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‘You look chirpy.’
I hadn’t noticed Gertie the other side of the fence. ‘Morning. Gorgeous day, isn’t it?’
Gertie glances up briefly at the sky. ‘I suppose it is.’ She sounds distracted.
I frown. It isn’t like Gertie not to be attuned to the elements. ‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.’
Putting down her gardening fork, Gertie sighs. ‘To be honest with you, I’ve had other things on my mind.’
So there is something. ‘Anything I can help with?’
She shakes her head. ‘You’re very kind. But it’s a family matter. I’ll sort it out. It’s just irritating the hell out of me – like trying to swat a rather annoying fly.’ She pauses. ‘Anyway. Enough of that. What are you up to on this rather lovely day?’
‘This and that.’ I’m intentionally cagey. ‘I’m not working till tonight.’
‘Well, you enjoy yourself.’ Gertie stops. ‘I’d better go. My phone’s ringing. Probably the fly,’ she says cryptically, raising her eyebrows as she turns towards the house.
There’s a flurry in the hedge before the stately figure of Churchill appears. Giving a single demanding meow, he fixes his eyes on me expectantly.
‘Come on, boy.’ As I start walking towards the house, Churchill follows.
Inside, after putting down a bowl of cat biscuit, I make a cup of coffee before surveying the kitchen. On the whole, I don’t have much of an eye for interiors. When Lisa moved in, she gave it a makeover and since she left, I’ve done little to it. That, however, is about to change.
Ignoring me, Churchill makes a show of washing himself as I faff around moving books and cushions and plants, but the overall effect is definitely missing something.
Getting in my car, I set off for a warehouse I’ve heard about that stocks preloved furniture. Not that I’m planning anything major at this stage, but it feels like time to put my own stamp back on the cottage.
The trouble is one or two things rapidly turns into more. Picking up turquoise cushions and an art deco lamp, my eyes settle on a retro sofa. Glancing at the price tag, I immediately dismiss it. But after paying for the cushions, as I walk out, I stop myself. When I can comfortably afford the sofa, why on earth don’t I just buy it?
It’s silly how treating myself to something as frivolous as a second-hand sofa lifts my mood. On my way home, buoyed up, impulsively I take the road to Arundel. It really is a beautiful day, the river gleaming, and as I draw closer, I notice the ancient walls of the Castle bathed in sunlight. Unusually, I find a parking space straightaway, and after locking my car, I head for the bookshop.
The book I bought here has turned out to be a gem. I’ve only read half of it, but it could have been written for me. That’s the beauty of a good book – having a richness of layers meaning it holds something for most people.
As I go inside, the door jingles. Across the shop, the same girl who served me last time looks up.
I raise a hand. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’ Her face colours slightly. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m just looking, really.’ I hesitate. ‘I love the book I bought –Finding the Wild in Your Life?’I add, in case she doesn’t remember.Idiot, I berate myself; when she has hundreds of customers, of course she won’t.
‘I remember. I’m so pleased you like it.’ She stands there for a moment. ‘Let me know if you need any help.’
‘Thanks.’ Pleased she remembers, I turn towards the bookshelves.
I at least have more time today and as I peruse the titles, I lose track of time, not noticing as she comes over and stands beside me. ‘If you’re stuck, I can suggest something.’ Her voice is melodic.
‘Be my guest.’ Glancing sideways, I take in shoulder-length hair hooked behind her ear, tiny coloured stones piercing her ears instead of last time’s hoops. As I summon up the courage to ask her out, she reaches for a book. ‘Well, there’s this one. I love books on philosophy. They can remind us of all the old wisdom most of us have lost sight of – I’m always recommending it. Then there’s this. It only came in this week. I haven’t read it, but it has amazing reviews.’
She passes me a smaller volume entitledThe Days of Our Lives.‘The author’s a stand-up comedian. It’s his observation of the strangeness of how we live.’
‘I’ll take both.’ My decisive mood takes over again. Good books are worth spending money on.
‘Oh.’ She looks slightly anxious. ‘Please don’t feel you have to.’
‘I don’t.’ I smile at her. ‘They’re different to anything I’ve read before.’ Which is exactly what I need, but I don’t tell her that.
I follow her over to her desk. Standing there, I want to talk to her some more. Determined to seize the moment, as I open my mouth to speak, the door jingles. Looking up at the old man who walks in, she calls out, ‘Morning, Ernest!’
