The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights. Ellen Berry
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I mean.’
‘Good idea,’ Della said, ‘but you two can choose. And Tamsin, you should have a piece too.’
‘Well, maybe those tiny gold earrings, if you’re sure that’s okay?’
Della nodded. ‘No problem.’
‘And the jet necklace? I mean, if no one else wants it?’
‘Er, I don’t think—’ Roxanne started.
‘And the opal ring,’ Tamsin went on, flushing excitedly now. ‘That is, unless it’s particularly special to anyone.’ At some point she must have compiled an inventory of Kitty’s jewellery, Della realised.
‘Actually, I don’t want any of it,’ she murmured.
‘Why not?’ Roxanne exclaimed.
‘Because Tamsin’s right, I’m not an accessories person.’
‘It’s not accessories, Mum,’ Sophie admonished her. ‘This is Gran’s jewellery. You should have something personal.’
‘But I will,’ Della cut in. She stopped talking and stared around the room: at her brother and sister, who were regarding her intently, and at Mark, who still looked rather uneasy about the prospect of problems with the fence and the drains. She glanced at Isaac, who was now badgering Sophie to let them have a proper look at her tattoo again – the cuff of her outsized sweatshirt covered it – and at Tamsin, who was sitting bolt upright, eyes gleaming, as if in anticipation of taking possession of all that beautiful jewellery. ‘I’ll take Mum’s cookbooks,’ Della said carefully, ‘if that’s okay with everyone.’
Mark’s eyes widened. ‘The cookbooks?’
‘Yes, if no one else wants them, of course.’
Roxanne shook her head. ‘Well, I don’t. When did you ever see me cook anything?’
‘And we don’t use them,’ Tamsin added. ‘Haven’t for years. They just clutter the kitchen, get splattered with food, so dirty and unhygienic.’ She winced. ‘So I got rid of them all, dumped them at the charity shop. Now I have this app. You just tap in whatever you have hanging around in the fridge – some pecorino, a bunch of kale, a few figs – and up comes a recipe to use everything up.’
Della tried to look suitably impressed. ‘Amazing.’
‘We never have pecorino or figs,’ Mark said with a smirk. ‘Maybe a bit of old Cheddar and some bendy celery if we’re lucky.’ He squeezed Della’s hand. ‘You don’t need to decide about the books now, darling. I know you’re upset, you’ve had so much on your plate.’
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I have decided.’
‘Let Mum have some, Dad,’ Sophie cut in, turning to Della. ‘I’ll help you pick some out, Mum, if you like.’
‘Thank you, love, but I’m having them all.’ The living room fell silent. Della was aware of everyone’s eyes upon her; even the twins were staring as if waiting for her to add, ‘I’m joking of course.’
‘All of them?’ Mark gasped. ‘But how many are there?’
‘Nine hundred and sixty-two,’ Della replied.
He let her hand drop. ‘What? But that’s just … that’s insane!’
‘It’s how many there are, Mark.’
‘So … you’ve counted them? When did you do that?’
‘Years ago, when I was little girl.’
‘But—’ he started.
‘And after Dad left, Mum stopped buying them,’ she added.
Mark shook his head. ‘We can’t possibly keep them all, love. What on earth would we do with them?’
‘Just have them,’ Della said firmly.
He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know it’s hard for you to let your mum go …’
‘It’s not about that,’ she retorted, a tremor in her voice now. Her eyes were prickling too, perhaps due to it being the aftermath of the funeral, or maybe because the cookbooks seemed to matter so much. They were only books, filled with pictures of fondues and outlandish desserts slathered with cream and set alight at the table. How could they pose such a problem?
‘But, Dell, they’re worthless,’ Jeff added. ‘I doubt if a charity shop would even want them. Oh, they’d probably accept them just to be polite, then chuck them into the wheelie bins out the back.’ Della could sense her heart rate accelerating. It was that tone he used. He really hadn’t changed a bit. I don’t want to fine you but if I didn’t, I’d never get my Guinness Book of Records back … She glared at him, and then at Mark: two Alpha-males who always decided how things would be done. Well, not this time. She was the one who’d cooked with Kitty – and who, more recently, had held her hand tightly on numerous hospital visits – and, by rights, those were her books. No one else had given them so much as a perfunctory glance. Mark shook his head in exasperation and, as way of grabbing a few moments to herself, Della scampered upstairs to make up the futon for the boys.
‘The cookbooks, Dad. Are you going to stop her or what?’ Sophie’s voice rang out from the living room.
‘Yes, of course I am,’ Mark replied.
‘But she seems determined—’
‘Well, it’s just not happening,’ he said firmly. ‘No way are those ratty old books coming into this house.’
They did, though – three days later – not because Mark and Sophie had granted permission but because Della had decided she didn’t need anyone’s approval to assume custody of her mother’s books. They were hers by right, for goodness’ sake. Easy-As-Pie was related to her by blood. The Avocado Handbook and Elegant Catering were moving into 57 Pickering Street and, short of armed security being installed at the front door, nothing was going to stop them.
So, post-funeral, Della had snapped into action. She hired a van and bought boxes, and she and Freda drove over to Rosemary Cottage to pack up the books. Jeff, Tamsin and Roxanne had visited the morning after Kitty’s funeral, in the manner of ravenous magpies, to scoop up copious amounts of jewellery plus a bone china tea set and a set of engraved silver napkin rings. They hadn’t wanted anything else, and Della had made sure Kitty’s favourite plain gold chain went to Sophie as it was all she’d asked for.
Now Della gathered up the framed photos that were dotted around in every room of her mother’s house. Most were of the Cartwright children at differing ages: grinning in clammy swimwear or sand-dusted T-shirts and shorts at Morecambe Bay or on Scarborough Beach. It struck Della, as it always did when the three of them were pictured together, how different she was from Roxanne and Jeff: dark-eyed, with skin that easily turned honey-brown in the sun, against their fair colouring. ‘Look at this,’ Della said, showing Freda a small photograph in an Art Deco-style silver frame.
‘Wow. Is that your mum and dad’s wedding?’
‘Yeah. Mum hadn’t wanted a wedding dress. I mean, not a traditional one – said she couldn’t be doing with all that fuss and nonsense. She was beautiful, though, wasn’t she? Only about twenty-two then.’
They studied Kitty, a delicate slip of a thing, her make-up understated, her fair hair secured in a neat chignon. She was wearing a knee-length shift dress in white lace, teamed with pointed white sandals and a short fur throw. ‘She looked so elegant,’ Freda agreed.
‘I know. I so wanted to wear that dress for my wedding – not that it would have fitted me, probably.