‘Hm,’ she says, turning her attention to the menu. She wrinkles her nose.
‘Anything good?’ I ask, picking up my own menu – printed on brown paper, naturally.
‘Actually it all looks annoyingly good,’ she says. ‘The cakes looked ace, didn’t they?’
‘Your cakes are very good. I don’t think they looked better than yours.’ Jilly’s mum, Kate, makes their cakes – she’s a marvel.
Thinking of Jilly’s mum reminds me of something. ‘Kate’s always lived in Baldochrie, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ says Cerys, turning the menu over to consider the drinks. ‘And Michael too. They’re proper local.’
‘I should ask her about Fiona.’
‘Who’s Fiona?’
‘My cousin. Well, no – my second cousin. Uncle Andrew’s daughter.’
‘Oh yes, what about her?’ She frowns at me. ‘Why didn’t she get the house? Is she dead?’
‘Yes, she died when she was young. Fourteen.’
‘Oh my God, really? That’s awful. What happened?’
‘I know. And I’m not sure, I keep forgetting to ask my mum. But she’d be around Kate’s age, I suppose. I think she was born in the early fifties.’
‘Kate’s sixty-three,’ says Cerys. ‘So that sounds about right.’
‘I’ll try and remember to ask. It must have been a big deal, at the time.’
‘God, yes, I should think so. Her poor parents.’
Seven
I pop into Baldochrie to buy bread and milk. I park up by the bookshop, thinking I might go in and see if Edward has managed to sell any of my books. There’s a sign in the window: Sales Assistant Urgently Required. Apply Within.
I pause and study the sign. I’ve always quite fancied working in a bookshop. And working in town would help me meet people. If I’m going to be here for a couple of months, I’ll need to know more people than I do now; I can’t expect Jilly and Cerys, or indeed Alastair and Jenny, to take up all the slack. I’ve already been on several beach walks with Jenny and the dogs and to dinner at theirs twice. I like Jenny a lot, but you can’t swamp someone with friendship, can you? And you can’t expect someone to share all their mates with you.
I’m not sure whether Edward would be a great person to work for. But that doesn’t much matter, if I’m not staying for ever. Anyway, we got on fine when he came out to the Lodge. I even made him laugh.
I mention the job to Jenny when we’re drinking tea in the Old Mill later that day. She puts her cup down and stares at me.
‘Oh my God,’ she says, ‘you can’t work there. He’s such a dick.’
‘Is he, though? He seemed okay when he came round to value my books. We had quite a nice time. Anyway, I can deal with that. My old boss was a complete tosser. And it’s not like it’ll be permanent.’
‘Ach, I suppose not. I wonder if Rory’s leaving. Oh, he must be off to uni. He’ll be revising.’
‘Rory’s the boy who works in there?’ I’ve seen him a couple of times, putting things on shelves in the distance.
‘Aye, bless him. Before that, his brother worked there. Tom.’
‘They get on all right with Edward then?’
‘Oh, he’s only a dick with women. Mostly.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘What sort of a dick? I can handle moody and bad-tempered; I can’t be doing with wandering hands.’
Jenny laughs. ‘No, I’ve never heard that about him. The opposite even; I’ve friends who’ve made quite an effort in that direction.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye. To no avail. He’s a miserable git.’
* * *
A couple of days later, I’m in the shop again, leaning on the counter. Edward is in his chair, turned towards me. We’ve already talked about when he might come out again and look at the twentieth-century first editions. They’ll be harder for me to give up.
‘Oh, by the way. I saw your advert,’ I say. ‘I thought I’d apply.’
‘Advert?’
‘In the window. For an assistant?’
‘Oh, shit, no,’ he says. Even for Edward, that seems quite rude. I blink at him.
‘“Oh, shit no?” You could just say I’m clearly overqualified or something, no need to be offensive. Or more offensive than usual.’
He rummages in the drawer of his desk and pulls out a laminated notice, much like the others dotted around the shop. It says, REMEMBER, NO GIRLS.
‘This is my staffing policy,’ he says.
I laugh, and then try to disguise it with a cough. ‘I think that’s probably discriminatory. But never mind, I haven’t been a girl for decades.’
He looks at me, his mouth twisted. ‘Should I change it to say, No Women? I could get Rory to do that before he leaves. Anyway, it’s all the same. No female staff. Unless I’m desperate.’
‘I heard you were pretty desperate. When’s he off?’
He looks hunted. ‘Next Saturday’s his last day.’
‘A week today? Revising and then Interrailing, is it? That’s what I heard.’
‘Yes, does his exams and then it’s four weeks on a bloody train with his so-called mates, and then he’s off to uni. INGRATE,’ he yells in the direction of the fireplace, where Rory is shelving books from a large box. He turns his head and grins at us.
‘So anyway. No girls?’
‘Too much trouble.’
I shake my head, disbelieving. ‘It’s not your tree house.’
‘Yes, it is. It’s totally my tree house.’ Edward nods, firmly.
‘What kind of trouble, anyway? Weeping? Menstruating?’
‘Jesus Christ.’
This makes me laugh. ‘Well?’
He lifts a shoulder, irritable. ‘They fall in love with me. Or I fall in love with them. It’s stupid and annoying.’
I laugh again. ‘Oh, come on. You’re not serious.’
‘No, it’s true.’
‘Well, you needn’t worry, I’m not in a position to fall in love with you and I can’t imagine you’re likely to fall in love with me, are you? Don’t answer that,’ I add, ‘let’s take it as read, shall we?’
Rory puts the final book on the shelf and comes over. ‘You n-need someone, Edward. I’m only here this week.’
‘There, you see? Anyway, you can keep looking. I’ll only be here for the summer.’
‘How come you’re staying up? I thought you were only here for two weeks? You’ve already been here twice that.’ He folds his arms and looks at me suspiciously.
‘I like it. And it’s not like I’ve got a job at home. I told you, I was made redundant. So I can stay, for the moment.’
‘What about Mr Mottram? Doesn’t he mind you staying away all summer? Or is he coming up too?’
‘I don’t see why you’re so interested in my husband. He’d be very surprised.’
He glowers at me. ‘I’m not interested. I just wondered.’
‘That s-sounds like you’re interested,’ says Rory. He grins at me. Edward makes a sound of disgust, and Rory and I laugh.
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Can you work a till?’
We all look at the wooden box on the counter. I suck air in through my teeth. ‘Looks pretty technical. But I expect if someone teaches me how, I’ll be okay. I worked in HMV when I was at college,’ I add, ‘but I can see things have moved on a lot since those days.’
Rory laughs again. Edward frowns at me for a moment. ‘All right then. You’ – he points at Rory – ‘can train her. Can you start now? Today?’
I blink, surprised. ‘I suppose so. Yeah, why not.’
‘I’m going to Glasgow, then, now there’s two of you; for the sale. I’ll be back on Friday. Don’t let her do anything stupid. You’ – he points at me – ‘it’s minimum wage for the first month. Then we’ll discuss it. You’ – he points at Rory again – ‘teach her how the catalogue works. And there’s a delivery from Murchison coming later – so you can show her how to shelve.’
‘I reckon I can work that
out myself.’
He glares at me. ‘Do as Rory tells you. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I’ll try not to. All right then. Thanks.’ I salute smartly. ‘You won’t regret this, Mr Maltravers, sir.’
‘I’d better not,’ he says.
* * *
Rory and I have quite a laugh. He’s shy, almost as tall as Edward, with pale strawberry blond hair and a rash of unfortunate spots. He’s off to St Andrews to do English in September, assuming he gets his grades. I love his accent. Edward’s one of those annoyingly posh Scottish people who don’t really have a Scottish accent, which I think is a shame.
Rory introduces me to Holly Hunter, the shop cat, an ancient half-Persian who leaves clumps of pale fur around the place and sleeps on a pile of towels on top of the radiator in the hall. He shows me how to work the till – both of us pretending it’s complex and technical – and explains how the catalogue works. This feeds through to the website so the listings are up to date. Most of the sales, especially of the antiquarian books, come through the internet; making careful parcels and going to the post office is also part of the job.
Rory’s already on study leave, so he brings his revision into the shop every day, although he ought to be at home. In term time during the week he usually only works from four-thirty until six. I ask him lots of nosy questions whenever we stop for coffee, which he mostly answers.
I quite like being middle-aged; if I was his age I wouldn’t know what to say to him, but it’s easy enough to ask him questions, and he’s willing to talk to me, probably because I’m a stranger. I talk about my own university adventures, without expecting him to pay much attention, and he tells me about Chloe, his girlfriend, who’s off to Edinburgh in September. He’s worried about what will happen when they’re both away meeting new people, and I don’t blame him.
‘Everything expands when you go to university. It’s hard not to let it go to your head. And it’s hard not to take it personally, the stuff that happens. But everyone’s selfish when they’re your age. That’s not a criticism.’
‘I love her though.’ He picks at a price sticker that someone has stuck on the marble counter top.
‘I know, and I’m sure she loves you. It’s not really about that.’
He looks at me, serious. ‘Is this one of those horrible things that adults take for granted, aye?’
‘Sort of. I know I was furious when someone told my boyfriend that we’d split up when I went to university.’
‘B-but you did?’
‘In the end.’ I sigh. ‘And in the end, it didn’t even matter that much.’
‘It makes me s-s-s-sad,’ he says, his face flushed, ‘to think the things that seem important to me now might n-not in the future.’
‘Yes, it is sad. But – and this won’t help much – I think if you always lived as intensely as you do between, I don’t know, sixteen and twenty-four, you’d be dead by the time you were twenty-five. I was relieved when everything calmed down.’
‘Is that when you got married?’
‘I met my husband when I was twenty-five, yes.’
‘You d-didn’t want to talk to Edward about him, the other day. Your husband.’
Perceptive, young Rory. I think for a moment before replying. ‘No, I didn’t. He’s a bit obnoxious, isn’t he, I don’t particularly want to talk about myself to him.’
‘Why n-not?’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t want to give him ammunition.’
‘Is your husband ammunition?’
I laugh. ‘Sort of. We split up in January.’
‘Oh. I’m s-sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘B-but why’s it a secret?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I hesitate. ‘It isn’t, really. But I’d rather you didn’t mention it to anyone. Sometimes it’s better to appear to be a married person. Easier.’
I don’t expect him to understand, but he nods. ‘That makes s-sense. And Edward’s weird. About women.’
‘I thought he might be. Although I expect I’m too old for him to be weird about.’
‘Yeah, I dunno,’ says Rory.
* * *
So now I have a job. I quite like it. Although the hours are long, it’s not taxing. The shop never gets too busy, and it is, of course, endlessly interesting. I don’t think Edward expected me to be interested, but when he returns from Glasgow and Rory’s left to concentrate on his revision, we have lunch at the Old Mill and talk business.
We sit in the conservatory, which is a beautiful, light-filled room even on a grey day like today. Cerys brings us our food – their cheese toasties are amazing – and then retreats to the counter. Every now and then I look round and see her watching us; wondering, I suppose, why on earth I’d want to work with Edward. For a while we eat in silence, and then I say, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to learn things, about books or bookselling or whatever. So don’t think I won’t care, if there’s anything you’d tell someone who might be staying longer.’
He looks at me for a long time, chewing thoughtfully, and then nods. ‘Okay, I can teach you stuff. Are you handy?’
‘Handy?’
‘I mean, are you neat, with an eye for detail and a steady hand? I fix things sometimes.’
‘Ooh, with clamps, and glue made from rabbits? I know you shouldn’t mend books with Sellotape.’
He shudders. ‘No, you shouldn’t.’
‘Yeah, I was a librarian at junior school. We had special tape for fixing the books.’ I think fondly of the shady classroom, always quiet, where I learned about the Dewey Decimal System and spent break times by myself twice a week, fixing books for Mr Thompson.
‘Okay, good. Yeah, I can show you how to do that, and what to look for online and in sale catalogues and so on. If you’re sure.’ He returns his attention to his plate, eating two final slices of tomato.
‘Yes please. I like to get involved. You must tell me if that’s annoying.’
‘Why would it be annoying?’ He pours water into his glass and, after a questioning look, into mine too.
‘Well, it’s your shop, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want you to think I was interfering.’
He looks amused. ‘Do you want to interfere?’
I see this as an opportunity, and say, ‘No, I just… I wondered about the window displays…’
He sighs heavily. ‘Go on then. We can discuss it.’
‘We could have – I mean, you could have – a different theme every month. Like international month of whatever, maybe? I’ll come up with some ideas for you to look at. And Rory says there’s a Facebook page?’
He shakes his head. ‘I never post anything.’
‘I know. I could look after that. I’m quite good at social media; I used to run the Twitter account at the last place I worked. We had fifteen thousand followers.’
He sighs again. ‘I run a bookshop to avoid all this.’
‘I know. But you can still avoid it; let me look after it. Do you do events?’
Now he looks wary. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, I know there’s a new books section. So do you ever have authors for signings? Or readings?’
‘I never have done. I’m not good with people. You may have noticed.’
I ignore this. ‘No, but would you? I mean, say we could get Amy Liptrot or someone.’
‘I’d very much like to meet her,’ he says, briefly animated.
‘Yes, she’s nice and tall, isn’t she?’ I nod, approvingly. ‘And she sounds really interesting. But anyway, say she was doing stuff at Wigtown, for the Festival, or something, we could ask.’ I get my phone out. ‘The shop definitely needs a Twitter account. Can I set one up? And Instagram?’
‘What, and take photos of our sandwiches every day?’ he says, amused.
‘It’s not just for lunch pics.’ I tut, although I think that could be a cool gimmick, perhaps. Booksellers’ lunches. ‘I could take pictures of beautiful or rare books. And if we do any mending or whatever.’
‘I didn’t expect you to be so keen,’ he says. He frowns at me. ‘It’s disconcerting.’
‘Young people are great, but you can’t expect Rory to have a marketing brain, can you, however tech savvy he might be. But I’ve done a bit of marketing and there’s loads you can do nowadays that doesn’t cost anything. I don’t suppose you have a budget for marketing?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
‘Okay, I bet I can still make a difference. Increase turnover. I’m not saying by loads. But a bit.’
He’s amused, a half-smile curving. ‘We’ll see.’
Eight
When I’m not at work, I’m exploring. Every Sunday, even if it’s raining, I determinedly go out for the day, or half the day. I’ve been to Whithorn Priory, Caerlaverock Castle and poked around Castle Douglas and Newton Stewart. I’ve looked at ruined tower houses and stone circles and driven up the narrow track to Cairn Holy, a famously dramatic burial chamber. There’s no point being up here if I don’t see the sights, is there?
One unusually sunny day I drive to Drumtroddan Farm to look at the cup-and-ring marks, carved into slabs of rock five thousand years ago.
It’s quiet. Farms are strange places, either furiously busy or not, and during the day even on a big farm you’ll often see no one, and no animals, just empty buildings and rusty collections of stuff, mud and whitewash, complex arrangements of gates and fences, great bales of mysterious wire, looping twirls of pipes. As I follow the signs through the farmyard, I wonder whether they’re annoyed or pleased to have these famous carvings on their land.
I park by the big NO DOGS sign and put fifty pence in the box on the wall with its painted message – Donations Welcome. I don’t imagine they make much from the visitors, even if everyone pays, which they probably don’t. I wonder if they get a grant for taking care of the stones. Or is it just an annoyance, wear and tear on their tracks and footpaths, a whole field you can’t use for cows unless they’re friendly? I wonder all of this, but there’s no one to ask. I open a five-bar gate and close it carefully behind me, and then another, and finally a third lets me into the field. The ground is rough and uneven beneath a shaggy coat of lush green grass. The stones are at the far end, enclosed in black-painted iron railings, rusty in places, with creaking kissing gates. They don’t surround the slabs of rock generously – rather they’re tightly arranged to corral as many carvings into one place as possible. Inside the enclosure, the grass is shorter, nibbled by rabbits; there are daisies and buttercups and harebells.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 6
