The Mistletoe Kiss

1

The bookshop doorbell tinkled softly as Christy hurried in out of the pouring rain. Shivering, he leaned on it for a moment, allowing the familiar warmth to envelop him in its embrace, and the pungent scent of old paper, ink, and leather to calm him as it always did.

“Good morning, Mr. Shaw.”

Christy shook himself, and glanced over to where the shop owner, Mr. Fenton, sat behind his desk, pen inhand. Mr. Fenton didn’t look up, he continued to write in his ledger, spectacles perched on his nose.

“Good morning, Mr. Fenton,” Christy said, trying not to drip all over the floor. He hurried through the shop into the back room and quickly divested himself of first his coat, scarf, and hat, then the rest of his wet clothes. He slipped into the clean, dry shirt, trousers, cravat, and waistcoat that were hanging there waiting for him, then pulled on his smart coat, and donned the uniform of respectability. Of a bookseller. It made his chest almost burst with pride every time. He tugged his waistcoat down, smoothed his damp hair, and then strode out into the shop.

“Throw another log on the fire, would you?” Mr. Fenton said. The cosy fire in the shop warmed it and drew many a customer during the winter months. Christy hurried over and poked the embers and then rested a log on top. He held out his hands and warmed them. The dreary December drizzle had given way to a ferocious frost last night, then turned into pouring, freezing rain for his morning walk to work. He soaked up the warmth as he waited to make sure the log had taken, then headed for the back room, away from the customers, where the old range burned merrily. He swung the kettle over the fire to boil to make tea. Mr. Fenton liked tea at the start of the day. Today, a large pan of what looked like porridge simmered gently on the plate as well. Christy’s stomach rumbled as he gathered the tea things onto a tray and waited for the water to boil.

The back room of the shop was the warmest, cosiest place on earth and Christy loved being the only person, apart from Mr. Fenton, who was allowed in. Two armchairs of worn, dark red leather sat either side of the range, in the centre of which a fire burned. There was a hot plate on one side, and an oven onthe other. A huge hook for holding a kettle or a pan over the burning fire completed the ensemble. It wasancient, but Christy loved it. A big rag rug of myriad hues covered the floor, and the times that he had sat in one of the chairs with Mr. Fenton in the other talking about books, the world, and on occasion, politics, were some of Christy’s happiest moments.

The kettle boiled and he made the tea. There were no customers yet, just Christy and Mr. Fenton. He always took the greatest care to make the tea exactly how Mr. Fenton liked it. He placed the china cup ona saucer, placed it on the tray with a cup for himself, and carried it through to the shop and placed it by Mr. Fenton’s elbow.

Mr. Fenton looked up. He didn’t exactly smile, he wasn’t a smiling sort of a man, but his eyes warmed. He had the most beautiful eyes. Clear, crystalline grey, and so intelligent and sharp they bored into a man’s soul. Sometimes, Christy was a little afraid to hold his gaze too long, afraid of what he might see.

“Thank you, Mr. Shaw.”

Christy had long ago invited him to use his Christian name, but Mr. Fenton had just nodded and continuedcalling him Mr. Shaw.

“My pleasure. What are we doing today, Mr. Fenton?”

Mr. Fenton put down the quill and closed the ledger in which he had been writing. He had lovely hands too. Long, strong elegant fingers and clean, trimmed nails. The sight of them made Christy curl his fingers into his palms to hide the grime he knew lay beneath his own ragged fingernails.

“Christmas displays,” he said, with a note of irritation in his voice as if pandering to the whims of the customers was something that he shouldn’t have to do. As if people should love and appreciate books in and of themselves, and as though adorning the shop with tawdry gewgaws, in the way that most shopkeepers did at this time of year, should not be something a serious bookseller should involve himself in. Christy felt as though he should adopt the same serious and slightly irritated attitude, but the prospect of Christmas decorations filled him with excitement, and set ideas whirling about his head.

He tried to remain serious. “We’ve a couple of hours before the shop opens, I suppose we could get something ready?” he said with a half-smile and a shrug. He wasn’t sure how long he had been arriving at the shop before seven, even though Mr. Fenton told him that he need not arrive until the time they opened, which was nine o’clock, but as Mr. Fenton seemed to appreciate his help, and, on occasion, his company, Christy continued to arrive as early as he could. Mr. Fenton nodded and picked up his cup of tea and sipped. He sighed and nodded, closing his eyes for a second. “There’s porridge in the back room if you would like some. I can never judge the quantity. I seem to have made enough for a battalion.”

Christy’s stomach rumbled and Mr. Fenton raised an eyebrow. Christy blushed. “Thank you. That would be most welcome. Would you like some too?”

Mr. Fenton nodded. “I think I will.”

Christy hurried into the back room, taking the teacups with him, and filled two bowls with the hot, steamy porridge.