The Bookshop on the Shore

by Jenny Colgan

  The vast wooden door was peeling and faded, she noticed as she went towards it. Mrs MacGlone frowned.

  ‘We use the other door,’ she said, and Zoe immediately couldn’t stop her mouth twitching. A servant’s entrance! This was Downton Abbey! She looked around and found it was, now that the moon was coming out, just dimly visible behind the thick clouds, impossible to tell what year it was.

  There was a heavy piny scent in the air. Now darkness was coming – true darkness, not the phosphorescent gloom of a London street where the trucks and cars never stopped, where everything ran 24/7.

  Apart from a faint hooting and rustling, Zoe couldn’t hear a sound. And she wondered suddenly if she’d ever been in such silence in her life.

  Then, as they were crunching their way to the back of the house (Nina, drooping with tiredness and nausea had rather apologetically driven off and said she’d see her tomorrow; there was a car at the house she could use), Zoe heard the huge front door creak and saw a light glow inside. There was a quick flash of something white, and a slightly eerie cackle of laughter. Zoe turned her head sharply, but there was nothing there. Mrs MacGlone showed absolutely no signs of having noticed a thing as the silence returned.

  The back door – a simpler affair with four panes of glass – did not creak: obviously it was always open. It led them into a flagstone corridor with a large room on the right-hand side filled with wellingtons and walking sticks and raincoats.

  ‘Leave your jackets in the boot room,’ sniffed Mrs MacGlone. Zoe blinked. She had never actually heard of a boot room. Hari’s eyes were wide; he had woken up and was now staring around him in wonderment. Zoe felt rather the same.

  Mrs MacGlone bustled on into a large low-ceilinged kitchen with a long servants’ table down the middle of it. The room was cold (there were no rugs on the floor) and rather dank, with a large butler sink. The only sound was a very loud old fridge buzzing away. There was, Zoe couldn’t help but notice, absolutely no smell of food or cooking in the air at all.

  ‘This is the kitchen,’ said Mrs MacGlone helpfully. ‘I don’t cook.’

  ‘But . . . what does everyone eat?’ said Zoe.

  ‘Och, we do all right.’

  ‘Well,’ said Zoe, who was beyond exhaustion. ‘Perhaps you could show me everything tomorrow? I’d quite like to put Hari down . . .’

  Mrs MacGlone looked at the child, as if a four-year-old being asleep at eleven o’clock at night was a peculiar sight, sniffed again, then carried on through the narrow corridor and led them up a twisting flight of stone steps, Zoe banging the luggage on every single one of them, and through a hidden door underneath the old brown staircase into what was obviously the main hallway of the house, leading to the wide front door.

  Everything was polished wood and smelled of beeswax. There was an overwhelming sensation of dark brown as well as the heavy tartan-patterned carpets which were secured with heavy gold stair-rods on the wide brown staircase with its carved pinions and banister. A large grandfather clock sat on the landing, actually ticking. Zoe didn’t think she’d heard a working one before.

  Once again, she caught the shadow of a distant laugh.

  ‘Did the children want to stay up and meet me?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘Git to bed!’ Mrs MacGlone yelled up the stairs, and they heard nothing more.

  ‘Right,’ said Zoe. ‘Well. And Mr Urquart?’

  ‘He isnae here,’ said Mrs MacGlone.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Zoe, genuinely surprised. ‘Just as well I showed up then.’

  Mrs MacGlone sniffed, as if it was certainly too early to be sure about that.

  Chapter Five

  Zoe carried on dragging her bags and following Mrs MacGlone. There was, as it turned out, another set of back stairs, through a hidden door next to the one they’d emerged from, which twisted up and around three flights to a long corridor in the attic.

  The first door was open and inside was a tiny room with two single beds and a small sink. It looked not entirely unlike a cell. A high window looked out onto pitch-black. Regardless, hugely relieved, Zoe put Hari on a bed, where he immediately turned over, snorted and fell fast asleep. There wasn’t a duvet, just a rough blanket, and she covered him up with it. The room was chilly.

  ‘Where’s . . . ?’

  ‘The bathroom’s at the end of the hall,’ said Mrs MacGlone. ‘I’ll show you everything else tomorrow. I’m off.’

  ‘You’re off . . . somewhere else?’

  ‘I’ve been doing night shifts since the last girl left,’ said Mrs MacGlone. ‘I’m sick of it. I’ll be back in the morning. Bye.’

  Zoe watched her go, realising to her horror that she didn’t know where the end of the hall meant exactly – the corridors seemed to go on for ever and could absolutely possibly get lost. Or killed by ghosts, her subconscious said, but she ignored that. Mostly.

  Also, she was starving hungry. On some level, she realised, she’d been hoping to arrive . . . Okay: honestly, Zoe had hoped she’d turn up to a lovely warm Scottish house, with fires burning and something traditional – haggis maybe? She’d never had that. Maybe a nice big bowl of soup and lovely children so pleased to see her and a nice dad saying thank heavens you’re here, and a cosy room and . . .

  The tap on the sink dripped solemnly. Something in the depths creaked. Zoe turned on her phone – no signal, but she could still put some music on and, quietly, she did, just to feel less utterly alone.

  She delved into her handbag and triumphantly found half a packet of semi-chewed rice cakes right down the bottom. Together with a glass of water – surprisingly clean and refreshing from the old brass tap – that was going to have to make a meal, she supposed.

  Well. She looked around at the bare beds, the empty, ancient wardrobe, the tiny window. Look on the bright side. It was . . . different. She felt as far away from anything as she ever had in her entire life.

  She sat on the bed. The mattress was so thin she could feel the springs beneath it. How long would she have to look on the bright side? Well. Tomorrow would be better. Wouldn’t it?

  Chapter Six

  At first, opening her eyes as she customarily did – at 5.30 a.m. with a small boy on top of her indicating that she take him to the toilet – as Zoe struggled into wakefulness, she didn’t quite realise where she was, or what had happened.

  Then it struck her.

  Quickly, without thinking, she bustled out of the room with Hari, unsure as to where the toilet was – there were eight doors on the corridor, any of which could lead to anything, but most, as she found out, were locked. Argh, this place was sinister, especially when you were freezing and desperate for the toilet.

  The loo was right at the very end, annoyingly, as they sprinted up the linoleum. It was a single old Thomas Crapper toilet with a long chain and enamel handle, and a huge, ancient clawfoot bath, but no shower. Zoe screwed up her eyes. After her long journey yesterday, she could absolutely do with a blisteringly hot shower, but there didn’t seem to be anything like that at all.

  While Hari went to the bathroom, she experimented with turning on the bath.

  Yellow gouges of water shot out from the mixer tap – it obviously hadn’t been used in some time – and Zoe groped around for the plug and grabbed the tiny, hotel-sized bar of soap by the sink. It hadn’t occurred to her, she realised, to bring shampoo. She supposed, when she was trying to compress their belongings to the smallest size possible, that she’d just collect and buy that stuff up here once she’d got settled, that she’d be able to borrow some things when she got here, or pop out to the shops.

  She couldn’t recollect seeing anything on their journey from Inverness the previous evening that looked like a shop.

  The hot water continued until it had covered about two inches of the bottom of the enormous bath, then turned cold abruptly. Zoe stared at it in consternation. Was that it? Did people really live like this?

  On the other hand, she needed to wash, that much was clear. On the
first day of a new job, it was kind of recommended.

  Reluctantly, and shivering on the cold tiles of the unheated room, she stripped down and took Hari out of his pyjamas, even as he wriggled and bodily protested. They stood and she soaped them both down with the tiny bar of soap as well as she could, which wasn’t very. She didn’t dare risk attempting to wash their hair. That would just have to stand.

  Hari was pointing at his mouth.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know you’re hungry, baby. We’re going to unpack all our clothes, and then we’ll go get some breakfast, okay?’

  Hari wasn’t remotely pacified and started to look as if he was going to cause trouble, even as she pulled an old towel, which had been washed and dried many, many times, from a small stack in the corner of the room, and wrapped up his shivering body, holding him close to her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered in his ear, although she was talking to herself as much as she was talking to him. ‘I know it’s new. And strange. And different. And that’s okay. Sometimes life just turns out that way. And it’ll be all right. I promise.’

  It struck her forcibly that this weird house, with its weird corridors and odd number of staircases, and mysterious children and the mysterious parent . . . it suddenly struck her, with some horror, that the house might not have a television. That the soothing power of Hey Duggee and his assorted cubs might not be able to exert their soothing power; that Octonauts might not distract him utterly when he needed soothing and calming down. She grabbed his ancient tablet when they got back to the room. Just until he felt better. They could plug it in downstairs.

  The house was silent as they descended the stairs. In daylight, she could see how derelict it was, dust and cobwebs everywhere except in the polished hallway, which remained pitch-dark, the huge door closed. It looked like a drawing room led off it, but that was shuttered. Also, the ground floor of the front, public section of the house was the first floor of the back; the grounds sloped round to the back of the house.

  The chilly kitchen was a more attractive sight in the morning, with large dirty windows letting weak sunlight pour in. There was also a kitchen door which led on to a small flagstone terrace, overgrown with wild grass, and then straight onto the lawn, which stretched down to the wall of a kitchen garden, with a thin gravel path running straight through it.

  There was no sign of an electric kettle, but there was a big old black steam kettle on top of the ancient electric oven, and Zoe figured she could work with that for now. She filled it with water – it weighed a ton – and propped it up.

  Warning Hari not to go near the stove – he was clutching his tablet like a religious talisman; they’d found a plug, and he patently didn’t want to come with her – she pulled her jumper further round her and found herself stepping out into the fresh morning.

  The grass was damp with dew, but the heavy mist which had sat around the house the previous evening, while not entirely gone, was lifting; you could see it swirl and move like a living thing. Zoe had never seen anything like it before; it was like being in a cloud.

  Just above, however, she could see the very first rays of sun doing their best to poke out from their thick grey blanket; here and there, a shard shot through, turning the drops of moisture on the grass stems into twinkling diamonds.

  Zoe took a great, deep breath and pulled the fresh air into her lungs.

  It was intoxicating. So pure, with an edge of fresh cold and a hint of sunlight; with a mossy scent of grass and leaves and a high note of ancient fir trees and the ghosts of millions of bluebells and snowdrops and daffodils, taking their turns, year after year.

  Zoe took another deep breath. She felt it could make you drunk; it was so rich and fierce. She opened her eyes, glancing back into the kitchen to make sure Hari was all right. She could see him through the open door, hunched, completely immersed in whatever he was watching, in a world of his own.

  ‘Come on, Hari!’ she called softly, but he barely glanced at her before he shook his head.

  The long, beautiful lawn was a little overgrown with daisies and wildflowers, but not necessarily the worse for that. An ivy-covered brick wall led to a walled garden with fruit trees bursting over the top of it. The house was behind her; the turrets, here and there, catching the sun on their spires and weather vanes. And to her left, the grass ran down over a mossy terrain which led down – to Zoe’s absolute shock and surprise, as she had noticed nothing like this the previous evening – to a small cove, right there in front of the house, where an old rowing boat, in desperate need of a sanding down and a coat of paint, was sitting – and beyond, a great shimmering expanse of green water, patches of sunlight glinting off it here and there. The loch itself, Loch Ness. Zoe had known it was near, roughly. Just not exactly this near.

  ‘Hari! Hari! Come see!’ said Zoe, clanging back into the kitchen. The kettle was making a loud whistling sound, and she poured it into a cup with a tired-looking teabag she’d found in an otherwise empty cupboard.

  ‘Well, you should maybe say hello or perhaps good morning,’ came a voice.

  Zoe whirled round, almost spilling the boiling water. The voice – definitely a child’s voice – had appeared out of nowhere. For some ridiculous moment, she had thought it might be . . . No. That was ridiculous.

  Standing in the kitchen door was a small boy with brown hair sticking straight up, wearing very old flannel pyjamas that were too short for him. Despite his odd appearance, his stance was confident.

  Zoe blinked. Then she realised, and put on her biggest smile.

  ‘Hello! Are you . . . ?’ She couldn’t remember which kid was which.

  ‘Are you Shackleton?’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘Yuk. That would be absolutely disgusting. I’m Patrick.’

  ‘Oh yes! Hello, Patrick. I’m Zoe.’

  The tiny boy frowned.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I absolutely don’t want to remember that. You are . . .’

  He glanced at his fingers.

  ‘Our number seven nanny. I shall call you Nanny Seven.’

  ‘Just call me Zoe please,’ said Zoe. Patrick padded over and jumped up carefully on one of the kitchen stools which were rather too high for him.

  ‘I don’t think so. Toast, Nanny Seven!’

  Zoe stared at him. To her amazement, Hari put down his tablet, got up and padded over to the newcomer. This wasn’t like him at all.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Patrick.

  ‘This is Hari,’ said Zoe. ‘He’s living here too.’

  Patrick regarded the boy with some suspicion. Hari glanced over at Zoe worriedly, but she smiled at him as if to say it would be all right.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Patrick eventually. ‘You don’t talk too much. I like that. I like to talk A LOT. Do you like dinosaurs?’

  Hari nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ said Patrick carelessly. ‘Two toasts, Nanny Seven.’

  ‘Well, hang on there just a second,’ Zoe was starting to say, when she spied another figure walking nervously towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Good morning!’ she trilled. She wished Mrs MacGlone was there. It was too weird to have to do this all by herself. A scary thought hit her – that Mrs MacGlone had now left for good and she’d never see her again and would just have to get on with it – but she put it to the back of her mind.

  The girl looked to be about ten, not showing any hints of puberty but growing long and tall, like a reed. She had long, dark hair that desperately needed washing and an incredibly pale face with a long, pointed chin. It wasn’t a pretty face, necessarily, the first time you saw it. But she looked interesting and inquisitive and different. She was wearing a pale white nightgown that trailed behind her; the effect was rather sinister with the dark hair.

  ‘I’m Zoe.’

  The girl sniffed, stared rudely at her and didn’t reply.

  ‘That’s Mary,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s horrible.’

  ‘Shut up, tyke,’ said the girl. She had a strong local accen
t.

  ‘See,’ said Patrick.

  She went into a cupboard Zoe hadn’t noticed before and drew out a box of cereal. Then she went out of the door altogether and came back with a carton of horrible UHT milk.

  ‘So, I’m going to be your new au pair.’

  ‘I’m nine,’ said Mary flatly. ‘I don’t need an au pair.’

  ‘You quite absolutely do,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re in-CORR-igibile.’

  ‘You don’t know what that means, tyke, so just shut up.’

  ‘I do actually. It means horrible and mean and nasty to brothers.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case it’s a good thing,’ said Mary, dumping half the milk on her cornflakes, flooding the bowl all over the table and not bothering to do anything about it.

  ‘I like your house,’ said Zoe vaguely. Mary shot her a look that made Zoe amazed she was only nine and not fourteen and full of hormones.

  ‘You can pay to come round it four times a year,’ she hissed. ‘Why don’t you do that instead?’

  Hari stood up with a ragged old piece of blanket he liked to carry round in emergencies crammed up against his face, his thumb in his mouth.

  ‘And this is my son Hari, who’s going to be staying too.’

  Mary completely ignored Hari too – which made Zoe incredibly angry – pulled out a phone and started to tap into it in a very ostentatious fashion. It was an unexpectedly modern thing for the girl to do in such an old house.

  After a moment, Patrick did the same thing, and the two of them sat absolutely buried in their phones while Zoe tiptoed around the table, fetching some of the cereal for Hari – Mary shot her a look at this, as if she were stealing – and moving dirty cups and plates out of the way. To her horror, there didn’t appear to be a dishwasher. How on earth could a family survive without a dishwasher? She sighed. The sun was still coming through the windows. She took Hari’s hand and set his tablet to one side.