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I sit on the low wall beside the garden gate and take out my phone to scroll through my photo library. Pictures of unusual shop displays: a gardener’s wheelbarrow filled with velvet cushions, a dried-up tree branch festooned with bags of chocolate truffles like a Christmas tree, and my favourite, a stack of old step ladders used to display expensive shoes. Something about the contrast of the old, cheap, or rough with beautiful luxury products really fires up my imagination. I have a hundred photographs of book festivals, all collected over the last four years to show my boss how we should market our products. To prove I had a flair for this kind of marketing, yet no one had wanted to listen. Would Grandad listen to my ideas? I look up at our house. Labri Catch is double fronted. There are two large reception rooms either side of the front door. They’re just being used for storage and would make a perfect shop.
Over lunch, Grandad listens to my plans without expression. I wait nervously for his answer, but he stays silent, just staring at his plate of half-eaten pasta. At last, he asks, “A lot of hard work when you should be on holiday?”
“I’m not on holiday really, I’ve resigned from my job in Manchester.”
“What’d you do that for? To look after me? Oh girl, there was no need te do tha’. I manage fine. You get back te yr life and never mind my shop.”
That’s my fault for always telling him I was fine, couldn’t be better. Taking a deep breath, swallowing my embarrassment, I explain to him about the way my boss treated me and how others looked and spoke to me.
“Oh, girl.” He sighs when I’m finished. “You’ve been a leather-strop for everyone to sharpen their blades on ye.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
He goes back to watching his food for a long moment. “It’s a lot o’ work here, for a slip of a girl more suited to a nice job on the mainland.”
“I wish people wouldn’t think me a slip of a girl. I am dying for a real challenge to prove myself and no one gives it to me.”
This time when he glances up, there’s a spark of something in his eyes. “That’s the ticket. You hold on to your pride. People can take your money, your job, even that useless boyfriend. But never let them take away your good name and your self-respect. Be proud!”
“Oh Grandad, I promise, if you’ll let me, I’ll show you I’m strong and a quick learner. We could relaunch your shop and make it beautiful and profitable.”
He takes up his fork and moves some of the pasta and the sliced vegetables around before he drops it and lays his hand over mine. “Yes, you will.”
It’s all he says but his shoulders seem to relax as if he’s been clenching them for a long time. When I help him to bed for his afternoon nap, he looks at me from under his corrugated brows, “I never gave it a name. Didn’t seem no point, just called it the shop. Now it’s yours, name it whatever you like. Something beautiful and young like you.” And he rolls on his side and pulls the covers up to his chin.
Tears sting behind my eyes. I want to hug him and thank him, but he isn’t the demonstrative kind. The only way to thank him for trusting me is to make the shop a glowing success. Did I ask for a challenge? Well, here’s one: make sure Grandad never regrets putting his faith in me.
Chapter Eleven
Elodie
I walk around the two front rooms, both of which are empty except for racks of glass jars, presumably waiting to be filled with honey. Once I open the shutters, light floods in through both bay windows and my breath catches in my throat. The place could be gorgeous, it just needs a good clean and minor decorating.
The walls are a bit rough here and there where the plaster has crumbled a bit, the high ceilings need better light fittings, and the carpet must definitely go. If we had stripped wooden floors, polished, and shiny… I make another turn of the space. It’ll need display cabinets and shelves… From what Grandad says, he makes about ten different kinds of honey. And that’s before I introduce other products, honeycomb, wax, bee pollen…what else? What would make us special? I reach for my notebook to make a list.
Before all that, what I need,desperatelyneed, is training. I’ve promised to make the shop a success and, as they say, a promise without a plan is just a wish. A plan without information is just wishful thinking.
Never again will I be caught without adequate knowledge.
The slide presentation this morning listed names of various officers at the Municipalité who might help returning islanders. And one of them… I flip through the pages of my notebook until I find the names. Myles de la Cour, Local Business Adviser.
Well, I’m a returning islander with a local business in need of help. I dial his number.
Myles de la Cour is delighted to hear from me. “I remember you from the meeting, we talked about Catcher Lane. So, you’ve decided to stay on La Canette?”
“Yes, and I’m moving the honey shop over to Low Catch.”
“Excellent idea. I can pop over later this afternoon and take a look at your proposed new premises and we can discuss how we can help.”
Wow this is going to be easy. I flip to a clean page in my notebook and make a list of what I need. A business grant from the Municipalité means I can do the necessary repairs, buy the furnishings and fittings we need, and maybe stretch to an online course in beekeeping.
My confidence lasts three hours. Then, Myles de la Cour arrives.
After looking around my premises and taking pictures on his phone and lots of notes, he suggests we go to the pub to discuss my plans. We go to The Swan, in the village, and he buys me two glasses of wine in quick succession. Either he is hoping to turn the evening into a date, or he wants to cushion the blow of what he’s about to say.
“The Municipalité will not offer finance,” he says.
“Do you mean you don’t offer grants, only business loans?” I ask, already preparing myself for the worst-case scenario. I hate debt, and my brother always said that borrowing money eats up profit and slows success.
