The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (20 page)

‘The people from Hope don't think the bookstore's going to succeed,' said Sara. She was sitting at the bar in the Square with Andy and Tom. ‘They don't think anyone here's interested in buying books.'

‘We're not,' said Tom.

He had turned up at the Square after her, so she had convinced herself that she hadn't stood a chance of avoiding him. When he arrived, he had nodded, sat down next to her and absent-mindedly listened to the conversation she and Andy were having.

The voice in her head hadn't stopped. Now, it was nagging her to touch him, trying to convince her that it was completely normal to touch his arm simply as part of the conversation, or to touch his back in order to draw his attention to something, or his hand, which was worryingly close to hers.

He wouldn't even think it was strange, the voice was saying, people are always touching one another. She wrapped both of her hands around her beer glass to resist temptation.

‘Of course you are,' she said, adding for the sake of honesty: ‘Or you will be.'

‘And that's not the point,' said Andy. ‘The point is that they think they're so superior.'

‘Aren't they, though?'

‘What's Hope got that we don't?' Andy asked.

‘Jobs,' said Tom.

‘Apart from that.'

‘Shops.'

‘Ha!' said Andy. ‘Have they got a bookstore, though?'

‘Exactly,' said Sara.

Without really knowing it, her words had planted a seed of resistance. Or at least as far as Andy was concerned. But that didn't take much.

He was an enthusiast through and through – the type of person who embraced every new project that came his way. He was the first to welcome anyone new who turned up, and for him, every stranger was a friend he simply hadn't told his stories to yet.

Broken Wheel was his main interest, and it had been ever since he had moved back from Denver and bought the Square with Carl. Small-town life was the only real life, no one appreciated it as much as Andy, and homophobia in the countryside was nothing more than a myth and a big-city conspiracy these days. Carl endured Andy's convictions patiently, even though most people suspected that he hadn't been quite so keen on the idea of moving to Broken Wheel. Which was probably a good thing for the health of their unregistered partnership, since a relationship between two enthusiasts like Andy would have been too much for anyone. And their friends.

The seed which Sara's words had planted would soon blossom into full-blown madness. Andy phoned Grace, and together they came up with a simple, idiot-proof plan for defending Broken Wheel's honour and messing with all the condescending Hope residents who kept visiting their bookstore. Grace abandoned her principle of not getting involved in the town's business; any chance to mess with Hope was worth it.

The plan was genius in its simplicity: whenever a Hope customer appeared, Grace would be making sure that any Broken Wheel inhabitant who happened to be in the vicinity was sent over to the bookstore to calmly stroll between its shelves, buy books, ask about book orders, and generally act like someone who loved their bookshop and subscribed to the
New York Review of Books
.

Andy asked Carl about well-known authors that literary, educated people might read. Carl mentioned Proust, which would turn out to be an unfortunate suggestion.

‘A Frenchman, too,' Andy nodded approvingly. ‘Very good. Literary, educated people read obscure books.' He passed the name on to Grace.

The day the plan was going to be put into action, George made the mistake of visiting Grace's. He was only stopping by for a cup of coffee, but he was forced against his will into taking part. Andy had gone through everything one last time on the phone, and Grace had been standing in the doorway all morning, on the lookout for the first customer from Hope.

It was time.

Since the customer was still waiting at the traffic light, she spent a few minutes briefing George. With each word, he grew more nervous.

‘Can't someone else –?' he asked, but she interrupted him.

‘Just look educated. How hard can it be? Off you go.'

It was easier to agree than to stay and protest. He hesitated outside the bookstore, and glanced at Grace, who was gesticulating for him to go in. He snuck in nervously just ahead of the Hope customer.

He tried to hide himself in the far corner of the shop, looking literary. He didn't exactly know what that entailed, but he tried furrowing his brow and staring knowledgeably at the spines of the books. Unfortunately, he had happened to stop in front of Sophie Kinsella's
Shopaholic
series. At that moment, he was looking at
Shopaholic Ties the Knot
in a literary, educated way.

Sara looked questioningly at him before she was forced to attend to the customer from Hope.

He was in his fifties, and fat in the kind of way that comes from having an office job and long lunch breaks. He was also excessively tanned, the kind of tan that comes either from an addiction to barbecuing shirtless, or from a sunbed.

‘Ha ha,' he said, rather than laughing. ‘You must be Sara.'

She admitted that she was.

‘Ha ha,' he said again. ‘Only a European would come up with the idea of opening a bookstore in Broken Wheel.'

Somehow, he had managed to insult both the entire European continent and the whole of Broken Wheel in one fell swoop.

Two more people entered the shop. They were both wearing well-ironed, new-looking checked shirts, with gleaming buckles on their too-tight belts. It was obvious that the three of them had come to town together and that Suntan hadn't bothered to wait for the others. Impolite, Sara thought with satisfaction.

‘From Sweden, aren't you?' asked Suntan.

Sara nodded. She was distracted by George, who had furrowed his brow even more and was now almost glowering at poor Kinsella's books. That in itself did actually seem quite literary.

‘Not so many folks here,' Shirt Number One said to Suntan. Both Shirt Number Two and Suntan nodded.

Sara wished she was one of those people who could come up with a sharp retort on the spur of the moment.

‘Can I help you with anything, George?'

He stared at her like a drowning man who has just had a life ring thrown at his head, and is still about to drown, but now with a headache. His hands were shaking more than usual, and tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

But the Hope customers' barely concealed criticism of Sara had given him enough courage to say, in as formal a tone as he could manage: ‘I'm looking for books by Proos.'

He looked meaningfully at the customers. They didn't appear to care.

Sara mimed ‘-T' at him, like a prompter in the theatre.

That just confused him more. ‘Proot?'

‘Yeah,' said Sara. ‘Proust. Of course. We don't have his
In Search of Lost Time
, unfortunately, but I can order them for you.'

‘S … sure,' George stammered. ‘Order it for me.'

‘Them,' said Sara.

‘It's more than one book?' asked George. He didn't quite manage to mask the panic in his voice.

‘Seven,' said Sara.

The customers from Hope laughed. Outside the window, Grace had snuck over and was trying to look as though she was just standing there, smoking nonchalantly.

‘European,' Suntan said to the Shirts.

‘I actually voted no to EU membership,' Sara said to no one in particular, mostly because she felt as though she should say something.

‘Did you know that I changed the name from French fries to freedom fries in all my restaurants a couple of years ago?' Suntan asked.

The Shirts laughed.

‘Did you know that you got the Statue of Liberty from France?' Sara asked. ‘So strictly speaking, your name change owes a nod of thanks to the French?'

A mean look appeared around Suntan's mouth, but he didn't say anything. The men left the shop without even buying a book.

She turned to George the moment the door closed behind them.

‘OK, George,' she said, ‘what was that whole Proust thing about? Do you really want me to order the books for you?'

‘God, no,' he said. ‘It was Grace's idea. Or Andy's.' He explained the whole fiasco.

She laughed. ‘I can't believe you let yourself get drawn into it.' Then she remembered Suntan. ‘But it wasn't a bad idea,' she added thoughtfully.

‘Are you planning on doing it again?' George asked uneasily. He looked at the clock. ‘Because I've got to … go now.'

‘From a purely practical point of view, I think we'll have to develop the idea a bit. Maybe it would be best if I chose the book titles and authors in the future.'

Grace was trying to catch their attention to find out how it had gone. She gestured so wildly that the ash from her cigarette fluttered through the air.

‘Not a bad idea at all …' Sara said to herself. A worryingly set look had appeared in her eyes.

Andy and Grace's idea had actually been alright, she thought. It was just that it had been on too small a scale. To really catch Hope off guard, they would need to mobilise the entire town.

Over the next few days, Sara called Andy, talked to Grace and visited Jen.

When she finally explained the plan to Jen over a cup of coffee, it was easy to convince her as soon as she mentioned the newsletter. Her boys were out playing, thankfully. Jen kept an eye on them through the kitchen window, while she nodded at the reworked version of Andy and Grace's idea. ‘A book sale,' she said. ‘Why not?'

Which, of course, would need to be advertised in the newsletter. The book sale was, of course, nothing but a pretence, but it was as good a reason as any to get customers from Hope to come. Once there, the inhabitants of Broken Wheel could dazzle them with their literary tastes and their unusually keen interest in books.

‘Don't forget to put the newsletter up in Hope too,' she said.

‘Book?' said Sara.

She was standing outside the shop, handing out books to anyone unlucky enough to walk past.

The elderly lady in front of her gripped her cigarette more firmly in her mouth and looked sceptically at her.

‘A book, huh?' she said. ‘Indeed.' She held out her hand. ‘Gertrude.' Her handshake was hard and when she brought her hand back, she took the book Sara had held out to her with it.

‘Sara,' she replied politely, though she suspected that the majority of the town already knew her name. She looked unhappily down at
The General's Daughter
by DeMille, which Gertrude was clutching.

Maybe she should be thinking more carefully about which books she was giving out. However good
Word of Honor
had been,
The General's Daughter
was little more than a foray into bondage, scantily clad as a thriller. Not quite as bad as
Spencerville
, but hardly the right kind of book for the woman in front of her. She made an attempt to swap it, but Gertrude was clutching the book so tightly that her knuckles were white. It had turned into a question of status.

‘Read it on Saturday!' said Sara, though she hoped that Gertrude would never even open it. ‘On Main Street, somewhere near the bookstore.'

No one was safe.

The minister from Amy's funeral also happened to pass by the bookshop at the wrong moment.

‘Father!' said Sara.

He paused obediently. ‘William,' he corrected her.

Sara was holding a new book. This time, she had chosen it with care, but now that he was standing in front of her, she was less certain. She had wanted to give something to the nervous minister and didn't think that anyone could fail to be charmed by Giovannino Guareschi's portrait of the Catholic minister Don Camillo Valota and post-war Italy. She hoped the minister would be taken with Don Camillo's conversation with Jesus, and his squabbles with the local communist leader, but religious people were sometimes a bit sensitive when it came to their prophets. Entirely understandable, Sara thought. She didn't enjoy it when people joked patronisingly about books.

But she didn't pause for long. ‘Here you go,' she said, holding out the book.

‘
The Little World of Don Camillo
?' he read aloud.

‘I hope you'll enjoy it,' she said.

He made a movement towards his pocket and his wallet. She waved it away. ‘No, no,' she said. ‘It's on us.'

‘Why?' He sounded confused.

‘What's the point of having a bookstore if you can't share books with people who deserve them?' she said innocently. ‘Read it. You're going to like it.'

She ruined the innocent impression by adding: ‘And if you see anyone from Hope, you can always take it out and look as though you're captivated by it. On Saturday, ideally. Round here.'

‘Why?' he asked again.

‘Because …' She hesitated. ‘They're so condescending, Father!' she eventually exclaimed.

‘William,' he corrected her automatically.

She told him about the customers from Hope, about Andy's idea and George's Proos, more enthusiastically than coherently.

‘My God!' he blurted out, blushing immediately. Then he leaned towards Sara. ‘How will I know if they're from Hope?'

‘They drive cars, stop at the red light and have well-ironed shirts.'

He nodded. ‘There's a lot of truth in what you're saying.'

‘And Grace will give a sign.'

It wasn't actually so strange that the minister decided to take part in Sara's campaign. He knew what it meant to be a disappointment and to be subjected to condescending jokes and glances. He had been ‘Poor Will Christopher' for a long time now. And he didn't even drink.

He came from a long line of ministers. His father had been a minister, and his father's father, and a whole host of uncles. His great-aunt had wanted to be a minister and had caused some kind of scandal with her involvement in the civil rights movement. She had even had a brief fling with a black man. A preacher, of course.