The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘Yes?’ he says.

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ I say, refusing to be discouraged.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  For some reason, this amuses me. ‘You probably can. It’s a book-related question.’

  This time he does sigh. ‘Whatever makes you think I know anything about books?’

  ‘It’s just a hunch. Are you Edward?’ I can see him wondering whether to deny it. ‘I’ve inherited some books,’ I continue. ‘And I probably need to sell some of them. Or all of them.’

  He stands up, or rather, unfolds, and comes to lean on the marble counter top. He has good bones, a strong jaw, and eyebrows clearly made for scowling. He scowls. I know he’s older than the other one, the lord. Charles. He might be five years older than me, perhaps. Approaching fifty. There’s not much grey in his hair, which is wildly curly, like his brother’s, but rather longer and more unkempt. He’s wearing a dark green jumper with a small hole (moths?) in one shoulder, a dark patterned shirt underneath, vaguely floral. He has dark eyes, a wide mouth and straight, well-bred teeth. And he’s tall, much taller than me, he might be six foot four, even allowing for the fact that he’s standing on a raised platform. He looks down at me, and I look up. It’s quite intimidating.

  ‘What kind of books? I’m not interested in your granny’s Mills and Boon.’ He pauses, thinking. ‘Unless you have any from the early sixties, or before.’

  ‘I don’t think either of my grannies ever read any Mills and Boon,’ I say. ‘They were Jane Eyre and Rebecca all the way. But anyway, I think you’ve seen them. The books, I mean. If you are Edward. I want to know how much my Scotts are worth, and whether I should sell them up here, or at home.’

  ‘You think I’ve seen them?’

  ‘Yes, apparently. First editions. Uncle Andrew’s books.’

  He frowns at me. ‘Uncle… Well, but you can’t be Andrew Hamilton’s niece, surely.’

  ‘Why can’t I? Oh, but I’m not. I’m his great-niece.’

  This is apparently more acceptable. He nods. ‘Charlotte,’ he says. ‘Or Emily, or something.’

  ‘Thea Mottram,’ I say, slightly irritated. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Yeah, hi.’ He looks at me for a moment and then walks to the edge of the counter and down the step, coming out into the room towards me. I step back, involuntarily, which he seems to find amusing. He grins at me and sticks out his hand. ‘Hello. I’m Edward Maltravers.’

  We shake. I like shaking hands; much prefer it to kissing people. His hands are very large. I’m not a remotely small person – I’m five eleven, more with my shoes on – and I rarely feel short, but he really is tall, a good four or five inches taller than I am.

  ‘The Scotts,’ he says. ‘All of them?’

  I nod.

  ‘About eight hundred quid for the lot. Maybe a bit more. I’d have to look at them. A couple of them are in worse condition than the others. But a couple are very good.’

  ‘And should I sell them here? Or in Edinburgh?’

  ‘You should certainly sell them to me.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that would be good for you, but would that be the best thing for me to do? If you don’t think you can give me an objective answer,’ I add, kindly, ‘I’ll ask someone else.’

  ‘My prices are fair,’ he says, abrupt.

  ‘I’m sure they are. But if I’m going to sell them, I want the best price I can get, naturally.’

  ‘Don’t you want them?’ He frowns at me.

  ‘I’ve tried and failed to read Ivanhoe about five times,’ I say, ‘and Waverley twice. And if I was going to read them, an ordinary Penguin Classics edition with notes would be more my thing. I mean they’re lovely, but wasted on me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Huh. Are you going to sell the lot? I mean, all the books?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘The Burns stuff’s probably worth more. Those Dickenses. The twentieth-century first editions. And the Newton.’ He says ‘Newton’ with particular intensity.

  ‘Is it? You see I’ve no way of knowing. Alastair suggested I might want to give the Burns stuff to the Burns people. I can’t imagine I’ve got anything they don’t have, though.’

  ‘Alastair Gordon?’

  I nod.

  ‘Hm. There are American universities who’d snap them up. Buy them off you, probably. Or if you want to be Lady Bountiful…’ he says, sarcastic.

  ‘I don’t know what I want to do with them.’

  He looks at me, pulling at his lower lip. ‘Are you going to live there? At the Lodge?’

  I shrug. ‘I doubt it, it’s not practical. It’s a long way from home.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Sussex.’

  ‘Going to sell it, then?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Don’t sell it to my brother,’ he says.

  ‘If I put it on the market, I don’t think I really get to choose who buys it.’ I smile my glossiest, most society smile at him.

  He snorts. ‘You won’t have to put it on the market. He’ll just rock up and offer you money. How long have you been up? Amazed he hasn’t been round already.’

  ‘We’ve been here ten days,’ I say. ‘Came up last Monday.’

  ‘Who’s we? You and Mr Mottram?’

  I decide to ignore this, since it’s none of his business. ‘But actually, you’re right, he did come and introduce himself yesterday. He said he’d buy it if I wanted to sell. He didn’t make me an offer, though.’

  He nods, clearly pleased to be proved right. ‘Not yet. He will do. I’d prefer if he was foiled.’

  ‘It’s so nice to see family feeling,’ I agree, deadpan.

  * * *

  After arranging a time for Edward to come and look at the Scotts, I collect Xanthe from the Old Mill and drive her to Dumfries station, an hour and twenty minutes away. It’ll take her seven hours, more or less, to get home. Rather her than me.

  We’re pretty much the only people at the tiny station. ‘Let me know how it’s going,’ she says. ‘Message me when you’re having a coffee.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And you can phone me. From your actual telephone.’ She mimes dialling a number.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If you feel sad or lonely.’

  ‘Yes. Thanks, Xan. You’ve been brilliant.’ I’m almost anxious, now she’s leaving.

  ‘It’s been fun. It’s nice here. I’m really not sure if you should sell it.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll move up.’ I look round at the more-or-less empty car park. ‘There’s probably room for me.’

  ‘Don’t go crazy.’ We hug. ‘Oh now, look, I’m crying,’ she says, wiping her eyes. ‘What an idiot.’

  ‘You are an idiot,’ I agree. ‘But I love you. Have a… Well, I won’t say have a great journey. Have a journey that’s not too awful. Give my love to Rob and the kids. I’ll see you when I get home.’

  ‘All right, my love. I’d better go.’ We hug again, then she picks up her rucksack and heads to the barriers, turning to wave before she goes through. I wave back, and stay for as long as she’s visible, moving through the station. There are only two platforms, up to Glasgow, down to Carlisle.

  Then I’m alone. It’s an odd feeling. I’m three hundred miles away from everyone I know. Well, technically of course I’m not three hundred miles away from Xanthe. And I’m not three hundred miles away from Bobby and Sheena, who live in Newcastle, or various second cousins who are scattered round the Lowlands; not that I really know any of them. But the point is, to all intents and purposes, I’m alone. No one to please but myself. No one to talk to, unless I make an effort. I’m both thrilled and terrified by this feeling.

  I drive back to the Lodge. The weather was quite grey earlier this morning, with misty rain in Dumfries, but on the drive back the sun comes out and I’m feeling quite positive. I wonder if I could live up here. Not for ever, that doesn’t seem realistic. But I could definitely stay up for the summer, couldn’t I?
Go home if I get bored, or when the weather gets bad. Although that will mean paying rent for a flat I’m not living in. But does that matter? I can afford to do it, and Xanthe or Angela can water the plants and send on my mail. It’s rather tempting. I can find out about holiday lets, and see what the Lodge is worth if I wanted to sell it, or have a new bathroom put in, and just not be at home. I can pretend everything’s all right. I can maybe get to a point where everything is all right. That must be possible, surely?

  Five

  This morning Edward Maltravers is coming to look at my books. He’ll be my first visitor – I don’t think Xanthe counts. I hoovered for the first time and decided I’ll need to buy a new vacuum cleaner since this one is ancient and inefficient. I ought to buy it locally and contribute to the economy – and since I can’t immediately go online and order one, I might manage to do this. I’ll ask Edward if he can recommend somewhere. I tidy up and dust in the library. I expect he’d disapprove if it was dusty in there. I expect he’ll disapprove anyway. I line up two cups in the kitchen and get the biscuit tin out. I’m almost nervous.

  He’s due at ten-thirty and it’s absolutely on the dot when he knocks.

  I open the door and am surprised, again, by how tall he is. I rarely have to look up when I speak to anyone. Today he’s wearing dark jeans and a purpley-blue jacket over a dark shirt.

  He frowns at me, as though faintly confused by my presence. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘You asked me to come and look at your books.’

  I’m amused he might think I’ve forgotten why he’s here. ‘I did. Come in. Thanks for coming out.’

  ‘No problem.’ He looks round. ‘Bit strange to be here without Andrew.’

  ‘I haven’t changed much,’ I reassure him, as I usher him into the sitting room and gesture at the sofa. ‘Have a seat. Would you like a drink?’

  He nods. ‘Tea, no sugar. Thanks.’

  ‘Won’t be a moment,’ I say, and hurry out to the kitchen. When I come back with cups and saucers (note to self: buy mugs) on a tray with the biscuit tin, he’s standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the garden.

  ‘Always liked it in here,’ he says, ‘nice sunny room. Although that fire surround is an abomination.’

  We both look at the fireplace, which is brick, with a horrible copper sort of hood thing and niches for ornaments.

  I laugh. ‘I suppose Andrew must have done it? Looks fifties or early sixties maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, I expect it’s more efficient than what was there before. You could probably open it up though,’ he says, coming over to sit down. ‘The original one will be behind it.’

  ‘It’s not old enough to be an inglenook or anything thrilling, though. Is it? I mean the Lodges would have been built at the same time as the house? When was that? Eighteenth century? I can’t picture what would be behind it.’

  ‘It probably is bigger. You could ask Charles’ – he says the name with a twist of dislike – ‘to dig out the plans for you. They’ll be up at the house.’

  His legs angle upward from the sofa, making him look as though he might be a different scale to the furniture, half a size larger, perhaps.

  ‘Really?’ I stare at him, although it makes perfect sense, of course.

  He nods. ‘Whole archive full of that stuff.’

  ‘When was the house built?’

  ‘They started work in 1770. The Lodges were built after the house was finished, so probably around 1775.’

  ‘It’s odd; it doesn’t feel as old as that. I suppose there’s been so much done to it.’

  ‘They tried to modernize it. Make it more appealing to the tenants. In the 1911 Census, there were twelve people living here,’ he adds. ‘Nine children. A granny. And the lodgekeeper and his wife.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ I can’t imagine it. ‘Nine children? I suppose the library was another bedroom.’

  ‘I think so. It was pretty spacious, I should think, for working people at the time. I’ve got some pictures at the shop. I should have brought them to show you.’

  ‘Of the Lodge?’

  ‘Yes, some early prints, and some old photos as well. There are loads more up at Hollinshaw. Actually, there’s probably stuff here. I’m sure Andrew had some drawings and prints.’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to see what it used to look like. Not much different?’

  ‘All veg out the front, and a pig,’ he says, smiling. ‘No wisteria.’

  ‘Oh, so it is wisteria. I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘It’ll look amazing in about two weeks. You have to prune it hard, twice a year. February and August.’

  ‘Oh, okay, so I’ve missed one lot. I’ll have to look it up – I don’t know anything about wisteria.’ I open the biscuit tin. ‘Two ends of the spectrum. Rich tea or Tunnock’s caramel wafer?’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you’ve learned my weakness.’ He takes a wafer from the tin and grins at me. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So you valued the books before?’

  ‘I did, yes. Must be eighteen months ago, two years maybe. Probably won’t be much different, although he did buy more.’

  ‘I just want to know about the Scotts, and then if there are other sections I think I’ll keep some of them, but mostly, like I said, they’re wasted on me. But I do like them. I’m a bit conflicted.’

  ‘If you’re not going to read them…’

  ‘I know, and I probably won’t. I looked at the Dickens, but I’ve got some already, you know, and although mine aren’t worth anything, that’s a good thing in some ways. I don’t know. And I was thinking maybe I should make it back into a bedroom. Or a dining room, or something. I just need some advice, really.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. He takes a bite of his wafer and chews thoughtfully. ‘The Newton’s probably worth the most. You might get forty grand for it. I don’t know what he paid; he’d had it for fifty years or something.’

  ‘Forty grand? For one book? Shit.’ I’m horrified. ‘Should it be locked away somewhere?’

  He shrugs. ‘Two volumes. It’s probably in the safe, isn’t it? And it’s unlikely it’d get stolen. Unless someone knew it was here. I won’t tell anyone,’ he adds.

  ‘Is there a safe? I haven’t seen one. Alastair never mentioned a safe.’

  ‘I’ll show you. Anyway, Newton. They’re quite rare. And he’s very famous.’

  ‘Well, I know, but–’

  ‘Second edition, 1713,’ he says. He sips his tea.

  ‘Oh my God.’ I think for a moment. I read a biography of Isaac Newton quite recently. ‘Is it maths or optics?’

  ‘Maths… well. The Principia. Opticks you can get for about three grand. I’ve got one, if you want one.’

  ‘Wow. Forty grand?’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t buy that from you, sadly, but I could sell it for you.’

  ‘Shit.’

  He drains his cup. ‘Let’s go and have a look then, shall we?’

  I follow him out to the library. ‘Hope you’re keeping the blinds drawn,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, yeah. For the bindings? Yeah. I only opened them this morning to dust and because you were coming.’

  He stands in the middle of the room, looks about and sighs. ‘It’s a shame to break it up.’

  ‘I know; don’t make me feel worse than I do already. But you know I’ll probably sell the house – I don’t have room for a library – oh and now I’m so anxious about the Newton,’ I say, wringing my hands.

  He laughs. ‘Don’t be.’

  ‘Easy to say.’

  He walks across to the desk by the window. There’s a cupboard beside it, supporting the bust of Shakespeare.

  ‘There’s no key for that,’ I tell him. ‘Or at least I haven’t found one.’

  ‘It’s got a catch,’ he says, and leans round behind it to press something. The cupboard door springs open to reveal the green-painted door of an old-fashioned safe.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Yeah, the lock’s fake, on the door,’ he says. ‘The safe c
ame from one of the banks in town. He had the cupboard made to fit round it.’

  ‘How clever. But how do we get it open? I don’t have the combination.’

  ‘Fifteen, ten, twenty-eight,’ he says, twirling the knob. ‘Mary’s birthday. Unless he changed it. Ah, no, there we are.’ He opens the door and we peer inside. The books lie on the top shelf. There doesn’t seem to be anything else in there, no jewels or piles of cash, sadly. He pulls a pair of white cotton gloves from his coat pocket and puts them on. ‘I’ll put them on the desk.’

  I watch as he places the first volume carefully on the desk. It’s remarkable to own such a thing; in fact, I’m not convinced I really do. It should be in a museum or something, surely. He turns some pages. There are diagrams and equations and the text is in Latin.

  ‘Oh lord, it’s all so intimidating.’

  ‘It’s just a book. No need to be intimidated.’ From the way he runs a finger down the edge of the pages, though, I’m not sure he thinks it’s ‘just a book’.

  ‘There,’ he says, ‘I’ll leave it out for you to look at. Make sure you put it away later.’ He takes off his gloves and hands them to me. ‘Try not to touch it without these.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ I’m not sure I want to touch it at all; the whole thing is overwhelming.

  He clears his throat and turns away from the desk. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘the Scotts. I had a look online this morning, I could give you five hundred pounds for the matching 1871 set – they aren’t first editions. Retail is about six hundred. This Ivanhoe is a first edition, and in lovely condition. Six grand. I forgot he’d bought that.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘The other first editions aren’t in such good shape. Two hundred quid each for Guy Mannering and Heart of Midlothian. Five hundred for the rest.’

  ‘Okay.’ It’s terrifying, frankly.

  ‘Your Burns collection’s worth about eight grand. I doubt there’s anything amazing there that the Burns people would want.’

  ‘Would you buy them?’

  He pulls at his lip. ‘Yeah, probably. I can usually shift Burns. The Trollopes are good; the matching bindings mean they were put together as a collection, probably in the twenties. Three and a half thousand.’