‘Oh. Well. Perhaps. But you’re a bit old, aren’t you? I know you’re doing the same thing as me,’ I add, ‘thinking of yourself as a young man. Like I see myself as a kitchen maid, whereas I’d hope I’d have been a cook or housekeeper by the time I got to my age, and you’d be a general, or too old to fight.’
He frowns at me. ‘I suppose so,’ he says. ‘You’re right, I’m always twenty in my head.’
‘I know. Depressing, isn’t it?’
Ten
It’s the beginning of July and I’ve been working at the bookshop for nearly two months. I’ve taken over the window displays, which have improved one hundred per cent if I do say so myself. The Twitter account, much to Edward’s horror, is a resounding success and I’ve been Instagramming pictures of books, and actually posting things on the Facebook page Rory’s brother set up five years ago.
‘I don’t know why you bother,’ he says. ‘I won’t do any of this when you’ve gone.’
‘Make it part of my replacement’s role. E-marketing.’
‘Jesus.’
‘We’ve got more than five hundred Twitter followers already,’ I say. ‘I think that’s pretty good going. And loads of them are actual people, not just other bookshops.’ I’m opening boxes, three of which arrived this morning, and unpacking the contents. I stack books on the floor by the counter.
‘Ugh.’
‘If you get another young person, they’ll be happy to do it. It’s not difficult. And I sold that Folio Society Austen box set because of Twitter.’
‘I know,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘I suppose you’re quite good at it.’
‘I don’t know if I am, but it’s hardly difficult. Interaction, Edward, that’s what it’s all about.’ I open a seventies travel guide to the Lowlands and flick through the pages. Some great photographs, oversaturated, my favourite kind of municipal flowerbeds, scenery with suspiciously blue sky and lochs. It’s the things you never think about, like bins and bus shelters, that make you nostalgic; the typeface on shop fronts. There are some shops in Castle Douglas that still have their sixties shop signs; I’ve been photographing them for my own Instagram. One got nearly eight hundred likes; I’m a social media maven. Ha.
I look back at my boss, who is huffing to himself.
‘I didn’t open an antiquarian bookshop in order to interact with people,’ he says with loathing. I laugh at him. I sincerely believe almost all this miserable grumpiness is a pose. Sometimes one he believes himself, perhaps. But mostly a pose, a concealment. I’m not sure why he wants to hide away like this, because although we often spend all day together, and sometimes go for a drink in the evening, we still don’t talk about ourselves much, being too busy talking about books.
‘Have you seen the forecast?’ he asks me, looking up from his phone.
‘No,’ I say, slicing open another box. ‘Ooh. Local history.’
‘Is that what’s in there? It’s taken him long enough. Anyway, look, it’s supposed to be twenty-three degrees later, maybe twenty-four tomorrow. What sweltering heat, we’ll never recover.’
‘That’s properly warm,’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t realize it ever got that hot up here.’
‘Tsk. Of course it does. About every five years, for two days. I’ll tell you what we should do.’
I put a final pile of books on the counter and begin to disassemble the box. ‘Oh yes? What should we do?’
‘Close the shop and go to the beach.’
This seems so out of character I laugh. ‘No. Seriously?’
‘We should go to the Shed.’
‘What’s the Shed? And don’t tell me it’s a shed, please.’
‘It is though. Although that’s… It’s a bit grander than a shed. But not grand in any way. They call them beach huts, but it’s not like the beach huts you get at Southwold or Brighton. It’s more like a shack. No electricity. But there’s a loo. It’s primitive, but more comfortable than camping.’
‘At the beach?’
‘Mm-hm. About ten miles away. A wee bay. There’s a burn and rocks and a bit of sand. Used to go there a lot when we were kids.’
‘Oh really?’ A snippet of family information.
‘Go home and get your swimsuit,’ he says.
I laugh. ‘I didn’t bring a bathing costume with me. I only came to empty the house; I wasn’t planning on staying.’
‘Buy one then.’
‘Oh, if only it were that easy. I doubt I’d get a swimming costume here. Which shop would you suggest? The Co-op? Have to go to Dumfries, I should think.’
He pulls at his lower lip. ‘Hm. You might be right. But anyway, go and get some beach clothes, and a towel. And your book. And maybe a jumper for tonight. I’ll sort out the food.’
I look at him. He’s excited by the idea, I can see that.
‘Tonight?’
‘Oh, well, it’s good to have a fire on the beach and look at the stars,’ he says.
Slightly doubtful, I ask, ‘Would we… sleep there?’ I’m not sure about sharing accommodation with Edward. Not that I think… But it’s intimate, isn’t it, even if you’re not intimate.
‘Oh, there is a bedroom, but I never sleep in there. It’s one big room mostly, but it’s comfortable. The sofa folds down, and… But I wasn’t thinking we’d stay over, just go for the day.’
‘Oh, okay, that sounds… okay.’ I’m relieved not to have to worry about spending the night with him. Or not ‘with him’, you know, but in the same building.
‘Go and get your stuff together. I’ll come and get you.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In about half an hour? Pointless to take two cars. Go on. Do you ever drink beer?’
‘Not really.’
‘A bottle of wine then, to have with lunch. I’ll pop to Rabbie’s and see what fish he’s got.’
‘Really close the shop?’
‘Ach, we don’t get weather this good very often. I’ll change the answerphone message and put a sign on the door. Go on, away with you. I’ll be across to collect you… say at ten-fifteen.’
* * *
Edward drives a Land Rover Defender which has seen better days. It’s filthy, and there’s a terrible scrape down the driver’s side. The back seats are piled with stuff, including a battered wicker hamper and a big red cool box. He jams my bag of odds and ends in as well and stands in the road, thinking.
‘Sun hat,’ he says.
‘Check.’
‘Sun cream.’
‘Check.’
‘Got your book? There’s no signal, so don’t expect to be able to get online.’
‘No problem.’
‘Okay. Come on then.’
I climb up into the passenger seat and admire the view from the dizzy heights of the 4X4.
‘Off-roading?’
‘We do actually have to, yes. There is a road, but it’s shit.’
I put on my sunglasses. ‘How thrilling,’ I say, ‘like going on holiday.’
‘I’ve only been down a couple of times this summer. I don’t mind going when it’s wet or windy – storms are great when you’re right on the beach – but it’s blissful in hot weather.’
I turn to look at him. I’ve never known him to be in such a good mood. ‘So is it, like, a family place? If you used to go when you were a kid?’
He’s silent for a while, thinking. ‘Yeah. My grandfather built it, just before the war.’
‘I thought you gave up all your family stuff,’ I say, cautiously.
‘Yeah, well. I wanted to keep the Shed. I guess I’m a hypocrite.’
He’s as scathing about himself as he is about everyone else, I suppose.
‘Oh, I think you’re being harsh,’ I say.
‘Am I? I don’t know that I am. Anyway, I kept the Shed. It’s probably not worth much, I don’t know.’
‘If there’s no electricity…’
‘Yeah, the other beach houses down there have ’leccy. I could get it hooked up, but I prefer it without. My father got the plumbi
ng sorted. For which I’m grateful, obviously–’
‘Look at the sky,’ I interrupt, ‘isn’t it amazing? I mean it’s not like it’s rained all the time since I arrived, but bloody hell, it hasn’t been like this.’
He laughs. ‘No, it isn’t often this hot. Although there are plenty of fine days. The weather moves quickly up here; it’s unusual for it to rain all day.’
We’re driving through farmland, mostly; fields of cows, fields of sheep. I’m still surprised by how rural it is. The road runs along the coast, so it’s salt marsh on one side and fields on the other.
* * *
Eventually we turn off the main road, and then turn off again onto a track between brambly hedges, and then onto another, rougher track. I glimpse the sea across a field. I’m genuinely quite excited.
‘All caravans down there,’ he gestures. ‘They have a shop, so you can get milk if you need to.’
‘Don’t they ruin your ambience?’
‘Can’t see ’em from the Shed, and the holiday people don’t come down here; it’s quite a walk, and they’ve got their own beach. Get some dog walkers. Sometimes you catch people peering through the windows, or they sit on the bench; I don’t care, as long as they don’t make a mess. Sorry,’ he adds as we bounce over a particularly rough patch and I grab at the dashboard. ‘Here we go, this is us. Would you be a darling and open the gate for me?’
I climb out of the car and cross the track to the mossy five-bar gate to my right. There’s a piece of painted slate attached to it which just says Maltravers as though that’s the name of the house. I slide the bolt and push the gate open. There are trees, short and twisty, windblown; on the boundary, a lichened, ferny drystone wall. I step out of the way so he can bring the car through, and look over towards the hut, or shed, or house. It’s black creosoted wood, single storey, the front door on this side, neatly painted in emerald green. It opens onto the wide swathe of weedy shingle where he’s parking the car. There’s a window on this side too, covered with a wire grille. So far, I can’t see the sea, although I can hear it. Another, smaller shed with double doors, newer-looking, stands over to the left.
Edward’s out of the car and heading towards me. ‘I’ll unlock and show you round. It’ll be dark because I’ll need to take the shutters down.’ He fiddles with the door, leaning his shoulder into it. ‘And it sticks… Oh, there we are. Come in.’
I follow him into a shadowy hallway. The still air feels dry, and it smells of warm wood, dust and wood smoke. The smell of a hot shed reminds me of the summer holidays, days spent at my friend Tara’s. Playing in the shed was forbidden, for some reason, but we’d creep in there while her dad was at work; unfolding the sun-lounger, pretending it was our house, ignoring the lawnmower and the spades and forks.
‘Careful,’ he warns, opening another door, ‘there’s a step down. Wait here a moment.’
He disappears behind me and I peer around, stranded in the half-dark. Light creeps round the edges of the shutters, so I can just about see some sofas and a chair, a table against one wall, a wood burner. I hear the whoosh of something sliding, and then the room is full of light.
‘Oh, wow,’ I say, feebly. The whole of the front wall, more or less, is glass, half of it sliding open when he unlocks it. Outside, brilliant green lawn, rocks, ocean. I can’t see the beach, because it’s lower than the grass, but I can see the rocks that curve round, forming the bay, and the sea itself. The sky and the sea are equally blue; there’s not a cloud to be seen. The wooden-walled room has pine tongue and groove, like a chalet. There are pictures, a bookcase. The chair I noticed earlier is the pair of the one in the shop that Edward sits in. One of the sofas is a tiny mid-century two-seater, upholstered in nubby blue fabric, with skinny angled legs, while the other is a huge fat four-seater that probably cost a fortune when it was new. It’s covered with tartan blankets. There’s a sink on the same wall as the burner, and an old sideboard with a marble top, similar to the counter in the shop. On the wall above the sink there’s a cupboard, and three open shelves with plates and cups and bowls. Pans hang from the wall.
‘Bathroom – I use the term loosely – is back through the hall and off to the left. There’s a bedroom as well but I always sleep in here, or out on the grass,’ he says. He watches me as I look at everything. ‘And that’s all there is to it.’ He shrugs. ‘Obviously it’s all about the beach.’
‘Oh yes! The beach!’ I hurry out onto the lawn and across the grass. It falls away to a tight curve of yellow-brown sand, alexanders and sea kale, great slabby heaps of rock, washed up piles of kelp and bladderwrack, patches of shell and pebble. A pair of gulls watch me from a silvery-pale branch of driftwood. In the bay a solitary orange buoy bobs in the waves. It’s pretty much perfect, like something from the Famous Five. I turn back to the Shed, where he watches me, grinning.
‘It’s beautiful. How splendid.’
He’s pleased, I think, that I like it. He nods, smiling. ‘Let’s get things sorted before it gets too hot. Tea?’
‘It’s much too warm, surely,’ I say, surprised. ‘Won’t the burner make it unbearable in there? Are you going to cook inside?’
‘No, I’ll cook out here. I could boil a kettle on the Emergency Primus. Need a cuppa.’
‘That might be better. Although it’s up to you,’ I add. ‘I’m not trying to boss you.’
‘Are you not?’ He grins at me. I wonder if it’s being outdoors that makes him less… combative, or our sort-of skiving.
I widen my eyes and shake my head. ‘I never boss anyone.’
‘No, no, of course not.’
I watch as he carries the shutters away, one at a time, back round the side of the house to the smaller shed. He returns with a beautiful Indian parasol, bright purple, with glittering beads hanging from it. He leans it against the wall and goes back for the stand.
‘It gets stupidly hot out here, and there’s no shade,’ he explains, putting the parasol up and going off again, returning this time with a wheelbarrow full of wood.
‘If I get all this done now,’ he says, ‘we won’t have to do it later when it’s really warm.’
‘Let me help,’ I say, and he asks me to unpack the hamper.
‘It’s a bit early for booze, d’you think?’ he says.
I nod. ‘It is for me, yes.’
‘So bring the wine out here and I’ll show you the fridge.’
‘Fridge? But there’s no electric.’
‘All will be revealed.’
I go inside and unbuckle the lid of the elderly Fortnum’s hamper he’s put on the worktop. Inside I find two bottles of white wine and four bottles of sparkling water, as well as various ingredients for lunch and dinner. I load up with bottles. I’m no expert, but the wine looks expensive. I trot outside again.
‘Did you buy this specially? I should give you some money.’
‘Oh no, don’t be ridiculous. Okay, so look – this is the shady side, because of the trees. And under here…’ He rolls a rock, much like the other rocks piled around the place, to one side. Under it is a piece of tarpaulin, and under that, rather thrillingly, a trapdoor. He pulls this up and shows me a square hole in the earth, neatly lined with slate, creating a cool place, just tall enough for a large wine bottle. There’s something in there, wrapped in a carrier bag.
‘Huh,’ he says, ‘I forgot about that.’
‘What is it?’
‘Champagne.’ He pulls it out and unwraps a bottle of Perrier Jouet.
‘Get you,’ I say, amused. ‘Essentially abandoning bottles of champagne.’
‘Profligate.’
‘Just a bit. Anyway, that’s clever, the fridge. Did you make it?’
‘Yeah, I built it when I was at school.’ He grins at me. ‘I’m pretty proud of it, to be honest.’
‘It’s very cunning.’
‘Yeah, it used to drive my mother mad that you had to put the milk in a bucket of cold water. And no ice for her G&Ts. Still no ice, but you can keep yo
ur tonic cold, especially if you put the ice packs from the cool box in here. Right then. What’s next? I think I’m going to go for a swim. Did you get a costume?’
‘Of course not. But it’s okay, I can paddle.’
‘You’re missing out. Could skinny dip? It’s very quiet…’
‘Yeah, d’you know what, I don’t think so. I’m afraid I require quite substantial support and buttressing.’
This makes him laugh. ‘Fair enough. I’ll go and get changed, anyway,’ he says, and heads back indoors. I stand outside on the grass and close my eyes. Apart from the sound of the waves, it’s totally silent. The sun on my face is heavenly. I stretch out my arms and soak up the warmth. I should probably put on some sun cream before I’m burnt to a crisp.
Should I lie on the grass and read while he’s swimming, or walk on the beach? If I was even five years younger, I’d have been on the beach already. I smear myself with factor thirty, remembering, this time, to do the back of my neck. Then I put my hat on and stuff an empty linen tote bag into the pocket of my skirt. I’m pleased with myself for remembering this, so I won’t have to try and hold any results of beachcombing in my hands. I look back towards the door into the hallway. Edward is still inside; I’m not sure whether to wait for him.
It suddenly seems a bit odd that we’re out here together. It’s not as though we’re… Are we friends? Not exactly. I mean he’s my boss, isn’t he? Would he have brought Rory with him? Maybe he would have. Maybe he did. He doesn’t seem to have any proper friends, although I’m not sure why.
I walk to the edge of the lawn and look down at the sand, and then clamber over the rocks, until I’m standing amongst the pebbles. I stoop to take off my sandals and leave them on a rock, and then begin to walk slowly along the beach, heading to the left, where a long spur of rock juts out into the bay.
I love a beach. A beach with shells and driftwood, sand and rockpools. I like things to look at, and things to collect. A good beach has beach glass, worn smooth, in unusual colours; and pieces of Victorian china, with patterns on; interesting shells. There are certainly lots of shells here. As my eyes adjust, I’m amazed. Different to the ones at the beach where Jenny walks the dogs, here there are huge heaping swathes of limpets and mussels and, caught up amongst them, the same bright yellow and orange periwinkles, deepening to maroon. I’m further down the beach now, the intertidal zone, on firm sand that was underwater earlier. I look back at the faint impressions of my footsteps. There’s a slight breeze and the endless whisper of the waves.
The Bookshop of Second Chances Page 9
