‘Time wasters,’ Betty said bluntly. ‘We’re not.’
‘I looked you up on the Internet,’ Mr Oliver said. ‘I didn’t realize you designed book covers.’
‘Just did the paintings for them,’ Robin said.
This was before publishers discovered Photoshop and no longer wanted to pay artists. He didn’t talk much about that.
‘Your designs for the Waugh reissues,’ Mr Oliver said. ‘Coincidentally, we sold one a few weeks ago. Alec, not Evelyn.’
Betty smiled, recalling how, when Robin had first been offered these Waugh covers, he’d asked her if Alec and Evelyn were husband and wife.
Mr Oliver said. ‘We… began by specializing in literary first editions but, sadly, there are not as many collectors as there used to be. Nor, indeed, as many bestselling literary writers.’
Betty saw Robin’s mouth opening, probably to say something like, fuck literary, just go with the flow, and shot him a warning glance. Robin shut his mouth, went loose.
‘Look,’ Mr Oliver said. ‘I don’t know how much time you have, but… ah… there may be a basis for discussion.’
All right, it wasn’t in totally great condition. There was some damp in the walls, and damp wasn’t good for books. Caused foxing – was that the term for the brown marks on the edges of pages? But damp could be dealt with… eventually.
Betty said. ‘If we decided to go ahead, how long would it take to draw up a lease?’
Mr Oliver’s hands opened out.
‘Drawn up already, Mrs Thorogood. Just a question of your agreeing to the terms.’
Interesting. When did that happen – before or since he’d checked them out on the Net? Robin was trying to catch Betty’s eye, but she kept looking at Mr Oliver, choosing the best time to hit him with Kapoor’s suggestions about rent and repairs. She pointed to the stairs.
‘Perhaps one more look at the living accommodation before we go away and think about it?’
Upstairs, it looked… OK. The rooms were not huge and the windows were small, but it was clean and the taps worked. The whole building had evidently been a barn at one time, and the upstairs was the loft. Must have been converted to living accommodation quite some while ago; there was a small fireplace, probably early twentieth century, another upstairs, now sealed off. Pity, it was cold up here.
Too cold? She went still, slowed her breathing. Robin must have seen her arms drop to her sides; he raised an eyebrow.
Betty shook herself.
‘So has this ever actually been living accommodation for you, Mr Oliver?’
Mr Oliver said he and his wife had a house on the outskirts of the town. Clearly it had provided living accommodation for someone in the not-too-distant past – note the replaced wiring, the extra power points, the TV aerial socket.
‘It’s a bit… compact, isn’t it?’ Betty said. ‘We’d have to put some of our furniture in store. Or sell it.’
‘I will admit,’ Mr Oliver said, ‘that I never thought of anyone actually living here. Wouldn’t deny that life could be a trifle cramped.’
‘For a while, anyway,’ Robin said. ‘Until we make enough money to turn upstairs into more book rooms. You ever think of that?’
‘As I say, Mr Thorogood, our original plan to pursue what you might call a literary purity proved to be incompatible with the times. And the business tended to consume too much of our time.’
‘It’ll come back,’ Robin said unconvincingly. ‘Quality always prevails.’
‘One hopes. I could have sold the shop last month as a… body-piercing establishment.’
Mr Oliver smiled grimly, letting them out. In the alley, an old lady turned round.
‘You smelled him yet?’
She was in one of those ankle-length stockman’s coats, unwaxed and worn back to the webbing. Mr Oliver sighed.
‘Good morning, Mrs Villiers.’
It was the tweed cap she had on that ID’d her – the little old lady he’d seen last time they were here, walking up the alley whistling, making him feel good. She jerked a thumb at Mr Oliver.
‘Reckons he don’t smell nothin’.’
‘Like what?’ Robin said.
But she just walked away, looking back over her shoulder, leaving them with a cracked grin with black gaps.
‘One of the charms of Hay,’ Mr Oliver said drily, ‘is the number of characters one finds here.’
Mrs Villiers stopped.
‘Dickhead,’ she said.
Robin smiled happily. You wouldn’t get that on the street in Bath or Cheltenham.
As they walked away, Betty said something about them accepting there’d have to be sacrifices. Robin stared at her in the alley, knowing that making sacrifices wouldn’t mean like coming down from Michelob to Budweiser. Nor would it involve a white cockerel, a knife and a full moon. Usually, something less bloody than one and more painful than both.