‘Shit,’ I say, and then apologize.
‘Yes, so, these’ – he waves a vague hand – ‘are all first editions, I think, Scott and so forth, and there’s quite a large Burns collection. And, anyway, I don’t know if you’ll want to keep them, but they are worth quite a lot of money. Edward has said he’d be interested, of course…’
‘So I could sell the house to Charles and the books to Edward?’
‘If you wanted, I should think so, yes.’
‘Handy.’
‘Yes. Or you might want to give the books to someone, I don’t know; the Burns people might be interested. Anyway, you should probably talk to Edward about that. Although I warn you,’ he says, ‘he’s not easy to get on with. My fiancée’ – Xanthe pulls a disappointed face at me; hopefully Alastair doesn’t notice – ‘prefers Charles – says ‘at least he’s charming”.’ He laughs. ‘But perhaps I’m being unfair.’
I can see he doesn’t think it’s unfair at all.
‘Yes, and as I say, they don’t get on. Did I say that? Hate each other.’
‘It’s like a soap,’ says Xanthe, delighted.
‘Why don’t they get on?’
‘Oh, heavens. Very complicated. Um. Something to do with Charles’s wife,’ he says, embarrassed. We both turn to look at him. ‘Ex-wife I should say. Or at least that’s the rumour. Or one of the rumours… Look, I’m being indiscreet, I should stop. Anyway, you might prefer to take the books home, and sell them in London or something. Edward knows his stuff, but he can be… difficult.’
* * *
After four days, Xanthe and I are doing well, sorting out Uncle Andrew’s belongings. It’s been quite a lot of work, but I feel like we’re getting somewhere. I’ve been through all his clothes, and the everyday stuff’s in bin bags ready for another trip to the charity shop; shirts and trousers and jumpers. I’ve kept some things – there are four splendid tweed suits, with waistcoats, and a kilt with all the trimmings. A pile of beautifully pressed handkerchiefs. Several hats, brimmed; I suppose they’re trilbies. I don’t know what I’ll do with any of it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to get rid of it.
In the wardrobe in the spare bedroom there’s a box of Fiona’s things – my dad’s cousin Fiona, Andrew’s daughter. A sad teddy bear, baby shoes, some school prize children’s classics, photographs. She was only fourteen or something when she died. So long ago. I’m still not sure what happened; I must remember to ask next time I speak to my mother. I put the lid back on the box and return it to the shelf. There’s enough going on without upsetting myself by thinking about the young woman who never really got to be, who should be the one doing this, who has been dead for such a long time.
Also in the wardrobe, and folded into the chest of drawers, are Aunt Mary’s clothes, or some of them, the clothes of her youth, beautiful full-skirted dresses from the fifties; some lovely knitwear, cashmere; and smartly tailored tweed skirts. I don’t think any of it will fit me, but I should be able to sell it, and the handbags and shoes and scarves. There’s a fur coat, too, which I wouldn’t wear, personally, but I know a few people do.
We’ve packed up the duller, less interesting kitchen stuff, and various ornaments that don’t appeal, and some fishing-themed prints and drawings that I don’t care for. It’s difficult to make decisions about the rest of it, since I don’t know what I’m going to do with the house.
‘You could let it,’ says Xanthe. ‘I mean as a holiday cottage. It’s just the right size.’
‘I could. In which case I should definitely keep some of the kitchen stuff. Although I guess people will prefer mugs, won’t they, and plates from IKEA. New things.’ I stand, hands on hips, and look at the contents of the cupboards, laid out before me on the table and the worktops.
She shrugs. ‘You’d need to get the bathroom done, if you’re going to let it.’
The bathroom is fine, but she’s probably right. It must have been done in the seventies; the suite is pale green, avocado I suppose, with angular taps, and it doesn’t have a proper shower.
‘Might need to get a dishwasher if I was going to rent it out.’
‘I’d certainly never stay anywhere that didn’t have a dishwasher. I mean imagine washing up on your holiday?’ She pulls a horrified face.
‘But I don’t know where you’d put one. So that might mean a new kitchen, and then if I spend ten grand or something on doing it up… I don’t know. And Wi-Fi.’
‘Oh my God, yes.’
There’s barely a signal out here, no 4G, and of course Uncle Andrew didn’t have a computer. There’s a landline, a cream-coloured dial telephone that sits on a little table by the window in the sitting room, and a second one, in green, in the master bedroom. We spend a lot of time writing notes of things we need to look up when we’re next in town, using the free Wi-Fi in one of the cafés, or sitting in the car outside the town hall, piggybacking.
‘You’d have an income, though, which might be handy. I suppose it depends what you’re going to do when you go home. And when you get the money from Chris.’
‘Ugh. Yes. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I can’t even think about it.’
‘We’ll just get rid of the stuff you definitely don’t need. It’ll be fine.’
Clothes then, and non-essential/non-pleasing kitchenware. There are some ugly glasses, and some cups and saucers that don’t match anything else, and some elderly pans, which probably need to go to the tip, although I’ll try to offload them at the charity shop.
We’re filling the boot of the car with stuff, anyway, when the clip-clopping sound of a horse on the Drive grows louder and louder. We both look up, and watch as someone trots along the road towards us, coming from the direction of what I like to call The Big House, aka Hollinshaw.
‘Blimey,’ says Xanthe, ‘a man on a horse.’
The horse stops at the entrance to the driveway, where the gravel begins, and the man touches his hand to the brim of his riding hat.
‘Good afternoon,’ he says.
‘Good afternoon,’ I respond, interested. This must be Charles, surely, the twice-divorced lord, the brother of the bookshop man whom I have yet to meet. Although his hat hides his hair, mostly, I can see he’s dark, with firm eyebrows and a square jaw. Quite handsome, in fact. Not young, probably about the same age as us. Tweed jacket, biscuit-coloured jodhpurs, shiny black boots.
He swings himself down from the horse, which is large and brown. Bay, is that what they call it, that bright, almost ginger colour, with a black mane and tail, and a white blaze on its nose. Everything I know about horses comes from reading pony books as a child, so I’m no expert. It pricks its ears towards us. The man loops the rein loosely over the gatepost, and walks up the drive, unbuckling his black riding hat as he does so. He takes it off as he reaches us, runs his hand through his curls, and looks from one of us to the other. I wonder if he’s trying to decide if it would be racist to assume it’s me he needs to speak to.
He avoids choosing which of us is Mrs Mottram née Hamilton by saying, ‘My name’s Maltravers, Charles Maltravers. We’re neighbours. I live up at Hollinshaw. Thought I should pop down and say hello.’
Perhaps it’s not him then? Or do they have different surnames to their titles? I try to remember. Nancy Mitford’s father was a lord, but he wasn’t called Lord Mitford, was he?
I step towards him and hold out my hand. ‘How kind. I’m Thea Mottram, this is my friend Xanthe Cooper – she’s come up to help me get organized.’
He shakes my hand, and then Xanthe’s, and then looks at the car stuffed with boxes and bin bags.
‘Sorting out Andrew’s belongings?’
‘Yes, quite a job,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure he’d ever thrown anything away.’
‘Always difficult when there’s a whole life to deal with. He lived here for a long time.’
I nod, and we all stand and look at each other for a moment. Then he says, ‘He was your uncle?’
‘Great-uncle. My g
randfather’s eldest brother.’
‘Ah, so you’re a Hamilton,’ he says, smiling at me. His eyes crinkle attractively. ‘I think we’re very distantly connected. And what are your plans? Are you going to sell?’
Xanthe snorts with laughter but manages, perhaps convincingly, to turn it into a cough. I smile winningly. ‘I’m not sure, I haven’t decided yet. I thought I might keep it, at least for a while. I’ve heard you let some of the houses on the estate as holiday rentals?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Just working on a conversion of some outbuildings, actually. When those are finished, we’ll have six holiday lets and two long-term rentals. You won’t be living here yourself?’
‘I’m not sure it’s practical,’ I say. ‘I generally live in Sussex.’
‘Ah!’ He laughs. ‘No, perhaps not. Well, you might hear from others that I’m keen to buy back the properties my father and grandfather sold off. If you do decide to sell, let me know. I’ll make you an offer. Market value of course.’
‘Oh,’ I say, pretending ignorance, ‘really? That’s interesting. I’ll keep it in mind.’
‘And do come up to the house, if you’d like,’ he says. ‘We’ll give you the tour. Have you seen it?’
I admit that we’ve sneaked a look from the road that crosses the park.
‘Just follow the Drive up,’ he says, ‘I’m usually about the place.’ He shakes my hand again. ‘Good to have met you.’
He shakes hands with Xanthe, puts his hat back on and untethers the horse, swinging himself smoothly up into the saddle. Once again, he touches the brim of the hat to us, and trots off in the direction he came from.
‘Who’s “we”?’ I wonder. ‘I thought he was divorced.’
‘Must have a girlfriend though, surely? I mean, phwoar, etc.’
I look at her.
‘Well? Didn’t you think?’ She laughs.
I laugh too. ‘I don’t know, I suppose he was quite handsome. You can’t fancy lords, though, Xan, you have to resent them and their privileged nonsense.’
‘He must be rich, if he’s buying back houses. What did Alastair say he did? Property development?’
‘Slum landlord, more like.’
She snorts. ‘Cynic. You won’t be able to say stuff like that to people up here, will you? They’ll all be in thrall to his centuries of oppression.’ She chuckles to herself. ‘My mum is gonna freak when I tell her I’ve met an actual lord.’
‘It’s a bit mad, isn’t it? Anyway, come on, let’s get this lot to town.’
Four
It’s Xanthe’s last day. I left her drinking coffee in the Old Mill, which is, we’ve decided after some experimentation, the best coffee shop. It has a little gallery selling artwork by local potters and painters, and a courtyard garden full of flowers. Jilly and Cerys, the women who run it, are incredibly friendly and helpful, recommending the best places for a bigger shop than you can manage in the Coop, but without driving to Dumfries for the giant Tesco. They’ve introduced me to a builder, and a plumber as well; and they do very good bacon sandwiches.
Xanthe’s stayed longer than she should have done – a week and a half – but she can’t stay for ever; she has a job, and children and dogs to think about. As we ate our breakfast in the sunny kitchen this morning, I told her I’d been thinking, vaguely, about perhaps staying up for a bit. I could spend the summer here. I feel comfortable and at home in the Lodge, surrounded by Uncle Andrew’s belongings, some of which were once my great-grandparents’. (I know this because there’s a note from Uncle Andrew in with the paperwork Alastair gave me. Dear Thea, I thought you might be interested to know that the table in the sitting room belonged to my parents, your great-grandparents. It was a wedding present from my mother’s father, your great-great-grandfather, and was purchased in Dumfries in 1896…)
Now the sun’s out, it’s tempting. It’s too late to do much in the garden but we looked in the fruit cage and I did briefly fantasize about living here permanently. A fruit cage is a good thing to own, after all. Plus it’s wonderfully quiet, being so far from any other houses, and the trees are fantastic. I’m looking forward to being here by myself, although I didn’t say that to Xanthe. I expect it’s pretty miserable in the winter though. And what would I do? I doubt there’s much work. And although that’s not urgent, even selling the books won’t keep me for ever.
Selling the books – that’s why I’m here, outside the bookshop. The dark-green sign says Fortescue’s Books in elegantly curled writing, and Antiquarian and Second-hand Books is painted in gold across the large plate-glass windows. I push the door open and a bell jangles above me. The shop is, I think, converted from a house, a large square Georgian house, like Alastair’s office, which is almost opposite. There aren’t steps at the bookshop, though; the wide, recessed half-glazed front door is at pavement level and opens into a broad sunny space, perhaps knocked through from two smaller rooms. There are what might loosely be described as window displays, although to be honest they’re just piles of books. I think someone should be paying more attention. My suspicion, unfounded of course, is that whoever is in charge thinks such things are beneath them.
The floor is slightly uneven, with large worn flagstones, the walls are probably twelve feet high and lined with bookshelves. The fireplace has been boarded over, but a large green majolica jardinière sits on the hearth, full of tulips. There are stacks of orange Penguins on the mantelpiece, and above them, a framed print of the town hall. A bookcase beside the door holds 1970s and ’80s crime novels and shields the counter from the doorway. There are two middle-aged men browsing; a pair of wooden stepladders so people can climb up to the higher shelves; and signs everywhere. Please use a ladder or ask for assistance if you want something you cannot reach, says the one closest to me. There’s a rack of vintage postcards of the local area in fantastically saturated colours, and a list of Questions to which the answer is No, all of which are quite obnoxious. I can tell Edward Maltravers (or someone who works for him) adds to these as they occur to him, since halfway down it says, Do you have or want to buy Fifty Shades of Grey? Another one says, Are people more important than books? and, My child does not read, will it be okay?
Curmudgeonly, I decide.
Here on the more dimly lit right-hand side, clearly visible from the counter, are the antiquarian books, quarto and folio. A whole shelf of Shakespeare, Victorian and older, and many other things, some titled in Latin. Please don’t touch these books unless you are seriously thinking of buying, says a sign, but feel free to ask for help.
I like books, but I’m no expert. Uncle Andrew owned a lot of books, many of them by people I’ve never heard of. I have the most recent valuation, done the September before last, a year before he died, and the total is rather unexpectedly high. Now I want to know how much the Scotts are worth. I don’t get on with Scott, and I imagine that they might fetch more up here in Scotland, in Edinburgh perhaps, than if I took them home. I’m not sure whether to sell the entire library or not, but I definitely don’t want to keep them all, or even most of them, because of the responsibility as much as anything. And because, think of the other books I could buy with the money. I had a dream last night that Uncle Andrew’s library was filled with my own books. It was quite satisfying.
* * *
A door at the back of the first room of books leads into a passage that widens into a hallway, where a wide, elegant staircase climbs upwards. There are more shelves in the passage, and even some leading up the stairs to the half-landing. It’s hard to get a feel for what the building would be like without the books, but it’s well proportioned and there are so many period details it’s hard to concentrate. The books and shelves make it feel quite dark, but there are lamps everywhere and natural light falls down from the stairwell, filling the hallway with golden sunshine. There are battered Persian rugs on the flagstones, and each nook and cranny is neatly filled with shelves and books, each section labelled: Children’s (collectable), Children’s (just for f
un), Poetry, Military History, Ancient History, et cetera and so on. There are three rooms: the main one at the front; another, beyond the staircase, which is Poetry/Plays/Literary Criticism and looks very cosy, with two sofas and a coffee table spread with poetry mags; and another, much larger one at the back, with stripped oak floorboards, its window obscured by shelving. A door leads out to a garden, I presume, although you can’t see much. There’s a large shed or workshop in the way, allowing just a glimpse of trees and shrubs. The whole place smells of beeswax and old paper and is, I have to admit, rather lovely.
Having explored, I return to the first room and approach the counter. I think it’s an old sideboard, or console table, with doors at the front, and three drawers in beautiful honey-coloured wood. Topped by a vast slab of marble and quite high, it’s certainly above waist height to most people standing on the customer side. There’s an old-fashioned wooden box till standing on the top, and a couple of books propped up in Perspex stands. And a desk bell, like in a hotel. Thick dark curtains hang down, blocking the light from the window. Behind the counter, up a step, there’s an unravelling armchair and a little desk with a laptop. Sitting in the armchair, hunched and crow-like, is a dark-haired man. It’s shadowy, and he has a green-shaded desk lamp to light his little corner. He’s looking at something on the screen and is surrounded by more books, piled around him, lots of them with pieces of paper sticking out, marking his place, or maybe just particularly fascinating parts. I stand by the counter for a minute or two, but he doesn’t look round, or acknowledge me at all. I’m not exactly surprised; it’s not like I haven’t been warned.
I’m tempted to ring the bell, but that seems even ruder than being ignored.
‘Hello,’ I say, eventually.
He looks up. He doesn’t actually sigh, but he may as well have done.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 3
