“Why are we so early?” Hubs asked.

“Because you were in a hurry to get to work.”

“Shall we go for coffee? Is there enough time?”

“Now you’re talking.  There’s more than enough time.”

So off we go to the fuel station where the best coffee is brewed and healthy takeaways are prepared while you wait.

Everybody in town seems to be queueing for breakfast and it takes a little longer to get our coffee than expected. Carefully, without spilling the hot liquid, we walk the two blocks back to our shop. The manager has just arrived, unlocking the security gate. She unlocks the door for Hubs so he can run and deactivate the alarm while I hold his coffee.

I unlock the bookshop and Hubs and his colleague start to carry the non-book stuff that gets stored overnight in the bookshop, out into the arcade. First the antique baby cot is taken out followed by the shower doors. Then comes the sleeper-couch, the twin-tub, the two car wheels, the plastic splash-pool, the curtain railing, five mats and some more small items.

It takes about twenty minutes on any given day to clear the bookshop, which leaves me ten minutes to sweep, mop and dust while the early customers are lining up for the day’s shopping. We finish with a few minutes to spare.

“Just a few more minutes, ladies and gents. We’re almost done. Thank you for your patience.” Hubs and I relax and finish our coffee, by now cold, but still good.

He opens the doors and takes up his place in the arcade while I welcome the first customers.

“Good morning, Mama, are you looking for a specific book?”

“No, I want Bible.”

“You want an English Bible?”

“I want Xhosa Bible.”

“Sorry, Mama, no Xhosa Bible. Only English.”

Her shoulders hang and she turns to walk away.

“Please come again soon. Perhaps we have Bible for you next time.” The old Xhosa woman smiles and walks out. The next customer has a different request.

“Do you have any Stephen King books?”

“We do. We unpacked quite a few yesterday.”

I direct him to the shelves where popular fiction books are kept in alphabetical order. And so the shoppers line up one after the other.

“Already found your treasure?”

“Yes, eight of them.” I count them. Yes, eight books.

“R40.00. Thank you.”

“I love the way the shop is organised now. It’s much easier to find what I want.”

“Yes, the volunteers have been busy. It is all their doing.”

“Do you have reading glasses?”

“Right over here, Sir. In the brown box.”

“Where are your gardening books? Last time I was here they were on that shelf.”

“Gardening books are in the corner over there, Ma’am.”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.”

Next customer: “Thirteen books. Are they all the same price?”

“All the same price. Our sale goes on till the end of the month. Thirteen books, R65.00-, please.”

“How much for these pencils?”

“One moment, please.”

“Morning, Magdel.”

“Morning, Chris,” I reply while handing over the change for the one who bought thirteen books.

“Have a nice day and come again.”

“Will do.”

“The pencils are R10.00 for the whole bunch.”

“If I add these envelopes, will it still be R10.00?”

“No that would bring it to R12.00.”

“You know, your prices are ridiculous. These pencils aren’t even worth R10.00. And why are so many items not marked. Why do I always have to ask for the price?”

“Our books are not marked because we have a sale on. They are all the same price and I…”

“You’re doing an excellent job, always directing me to the right shelf.

And with a smile,” another customer cuts into the conversation. I can hardly contain a smile.

“Thank you. Glad you’re happy with our service.”

One of our famous customers, a musician, sneaks in, browses for a few minutes and pays for a vintage book. He leaves the shop smiling, unnoticed by anyone but me.

The dispute about our prices continues and yet another person adds her opinion:

“Good service, and where would you get better prices? PNA?”

The grumpy one slams R12.00 down on the counter, grabs her pencils and envelopes and strides out.

“How much do I owe you?” asks Chris, our only customer who is allowed to buy on credit.

“If you take this book, it will be R15.00.”

“Thank you.” He grabs the book and swiftly walks out.

Oh, no, see who just entered.

“Good morning, sweet lady.” Pastor Charlie starts flattering early on a Monday morning, kissing my hand.

“What bargains do you have for me today?”

“Lots of bargains, Charlie Boy, as long as you pay the price.”

“Now you’re unfair. How can you treat me like that? You make me feel like an orphan.” The next moment his elderly mother follows him into the shop.

“Mom, can you borrow me a few Rand? This lady here is nasty. She would not give me discount and I really, really need these files.”

“Shame on you. You ought to pay for your mom’s shopping, not borrow from her. She’s a pensioner.”

The mother just smiles her sweet smile.

“You have no mercy. My mother likes to pay for me, don’t you Mom?” The sweet smile again.

“And she is rich. I’m just a poor pastor.”

Chris returns the book he took earlier and starts looking for another.

“Right. A poor pastor who just returned from a long holiday up north.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m broke. Now look at this fabulous concordance. I have to have it.”

“Fabulous, yes. That’s why it is not included in the sale. The price is R40.00.”

“Naw, you’re awful. I’m going to talk to your husband. He will tell you to give me discount. And as a good, Christian woman you’ll have to obey him.”

The look on Chris’ face hearing these words is not easy to describe.

“Charlie, I don’t work for my husband and he has no say in the matters concerning the bookshop. His job is out in the arcade. Here at work he is my colleague, not my husband.”

Lifting one eyebrow, Pastor Charlie goes into the arcade to have a chat with Hubs.

They return laughing.

I keep my ground; the price of the concordance is R40.00, not a cent less.

Being firm with this man serves no purpose. He grabs the concordance, throws R20.00 on the counter and leaves.

We all stand gaping—speechless.

I make a note in my records. At least I have witnesses.

Chris walks out with a new book, the previous one returned, shaking his head, mumbling: “Since when must a woman obey her husband. The pastor should read his Bible. It is not in the Bible.”

Glances from other browsers follow Chris while Hubs and I smile at each other before he goes back to his spot in the arcade.

Shortly after this, Hubs return. “Come, get your bag. It’s lunch time.”

We hurry to the nearest coffee shop, sit down by a window table and place our orders. We chat; we eat and then, out come the cell phones. He checks Facebook and I do LinkedIn.

Back in the shop one of our regulars soon arrives. She works in a bookshop up the street, but loves to shop here every day.

“How’s your dog? Getting better?” I ask.

A negligent neighbour’s Alsatian bit her dog.

“Yes, thanks for asking. Looks like he’ll survive.”

“Twenty six books? Is that all for today?”

“I don’t have space anymore. I have crates full of books stacked up in my bathroom now.”

We had a good laugh and I hand her the change.

Just as another customer wants to pay, the power goes off.

Authorities call it loadshedding, but the truth is it is a power failure. Failure on the part of the power supplier to provide power.

For the next two hours we’ll sit in the dark and business will be down at least 50%.

No card transactions, cash only. The brave browse by the light of their cell phones.

The lights come on and in walks someone who is almost famous.

“Hello Wouter, good to see you. Look what I unpacked yesterday from a donation.”

I show him a book in mint condition.

“Whoever pre-owned this book, took well care of it. And as a co-author, would you mind signing this book for me? I’ll put it on display and charge a special price for it, being a signed copy and all.”

Wouter smiles broadly and signs the book.

“Thanks so much. I’m sure it will not stay on the shelf more than a day or two.”

“It’s a great pleasure. How much for these National Graphics?”

Next, two students disappear among the shelves for academic books.

Soon after, a youth with dreadlocks follows. I smell him before I see him.

The youth lazily scratches in every box, picks something up and drops it again.

“Anything I can help you with?”

“Nei, just browsing, Antie.”

A security guard stays close by, pretending to page through a magazine.

The youth leaves and the students start giggling, whispering quietly and giggling some more. They leave after half an hour, each buying one book.

The shop clears and I go to see what they were giggling about. There are no humorous books in those shelves.

Instead of a funny book, I found a small packet on the floor. Handing it to security, I am told it is the newest favourite drug among youngsters.

And so the day goes by. One customer after the other, each with a story.

During a quiet moment there are only two people in the shop. One, a woman, investigating the spiritual books, the other, a man, scratches in the stationery box. They are both regulars.

The man approaches me. “Do you perhaps know that woman over there?”

“I know her a little, yes.”

“Would you mind giving me her cell number? I find her very attractive and since she’s not wearing a ring, I’d like to get to know her better.”

Do I have to play matchmaker now? I thought. I’m supposed to be a shop assistant.

“I’d rather give your number to her. If she is interested, she can give you a call.”

“Perfect. Do you still have my number from the time I put in a request for ‘Who moved my cheese’?”

“Yes, I have your number. I’ll give it to her when she comes to pay.”

He leaves with a smile just as Chris enters for his third book of the day.

Another regular comes in, looks at the reading glasses and tells me he is going for a big operation in two days. I wish him speedily recovery.

A woman tells me she drinks a litre of wine every night. It seems I’m not only matchmaker, but “sieketrooster”, (sick-comforter) and “biegmoeder”, (confidant) also.

All this happens while a guy who visits every day after work, talks non -stop about his life, the newest Bible quote he’s learned and God’s goodness.

People should pay attention to what he says. He used to volunteer for us, but even now that he has a job, he can’t stop working when he is here, even after walking five kilometres from his work place.

He does all kinds of little jobs, helping security or carrying a donation to the storeroom. A good man; honest and sincere.

If I have to write about another day in the bookshop, it will fill a book. But now it is time to cash up, lock up and say so long.

“Where to?” asks Hubs.

“Where do you think we should go?”

“Home?”

“Well, yes, since home is where the coffee is.”

He drives to the nearest coffee shop where he can get a parking space.

Forget Dorpstraat, (Town Street); forget Kerkstraat, (Church Street). There will not be parking.

Hubs steers the car one kilometre up Helshoogte, (Hells Heights), turns right and stop at the only place with good coffee and parking.

We need to chill.