Jaimie Admans - The Little Bookshop of Love Stories

I feel the first little flitter of worry about what I’m getting myself into here. I don’t know the first thing about children or children’s books, and I have to remind myself that Robert is an eighty-year-old man and is probably not the target audience either, but he manages, probably because of everything he’s learnt since he started running this shop, and I can do that too. I can learn. To work in a place like this, to own a place like this is all I’ve ever wanted. Any amount of work I have to put in is worth it.

When I go back down the wooden stairs at the right-hand side of the shop, all the customers have gone and Robert is waiting for me. ‘Would you like to see the flat? If you’d rather stay where you are, you can rent it out for a little extra income. There’s access around the back as well as through here.’

I almost laugh at the idea of not living in it as I follow him between shelves and through a little office at the back. It’s sparse for an office, with a desk and chair, a computer that looks like it was technologically outdated in the Eighties, a few filing cabinets along one wall, and a cupboard under the stairs that’s obviously for storage because the door’s open and there are folded tables and display stands spilling out. He points me through a door that leads to a narrow staircase and hands me a bunch of keys on a key ring. ‘Pop up and have a look around so you know what you’re dealing with. I fear it may be smaller than you imagine.’

‘It could be a toad’s armpit and it would still be better than where I’m living now.’

He hovers in the office doorway to keep an eye on the shop while I go up and let myself in the cream door at the top. The flat inside is an odd shape, long but narrow, warring for space with the children’s area on the other side of the dividing wall. The front door leads to a small kitchen and living area in one. A door divides that from a bedroom that is barely big enough for the single bed and wardrobe it currently holds, and squeezed in at one side is a bathroom.

The bedroom window looks out on the high street, and I rest my elbows on the sill and pull the net curtains aside. The fountain burbles away in the town square opposite, and I watch a young boy hopping up and down the steps while his mother talks into her phone. I remember sitting there reading on my way back from the library when I was young and so eager to get started on the books I’d taken out that I couldn’t even wait as far as getting home.

The sun is shining down, making the water glint with the reflection as the noise of the street filters up, muffled by the thick triple-glazed window. Back across the flat, there’s another window that overlooks the green bank of the river that flows past Buntingorden, and a back door that leads down a fire escape and out into a tiny patch of unmaintained garden and then onto the river footpath.

It might be small, but it’s amazing . It’s so much better than where I’m living now, and I’m still convinced I’m going to wake up in a minute because how can this be real? The unluckiest person in the Cotswolds has somehow won a bookshop and a flat, all in one day. My usual types of days are the ones where you lose your job, flood your flat, and walk in on your boyfriend snogging someone else all in the same afternoon. I’ve had more than one day like that. More than one boyfriend like that too.

When I’m done, Robert is still standing in the office doorway and looking like he’s been on his feet for too long. From the bottom, he directs me around the flat’s kitchen to make two cups of tea, and when I take them downstairs, he’s sitting on one of the leather sofas in the reading area. It’s almost in the centre of the shop, down a bit from the counter and surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. You often see students sitting there to study and people poring over books and furiously scribbling notes.

Robert spreads paperwork across the table in front of him as I put the two mugs down and one wobbles in my hand, nearly spilling its contents right across the important-looking documents. I breathe a sigh of relief once the mugs are safely out of my hands. That would not have been a good start to this adventure.

‘This isn’t just a big joke, is it?’ I ask as he lifts his tea with a shaky hand and sips it.

He laughs. ‘I’m not a joker, Hallie. You’ve been coming in here long enough to know that. The shop and flat above it are yours. It comes with only one condition – that when you are done with this place, whether it’s in two months’ time if you decide bookselling is not for you, two years when you meet a nice young man and want to settle elsewhere, or in many decades when you’ve given this shop all you have to give, you will find someone to pass it on to.

‘Once Upon A Page must never be sold. Its legacy is in the love for it. That is why it’s thrived for so long. Ownership is passed from one person to the next, like I’m passing it on to you now. I took over forty years ago from a very dear friend of mine. He had taken over from his father, who had run it for a number of decades, and I believe it had been passed to him from a distant cousin. The chain goes all the way back until it was founded in the 1870s. Each owner has taken over only because they love books and want to share that.

‘There have been hard times, but the shop has always survived. From hardship comes greater strength. The roof terrace was the result of a bomb during the war, and the innovative owner at the time chose to make the best of a bad situation rather than give in to despair. He took out the rest of the fallen roof, reinforced the floor, and built a set of steps up to it.

‘Once Upon A Page’s legacy is in the love of the written word, and you must agree to that condition before we sign any of this paperwork. This is not a property to “flip” or sell to the highest bidder – and believe me, there are high bidders who are desperate to get their hands on it – but when you decide to give it up, you must do as I have done and give it away freely. It doesn’t matter who you choose; it can be a family member, a friend, a customer, or a stranger, as long as you know they will love it as much as you do, and will agree to being part of the same legacy – to give it away when their time is done.’

I nod. This is a dream job – the last thing I want to do is sell it. And it’s unthinkable to talk about giving it up already. I can’t imagine ever wanting to give it up. This is a gift, something that will change my life, certainly not something to make a quick profit from. ‘How did you know everyone who entered the prize draw would be genuine?’

‘I didn’t. I just had to trust my instincts. I carefully observed who I offered tickets to. When money-grabbers came in enquiring because they’d heard it was up for grabs on some mysterious grapevine, I sent them packing. I firmly believe this shop is special, and that it has a little hand in its ownership. I didn’t think it would steer me wrong.’

‘You don’t have family to leave it to?’ I ask gently. I’ve never asked him about his family before.

‘I’m alone in the world, although I believe that anyone who loves books is never truly alone, and that’s always been enough for me. I would’ve loved a family, but it was never meant to be. I lost the love of my life years ago, but don’t you worry about me. I have many good friends all over the country and all across the world, both real and fictional. My head is alive with a million characters who have stayed with me over the years, and now it’s time for me to fulfil my final two dreams – to let Once Upon A Page live on with someone who loves it like I do, and to retire to the beach in Cornwall. I’ve wangled myself a flat at an assisted living facility on the southern coast, mere steps from the door to the sand. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for my autumn years.’