Chapter 14
D aisy was crouched on all fours in the bookshop with her head stuck in a cupboard in the corner.
Clearing it out had been on her list for ages ever since she’d moved in.
But like the kitchen and a few other places in Uncle Dennis’s building, it had moved further and further down her priority list. She’d left it because she was well aware that it had her Uncle Dennis written all over it.
Meaning in layman’s terms that it was a right mess.
She’d taken one look at it not long before she’d moved in, shoved it behind the counter, covered it in books, closed the door and kept it that way.
The twins were upstairs, halfway through watching a film and arguing over popcorn, and the place was quiet enough that she could hear the click of the fridge coming in from the kitchen every few minutes.
She’d decided that she had a perfect spare half hour to at least sort a few shelves in the cupboard and see what was what.
For all she knew, it might be hiding some precious first edition book that would seal her fortune. Pigs may well start flying to the moon.
Mostly, the cupboard was crammed full of piles and piles of books, together with the odd few mismatched mugs, a job lot of old-school candles, six boxes of paper clips and a biscuit tin without a lid.
Behind a row of more Penguin classics, tucked flat and slightly curled at the edges, was a huge bundle of yellowing receipts, torn envelopes, and pages from an old notepad.
Daisy sat back on her heels and picked through the pile and marvelled at all the old things.
The paper had a soft, dusty, but well-used, slightly brittle feel, a bit like old newsprint.
Most of it was what she’d expected; boiler service notes from a company that had long since gone bust as far as she knew, a faded bill for gutter replacement, a whole pile of shopping lists that consisted of items like “batteries, biscuits, mints and teabags” repeated in different paper and pens.
All of it, little notions from a life that was no more. Strangely melancholic and sad.
Right at the back, she found a whole pile of old-fashioned school exercise books covered from front to back in doodles.
As she flicked through, she smiled at what she came across: little drawings of cats in hats, a sketch of the bookshop’s front window with a balloon stuck to it, a picture of a teapot that had arms and legs and looked decidedly cross.
She smiled, tracing the lines with her finger, the paper soft and fragile under her hand.
Tucked in between the pages, scraps of paper here and there held quote upon quote, more lists, doodles and drawings.
Among the scraps of neatly folded paper inserts, Daisy unfolded one and smiled as she read and blinked as the words filtered through her brain.
Everything I’ve ever needed has been in these four walls.
Tears immediately pricked right at the corners of Daisy’s eyes as she re-read the sentence.
What a funny thing for her to find and for Dennis to have written in the centre of a scrap of paper.
One single solitary sentence written in blue biro in the same scrawly handwriting she’d seen all over the place.
Here, acknowledging every single thing she thought about the building she now called home, too.
Ten words describing her feelings succinctly.
Blinking, Daisy felt a weird lump in her throat.
The words almost floated in front of her eyes because she realised that she felt so very much the same.
The old building's walls had settled her, helped her and allowed her to breathe and like Dennis, she no longer felt as if she needed much else.
It really was that simple. With her little business, the girls safe upstairs, the shop, the library ladders, somewhere to call home and shelves groaning with books, everything was good in her world.
Turning around, she surveyed the bookshop for a minute or two and then picked up her phone and opened the camera app and panned around as if seeing it for the first time.
It was really all she needed and Uncle Dennis had seen it, long, long, long before she had.
Shuffling about tidying up the rest of the shop, moving around the room wiping down the little tables by the wingback chairs, she straightened a few books, glanced out the window to the laneway, popped the library ladders in place and wedged a few things in the display cabinet as she mused the words. How very sweet and very nice.
The light outside had dimmed to a low haze and inside the bookshop, the air was faintly dusty with a whisper of old paper coming from the cupboard.
The glow from the mismatched lamps gave the place its usual cosy feel and outside, the streetlamps had just blinked on, making a yellow light spill across the pavement just outside the front window.
After pottering for a bit longer, back in the corner cupboard, Daisy made a keep and dump pile and then reached for the last of the notebooks and dropped it into the small sorting box beside her.
She had just decided the biscuit tin without a lid was going straight to the bin when her phone buzzed on the counter where she’d left it beside the payment gateway.
She wiped her hands on her sweatshirt, stood up slowly and picking up the phone, she smiled before she’d even read the message properly.
Miles: Just checking in. How’s your day been? Did you manage to line up a sleepover for the girls? Thought I’d ask... No pressure. Xxx
Daisy stared at the screen for a moment, still holding a cloth she’d used to wipe out the back of the cupboard. She smiled. Miles hadn’t forgotten, changed his mind or vanished. Nope, the man was still around, still asking if she wanted to go away for a night. Tidy.
She tapped out a reply.
Daisy: All good. Annabelle’s having them Saturday. Evie’s already packed her overnight bag. So yes, I’m free. I would love a night away or just at yours. Either way is lovely. xx
Miles: Excellent! I’ll get to it x
Daisy: I just found this really sweet note from some of my uncle’s old stuff.
Miles: Saying what?
Daisy: Everything I’ve ever needed has been in these four walls. How nice is that?
Miles: Aww.
Daisy leant on the counter and from her spot, looked across the shop at the wingback chairs, the fairy lights, and the rows of carefully shelved paperbacks.
Her heart gave a really odd little twist at how far she’d come.
The shop was nothing fancy, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was hers, it was full of books and it was, surprisingly, doing quite well.
Really, what more could she ask for in life?
As she messaged back and forth with Miles, she sighed as she looked at the shop.
The whole place felt like it had breathed out for the night, the same way she had when she’d closed up and pulled the old-fashioned security cage door across.
As she finished off tidying, she couldn’t stop hearing or feeling the words from Uncle Dennis.
There was something about the way they’d been written, the offhand scrawl of someone who probably hadn’t known he’d be making her emotional years and years later.
It had settled something in her, and she wasn’t sure she could explain what, why or how, but boy did it feel nice.
His words had ticked a box she hadn’t known needed ticking.
Like him, she didn’t need much. She realised it was also one of the reasons she never liked leaving Pretty Beach: it gave her all she needed.
Tucking the last edge of a hand-knitted blanket over the arm of the big chair, she stepped back and glanced around the bookshop again, hands on hips.
She still had so much to do and many ideas for its journey and it wasn’t polished, but it looked and felt right.
The lights were soft, the corners were all in their usual quietly charming organised muddle, and a vase of fading garden flowers from Susannah still looked decent enough to keep another day or two.
The girls upstairs had gone quiet, too quiet for her liking, but she decided not to investigate.
She had roughly ten minutes of peace left, and she intended to use it well.
She reached for her phone and propped it up against the old biscuit tin.
It sat just at the right angle on the edge of the counter.
Not fussing with lighting or staging anything, she just tapped record and walked through the bookshop, slow and steady.
Past the fiction table where she flicked her fingers across the covers; soft pastels, bold typeset, the new display of autumn reads standing proudly in the centre.
Then she wandered over to the window nook and gave the lamp on the little book stool table a gentle nudge.
The fairy lights above twinkled in their usual lopsided fashion.
She reached down and picked up a stray wrapper from one of the girls, paused the recording, and started it again without a second thought.
Moving slowly past the side shelves, then up the little library ladder, pausing with one hand resting on the top rung as if to say: yes, this is my bookshop.
Yes, it’s all still here. Yes, I am not a failure and yes, I am going to make this and the rest of my life succeed.
When she stopped the recording, she added a filter, let it sit in her gallery for a moment while she washed her hands and made herself a mug of lemon and ginger tea.
She’d learned the hard way not to post anything in a rush.
A minute later, she scrolled through the video, tapped a quiet bit of instrumental jazz from her saved sounds, overlaid it, trimmed the end where she’d bumped the biscuit tin and uploaded.
Captioning it in her usual way with no hashtags, no pushy captions, she just typed out a note.
Bit of end-of-the-day faffing, a flick through the shelves and a tidy of the corner.
I found a little note from a previous occupant of the building, which said that everything he ever needed was in these four walls.
Can’t argue with that. Bookshop by the sea, tea in hand, lights on low. That’ll do me.
As she flicked off the light, she looked across the room and nodded to herself.
None of it was glossy or curated to within an inch of its life, but it was her little project, and so far, so good.
She nodded and reckoned the realness was the sort of thing people liked to see.
Stuff what the woman with the choppy bob and Marc with a “C” had said about business, convenience, selection, and competitive prices.
It wasn’t perfection, or a fake story, just a place that felt real.
Really, really real and really really hers and the man in her life was too. As far as she could see.