The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane: The feel-good read perfect for those long winter nights

‘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.’

Chapter Four (#ulink_98f23acb-2014-5a6a-a10f-05cf963adb9d)

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. Mum was tiny back then. Anyway, she’d lost it or thrown it away or something. She was always a bit vague about what happened to it.’ Della smiled wryly. ‘She probably tore it up when Dad left her.’

‘Made it into rags,’ Freda suggested.

‘Yes, for cleaning the loo or something.’ They both chuckled.

‘Funny, 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.