‘Sweetheart.’
June. Stalwart, redoubtable June, arguably Nightingale Books’ best customer since she had retired to Peasebrook three years before. She had stepped into Julius’s shoes when he went into the cottage hospital for what looked like the final time. June had run her own company for more than forty years and was only too willing to pick up the reins along with Mel and Dave. With her fine bone structure, and her thick dark hair, and her armful of silver bangles, she looked at least ten years younger than her three score years and ten. She had the energy of a twenty-year-old, the brain of a rocket scientist and the heart of a lion. Emilia had at first thought there might be a romance between June and Julius – June was twice divorced – but their friendship had been firm but purely platonic.
Emilia realised she should have phoned June as soon as it happened. But she hadn’t had the strength or the words or the heart. She didn’t have them now. She just stood there, and June wrapped her up in an embrace that was as soft and warm as the cashmere jumpers she draped herself in.
‘You poor baby,’ she crooned, and it was only then Emilia found she could cry.
‘There’s no need to open the shop today,’ June told Emilia later, when she’d sobbed her heart out and had finally agreed to make herself some breakfast. But Emilia was adamant it should stay open.
‘Everyone comes in on a Thursday. It’s market day,’ she said.
In the end, it turned out to be the best thing she could have done. Mel, usually loquacious, was mute with shock. Dave, usually monosyllabic, spoke for five minutes without drawing breath about how Julius had taught him everything he knew. Mel put Classic FM on the shop radio so they didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Dave, who had many mysterious skills of which calligraphy was one, wrote a sign for the window:
It is with great sadness that we have to tell you
of the death of Julius Nightingale
Peacefully, after a short illness
A beloved father, friend and bookseller
They opened a little late, but open they did. And a stream of customers trickled in throughout the day, to pay their respects and give Emilia their condolences. Some brought cards; others casseroles and a tin full of home-baked muffins; someone else left a bottle of Chassagne Montrachet, her father’s favourite wine, on the counter.
Emilia had needed no convincing that her father was a wonderful man, but by the end of the day she realised that everyone else who knew him thought that too. Mel made countless cups of tea in the back office and carried them out on a tray.
‘Come for supper,’ said June, when they finally flipped the sign to CLOSED long after they should have shut.
‘I’m not very hungry,’ said Emilia, who couldn’t face the thought of food.
June wouldn’t take no for an answer. She scooped Emilia up and took her back to her sprawling cottage on the outskirts of Peasebrook. June was the sort of person who always had a shepherd’s pie on standby to put in the Aga. Emilia had to admit that she felt much stronger after two servings, and it gave her the fortitude to discuss the things she didn’t want to.
‘I can’t face a big funeral,’ she said eventually.
‘Then don’t have one,’ said June, scooping out some vanilla ice cream for pudding. ‘Have a small private funeral, and we can have a memorial service in a few weeks’ time. It’s much nicer that way round. And it will give you time to organise it properly.’
A tear plopped onto Emilia’s ice cream. She wiped away the next one.
‘What are we going to do without him?’
June handed her a jar of salted caramel sauce.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘There are some people who leave a bigger hole than others, and your father is one of them.’
June invited her to stay the night, but Emilia wanted to go home. It was always better to be sad in your own bed.