The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights. Ellen Berry
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isn’t it,’ Freda remarked, ‘that she kept this photo on display even after they broke up? I mean, you’d have expected her to shove it in a drawer or something.’
Della nodded, glancing again at her parents who, although standing close together on the registry office steps, were not touching. They’d had a small wedding, Della knew that, and a couple of friends – young, ridiculously good-looking, and dressed in a smart suit and a similarly fashionable dress respectively – loitered in the background of the photograph, as if not quite sure where to put themselves. Although a rather meek-looking William was gazing adoringly at his bride, Kitty’s attention seemed to be somewhere else. Throughout their marriage, she had always behaved as if William had slightly disappointed her. Perhaps she had felt that a little even on their wedding day.
Having filled the van, Della and Freda drove back to Della’s red-brick terraced house in the quiet residential area of Heathfield. She hadn’t warned Mark or Sophie about the imminent arrival of the books. Mark was having drinks at the golf club, and Sophie was just ‘out’: Della found it virtually impossible to track her movements these days. With impressive speed – and an air of stealth – Della and Freda unpacked the boxes in the hallway, stacking books along one entire wall.
‘They’re amazing,’ Freda breathed, leafing through Venison Cookery, which, disconcertingly, featured a wide-eyed, distinctly Bambi-like deer on the cover. ‘Of course you had to have them, Dell. It was obviously a real passion for her. She must’ve been a brilliant cook.’
Della considered this. ‘It’s hard to say. Dad liked everything plain – big joints of meat, a splash of gravy if he was feeling wild. He was suspicious of vegetables, apart from potatoes and frozen peas. Jeff was the same.’
‘What about Roxanne, though? Can’t imagine she was exactly a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl.’
Della laughed. ‘Well, you know what she’s like now with her juices and spiralised veg and all those intolerances. As a kid, she was terribly picky, so I suspect Mum felt there wasn’t much point in being too adventurous.’
‘So why all these books?’
‘Oh, they’d have dinner parties when she and Dad were still together – they were lively affairs – with prawn cocktail starters and proper napkins folded into swans.’ Freda chuckled. ‘And occasionally she’d push the boat out and try something wild, just for us.’ Della flicked through a lavishly photographed volume entitled Be the Perfect Hostess. ‘She made this – Hungarian goulash – and this salmon in aspic. Look at it, perched there under its little blanket of jelly …’
‘Ugh! I can imagine what you all made of that.’
‘Well, I was willing to try, it was new and different, but the others …’ Della’s eyes lit upon a luridly coloured picture of a fondue. ‘And this! Oh, I remember this. Cubes of raw meat we had to dip in bubbling oil …’
‘Health and Safety,’ Freda sniggered.
‘Yes, Mark would have a heart attack.’ Della chuckled. ‘But mostly, I think Mum’s books were a way into another world – you know, where people ate veal and set fire to their desserts instead of ripping open a packet of Angel Delight. You know what Burley Bridge is like, such a sleepy, tucked-away little place. Maybe the books were a sort of escape from all of that.’ The door opened then and Sophie flopped in.
‘Hi, love,’ Della said.
‘Er … hi.’ Her gaze fell upon the teetering piles. ‘What are these?’
‘Grandma’s cookbooks, darling.’
‘Look, Sophie.’ Freda grinned, waving the fondue page at her. ‘How d’you fancy this for dinner tomorrow? Little bits of raw beef deep dunked in boiling oil?’
‘I’m vegetarian!’ she exclaimed. ‘Mum, these books, they’re not … staying here, are they?’
Della nodded. ‘Well, yes, for now.’
‘But …’ Sophie pushed a strand of hair from her face. ‘But they can’t.’
‘I’m sorry love, but they are.’
‘But they’re old and falling to bits and they smell …’
‘No, they don’t,’ Della protested, although in truth Sophie was right: a rather musty, old papery aroma had filled the hall, plus something else: a hint of dinners from days gone by. Sunday roasts, rich gravy, a steamed pudding slathered in bright yellow custard … It wasn’t unpleasant – it was familiar, almost comforting – but it was definitely there.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. ‘They do. They smell of … old things, old people.’
Della looked at her. ‘But you like old things, love. You love vintage shops, you hardly ever buy anything new.’
‘Clothes are different,’ she exclaimed.
‘Are they, though? They’re unique, you’re always saying. They have a history, a story to tell. It’s the same with cookbooks.’
Sophie picked up The Fine Art of Margarine Cookery and shuddered. ‘Who the hell eats margarine?’
Della swung round as the front door opened and Mark strolled in. His fine-boned face was a little flushed around the nose and cheeks.
‘Hi, darling.’ Della pecked his cheek, but he didn’t seem to register the kiss as he too was staring down at the books. He hadn’t acknowledged Freda either.
‘What are these doing here?’
Della cleared her throat. ‘They’re just sitting quietly, in piles.’
‘For how long, though?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’
By now, Sophie was leafing through another book. ‘There’s a whole chapter on dripping. What’s that?’
‘It’s just the fat that comes out of meat,’ Freda explained.
‘Ugh!’ gasped Sophie.
‘People used to have bread and dripping,’ Della added, at which her daughter mimed vomiting.
‘This is crazy, Dell,’ Mark cut in. ‘Tell me they’re not staying here. Please tell me it’s only temporary.’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Della replied as Sophie snatched a book and waved it in front of him.
‘Look, Dad. A whole book on margarine!’
‘I hate margarine,’ he declared, as if someone were about to force it upon him.
‘They’re not all about margarine,’ Freda said, laughing.
‘And people used to have it, Sophie,’ Della added, ‘when they couldn’t afford butter.’
‘Yeah,’ Mark cut in, ‘people used to have all sorts, didn’t they? Diphtheria, scurvy, Bubonic Plague …’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Della spluttered. ‘Don’t be like this.’
‘… consumption,’ he went on, cheeks reddening further. ‘Rickets, smallpox …’
Della laughed in disbelief and turned to her friend. ‘He’s a ray of sunshine tonight, isn’t he?’
‘They’re just books, Mark,’ Freda added with a smirk. ‘Not a contagious, olden-days disease.’
He grunted, and Della accompanied Freda to the front door. ‘Thanks so much for helping, and sorry about Mark.’
‘They’re just not his kind of thing,’ she observed.
‘Well, they’re my thing,’ Della said with a defiant smile.
Freda paused on the doorstep. ‘What are you going to do with them, though?’