by Jenny Colgan
‘Oof,’ she said, then glanced at Hari, who was on an ancient, deeply stained booster seat in the back. He looked up, concerned.
‘It’s fine,’ reassured Zoe, swinging round again. ‘Just having fun!’ Her voice sounded hollow, even to herself.
She went around the fountain a few more times. It was a very long time since she’d had a car – there was no use for it in London really. She’d gotten a second-hand one way back when she’d passed her test; it had been so exciting. They’d driven to music festivals and round the M25 and down to Brighton and done all sorts of things with friends, hanging out, smoking out the windows, playing the music loud in the scorching London summer sun.
They were good days, she thought. In her memories they were totally golden. And very, very short. Was it possible, she wondered with fear, that she’d only had about three good days? And now they’d gone? The car had gone long ago, sold to buy baby stuff. So much baby stuff.
Zoe glanced up at the side of the dark, crenellated, imposing grey house. On the second floor, there was, strangely, a huge stained-glass window. It looked totally out of keeping with the rest of the house. As she was staring at it, she thought she saw the shadow of a person, and suddenly realised she had been circling the fountain for quite some time and should probably get a move on.
Her second thought was, ridiculously, was that a person at the window or . . . ?
But when she glanced up again, the figure was gone.
* * *
The green Renault turned left out of the entrance to The Beeches, then bounced down the single-track road for what seemed like hours. It was a pretty straight shot to Kirrinfief, the town where the van plied its trade.
There were rows of pines, so many trees, and then suddenly they stopped and to Zoe’s utter surprise, she saw a huge car park. It was mostly empty, but there were a few cars here and there, with people getting out of them, many in macs, and a few huge coaches belching smoke and picnic tables and rubbish bins, and a big old gabled house with ‘Ness Centre and Café’ written on it in faded writing. Zoe blinked. After the vast silence of The Beeches, it was like accidentally wandering past Piccadilly Circus.
She glanced at her watch. Nina had said tenish, but it was only nine o’clock; Zoe had felt so awkward in the kitchen she had got them out of there as fast as she could.
She pulled over briefly.
The sign was in English, French, German, Japanese and what looked like some fairly recently added Russian and Chinese underneath. It was rather tatty and faded.
There was a medium-sized red sandstone house, with peeling green gables, and, in the window, a fairly tragic selection of dusty old Nessie soft toys. Zoe hauled Hari out and stuck her head round the door. A nice-looking woman came over, looking anxious.
‘Hello,’ said Zoe cheerfully. ‘I was wondering if you did takeaway coffee?’
‘Oh. No,’ said the woman, as if it had only just occurred to her. ‘Should I, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Zoe. ‘But there’s a lot of people out there who look as if they’ve been on a bus for a long time.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the woman, whose name was Agnieszka. She perked up. ‘But we do sandwiches at lunchtime! Cheese or cheese and ham!’
‘Okay,’ smiled Zoe. ‘Thanks!’
They headed back outside.
The mountains rose up high above the water line, reflecting back into the loch so it was a perfect mirror, and the sun, with the chill wind beneath it, felt kind and soft in the deep autumn light.
Zoe felt sorry for the tourists desperately looking for some stupid monster that wasn’t there – after all, look what was here: the glorious vista, the fresh winds, that heavy scent in the air.
Zoe blinked to herself, even as Hari was pointing ferociously at the Nessie toys in the café window and pulling her firmly on the arm. Then he pointed out to the loch, then pointed to the toy another child was carrying behind them, dragging it through the sandy rushes.
‘I’m not buying you a toy, Hari – I’m not your dad,’ she said, kissing him full on the cheek. ‘I promise, there’ll be lots of toys to play with at your new nursery.’
She felt him stiffen in her arms. Well. It had to happen at one point.
‘Come on, let’s go.’
And then it was the oddest thing: they backed away from the colour and the clamour of people with different foreign tour groups, all speaking different languages and wearing brightly coloured cagoules and mackintoshes while coaches settled and cars vroomed and boats out on the loch pulled on their motors and everything was hustle and bustle – then before they’d gone twenty metres down the road, all was quiet again; nothing but birds gently lifting off across the road, or the glimmer of what might be deer in the woods, as if there were never any people there at all.
Chapter Eleven
‘We’re going to a farm next!’ Zoe said excitedly to Hari. Sometimes she felt as if Hari was blind; that she was narrating the world to him as if he couldn’t see it.
But it was so hard to know what he understood and what he didn’t. What he liked and what he didn’t: that much was plain. But otherwise she was just filling the space. Or, as people had occasionally said, with utterly breath-taking cruelty, oh how nice for you, a quiet toddler, wish mine was like that.
‘Cows, sheep, chickens!’ Zoe added, as a chicken did in fact march out in front of the little car and stop bolt upright, fixing its little beady eyes on them as if it were a border guard.
‘Hello, Mr Chicken,’ she said as she opened the door. ‘May we pass?’
The chicken didn’t move. Zoe lifted Hari down carefully.
‘Um, hello?’ she shouted.
Lennox wouldn’t have answered her even if he had been there – no farmer can be found at home in the daytime – and Nina was, sad to say, fast asleep. She’d got up at 4.20 with Lennox and made him tea while he went out and did the milking – it was a freezing morning and he was so glad of her kindness that she was happy to do it for him.
Unfortunately, the bump had slightly overwhelmed her so she’d taken her own cup of tea back to bed, just for a few minutes, just until he came back in, just a few pages of Emma . . .
And then she’d immediately dropped off again and hadn’t even stirred even when Lennox had stomped in, showered, changed and stomped back out again to see what the lads were doing down at the lower meadow and why they weren’t doing it any faster.
Lennox had looked at her lying there, pink-cheeked and dreamy and absolutely ridiculously vast – every time he thought she couldn’t possibly get much bigger, she appeared to get massively and instantly bigger – smiled to himself about how much he’d love to climb back in there and nuzzle deep into her neck, then shook himself and went to find his dry stone wall tools.
* * *
So Zoe stood alone in the muddy farmyard, being eyed by an evil chicken, Hari gazing all around him as if she’d transported him to the moon, feeling somewhat bamboozled.
Eventually, she persuaded Hari to stomp through the mud in his new yellow wellington boots (a gift from her old nursery friends) so they could circumvent the chicken, which continued to eye them suspiciously, turning its head incredibly far around while they squelched along. Zoe wondered briefly if the chicken had actually got stuck.
Her attention was soon distracted, however, by the sight of the blue van which had picked her up the day before. Not one job, she thought to herself, a trifle ruefully – two!
In the broad sunlight, it was actually rather lovely, a vintage old bus, painted a pale blue.
She tried the back doors, which were unlocked, and pulled them open. Then she gasped.
* * *
It really was extraordinary, just how much you could get inside what didn’t look that big from the outside; it was like a little book TARDIS.
Looking straight ahead, firstly the pneumatic steps unfolded to greet you, though there was also a ramp Nina used for wheelchairs and buggies when she needed to, as well as
for rolling boxes of books in.
One side was fiction; the other side non-fiction. The far right corner was covered in bright cushions and had a tiny table and was the designated children’s zone.
The deep blue shelves had cord running through the centre of them, to hold the books in when the van swung round corners, and at the front, bolted to the floor, was a little cupboard for stock, paper bags, the till, card reader and a little seat for whoever was serving.
There were more high shelves built for stock at the back of the van and a beautiful tiny carved chandelier with stags’ heads hanging down from the centre of the roof. On the floor of the van were several old Persian rugs Nina had to vacuum each day, and was sincerely looking forward to not having to.
There was a gap between the main part of the van and the roof, which had tiny thin windows so light could get in, as it did from the open doors. The entire place was quite enchanting.
Zoe took a further step inside the van as Hari ran straight to the children’s section at the back, his eyes wide.
‘No!’ said Zoe. ‘Sweetie, you can’t touch the books. You can’t. They’re for sale; they’re not for you. I’ll read you a book tonight.’
He looked at her, then defiantly held up a book he’d spied about dinosaurs.
‘Oh, well, be careful then.’
The stock wasn’t massive of course – but oh, it was beautifully put together, carefully chosen so that if you were in the mood for a psychological thriller, or a great sweeping historical romance, or a modern state-of-the-nation book, only the very, very best were represented; not always the newest – although there was a good up-to-date selection on both sides of the aisle – but a perfectly curated miniature snapshot of the very best books you could find anywhere. And every book Zoe had loved throughout her entire life, it seemed, was here.
Here was a full hardback Chalet School series her mother used to let her borrow from the library; a complete set of immaculate Shardlake novels; all the great mountaineering tragedies she’d briefly got obsessed with as a teen; more Philip Larkin than you’d expect to find in a bookshop smaller than most people’s front rooms; and a large schoolbook section.
The fact that there were so many of her favourites there made Zoe immediately think that anything else on display must also be what she liked, as if the person who ran the shop had already reached inside her mind and figured out what she would enjoy. It made her think too that however intimidating she’d found Nina so far (Nina would have been wildly surprised to hear herself referred to as intimidating), surely someone who liked as many good books as this – look! There was The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! And Knowledge of Angels! And Pat Barker, and Kate Atkinson, and Andrea Levy and Louis de Bernières and all the good things – had to be a good person. It was a very odd concept – that you could become friends with someone simply by examining their bookshelves – but nevertheless Zoe believed it fervently.
She grabbed a racy biography of Princess Margaret, and an old but beautifully well-kept Antonia Forster, and quietly joined Hari on his pile of cushions on the corner.
Chapter Twelve
Nina realised she’d overslept when she woke up, the sun high, the bedroom in disarray; the tea next to the bed stone-cold. Cursing, she jumped up, remembering that the new girl was starting today. Where was she? Hadn’t she woken her? Couldn’t she have come in and gotten her? What was she doing, sitting outside like a lemon?
Nina was cross with herself. Looking in the mirror, she could see already her hair was an absolute midden. Her breasts had been kind of hilarious to begin with, and Lennox had certainly, in his quiet way, been firmly appreciative, but now they seemed to be taking on a life of their own, as well as pointing in completely different directions. And she felt absolutely awful. She was meant to be in her second trimester, for goodness’ sake; she was supposed to be glowing like a goddess, gliding munificently through life. Instead she felt utterly awful all the time.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she hissed, jumping in the shower, then reminding herself not to do anything in a hurry because if she fell down – she nearly slipped – she wouldn’t be able to get up again.
So it was in a thoroughly bad temper that she approached Zoe’s little green Renault to find nobody in it, and the door of the book bus thrown open to the elements. She stomped up to it, intending to say a few things about how keeping chickens out of bookshops was something she genuinely wanted to encourage. She couldn’t help but be slightly struck, though, by the sight of the girl and the tiny lad curled up on the children’s cushions in the corner, both utterly engrossed.
Nina cleared her throat.
‘Um.’
Zoe jumped up, feeling as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
‘Uh, hello,’ she said, carefully smoothing the book down and putting it back on the shelf as if she hadn’t been seen. ‘Um, sorry. I was just . . . I didn’t know where . . .’
‘Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?’ said Nina, still cross with herself but somehow finding herself taking it out on Zoe for the simple fact that Zoe could still see her own toes.
‘I wasn’t . . . I didn’t want to . . . I mean, isn’t that your house?’ stammered Zoe, her face a picture of misery.
‘Well, obviously.’
‘I didn’t . . . I wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was.’
‘You didn’t phone?’
Zoe held up her cheap pay-as-you-go phone. ‘I haven’t got a signal here, I’m sorry . . . I really am sorry. I didn’t . . .’
Nina shrugged.
‘Don’t worry about it now. Let’s get moving. Have you been to see the nursery yet?’
‘No, I thought . . .’
The fact was, Zoe was terrified of visiting the nursery. Having to explain everything. Getting a doctor’s note. Whether Hari would be unbearably miserable and she wouldn’t be able to help or do anything about it at all.
As she looked out over the fields and the low threatening clouds, though, she felt incredibly alone.
‘I thought we’d settle in for a day or so . . . is that okay?’
Nina sniffed and looked at the little boy.
‘Just . . . no food in the van, okay?’
‘Of course,’ said Zoe quickly. ‘Honestly, he’s very good. I’ll keep him out of the way.’
‘Okay,’ said Nina. She sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to work it out myself soon. But I’m sure I’ll just be able to bring the buggy and stick it in the corner.’
Zoe couldn’t help it: she let out a little laugh that she desperately tried to turn in to a cough.
‘What?’ said Nina, suspicious.
‘Nothing!’ said Zoe. ‘It’s just . . . it can be quite tricky when they’re in their buggies.’
‘They just lie there, don’t they?’ said Nina.
‘Well, some do,’ said Zoe. Nina felt prickly. She was being helpful here; she didn’t need Zoe being all superior about her motherhood experiences.
‘Well,’ said Zoe, after a slightly awkward pause. ‘Can I get started?’
* * *
Nina drove them down to the post office, where several new boxes were waiting. She smiled broadly.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, looking up. ‘A nice house clearance. Lots of new books bought but never read.’
She sighed. ‘It’s sad really.’
‘You’re bringing them back to life,’ said Zoe, trying to be encouraging, and because she felt they’d rather got off on the wrong foot.
‘I hope so,’ said Nina. ‘But it’s still sad . . . thinking you have all the time in the world to read!’
‘You’re about to have even less!’ said Zoe merrily, then wished with all her heart that she’d bitten her tongue as Nina’s face clouded over again. She’d only been making a joke; Nina seemed to think that instead she was giving her childrearing advice every two seconds.
‘Although,’ Zoe added quickly, ‘you know you can read while you’re breastfeeding.’
Nina blinked.
‘Really?’
‘Totally! You need a pillow, then it’s a cinch.’
‘You don’t lean the book on the baby’s head?’
‘No!’ said Zoe. ‘Well. Only kind of resting at an angle. They’ll be eating; they won’t mind.’
Nina frowned again and they carried on unpacking in silence. Ignored, Hari climbed inside one of the boxes and pretended to be driving a boat. He was highly disappointed to be near water and not going on one. It was his dream. He’d never been on a boat. Only the bus, and when they would cross from north to south London from time to time, he would stare down at the busy river, fascinated.
Zoe was completely unaware of this. His pictures of boats just looked like long outlines. In fact, she thought he was doing lovely drawings of snakes and worms and had instead taken him to a discount day at the butterfly park where he had been draped in snakes and photographed without looking particularly pleased or distressed about it either way.
Nina perked up as she unearthed more treasure in the box: untouched hardbacks and a beautifully illustrated Peter Pan.
‘I get half my stock like this,’ she said, expertly repacking the books she didn’t want to send on to a second-hand dealer. ‘Then the rest is new books from wholesalers. You’ll need to unpack and check them off the box. It’s tricky because we order so small, but they’re really good. Do you think you can manage that?’
Zoe nodded, then as she was lifting the discarded box away she frowned and fished something out. It was a small, rather plain pale pink cloth-covered novel in beautiful condition, with no title save a little pair of ballet shoes on the front.
She opened it carefully. Sure enough, it was a very early edition of the Noel Streatfeild classic, complete with full colour plates and line drawings. It smelled very faintly of old polish and deep wood, but it was in flawless condition. There wasn’t even a badly scrawled name in the frontispiece, but rather a beautiful gold ex-libris plate inscribed, ‘To Lady Violet Greene, best wishes, Mary.’