The Brightfount Diaries

Helen just asked for this.

Chap came in during afternoon trying to sell Rexine glass shelves and chromium stands. Rexine, surveying with dignity our ancient, scarred wood, said, ‘My dear man, we can’t flout tradition; there’s been a bookshop on this site since 1820.’ The dear man suggested it was time for a change.

‘You don’t know the book trade,’ Rexine said, retreating from his dignity with a laugh. When the traveller had gone he added contemptuously to me, ‘Glass shelves! With you and Eastwode beefing about!’

New girl confided before we shut shop that she’s ‘terribly fond of symphonies’. Told her I’d just bought Bizet’s No. 1. Good start.

On strength of this, roughed out sentimental little article on book-selling that I may offer to local paper. It ends with this telling (?) summary of the job: ‘The trade that pays so little and gives so much.’

July

SUNDAY

Rather overcast in morning, but cycled dutifully over to Graves St Giles to see Uncle and Aunt. House in chaos, owing to the grand turn-out in honour of cousin Derek and his bride, who return from Singapore next Friday week. Doubt if Aunt will ever have the place ready in time.

Slightly insulted to see how thoroughly they have thought it necessary to clean my room. It was stripped of everything bar wallpaper.

Uncle Leo paced up and down it excitedly, gesticulating as he did so. ‘I wouldn’t have any furniture in the house at all, if I had my way,’ he says, adding in lower key, ‘not, as you know, that there is ever any likelihood of my having my way here.’ I know nothing of the sort, Aunt Anne being the gentlest of women, and he continues hastily, ‘My whole life’s been devoted to selling empty houses, as was dear old Pa’s before me, and believe me, they’re vastly better without being cluttered by a miscellaneous welter of furniture. You don’t smother the outside with lumber – why spoil the inside?’

Now he is warming to his theme. In trying to sell an odd idea to me, he – how often have I seen him do it! – sells it to himself. A house should be a shell, filled only with the spirit of its inhabitants, a sort of homely monastery. He has forgotten about the necessity for beds, chairs, tables … If he had his life over again, and was free of the tedious necessity of running a miserable, moribund little estate agency (a job he loves), he would live indoors and cultivate his soul. ‘As it is, my soul’s all whiskers and bottom.’ He’d take up Yoga, a sort of Westernized Yoga.

‘Lunch is ready, dear!’ Aunt calls.

‘The voice of authority,’ says Uncle. ‘Come on, may as well eat. Don’t know what Derek and Myra will think of this room – it’s the draughtiest in the house.’

Mr and Mrs Yell are very kindly couple. Would insist when I got back that I went into their living-room and had a slice of cold pork for supper with them.

MONDAY

Workmen in, doing new shelving job in cellar. Ever since I’ve been here there seem to have been workmen romping round.

Poor old Mr Parsons, who as our packer looks on the cellar as his own domain, much put out by this strange activity round him.

‘Trouble with them’, he tells Rexine, ‘is they talks too much. Their boss is a bloke called Vaws; I reckon it ought to have been Jaws, because that’s all he does, jaw, jaw, jaw!’

Spent long while sorting out order for University of Lehukker in America. Dave, seeing me begin to dust a thickly coated set of Lytton, cries in mock-horror, ‘Don’t do that! Our only chance of getting rid of a bit of dust is to send it away with the books!’

Few customers about. Was sent after lunch-hour to get on with ‘Slaughterhouse’. This derelict bit of shop is crammed on all sides with unsorted volumes, piled on the shelves in no order. Being on ground floor, it is all too convenient place to store second-hand books when they are bought to await pricing and categorizing later. But in bookshops, later never comes. There always seems too much to do.

Amusing to note people’s attitudes to the Slaughterhouse. Miss Harpe, who left in the spring, always referred to it as ‘the Miscellany Room’ and refused to go in it. When customers find their way in, they either exhibit extreme displeasure to find such disorder or extreme delight at such a gallimaufry.

Gudgeon, our senior assistant, is on holiday. He spends all his holidays with equally silent friend, fishing up and down England. Poured with rain most of day; let’s hope the fish are rising well.

TUESDAY

Our new assistant, Miss Ellis, is not turning out quite as well as (I) expected. For her looks, much can be forgiven her, but was much shaken to hear her pronounce ‘Goethe’ as ‘Go-Ethe’, the second syllable to rhyme with ‘sheath’. Unfortunately, Mrs Callow, in whom the vein of satire runs deep, also heard it. Suspecting my leaning for Miss Ellis, she devised, and repeated throughout the day, this chant:

Goethe, Goethe,

What very prominent teeth!

They make you look a swine

Compared with Heine, with Heine.

Mr Brightfount in reminiscent mood. While Arch Rexine made himself ostentatiously busy, Dave, Mrs Callow and I listened with interest. It does not sound much fun to me to have earned only a guinea a week, but everyone who has tried it seems to have enjoyed it – in retrospect, anyway.

Mr B. started in the approved fashion, the hard way. ‘I’ve gone without many a meal to buy myself a volume I coveted,’ he admitted with a shade of pride. He is quite right, of course; one of my favourite memories of myself is sitting empty in pocket and stomach, reading Clive Bell’s Civilization. It would not have excited me half as much over fish and chips.

Mr B. says, ‘I explored every avenue connected with books,’ a nice metaphor that gives him a country background. But it was in London that he bought a partnership in a small publishing house. They are still functioning, and have just published By Bicycle Up Everest.

Dave asked him why he had thrown that venture up and returned to bookselling.

He chuckled. ‘Publishing?’ he said. ‘There’s no money in it!’

At closing, Miss Ellis was met by offensive young fellow who took her arm and led her possessively away.

WEDNESDAY

Very neat van stopped outside Fletcher’s, the nearby café. Little windows in either side showed bright books. Sneaked out to have closer look. It was an Oxford University Press children’s book van. Asked the driver where he was going. He winked and said, ‘Cambridge.’

Half-day. Tennis: not playing well this year. Polishing up my little article on bookselling, wrote it out neatly as possible, and posted it to the Journal and Advertiser. Don’t suppose they’ll have it. If they do take it and pay me for it, I shall buy myself a new pair of white socks.

THURSDAY

Life is very irritating really; nothing turns out as planned. Meant to get up early and go for walk but overslept. And Mrs Yell had burnt the toast – not for the first time, either. Mrs Callow greeted me with her nasty chant:

Goethe, Goethe,

What very prominent teeth.

But the afternoon was lovely. Mr B. and Rexine both had to go out, and Mrs Callow was upstairs helping Edith, our dumb office wench.

Dave and I chatted with Peggy – Miss Ellis. Sun shone, warping boards of escape books’ display in side window. Doors open: a dandelion seed drifted aimlessly in. Sold two expensive prints.

Cross Street seemed to dream in the sun. In the church next door, someone was playing the organ superbly. With the sound and the sun and the books and Miss Ellis, life suddenly achieved a pattern, rich and satisfying – and how old the pattern was, though the organ pipes were but recently installed and the books fresh from their authors’ hearts.

Or are books written mainly from the head?

Anyhow a feeling of tranquillity permeated the air. As we lolled on the counter, Dave recounted his most exciting moment in a bookshop. The war was on, and he was alone in shop with a nervous evacuee woman who came to work afternoons only, name of Flossy. The time for closing was drawing near; there were no customers within miles.

It was a soaking wet November night; out of the blackout came a wild-looking giant who commenced to prowl up and down the shelves. He wore no raincoat and his suit was saturated, but he paid no heed, merely dashing water out of his hair. Totally ignoring the two behind the counter, he marched round the shop like a being demented.

Flossy was alarmed. Did Dave think he had escaped from anywhere? Dave said nonsense; but the big man was certainly behaving queerly, leaping from section to section, pulling out a book here and a book there. Some he crammed back on the shelves, some – almost without glancing at them – he formed into a pile on the floor.

‘See what sort of stuff he’s going to buy,’ Flossy hissed; she was all for phoning the Home Guard. When the odd man’s back was turned, Dave sneaked over and glanced at the top book which had been selected. Its title made his hair stand on end: The Criminal Responsibility of Lunatics.

He had just informed Flossy of this when there was a power failure. All the lights went out. Dave was nonplussed, but not Flossy; she started to scream. Fortunately, the electricity reappeared in a minute. The stranger was gone.