Page 2 of The Undercover Bookshop

He peers around again. “But for now, you get everything sorted here and simply help customers find what they need.” He gazes out the window. “With this lashing rain it’ll be blessedly slow today so start with the dusting after all is put right. I shouldn’t be gone more than a few hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

He presses a hand to his hip—the hip he hurt when he tripped over the three tins I’d left rolling across the aisle—and limps to the back storage room. I pull in a deep breath, feeling fairly fortunate that I’d accidentally left boxes of packing paper in the aisle as well. Without them breaking his fall, Mr. Hastings’s seventy-year-old hip might have fared far worse.

I meant well. You always do, I remind myself with derision. And I did. I mean, I do. I thought and still think my ideas on rearranging some items in the store are good. Surprising my new boss with them was not. But I wanted to thank him.

Thank him for my new perfect little home above the store with its comfy armchair, reading light, hot plate, and all the peace and quiet needed to settle in with my books.

Thank him that I’m no longer crammed tight in that London boardinghouse, freezing in winter and sweltering in summer.

Thank him that a good salary and one job, in a clean, bright space, can afford me a home of my own rather than needing two jobs and, even then, being able to afford only a lumpy bed in the boardinghouse’s attic with three truculent roommates.

I just wanted to thank him.

So when an idea struck while I was moving stock from the back storage room, I ran with it. I transferred some of the more popular tinned goods to higher shelves, where they could properly be seen, and I repositioned the rarely purchased dry goods to fill those vacant low spots. Except some items didn’t fit well into their new spots, so I had to shift them about again. In the end, though, I was pretty pleased with how it all looked. That was, until Mr. Hastings fell and I realized I’d forgotten about the few tins still left on the floor and a few boxes of other items I’d left cluttering the main aisle.

I pop up from my work at the brass bell’s happy chime. Tins can wait. Dry goods can wait. The mops spread across the second aisle can wait. The first thing Mr. Hastings said upon hiring me was that this is Great Rollright’s only general store, the heartbeat of the small village—alongside St. Andrew’s Church up the way—and helping patrons with efficiency and kindness always comes first.

“Good morning,” I call out. “May I help you?” I look towards the door but no one is there. I lift onto my toes and, because she moved with such alacrity, it takes me a moment to realize the woman crossed the store lickety-split and is coming around the aisle to my right.

“I heard Mr. Hastings hired a new shopgirl.” A tall woman, a beautiful buttery-blonde with hair cut in that curly bob that’s all the rage now, beams and holds out her hand. “Peggy Albright. I work as parish secretary at St. Andrew’s.” She widens her eyes and they flash fun and mischief. “I heard you were about my age too.”

Her hand is cold from the outside, and her nails are varnished a vivid red.

“Gemma Brown.” I introduce myself as I take in the clutter all around me. “Please watch your step. I’m still getting a handle on things.”

“I’ll say.” Peggy’s laugh is light, tripping, and melodic, not unlike the shop’s brass bell. She bends down and gathers three tins and slides them exactly where they formerly resided. “But don’t worry too much about the things. It’s the people you need to get a handle on.” She walks, with more sashay than stride, over to the customer counter and perches on one of the tall stools there.

As I’ll have time to tidy after she leaves, I follow her and another—perhaps larger—mess fills my mind. Me. Whereas Peggy is tall and lithe, with shiny curls springing at each step, I am shorter. Not squatter but a bit more full-figured. My hand drifts to my dark curls separating and falling limp across my shoulders from the morning’s exertion.

Even the way she settles is glamorous, with elbows propped and her chin resting on one hand. My heart drops with the disappointment these comparisons bring. I circle the customer counter to perch on the stool across from her.

Her lips match the color of her nails. “I saw Mr. Hastings’s advert and, personally, I thought it lacked creativity. What on earth made you come? All the way from London too.”

“How do you know I’m from London?”

Peggy’s smile curls at one end. “By now the whole village knows you’re from London. It doesn’t take long for news to circulate across 247 people and a shopping row one block long.”

I cast my mind back to the advert I had spied in a crumpled Oxford Times on the Number 12 bus.

Assistant Shopkeeper Position Available.

Salary, plus free room and board in single bedsit.

Hastings General Store.

Great Rollright, Oxfordshire.

I shrug. “It was the single bedsit that got me.”

There was more, of course. The dream of a quiet place to find friends, family, peace. A place to belong. A place to call home. A home that doesn’t require factory work, blowing soot out of my nose at the end of each shift, and the heavy pressure of feeling trampled upon each and every day. But I don’t say any of that. It’s too soon. I don’t know this woman. Besides, could someone so well-turned-out, someone with such beautiful hair, even understand?

She chuckles, full and rich this time. “That’s quite reasonable. With three sisters, my dream growing up was a room of my own too.”

The bell rings again, and I dash off to help Mrs. Southerland find washing soap—which I had moved but forgotten where and have to search for. I give her a complimentary cinnamon drop for stepping through all my chaos, and I make sure I repeat her name at least three times to remember it.

Peggy sits quietly watching the entire time.