The Bookshop on the Shore

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘So he killed her?’

  Lennox actually laughed. Then he held up his hand.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I know. Nobody gets it right when they think someone can’t be violent. It’s all “oh, he was such a great family man” and so on. But I’ve known Ramsay since he was a bairn – we went to school thegither. Never known him get a temper, hold a grudge. I know, you’ll say anything is possible. But don’t you think the polis would have been all over him? There’d have been search parties and petitions and pictures on lamp-posts and appeals and T-shirts and so on and so forth? A beautiful young mother disappears?’

  ‘Mrs Murray reckons it was hushed up.’

  ‘Mrs Murray reckons 9/11 was done by lizards.’

  ‘She does,’ admitted Nina. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think she couldn’t handle it. The children came close together. It can affect women badly, that kind of thing. I reckon either she went away somewhere she could handle it . . . far away . . . or she killed herself.’

  ‘Well, why don’t people know?’

  ‘Because it’s none of our business,’ said Lennox. ‘Whatever it is, it’s a terrible, terrible sadness for the man. His heart was completely broken. You’ve probably never met him . . .’

  ‘I have,’ said Nina. ‘He came in looking for Up on the Rooftops. Big bloke. Wife-killing size.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lennox. ‘Well. I doubt it. The polis aren’t stupid. It’s just a very sad story. Usually fathers leave. But sometimes mothers leave. There’s sad things in lots of lives. People get up every day and walk about with smiles on their faces who have been through things you and I could never imagine.’

  Nina thought about this, and nodded.

  He pulled her close to him, wrapped them both up in the soft tartan blanket that lay across the back of the old couch.

  ‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to us.’

  ‘It can’t possibly,’ said Nina, snuggling into him and holding him close. He rested his large head on her shoulder.

  ‘I agree with you,’ he murmured, and they clung together, the light from the fire flickering up and down the room, as Parsley whimpered and turned over in his sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Nina was not in fact having the pregnancy she rather thought she might have when she’d first read the line on the box. Instead she was constantly throwing up, forgetting things, sleeping in and being either in tears or running around tidying everything up or in tears again.

  And she was so exhausted. She had had absolutely no idea. It was like the baby was eating her from the inside out. Even though she was so happy, even though she felt overflowing with love, she also felt overflowing with nausea, bloating, acid reflux and the need to go to the toilet every five minutes. Lifting the heavy boxes of books was getting to be a problem, even though Lennox did as much of it as he could manage, and there was of course always the risk of her van breaking down. She had forced herself to read the car maintenance books they kept in stock, annoyed but aware of the wisdom of it so she knew how to change a tyre, check the oil and so on – but whether or not she could do this when her breasts were already pushing out over everything she wore and her stomach showed every sign of being about to do likewise was another matter.

  She looked again at the CV this London girl had sent. She had fabulous references – but as a nursery nurse, not a bookseller. On the other hand, she seemed honest, hardworking . . .

  She sighed. Outside, they were having a quiet morning, which was odd, as the haar from the loch had lifted and it felt fresh and lovely. This was the thing about the Highlands, she’d realised. It would be a bit miserable and you’d get all used to staying in and then suddenly – although this could happen two or three times a week – the sun would appear, simply to confound and delight you, breaking across the wet dawn dew, popping its head up over the purple mountains ahead, and once again you would forgive Scotland all its wet mornings and dark evenings for the utter glory of how perfect a perfect day could be.

  So maybe nobody wanted to clamber inside the van, Nina thought, when the outside world was beckoning bicycles and, for the truly daring (and those in possession of waterproofed rugs), even a picnic, if you could find a sheltered spot that the sun could warm but the wind not spoil.

  Anyway. She’d spoken to the woman from the big house, saying she might have found someone for her and the woman had said, ‘Is she a criminal?’ And Nina had said no, and the woman had said, ‘Och, that’s a shame,’ and Nina had said, did the person she had in mind have to meet the children and the woman had said best not.

  Nina picked up the phone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Surinder liked to think of herself as something of a fairy godmother for sorting everything out; an amazing, organising angel.

  That was not exactly how everyone else thought about it. Everybody else felt they were settling for the best of a very bad job.

  Firstly, Zoe had got herself in a bit of a pickle talking to Nina when, nervous and trying to keep an eye on Hari, who was playing with his tablet, Nina asked her what she’d read recently and her mind went completely and utterly blank.

  The only thing that came to mind was The Jolly Postman, which Hari absolutely adored and made her take out every time they went to the library. The fact that Nina was a big Jolly Postman fan and sold oodles of them meant that this would have been a fine answer, rather than Zoe stumbling, desperately trying to think of something and somehow landing on a soft-porn trilogy that had been hugely popular a couple of years before. She could practically hear her potential new boss smiling tightly down the phone.

  The second interview she barely got a chance to get a word in edgeways. Mrs MacGlone, it turned out, was the housekeeper of the place she was going to stay in. She rattled on in a practised tone. She was there during the day but mornings and evenings would be Zoe’s job, in return for which she’d get board and lodging and a small stipend. Meals were provided, but, Mrs MacGlone said, with what sounded like defiance, ‘we’re simple eaters here.’ Mrs MacGlone did the cleaning and the laundry, but would not be doing Zoe’s, she made quite clear, and would require help when possible.

  ‘And tell me about the family?’ said Zoe, a question she thought was absolutely innocuous.

  The long pause suggested this might not be the case.

  ‘Well. Ramsay’s the father,’ said Mrs MacGlone; she pronounced it ‘faither’. ‘He’s working all hours. You won’t disturb him if you know what’s good for you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Zoe. ‘And Mum?’

  ‘Did the lass no’ tell you?’ said Mrs MacGlone, grumbling to herself. ‘Och, yon English. No idea about things.’

  Zoe blinked, wondering what on earth she meant.

  ‘Their mother left. Two years ago. That’s why we need you. But no need to talk about it; it just upsets them.’

  ‘Oh goodness. Why . . . ?’

  ‘I said. No need to talk about it. And no’ to the maister, he disnae like it.’

  ‘Right. Understood,’ lied Zoe, who understood almost nothing. ‘And the children?’

  ‘Shackleton is twelve, Mary is nine and Patrick is five.’

  ‘Oh great!’ said Zoe, absolutely delighted by the idea of a friend for Hari. ‘My little boy is four.’

  ‘Yes, well. Patrick isn’t a normal five.’

  ‘Hari isn’t a normal four,’ said Zoe under her breath in case he heard her. Mrs MacGlone sniffed, as if to say they’d see about that.

  ‘Well then,’ she said. ‘Six-week trial.’

  Zoe was taken aback.

  ‘Doesn’t the mai . . . ? Doesn’t their father want to talk to me?’

  Mrs MacGlone sighed heavily.

  ‘He trusts me.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Zoe hurriedly. ‘Of course.’

  And it was settled.

  * * *

  Zoe may have hated her landlord, who had been making inauspicious noises about the rent for some time and whom she was now leavin
g, but her gratitude towards him when he took one look round the horrible studio, glanced passingly at the ever-growing damp patch and then, to her utter amazement, handed her back her entire deposit in cash made her want to kiss him.

  It had happened so fast. Surinder just had . . . she just had a way about her. She’d swept up all Zoe’s objections and worries with the infallible logic that she could hardly stay where she was, could she, and here was a free room in a house, a bit of childminding, a bit of bookselling help – just a tad here and there, she’d be free most of the time – and Scotland had free nursery places. What was there to argue against?

  And what choice did she have? Jaz had already gone; he was, according to his Instagram, in Ibiza ‘picking up gigs’ – Zoe didn’t know if these were paid or not, and suspected not – and picturing himself against either sunrises or sunsets, wearing a varied selection both of ridiculous hats and young women.

  The refund on the deposit was enough for their tickets north – a seventeen-hour coach marathon she was not looking forward to – plus a new coat for Hari and, joy of joys, the supermarket clothes aisle had a sale and she was able to get a couple of jumpers and a cheap knock-off Puffa jacket too. How cold it would be in Scotland was all anyone could talk about. Well, the cold and the Loch Ness monster, seeing as that was where they were going. Every time someone asked about the monster, Hari’s eyes went all big and round and he hid himself behind the futon so she’d told people to stop doing it, but it didn’t stop anyone. She also didn’t really want anyone to know she was going anyway in case she had to turn up again in six weeks, having failed miserably. But she couldn’t think like that.

  She could do this. She was going to be amazing. Save the wages until she was back on her feet, throw herself into it. And the poor motherless mites! How happy they were going to be that she was there. Obviously she couldn’t replace their mum, but she could make things good for them again. It was all going to work out brilliantly. For the first time in a very long time, Zoe was feeling optimistic about things, and she let her imagination run free.

  However, she couldn’t bear the relief in Jaz’s voice when he realised Surinder had sorted everything out. She realised that she had, right at the back of her mind, buried so deeply she couldn’t admit it to herself, the tiniest hope, just the smallest, that Jaz would say, ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking. I’m going to give up the DJing and get a proper job and settle down and be a family man and how about we get a nice place together? I’m a changed man.’

  But of course he couldn’t: he simply couldn’t be a changed man. Motherhood had changed her utterly, but it had barely scratched the surface of Jaz, except as, somehow, a cloak of inconvenience; that she and Hari were intruding on the life of an international playboy he had going on in his head.

  But no. Even though he was over that weekend, he hadn’t even offered to give her a lift to Scotland in his stupid car. He’d muttered something about stopping by to say goodbye, whereupon Zoe had pointed out she was only going to Scotland so he’d still be able to get up and down at weekends and he’d sounded very dubious and she had sounded very cross.

  Anyway, he had obviously felt bad because he’d turned up on the last night, when everything was packed away except the duvets and the kettle, with a takeaway curry – a rare treat – and took Hari on his lap and let him play with his phone for the entire evening, and his gentle patience with the boy and Hari’s deep silent devotion to his dad broke Zoe’s heart all over again.

  * * *

  Zoe looked out of the window one last time, through the grimy net curtains that didn’t turn white however much she bleached them, down into the nondescript road with its low-build housing, litter blowing down the street, teenagers yelling and shouting on the corner as they did every hot night, lights streaming down the main drag at the end of the road, which was currently a mishmash of chicken shops, charity shops and fly-by-night vape salesmen, but if her landlord was right, was about to become the hippest thing since Hackney.

  It wasn’t that much, she knew. In fact, she’d hated it: the dingy room, the tired carpet, the waves of other people’s post that piled up by the rackety front door, the sheaves of pizza delivery leaflets and political brochures and general rubbish, and the endless fight for the tiny downstairs space in front of the electricity meters between bikes and the buggy.

  But it was home. It was where she had come home from the hospital, accompanied by an anxious-looking Jaz, who kept staring at his phone and holding up his hands and looking nervous and flapping his arms around but not actually doing anything; where her friends, in the first few weeks, had come to visit and exclaim how lovely the baby was, but gradually dropping off as she could no longer go for girls’ nights out or hen nights or parties without fussing about a babysitter; where Jaz had come less and less frequently until he’d stopped answering his phone; where she’d sat, after her mother had dropped round for half an hour, bringing a packet of plain biscuits on her way somewhere else, and looked disparagingly at the laundry – how could a small baby even create so much laundry? There was nowhere to hang it; it was draped everywhere, until Zoe felt she lived in an ancient bazaar – then left them to it, just the two of them.

  But even this place, with its rattly single-glazed windows, propped open front door, even this place was home. The only home Hari had ever known. And what she was headed into was the utter unknown.

  Zoe tried not to feel sick as she put the last box into Jaz’s car – he had at least, after much grumbling, agreed to store a few things for her – about what if this didn’t work out. Her friends all thought she was mad. Of course her friends all lived in easy-going flat-shares, or had got on the property ladder with their partners.

  And she was partly to blame too. She kept up a cheerful countenance on the rare occasions she did venture out; put a smile on her face, said everything was great, saved up so she could pay her share and pretend she didn’t notice the money.

  She thought back to a couple of nights before where her mum for once had taken Hari and she’d gone down the pub with a few girlfriends to say goodbye. She should have confided more. Told them how hard she was finding it. After a couple of bottles of cheap(ish) prosecco, Tamali had started confessing how she just didn’t find her husband attractive after the baby, and Yasmin had said how tedious she was finding motherhood and Cady had started talking about how much debt they were in and for some reason – possibly because she was going away – Zoe had felt entirely overwhelmed by this flood of confessions, face to face, a world away from everyone’s perfect Facebook and Instagram babies and lives, and suddenly realised what she had lost, over the last four years, by simply not telling people how lonely she was, how unsupported she felt, just how much harder everything was than she’d ever anticipated. It had never occurred to her that other mothers, whatever their situations, might be feeling exactly the same way.

  The evening had ended in a drunken round of cuddles and protestations of love for each other, and Zoe wondered what she was thinking of, leaving these amazing women and swore to stay in touch.

  And so she felt thoroughly ill this morning, as well as terrified. Suddenly, ugly grimy London felt safe, and going to the middle of nowhere felt . . . ridiculous. All the girls had said last night how brave she was starting over, which hadn’t made her feel brave at all; it had made her feel rather foolish, in fact. But now. Here she was. Jaz was eager to go before the ‘parking Nazis’ found him, something he seemed more concerned about than the fact that she was moving his son to another country.

  Hari loved Jaz’s car, and even now was looking tremulous about not being allowed to go for a ride in it. Jaz couldn’t look at Zoe. He knew, on some level, that this was both their failures: their failure to manage the most basic of things – to have a child, to stay together, to raise him somewhere comfortable and warm and safe. Neither of them said much beyond promising to see how the six weeks went.

  Quite what Zoe was going to do if the six weeks went badly, she couldn�
��t quite bear to think of, not at the moment. She would take it a day at a time.

  ‘Right then,’ mumbled Jaz. He was wearing a brown suede tracksuit which looked utterly hideous on him, which meant it had almost certainly cost quite a lot of money. ‘See you, bro.’

  He punched Hari lightly on the arm and gave a wan smile in Zoe’s general direction. She remembered the first night she had seen him in that bar, following a shocking date with someone else, his head back in laughter, white teeth showing. He had seen her on that date while he was with his friends – seen it go badly (the man she was meeting, whose name she couldn’t remember, turned bright red with anger when she mildly disagreed with him politically, and she’d trembled as he turned over the bill he expected them both to pay while maintaining a fixed smile and glancing at her watch). When the man had gone to the bathroom, Jaz sauntered over.

  ‘Nah,’ he’d said cockily, and Zoe had been so startled and relieved, she’d burst out laughing.

  ‘I got dressed up and everything!’ she’d said.

  ‘I see that,’ he said. ‘But he looks like a slice of old ham.’

  ‘Smells like one too,’ said Zoe gloomily.

  ‘Just say bye,’ Jaz said. ‘Then come join us for a drink.’

  He was with a group of friends in the corner. It looked so much more fun than what Zoe was up to. As soon as the man came back, she stood up and smiled as if it were a job interview (which, of course, it had been) and said, how lovely, nice to meet you and bundled him out before he’d had a chance to tell her about his amazing theory about why women should be distributed among men fairly which he’d been planning in the toilets.

  Jaz had had a beer all waiting for her. Cocky sod. She’d been so thrilled.

  And now, here they were. She’d probably have been better off with the ham guy.

  ‘Bye then,’ she said. ‘Speak soon.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he muttered, glancing up and down the road for traffic wardens. ‘Yeah. Right. Cool.’