Janice unlocked the door and walked in. The familiar chimes sounded overhead. She paused a moment, half expecting the sound of footsteps. When none came she breathed a sigh of relief. There were a couple of letters on the floor, already dusty. She picked them up and put them in her bag. She walked over to the counter and looked down at the familiar scratches in the old wood. She remembered her grandmother sitting behind the counter, serving the customers who wandered in. She’d wrap each book carefully in a brown bag, and cellotape down the ends. It was a slow process with her arthritic hands and many customers grew impatient. Janice used to observe the frowns that crossed their faces. Her grandmother remained oblivious, as always. Her stiff fingers smoothed the paper, getting the edges down flat
It had been her grandmother’s dream to have the bookshop. After the war, when everyone else was busy returning to their old lives and starting to rebuild their broken families her grandmother was buying and stocking the store. Her husband stared blankly as shelves filled with donated books. He went along with it but showed no interest. He had returned to his work in the steel factory and to drinking in the club. He left her gran to get on with the shop and shrugged his shoulders when neighbours asked him about it.
Janice walked to the table in the middle of the shop and noticed her grandmother’s old glasses, broken. She picked them up and put them on. The world loomed and then resettled, skewed. She took them off and put them back on the table. She looked around the shop. The door to the storeroom was open. As a teenager Janice had spent hours every Saturday in the storeroom. While her grandmother busied herself out front with the customers so Janice had unpacked box after box in the dusty little room. The books of the dead. It was a ritual in the village. Drop off the books after clearing the house, usually a week or so after the funeral. Some of these books had been here before - bought and sold twice over.
Occasionally Janice’s grandfather would come in and watch her work. The storeroom would fill with the smell of stale beer and tobacco. She’d keep her back to him and carry on unpacking. After awhile he’d sigh and walk out and the air would clear.
At sixteen Janice had begged her mother to let her leave the bookstore. “Please mam,” she’d said, “I can get a Saturday job in town. They’re looking for waitresses in the Kardomah.” “No, you can’t,” her mother had replied, “Your gran would be devastated.” “But Mam…”. “Leave it, Janice. It was good enough for me and it’s good enough for you. While you live under my roof you abide by my rules.”
So Janice had stayed for three more years- sometimes serving in the shop, sometimes stacking shelves, sometimes unpacking the newest arrivals. Janice always bought pastries from the bakery on her way to the shop. The warm smell of the pastries would fill the air as she entered the shop. Her grandmother would walk over to take the pastries and give Janice a kiss on the cheek. “The kettle’s on,” she’d say. After the coffee was made they’d sit at the table in silence, eating the pastries. She was given half hour for lunch during which she’d sit on the windowsill outside, reading whatever book had caught her eye that morning, and saying hello to the neighbours who passed by.
Janice took a deep breath and entered the storeroom. The shelves were empty apart from dust. The removal men had cleared it out the day before. The books that had been there were already on their way to the dump, their final resting place, a week after her grandmother. The stroke hadn’t been a surprise. She hadn’t been well since her husband had died the year before. She’d had a minor stroke a month or so after his funeral and everyone had put it down to the shock of it all. The two had been devoted to each other after all, they had said. The first stroke affected her vision. That’s when she’d had to get the stronger glasses, but they didn’t seem to help. She was forever losing them or breaking them. But in the shop she didn’t need them. She knew every inch of that place – could find her way around with her eyes shut.
There was only one day when she hadn’t met Janice when Janice had arrived with the pastries. Must have been about a year before her grandfather’s death. Janice had opened the door and walked in and smelt something different in the air. Tobacco. And a faint hint of whiskey.
“Gran,” she’d called, “Are you ok?”
She had heard something in the back, a movement. She put the pastries down on the table and walked into the storeroom. Her gran was there, on the floor.
“Gran, what happened?” she’d asked.
“Nothing, I fell. Help me up Jan.”
Janice put out her arm and her gran got to her feet slowly. Her nose was bloody and her right eye swelling.
“What happened to you?” asked Janice.
There was movement behind them. Janice turned and saw her grandfather standing there, his face ashen. The whiskey smell was strong.
“Rose, you ok?”
Her grandmother looked away.
“Just go Tom.”
“But you’re coming home later love, for your tea?”
“Yes I’ll be home for my tea.”
He turned to go then, but suddenly stopped. “Here,” he said, “You dropped these.” He handed her the glasses. The right lens was broken. She took them in silence. He turned and walked out. The chimes sounded again as the door shut.
Janice’s gran looked at the glasses and sighed. “Bloody useless things, I prefer it without them,” she’d said. “Now let’s open up.”
