Free Songs from the Violet Cafe by Fiona Kidman

people may use jam rolls for bookmarks if they wish. Bookshops are for the preservation of newness and originality until someone pays for the privilege of owning a book. Then they can do what they like with it.’ The newspaper ran a short puzzled piece over a headline that said ‘LOCAL LIBRARY BOOKS FILLED WITH JAM’. It wasn’t great for business. A new bookshop was opened on the next corner, by a man with hair like an oiled raven’s wing who was in love with another man, and in touch with people’s feelings. His business was doing very well.
    Ruth found herself capitulating to the demands of commerce. A publisher’s representative (a rep, as he vulgarly called himself) came round and persuaded her to invite an exciting young author who was onto his third or fourth highly successful novel to come into the shop for a signing session. Ruth had never held such an event before, but if she sometimes offended people, she considered herself astute, and times were difficult.
    â€˜Are you suggesting a little gathering?’ she asked.
    â€˜Oh that would be simply divine,’ said the young man. Ruth thought people only talked like that in West End stage plays.
    â€˜What do you think I should serve?’
    â€˜Gary’s partial to a beer or two.’ Gary wrote about the life of men in the bush, hunting and fishing, that kind of thing, of which Ruth knew absolutely nothing.
    â€˜There won’t be any beer in here. Think what it would do to the books.’
    â€˜Well, perhaps a little glass of bubbly, something nice and sparkly.Up near the counter away from the books.’
    â€˜It would be after six o’clock. I’d be arrested.’
    â€˜Mrs Hagley, it’s not as if you’re a hotel.’
    â€˜I should think not. It’s a public place though. Anybody can come in here.’ Her expression registered how unfortunate this was. ‘A cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, perhaps.’
    â€˜Well, I suppose so.’
    â€˜It’ll be expensive enough as it is. Are you going to pay for these refreshments?’
    â€˜My firm could make a contribution,’ he said uneasily. ‘We’ll help with the advertisement for the paper.’
    â€˜Advertisement? Definitely not. I’m not putting an advertisement in that paper, and besides, if it’s to be a party I don’t want just anyone turning up.’
    â€˜You don’t advertise at all?’
    â€˜Only on radio. Now and then.’ Ruth loved the radio.
    â€˜Then how does anyone know what you’ve got in stock?’
    â€˜They know I’m here.’ Her voice was regal.
    â€˜Well, I don’t know whether that would work.’ The rep turned towards the door as if he might go away. She guessed he would walk on up the street to the sleek sad man in the corner bookshop, whose lover had recently betrayed him.
    â€˜A flier to all my regulars. I have five hundred people on my mailing list.’
    The rep turned back, his eyes lit up with surprised admiration. ‘Now you’re talking.’
    â€˜You’ll pay for the postage?’ she said, her voice as smooth as ball bearings. When he nodded, she said, ‘My daughter will attend to the food.’
    â€˜I think we should make provision for one hundred and fifty,’ Ruth told her daughter that evening.
    Hester looked up from her task, sewing seed pearls down the front panel of her wedding dress, and flushed. Her mother was used to Hester’s flushes, the dark maroon stain that started at her throat and travelled upwards. This was almost the only sign her daughter ever gavethat she was annoyed. Sometimes Ruth wanted to shake her and tell her to shout back at her. She knew very well that what she was asking was an imposition. Hester had so little time off from the café where she worked, because the woman who ran it was well known for being difficult and imperious and expected her staff to work longer hours than