A Vintage Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page A

broken furniture and displays. I feel my hopes plummet. I should probably just give up and go back to the hotel.
    I turn and see Sam walking towards me with a slow, laboured gait. His baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the hot mid-afternoon sun. Coupled with his sullen
    expression he looks like a moody teenager. ‘I have to go in, Sam,’ I burst out before he has a chance to speak, surprising myself with my vehemence. ‘I just have to!’
    ‘It’s closed, Evie’, he says dully.
    I turn back and look at the shop as if something might have changed. That’s when I notice a white piece of paper, flapping on the door. ‘Wait!’ I say, ‘Sam! There’s a note on the door – and a number! It says “Call David if urgent”’.
    I start rifling through my little box handbag, my hands shaking with excitement. This is the chance I need. I look up when I have my phone and start jabbing the digits in quickly. Something tells me I have to act now. I may not have an opportunity like this again. ‘It’s ringing! Sam, it’s ringing!’ I turn around to share my excitement with him. Sam sighs and reluctantly sidles over.
    ‘Do you really have to do this now, Evie? I mean, can’t it wait?’ He looks at me pointedly as I gaze between the little shop and him.
    I look at him desperately. ‘It can’t wait Sam, it really can’t. I promise I’ll make it up to you!’
    ‘I’ve heard that before,’ he mutters. But he comes over anyway and I know I’ve convinced him when he slides his arm around my shoulders. I squeeze his hand in thanks and pull an anxious face, holding my breath as the phone keeps ringing. I’m just about to end the call when I hear a voice in my ear.

Chapter 3
    ‘Hello?’ growls a gruff, male voice. I have to stop myself from cheering, so convinced was I that no one was going to answer.
    ‘Er Hi, Mr-er Mr Angelo,’ I fumble for my words as Sam silently encourages me with some hand waves, feeling the familiar bubble of excitement inside me, despite the distinctly gruff tone of the shopkeeper’s opening gambit. I try to focus on the exquisite pair of handmade shoes in the window to get my mind into professional mode. ‘My name is Evie Taylor. I’ve just come across your shop and wondered if I could come in.’
    ‘The shop’s closed,’ comes the terse reply. ‘Has been for months.’
    ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I pause and glance at Sam who raises an eyebrow and peers in the window. ‘Can I ask why?’
    ‘Who’s asking? You’re not from the Inland Revenue or something are you?’ he adds suspiciously.
    ‘No,’ I laugh, ‘Not at all. I’m just a-a... vintage enthusiast and a potential customer. Is there any way you could open the shop so I could have a look around? I’ve been looking at this beautiful pair of shoes in the window and I’m not sure I can leave without buying them.’
    ‘Well, they’re not for sale,’ he says briskly. ‘Now if you’ll excu...’
    ‘Why?’ I say quickly.
    ‘What?’ he barks.
    ‘Why aren’t they for sale?’ I persist.
    Another pause accompanied by a long sigh. ‘If you must know they’re the first pair my father ever made and the last ones I have. They’re all that remains of our beloved business – a business that my father, grandfather and great grandfather ran and that my great, great grandfather began when he arrived in the UK from Italy.’ He pauses again. ‘My dad helped my grandfather make that particular pair when he was ten years old. My dad passed his skills on to me when I was the same age... not that it’s done me any good. Should’ve got a proper job.’
    I hear his voice crack and then he clears his throat. I’m thrown back suddenly to the conversation I overheard in the stockroom the Christmas before last when Rupert Hardy faced the prospect of losing his own great grandfather’s business. It didn’t happen, thank goodness. But it was a close call. It makes me wonder how many other small