Page 39 of The Secret House of Honey and Hope

Over my dead body are they getting the house.

I wait for Grandad to wake up and have breakfast before I broach the subject. “A man called Alastair came this morning."

“Tell him to leave. I’m never selling.”

“He says you borrowed money from him.”

His brow furrows and he looks down at his hands. “Only for the bills, just a temporary thing, till I’m back on my feet. They promised to wait, it was only the bills and I never asked him to do that, he just offered. But it’s only the bills.” He repeats, and I can see this really upsets him.

I pull a chair next to him and sit down. The last thing I want is to embarrass him. “Do you remember signing any papers?”

He looks confused. “No, he just comes over on Fridays to show me the bills have been paid.” Grandad pauses for a second then continues. “He’s a pushy one, says he knows a buyer willing to make an offer on the house. They came over a few times, went round measuring rooms until I told them to sling their hook. Now Alastair bangs on about what a great offer I lost out on.”

I have no way of untangling what really happened and how much of it was Alastair making him sign under false pretences and how much is Grandad forgetting what he signed. The look of fear and pain on his old face twists my heart.

“Never mind. He’s gone now.”

We’ll need to find the money to pay the weekly interest and, eventually, the debt itself. But where? Making the repayment would clean out my savings in a few weeks.

There’s only one place the money can come from, the shop. We must start trading. If we open on Monday, hopefully, there’ll be enough by Friday to pay Alastair’s next instalment.

Monday.

The bank manager who handles business loans tells me, when I call her, that they haven’t reviewed my application yet.

Is there any chance to speed things up?

She says the earliest they could have an answer would be in ten days.

Standing in the front rooms looking at my future shop, I flip through my long list of tasks. It somehow looks longer now than it did earlier this morning when I was reading it to my sister. How happy, how optimistic I was, how confident. Now all I see around the two rooms is a disaster.

There’s only one thing to do.

Commit.

Make it happen.

I dig out my phone and call Myles to ask if he could announce the opening in theCock. Yes, I’ve started calling it theCocktoo.

“It’s a bit short notice,” he says.

“I have to open on Monday, no choice.”

“You’re going to run like a headless chicken over the weekend,” he says.

“Headless chicken would be an improvement. More like headless, legless, and wingless chicken.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to the editor to squeeze you in.”

“Oh, Myles thank you. I know this isn’t really your job. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

He laughs. “It’s fine. Happy to help. What do you want the advert to say?”

I think of my lovely dreams, the branded shopping bags, colour-themed blinds, and pretty signs showing the relevant herbs and flowers for each honey, all of it will have to happen slowly as my sister suggested. As long as it’s clean, painted and has some shelves.

Here goes.

Heart beating and doubt nibbling at me, I say, “Opening Monday, Relaunch Special. Honey tasting…” I think about this. “Do you think having my grandfather talk about his bees will camouflage the absence of fittings? He can do a Q&A about the origins and benefits of honey.”

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