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COLUMN David Jarman My back pages On 25th March I called time on my bookshop in Pipe Passage. I opened there in January 1991, first as a private lending library, then as a library and secondhand bookshop. Recruiting officers for the library turned out to be Arthur Scott, for the literary elite of <strong>Lewes</strong>, and Major Bruce Shand for the country gentry. Jane Aiken Hodge, Barry O’Connell, Daniel Waley, Julian Fane and Colin Brent were among my greatest supporters. For about ten years my co-tenant was the legendary lighting designer, Paul Pyant. He was followed by <strong>Viva</strong> <strong>Lewes</strong>. Eventually, in exchange for doing their proof reading, <strong>Viva</strong> staff sold books for me when I wasn’t there (increasingly the case). Sarah Hunnisett was particularly effective in this regard, rather better than myself, I sometimes thought. In the 1990s, Peter Carter, another secondhand bookseller, also shared the premises. I still cherish the entry in his one and only catalogue (winter 1995) describing the condition of a first edition of Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking. It came with ‘some staining’, ‘a torn dustwrapper’, a cover that was ‘suffering liquid contact’. Pages 258, 259, 262-3, 266-7 and 270-1 were unaccountably missing. But ‘still, a lovely working copy’. Doubtless a snip at £23. Books are sometimes, in extremis, described as being in a ‘distressed’ condition. This particular book sounded positively suicidal. Peter was a thoroughly charming man but ‘eccentric’ hardly covered it. The first bookshop I worked in seems now to be part of a completely different world. This was Thornton’s, an old-established shop in Broad Street, Oxford. It was 1975, and I was eighteen. I suppose most people would have characterised it as ‘Dickensian’. It certainly came with a cast of vividly Dickensian characters. There was Mr Wild, the main Antiquarian Book buyer. An otherwise impeccably courteous man, he hated paperbacks and had been known to throw them across the shop. As a member of The Sealed Knots, Mr Turner spent his spare time re-enacting battles of the English Civil War. Mr Rowell had been there for over forty years. He dealt exclusively with books published by the Oxford University Press. Natalie Canby was a middle-aged American lady, much given to quoting Jane Austen. She was sweet, but there was always a faint air of mystery about her. Robert Coulson spent his days writing furiously in ledgers. What he was writing, I never got to know. The packing department was staffed by Joe Lock, a retired postman, and Frank Bekielewski, an elderly Pole of surpassing sweetness of disposition who seemed to subsist on a diet of cold ‘camp’ coffee and doughnuts. I was living away from home for the first time (unless you count boarding school) and Mrs Hazell, the cashier took it upon herself to mother me, but in the nicest possible way. The shop’s methods of trading were equally of another time. Just one example – anyone could walk into the shop, open an account without showing any identification and walk out with hundreds of pounds of books. And yet it worked. Happy days! Illustration by Charlotte Gann 31