins.’
I left Hilda having a sniff around the towpath garden while I clambered aboard, checking carefully around for any clues about who might be responsible.
I tried the cabin door and was relieved to find it was still securely locked.
Then I turned my attention to the item on the deck and realised it wasn’t rubbish at all but a carefully wrapped parcel, affixed to which was an envelope with ‘Molly Bramble’ written on it in neat, confident cursive.
I traced my finger over the lettering. The ink seemed strangely old-fashioned, possibly from a fountain pen.
It definitely wasn’t a biro at any rate.
The stationery was also of a high quality, although not quite as fancy as that used by the Oxford Boating Association.
But who else would personally deliver something to my boat?
I lifted the parcel, weighing it in my hands, apprehensive about what it might contain.
Should I open it or the envelope first? The envelope might be more likely to provide me with answers.
But Hilda had other ideas, answering my dilemma by jumping on board and catching the parcel with her claw, making a rip in the brown paper.
‘Very well, the parcel it is,’ I said.
I continued Hilda’s work and removed the rest of the wrapping, then gasped.
There in front of me was something I’d never expected to see again.
The sign for the Oxford Bookship, the one which had stood resplendent on the roof of the boat, or had done, until Jack had come along and knocked it into the water.
I ran my fingers over its surface. The wood had swelled from its dunking, but the varnished paintwork seemed to have survived the immersion, and the gold outline of the lettering still sparkled as I moved it in the sunlight.
I felt a burst of positivity. This had to be a sign that things were going to work out okay.
I smiled to myself at the unintended pun.
Putting the shop sign back in its rightful place on the roof would indicate to the world that the Oxford Bookship was here to stay.
I climbed up and fixed the sign back into position.
It would probably be a good idea to create a more permanent fitting for it to prevent a repeat of what had happened before, but that could be easily sorted later with a power tool and a few bits of woods.
However, before I did that, I needed to open the envelope to find out who had retrieved this precious object from the canal for me, and more importantly, why.
I slid back down into the well deck just in time to retrieve the envelope from Hilda’s mouth.
‘It’s paper, you daft doggy. Why don’t you go and play in the garden with your ball instead?’
She huffed at me, disappointed that I’d spoilt her fun, and instead flumped down on my feet, effectively pinning me in position.
Within seconds she’d started snoring. I was pretty sure she was putting it on for effect, but I wasn’t heartless enough to move a snoozing pooch, even if she was only pretending to be asleep, so I stayed where I was and opened the now slightly slobbery envelope.
I immediately scanned through the thick sheaf of papers and spotted the signature at the bottom of the letter.
Jack. Had that splash I thought I imagined this morning been him retrieving the sign?
And what did he have to say in his letter?
I leaned back against the bookshop door and started reading.