Mr Bagdale sighed. ‘I think it is time.’
‘Time?’
‘To say our farewells. Obviously you can work through this week, and right up till Tuesday next, but that’s it. I’m sorry. I am not theSalvation Army. I’m a business. Even my mother would be tired of you by now.’
The Ghost watched the panic on Wilbur’s face. ‘I’m making up for it. I won’t have lunch. I’ll just keep working. Look, please. I like it here.’
‘No. No, you don’t. Give it a rest, son. You keep wishing you were in Oxford. This is your consolation prize. And you hate it.’
‘No. Please. I need this job.’
His voice was tight with desperation as he felt the weight of failure begin to press on him. He didn’t want to let his mother down. He didn’t want to work in the steel works. He knew this was the best opportunity he had to hand. He felt a sudden fire inside him, as though his future was being set alight. He felt vulnerable, and he wasn’t good at that.
Mr Bagdale could clearly see his panic. ‘Listen, they’re giving plenty away at the steel works. And the cutlery factory are on the look out too. A load more jobs than folk seeking them. And did you hear it on the wireless? The Prime Minister is steering the ship into steady waters for manufacturing. You’ll be fine, Master Budd.’
Just then, an old man came in. Older even than Mr Bagdale.
The man was tweedy and tall, with an arthritic lean to him, and walked with a stick. A retired professor of engineering at the University of Sheffield who was now trying to embrace art and poetry. He walked slowly over to Wilbur and Mr Bagdale, who stood there with curious anticipation.
‘Thank you so much for recommending that book to me,’ he told Wilbur when he reached him.
‘That’s all right, Gerald.’
‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ Gerald informed Mr Bagdale. ‘It’s very good. Have you read it?’
‘No,’ muttered Mr Bagdale. ‘No, I haven’t read that one.’
‘Well, it was very enjoyable. I like those American writers. Any others like that, Wilbur?’
Wilbur smiled, feeling Mr Bagdale’s eyes on him. ‘Well, notexactlylike that. But we have a brand new book in from Truman Capote calledIn Cold Blood, which I think will be up your street …’
He went to get a copy. Came back. ‘It’s a true story, this one. I’m reading it right now.’
‘Andyouwould recommend it?’
‘Yes. It’s a gripping tale of injustice.’
‘Well, you haven’t got me wrong so far.’ Then, to Mr Bagdale: ‘He’s an asset, is this one. Knows his stuff.’
As he headed over to the till, Mr Bagdale rolled his eyes. ‘All right, all right. One last chance. Don’t muck it up. And from now on, nine o’clock means nine o’clock.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bagdale. Thank you so much.’
‘The proof will be in the pudding.’
Wilbur then decided to push his luck. ‘I realise this is asking a lot,’ Wibur said to Mr Bagdale sheepishly, ‘and today’s probably the worst time to ask. But hear me out.’ Wilbur cleared his throat. ‘Would you consider taking me on full time? I have all these empty days on my hands and that’s not so good for me. I’m ready to throw myself into it. Seriously. I think it could really benefit the shop if I’m here every day. I think I could make this work if you give me more say in things … Ilovebooks. I love people who love books. And I have ideas for this place—’
‘Ideas?’
Wilbur swallowed. This was his moment, and his heart became a samba drum in his chest. ‘Yes. At the moment we are mainly catering to one type of reader. A middle-aged man interested in spy novels and history books about Napoleon and the world wars. No offence, Mr Bagdale, but someone like you. But this is a town full of working men and women of all ages, and children and teenagers, and we could source books for all of them. I could help us make this shop the way it was under Mrs Bagdale. A shop for everyone. I think that might increase our takings.’ He paused and looked down. ‘I admit, I’ve not always been very helpful to that end recently.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘But I could be. I promise you, I can do this. If you give me that break I won’t disappoint you. I want to …’
He felt he had said too much. Especially the part about returning the shop to its glory days.
Mr Bagdale’s nose whistled a little during what might have been a world-record sigh. ‘Well, I have to be honest, lad, my purchasing decisions haven’t been the best.’ Eventually he came to a decision that would change Wilbur’s life. ‘You will be here six days a week. Front of the shop. If sales are up in a month, you’ll have yourself a full-time job and I’ll give you a say in the books we stock. Monday right through to Saturday. On time, every day. If not, you’ll be out. Clear?’
