Mary's Blog

Making It Happen

posted by Barter Books @ 7:00am, Friday 18 July 2008.

Since that day when Phil and I first entered the lost room, we’ve been hard at work making the café happen, you can imagine.

That included parcelling out the jobs it would involve.

Stuart the Husband’s job: to do the costing. (Stuart’s job is always the costing. I sometimes wonder if he regrets marrying me.)

Tom’s job (Tom Stewart, he’s the architect): to convert what was essentially a derelict room with no access to our bookshop into a buffet with an access - a metamorphosis made all the harder by the fact that our bookshop is in a Grade II listed Victorian station, and you can’t just do any old thing to it or, quite rightly, you’ll have hell to pay.*

Daisy’s job (Daisy, gorgeous, talented, you’d hate her): having worked for years as a decorator, Daisy’s job was to work with Tom to turn the look of that room from derelict into inviting - a cosy little buffet, yes, but with, please, strong overtones of American diner. (I’m a Yank; you see; I get homesick.)

Jay’s job (Jay, Daisy’s husband, tall, skinny, stylish): 1) To put up with Daisy and me; and 2) as a former head of the Graphics Department at university, to chip in, please, with the odd invaluable suggestion, as well as, upon occasion, the telling snigger.

Kerwin’s job (Kerwin Farmer, joiner*): to realize Tom’s plans. Which means bringing in all his mates, Paul the Mason, Dave the Plumber, Richard the Electrician and just do the job. And perfectly. (I bet you think I'm exaggerating; I'm not.)

And Phil? What was Phil’s job? Phil the very discoverer of The Lost Room?

Phil’s job – by choice - was the very last job I reckon any sane person would want: Project Manager. Which meant Phil had to coordinate all of us - architect, mason, joiners, electricians, plumbers, decorator, painter, me. All this to get the Buffet open on time (High Season). And on budget. 

Why would Phil want to do this? Why would anyone want to do this?

Because Phil actually likes making things happen. (Watch him – he’s in his element.)  Plus, as a grown-up trainspotter, Phil loves anything to do with trains or train stations. So that returning life to a derelict room in a brilliant old Victorian train station was his idea of fun.

 Which brings me to me. What was my job?

My job was the same one it’s always been, ever since the day we first began the bookshop, maybe the thing I do best: knowing who's good. Really good. And then getting them to help me.  (I beg; I wheedle.) And then not let go until it looks like the home we'd want and feels like the home we have.

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1.  Gaol. English for ‘jail’. Either way, you go to them.

2. Having said this, I must say I have noticed that a fair few Grade whatever-it-is listed buildings around and about do seem, upon occasion, to find themselves flattened and, lo, not too much later a large building rising on its ashes, say, a supermarket. Curious.