marjorica | Week 1

It was the kind of bookshop that one seldom finds in these days of internet shopping and corporate giants. There were books, pamphlets and magazines everywhere, shelved and boxed and stacked and arranged according to some esoteric cataloguing system.

At the very back were the distressed paperbacks, books which had lived very hard lives and were beyond dog-eared, but were still quite complete and readable. These were a miscellany and one might acquire the canon for pennies on the pound.

Behind the counter, locked in a cabinet, were the rare books and first editions. There were precious few, but they were there and treated with reverence. The numbers were padded out with more pristine versions of collectible books which were more common, like runs from the early Everyman library.

There was a small stage that the Owner had installed back when he had fancied the idea of poetry readings, author events, perhaps even book clubs. This phase had not lasted long, was too much bother for too little return, so now even there was a small trestle heaped with new publications.

On the counter there was space reserved for offerings from local authors, such as they were. Memories of the good old days when the Luftwaffe flew overhead and there were still two cinemas on every street. A guide to the local churches. An actual novel whose author effected to pretend he had forgotten all about ‘that old thing’.

Next to the local fare was a cushion. Behind that was a sign saying

DO NOT STROKE
DO NOT FEED

The obligatory shop Cat appeared to be lazily regarding this, in a plump, self-satisfied tabby way. He looked up at the Owner with his big, green marble eyes and said, “You might as well admonish them to not allow me access to writing materials while you are at it.”

“That would not fit on the sign and would require explanations that I am not prepared to give,” the Owner said. “Besides, you are getting fat and your proclivity to violence is not good for business.”

“It is in the nature of a Cat to not appreciate being poked and manhandled by louts to whom I have not even been introduced,” Cat declared. “As for fat, well, the adjective you are looking for is magnificent. Now, get the kibbles down and we ought to decide what we are doing today. I would suggest commencing with airing the shop out. The aroma of decaying tree matter is becoming overwhelming and I detect a hint of mildew among the Distressed Books.”

The Owner sighed and shuffled forwards to prop the front door of the shop open on the cast iron cat doorstop and ease the few transoms outwards. Cat was right as he so often was and condescending likewise.

Cat had come into his life some years back when he was a much younger putative bookseller. He had been at a house clearance, looking for items that he might sell, even if that just meant piles of National Geographic and Mills & Boon. This former occupant had broader interests from old atlases to books of history and folklore, some of them quite arcane. The descendants wanted none of it. When he came across a most unusual bookend in the shape of a frog with eyes made of big green marbles, he had asked how much and been given it as a gift.

He could never quite relate what had happened next, not in any linear way, but somehow his wanting a simple bookend had brought Cat into being. He had not always been Cat, but when he had asked the astounded Owner what he wanted out of life, this dream of a bookshop spilled out. Becoming Cat had been a corollary.

He could not really complain. Cat was excellent at finding auctions, jumble sales, library closures where small gems could be discovered. Cat was excellent at surveying the almost organic blooms and outcroppings of literature and suggesting a relocation here or a promotional display there. Cat was, generally speaking, excellent in his diabolically feline way. He was certainly good company when he decided that he wanted some and otherwise was happy to lie beside Owner when he watched television or sat and read with the radio on.

Sometimes Cat went out, sometimes for days. Owner had learned not to ask where he had been, not to pry for any more information than was offered. Several times Cat had come back with wounds and on occasion he had suffered these to be treated by the vet. “An odious little man whose eyes I would not deign to scratch out,” was Cat’s withering assessment. Still Owner kept his curiosity to himself.

What ever it was that Cat got up to, his life had certainly been more successful with him in it. The neighbouring shop was currently, suddenly up for sale, even after its owners had said that they never would sell. Owner was in a position to buy and extend his own premises. The collectible book selection could be enlarged. The periodic buzz that attends small businesses had swung around to him again.

Cat completed his perambulation of the floor, stretched and said, “I think we are ready to open. Let’s have a cup of tea and chat awhile before the horde descends. Today promises to be satisfactory.”

Owner nodded and went to put the kettle on. It took a special set of skills and run of luck to make it in his beloved book trade these days. He considered his bargain to be a good one.

***

This was my entry for LJIdol, Wheel of Chaos, and you May vote here:

https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/1185269.html

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

drippedonpaper

This is great. I could use such a cat in my life. I think I WOULD start a book store if I only knew it would be successful.

I hope you consider writing and sharing future adventures of the cat, perhaps? :)

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Week 1 - Quality

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