I am wearing a pair of black shorts, it’s sticky and melting in the streets of London and onion-filled shops fry their grease back into the streets.
I got lost in Brixton, at least that’s where I thought I was. I jumped on one of these small buses cramped with pregnant women and tired men on crutches. Found myself in the English countryside of hills and organic cookies, they tell me it is Dulwich.
I gave away more CVs, I even walked into Oxfam and asked for vacancies only to find a puzzled fish-face and a manager laughing: ‘this is a charity, not a bookshop’. The list grows thinner and thinner. Today I covered half of London: Brick Lane with its fake pebbled street and youngsters with no socks, Peckham pulsating with carcasses under the sizzling August tiredness. Greenwich, a stripy sailor top and mirages of sea-shells – there were only chicken bones on the river bank. Finally here I am: Bermondsey, a ghost town of moaning council flats overtaken by flower shops and delis. I hold the map, turn it round and round. It’s a Google map and of course I printed it too damn small. All I can see now is a square somewhere where this bookshop should be. They do creative writing workshops and sell cakes and have lots and lots of books, a nice website and a gallery space.
I remember giving my CV to Sarah, thinking ‘this one’s posh. She probably read more books than I’ll ever see in my entire life’. I never asked her how many books she has read but then I wouldn’t know how many I’ve read either.
The shop is quiet. Very quiet, not the quiet I will grow accustomed to on Sundays, but a tranquil quietness I should say, a serene atmosphere. Sarah was nice to me, she didn’t seem to notice my quivering tone and did not realize that I had been rehearsing this scene all week: ‘Have you got any job vacancies available?’ I remember googling the question to reassure myself this was really how people ask for jobs in this country and is it really? I still don’t know. I hand over my CV and hope. This place was my first choice and the last bookshop I visited.
Waiting for a response wasn’t easy. I couldn’t do anything, just wait. After two months not one bookshop had got back to me and I remember my ex tiredly repeating I had to give up hoping and I should have applied somewhere else.
Then I was in Hyde Park, sitting, staring at the pages of ‘The Tempest’, trying to read it – I still haven’t been able to. I get a text from Fran, one of the bookshop’s owners. They might be able to offer me occasional work. More time. Time, time, time. I am now in Italy on what should be a holiday, but feels more like an escape, no longer hoping in a bookshop, not even dreaming about working in Woolfson and Tay.
A voicemail. Fran wants to call me and ask me a few questions. I leave her a message. Tell her I expect her call whenever.
Phone rings as I’m cleaning some fish with mum. Perfect timing. Fish bones flying, everywhere. Scales here, pincers there. My mother paralyzed at me jumping frenetically from one spot to the next. I, looking for a towel, dripping octopuses on the floor ‘It’s the bookshop people!’ I scream, ecstatic when I realize I can still have a phone call with slimy hands. I answer the call, shaking. I sit down in the sitting room. Brother chooses to listen to loud music and ignores my silent curses. The stairs seemed like a place where I could quietly have a phone conversation, alas! Mum decides hovering is a good idea, so finally I resolve to shut myself in what was once my bedroom. I walked and walked in circles, I was doing bloody cardio on the phone! There was no way I could keep still. Chatting, as red as a lobster, swallowing heavy chunks of concrete spit down my throat. The call went terribly – I thought. She won’t like me, she gave me a trial day because I sounded desperate, besides she probably will find someone who can start working straight away. I am in Italy, the country that never gave me opportunities and that is now taking one away from me.
Back to London and my trial day was with two girls I had forgotten the names of after five minutes. They had really difficult names, pronounced differently from the written version, so I spent the entire day trying to overhear them calling each other. I was also not very accustomed to talking to customers while trying to figure out the hieroglyphic café till. My shaking out of nervousness was also not helping. To top it all off, there was an incredible amount of books, sections, alphabets, surnames, places and prices to remember and I just couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the possibility of losing something before even getting it. I said to myself ‘if you’re gonna be nervous, at least be yourself ‘ and so I did and maybe that’s what got me the job at the end – or maybe Xana and Cui’s benevolence – because really, looking back, I would have sacked myself.
I did not meet Fran and Shivaun for a long time. There were very busy and I was only working on Wednesdays. It was only when they asked me to work on Sundays that I started to get to know them too. I remember my first Sunday in the shop. Making coffee for Shivaun and her family. Coffees on top of coffees because they were not warm enough. I remember feeling totally comfortable around Shivaun. There was something about the way she affirmed her presence that should have intimidated me but didn’t. Rather it reminded me of my mother’s assertiveness, my grandma’s gritty comments and my aunt’s impenetrable judgement. I recognized in her a vulnerable strength so peculiar to the women in my family. I also recognized a family, her family. They came and had cakes while Shivaun lovingly showed her grandson children books and reading lights. It was a tenderness I’d never felt in London and only really perceived back home. I will always cherish the Sundays with Shivaun, reading newspapers, exchanging thoughts about writing and creativity or simply laugh at our sweet bitterness. Those Sundays. Always the ‘quietest Sundays’, ‘the worst Sundays’, where everything in the streets felt hazy compared to the vivacity of our exchanges. I remember seeing Shivaun for the first time, thinking she could have been a character in one of my stories. I always felt she had qualities I would like to have as a woman: determination, lovingness, creativity, acuteness and amazing sense of humour.
Fran was an indefinite presence in Bermondsey. I saw her busily unwrapping bags of food, train-smoking cigarettes outside, answering piles of e-mails, changing meticulously the card displays… She was the locomotive of the shop, always doing more that my eyes could spot, with a logic and precision I will probably never master. I was at first intimidated by her. It was as if my presence was interrupting her busy schedule so I kept a safe distance, making sure I was not an obstacle. Moving to Bear Lane slowly made me closer to Fran. Gradually she realized my limitations as well as capacities and acutely realized how she could approach them. I also grew extremely fond of her cooking and really all I know about Asian flavours I owe to her. Her Tom-Kha soups invigorated my long days of essay writing and studying. She introduced me to unknown flavours for the first time and thanks to her I am now addicted to ginger and tofu. Fran also had a bluntness and at the same time a sensitivity that always fascinated me. I know little of her past, what she managed to tell me was always because she felt it was somehow relevant to my own situation and this I appreciate very much. I always felt I could ask any question to Fran and would receive an honest response in return. I eventually realized she was not there to judge me, but to make sure I would learn to do something to the best of my ability.
Tomorrow is going to be my last day at Woolfson and Tay. I am ready to fly, sadly but filled with a priceless strength. Both Fran and Shivaun have been two strong pillars during my last few years. Encouraging me, supporting me, criticising me when it was needed, accepting me fully with my annoying dark jokes, my mood swings, my good days, bad days, ever-changing haircuts, troubling relationships and always allowing me a freedom of expression I didn’t know I could experience in the workplace.
Of course all the girls in W&T made this journey extremely valuable, but this wouldn’t have happened without Fran and Shiv. I wouldn’t have met these wonderful people, I wouldn’t have read amazing books and got to know inspiring writers. I wouldn’t be the person I am now. I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but W&T really was a school of life. A place filled with what I love most: wonderful writing, food and lovely people. I have observed the place growing and changing as well a multitude of people finding themselves in its premises, feeling home. A retreat from grinding London, W&T was the place where I could look for myself, make mistakes and evaluate them, make them again, stop and listen, discover. It was a platform for expression, growth, creativity, tenderness, laughter, silences and endless talks…
I am wearing a pair of black shorts, it’s sticky and melting in the streets of London and onion-filled shops fry their grease back into the streets.
It’s a never-ending labyrinth out here again, but I have more than a piece of paper in my hand. More than just a Google map and a pile of CVs. I have a place inside me: a bookshop where I can canoodle, where I know I can meet all of you again and feel safe, whatever happens.