Page 23 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

“Neither.” Myles puts his glass down. “It’s not our policy to give new businesses money because research shows it’s not the best use of resources. It’s easy for a new business to blow a two-year grant in the first six months and then realise their business was never going to be viable. My advice is to start small and build slowly.”

How small does he want me to start, without money to fix up the rooms, or buy furnishings? Unless he thinks I can lay a blanket on the cobbles in the village square and sit on it cross legged like a yogi master dispensing honey to passers-by from a jug.

Start small? Even the smallest start needs help.

I pretend to look around the pub while my mind frantically searches for a plan B. Grandad trusted me, I can’t fail a few hours later. My eyes stare at the dark wood of our table, rubbed smooth by hundreds of hands over the years, the studded leather seats, the flames in the stone fireplace, the other customers, most of them drinking a dark ale.

“We offer help in other ways, believe me.” Myles’s voice is reassuring.

“A shop needs shelves, tables, a cash-till. My grandfather didn’t even have a stock-taking system. And the rooms need painting and decorating.” I deliberately don’t drink anymore and wait for him to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

He smiles. “We can help with all that.”

I feel my eyebrows rising. “How?” He’s a man in a suit and doesn’t look like he knows how to wield a hammer or slap plaster on a wall.

He chuckles at my disbelieving expression. “Give me a few days, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Sorry,” I rush to apologise. “I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful.”

He waves my apology away. “Now, do you have an accountant?”

I shake my head.

“A business adviser?”

“Isn’t that you?”

“No. I’ll put you in touch with a local business owner who can coach you and make sure you have a workable business plan. And I can recommend a wonderful accountant.”

“Unless they want to be paid in honey, I can’t afford them.”

“As a new business, you’re entitled to free advice for the first two years. You see? We don’t give money, but we provide help in kind.”

This is good, very good. All the things he mentioned were on my list, and they all would have cost a lot of money. So yes, he is helping. “Thank you.”

“Do you have Wi-Fi at Labri Catch?”

“No…” The words are surprisingly hard to say. I have no idea if my grandfather has been paying his bills. “I have to budget for electricity and—”

He holds a hand up to stop me. “We can waive your bills for the first six months because you need utilities and connectivity to run your business.”

Since he’s on a roll, I give him a cheeky grin. “I don’t suppose you can also give me a computer and a printer?”

He wobbles his head. “No, but you have access to the admin suite.” He points at the window through which the lights of the Municipalité shine in the early dark. “It has computers, colour printing, photocopying, anything you need.”

Okay, he’s left me speechless. I look from him to the window and back.

He smiles at me. “You see? I’m not as useless as I look.”

We both laugh and I begin to relax. This might actually work; it can be done. Except that the new shop still looks like a musty old living room with peeling paint.

“What else?” he asks. “You still look worried.”

I look into my notebook. “Since you don’t have cars here. How can I transport the stock from the old shop?”

“Tyrrell,” he says in the same way I might say Amazon Prime.

“I’m sorry is this a thing?”

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