The Bookshop on the Shore

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘That’s a lot of Ts,’ said Zoe. ‘And no! I’m just . . . getting stuff in people seemed to like!’

  ‘People like refined sugar and heroin,’ said Nina. ‘Are you selling that too?’

  Zoe bit her lip uncomfortably. She had genuinely thought that she’d come up with something good and profitable. The coach parties cooed over the lovely little blue-painted van, bought souvenirs to take home and everyone was happy. Also she was considering selling tablet, which was by absolute definition refined sugar.

  ‘So while you’re at tourist places all the time, what’s happening to all my regulars?’ said Nina. ‘I’ve spent two years building up clientele all round this area. They rely on me. If the van goes, they’ll just go back to getting stuff other ways . . . or not reading at all!’

  ‘I know that,’ said Zoe. ‘Because they keep coming in and saying to me, “I want that new red book . . . Nina will know the one I mean.” Didn’t you write any of this stuff down?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nina. ‘I totally wrote down everything I expected to happen when I had to get turned upside down and made to lie on my back unexpectedly for three months forty miles away from the place I actually live in.’

  She couldn’t help feeling a bit teary at that and Zoe went and sat on the bed next to her. She knew what it was like to feel lonely when you were pregnant.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, opening her bag. ‘Here. I brought you . . .’

  She pulled out a copy of The Nanny Diaries and Rosemary’s Baby. Nina gave her a look.

  ‘What?’ said Zoe. ‘It just helps to know that however badly you do, someone else will be doing worse. I’ve got We Need to Talk About Kevin too.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve read that.’

  ‘Yes. Well. Read it again, trust me. You’ll feel quite differently about it.’

  Nina took them with a smile.

  ‘Thanks. But . . . I’m a bit worried about what you’re doing.’

  ‘What, looking after your job and making money?’ said Zoe flatly.

  ‘I just . . . I’d just rather it was the way it was.’

  Zoe blinked.

  ‘Right. On it.’

  But as she left the hospital, she couldn’t help feeling slightly mutinous. She was doing well for the van. Why couldn’t Nina see that?

  Chapter Thirty-four

  It was the most glowing autumnal day. Everything was bright yellow and orange, the trees slowly beginning to turn. Zoe had got herself a cup of coffee and walked outside, wearing a vast old jumper over her nightie. She relished a few moments by herself as Hari picked his way through cereal indoors with Patrick chattering away to him as usual; Shackleton was half-listening, half-reading, and Mary had yet to emerge.

  Some curling fronds of mist were lifting from the garden, but the sun promised to be warm and there were few clouds left in the sky. The trees rustled and swished enticingly ahead of her, and she watched to her utter amazement as a large bird – and how she wished she knew more about them – landed on the lawn and started ferociously tugging at a worm in the grass as the peacock bustled away, squawking. The air was scented with gorse and there was a feeling in the air that even in London Zoe could remember from her childhood: bonfires in the air, fireworks and Halloween coming in, all the feasts and treats of autumn with Christmas at the end. Such a wonderful time of year.

  She had also had a good morning. She’d got up early and seen Shackleton sitting there, disconsolately prodding at his disconnected computer game.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Nobody else is up. Help me make muffins.’

  ‘Make what?’

  ‘Just do it,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  And she’d made him weigh out the flour while she’d fiddled with the temperamental oven, and mix in the butter and the salt and the little bits of cheese and ham and onion they’d found around the place, and he’d watched them rise up, golden and fresh in the oven and smelling absolutely delicious, while she had completely enjoyed the genuine pleasure Shackleton had taken in it.

  ‘I think you have a knack for baking,’ she said to him, and he looked pleased. ‘You should do this more often.’

  ‘Can I eat them yet?’

  ‘Absolutely not, you—’

  ‘OW!’

  ‘Well, there you go. I was about to warn you.’

  He smiled.

  Zoe went over to boil the kettle as he still tried to get the too-hot muffins out of their moulds.

  ‘Mum would have liked this,’ he said suddenly, and Zoe had to stop herself from turning around. She stayed staring at the kettle.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said, her heart beating fast, trying to keep her voice light.

  ‘Well, she wouldn’t have eaten them,’ he said. ‘But she would have liked the smell.’

  ‘What was she like?’ said Zoe, but as she turned round again his face was a picture of concentration getting the muffins on the cooling rack, and he didn’t bring the subject up again.

  * * *

  ‘Well done,’ Zoe said to him again later as they all sat around eating breakfast together, and Mary scowled, but Shackleton beamed and his big awkward face looked almost handsome.

  It made Zoe think, looking at him, that the children really ought to be getting back to school; September was nearly over, and nothing at all had been mentioned. She’d need to talk to the headteacher, Kirsty, about it. Oh – and the children, and their dad.

  But today was just glorious, and possibly one of the last nice days they’d have. She was determined that they were going to go out and enjoy it. It was absurd, she thought, that they hadn’t even seen all the way round their property yet. Imagine living somewhere so large that you hadn’t actually walked to the end. It was ridiculous, it really was.

  She’d come indoors, refreshed, ready to round them all up. They were going on an outing!

  She turned on the radio and found something suitably rousing and turned it up loud.

  ‘What is happening?’ said Patrick suspiciously.

  ‘We’re going exploring,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Oh good!’ said Patrick. ‘Whereabouts please?’

  ‘Your garden!’

  * * *

  Ramsay, turning up rather exhausted from Larissa’s that morning, saw the little party out at the far end of the garden and felt a pang. He jumped out of the car and hurried over to join them.

  ‘Are you taking a walk? Can I come?’

  Zoe wanted to give him a bit of a telling-off for not ever suggesting to take the children anywhere themselves, but the fuss she’d had dragging Mary and Shackleton out against their extreme protests made it rather more understandable, if not forgivable, and now that they were all out, she wasn’t going to spoil it. The children were running among the golden trees, all having sticks, and Porteous had joined them and was leading them on a squirrel hunt, or a dinosaur hunt, depending on how old you were.

  ‘You can come’ said Zoe. ‘Just as long as you get us a dishwasher. There isn’t enough in the kitty.’

  Ramsay walked closer. A low branch hit him on the head and he tried to brush it away. He couldn’t seem to get anywhere without hitting something.

  ‘Are you telling me,’ he said eventually, ‘that I wouldn’t have got through six au pairs if I’d had a dishwasher all this time?’

  ‘And good broadband and a microwave,’ said Zoe. ‘And a half-decent coffee machine. But apart from that, probably.’

  Ramsay frowned.

  ‘Why didn’t any of them say?’

  ‘They were probably too astounded,’ said Zoe. ‘Assumed they were being mended or something and were just waiting for you to appear with them.’

  ‘It never even occurred to me,’ said Ramsay, pushing his hair out of the way. Zoe rolled her eyes.

  ‘Why are you rolling your eyes?’

  ‘Because you consider this stuff below stairs!’ said Zoe. ‘It’s absurd! You’re not some Edwardian duke!’

  ‘I think I am actually,’ said Ramsay. ‘Debrett’s thinks so.�
��

  Zoe stared at him.

  ‘But we’re the people,’ she said. ‘We’re the people spending the most time with your children. Your children, the most important people in the world. Don’t you think we’re worthy of consideration?’

  Ramsay flushed.

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been so distracted. It’s all been such a . . .’

  Zoe waited for him to explain, but his voice tailed off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel like I’m always lecturing you.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Ramsay again, scratching his head. ‘I get the feeling I need it.’

  They walked on, the sunlight dappling down through the trees, the only sounds the children far off, running and laughing – even Mary’s voice laughed at one point, the sound like low music exhumed from a faraway place, and they both paused together to listen to it.

  Zoe was desperate for him to tell her. Just ask, she told herself, her fingertips digging into her palm. Just ask. She wanted – she desperately wanted – to like him. No, that didn’t matter. She wanted him . . . to be a good father. To be the kind of dad the children deserved; all children deserved. She needed to know.

  She even opened her mouth to ask, to say something. It was ridiculous. These days, there were no secrets. Everything was out in the open. People talked. People asked about things.

  ‘Ramsay . . .’ she started but he was already talking.

  ‘Your boy,’ he said. ‘Has he always been like this?’

  Zoe was taken by surprise and looked up at him. His face looked nervous.

  ‘He’s never spoken, no,’ said Zoe, wondering if they were confiding in one another, even as the tables had turned. They strolled on; for all the world they could be chatting about flowers, or bicycles, or something completely and utterly innocuous.

  ‘He cried when he was younger, and laughed but . . . less and less now.’

  ‘And what do they professionals say?’

  ‘They say . . . he’ll talk when he’s ready,’ sighed Zoe. ‘That it’s anxiety and he’ll grow out of it. I really, really wish he was ready. Mostly so I could stop having this conversation.’

  She smiled, though, to show she wasn’t angry with him, just the situation.

  Ramsay smiled back.

  ‘I know,’ he said then looked startled, as if something had slipped out that shouldn’t.

  ‘Oh . . . were you like that?’ said Zoe, curious.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Ramsay, slightly flustered. ‘That’s not . . . that’s not what I meant. I just . . .’

  Zoe left a silence for him to finish.

  ‘I know what it’s . . .’

  But he still couldn’t seem to get it right. He took a deep breath and walked on slightly faster.

  ‘Well. Anyway. There we are,’ he said eventually. Zoe blinked. ‘He’s a nice little chap,’ he added, looking at her. ‘You should be proud.’

  ‘Patrick has really looked after him,’ said Zoe. ‘So should you.’

  Ramsay grimaced.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing to do with me,’ he said, his forehead low, and then the children came bursting out of the trees, laden down with conkers and holly and huge baskets of brambles and smeared sticky faces, and Zoe couldn’t help looking at them all together and being happy to see them.

  * * *

  Larissa turned up again just as they were making jam. The two older ones were taking it in turns to stir the pot, and there was more music on the radio. Ramsay was by the fire, feet up on the grate, reading his book. Normally he’d have shut himself away in his library. Zoe looked at what he was reading; it was a beautiful hydrographical study of the loch from 1854, with full plate illustrations.

  ‘I could sell that,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the children stirring for an instant. They didn’t realise quite how hot the jam was or, as was always possible in the case of Mary, had decided that if Zoe had said it, it absolutely couldn’t be the case and was just pushing it to see.

  ‘What? This?’ said Ramsay, looking at it. ‘I don’t think so. It’s completely out of date, totally archaic and some of it is downright wrong.’

  Zoe couldn’t help it. Her lips twitched.

  ‘What? What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  He looked at her. Shackleton laughed.

  ‘She means you, Dad!’

  ‘I most certainly do not!’ said Zoe. ‘Little pitchers have big ears. Come on.’

  Ramsay looked a little awkward at first, as if he hadn’t quite realised she was joking. Then he tried to smile, even as Shackleton burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, you couldn’t sell it.’

  ‘I bet I could,’ said Zoe. ‘Why do you like it?’

  ‘Because it’s beautiful,’ said Ramsay. Patrick pattered over to stare over his shoulder and Ramsay hoisted him up on his knee for a closer look. ‘Because it tells you about a previous age, when people had only sail to go out on the loch or their two arms to row, and what they saw when they were out there, and what they thought it was. And how they lived – look.’

  Zoe glanced over as he pointed out a line illustration of a row of tumbledown buildings.

  ‘Look at that. The crofts that lined the shoreline. They would collect oysters, kale; they used seaweed as insulation. It would have been so commonplace to the artist, they don’t even mention it. They didn’t even know that in twenty years’ time the clearances were coming. Everything they had, everything they knew, their entire way of life was about to be swept away. You could walk down there tomorrow and if you were lucky you might find a stone or two, buried deep in the ground, that used to mark their homes there; homes of people who lived for generations. And in an instant, they were gone and everything was wiped out, but without even realising it, they’re memorialised here. There’s still a place where people can see and remember them. And that’s why I like it.’

  It was quiet in the room for an instant. Then Mary yelled as the jam started to bubble and boil over and there was panic for a few moments as Zoe quickly stirred the jam together, then got them to empty and dry the jars from where they’d been boil-washed in the sink.

  Ten minutes later, everything had been poured and sealed and nine jars of varying shapes and sizes were pleasingly full of the dark purple liquid sitting on the table and Zoe was despatching Mary, Patrick and Hari to a pile of stickers on which they were to date and label the jam jars. She looked fondly at the bent heads, then turned back to Ramsay.

  ‘I can sell it,’ she said again. ‘And if I do, will you buy us a dishwasher?’

  Ramsay looked at her and looked at his beloved book.

  ‘I hate to give things up,’ he said.

  ‘Well, perhaps you’re right and I won’t be able to sell it,’ said Zoe, her eyes dancing. Sighing heavily, Ramsay handed it over.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘And don’t get jam on it.’

  Zoe rolled her eyes, placing it down carefully and wrapping it up in brown paper.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I realise that. Tea? And bread and jam?’

  Ramsay was thinking there wasn’t much more he’d like than a huge cup of tea and some fresh bread and jam when Larissa appeared at the door.

  ‘You left at some speed this morning!’ she said, brandishing an ancient-looking, absurdly oversized waistcoat that clearly belonged to him. ‘It’s beautiful. An absolute classic. Ooh, doesn’t the kitchen look gorgeous! Yoohoo, everyone! It’s great to see your gorgeous faces.’

  Mary sniffed.

  ‘Hi, Larissa,’ said Zoe. Larissa gave her a momentary cold look – she hadn’t liked the domesticity of the scene she’d arrived on – then put her smile back on.

  ‘Oh hello! You’re doing a brilliant job here, well done! And I love what you’ve done with your hair.’

  Zoe’s hair was so windblown it had a stick in it.

  ‘Darling Ramsay, I hate to take you away from the lovely children, but you know it’s the hunt ball on Saturday? We wer
e going to discuss it?’

  Ramsay sighed.

  ‘Well, honestly, I don’t really want to go, so I feel there’s no need. People just gossip and—’

  ‘Oh no, everyone’s so lovely! They’re not gossiping; they just miss you! Want to know how well you’re doing with the business and everything.’

  Ramsay let out a hollow laugh. ‘Well, that will be a pretty short conversation.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie, you can’t lock yourself up for ever, can he, Zoe?’

  Zoe blinked.

  ‘Well . . . no. No. You shouldn’t.’

  Although she genuinely felt exactly the opposite; that any time he did have, he should be spending it with his children.

  ‘Really?’ Ramsay looked at Zoe, as this was very much what he had thought she had meant as well, and he felt rather injured that she hadn’t noticed he was trying to improve.

  ‘Come on,’ Larissa said to him. And once again, ‘You deserve some fun, darling!’

  The Urquart children looked up at that, instant fear in their faces, as if the day they’d spent in the woods had not in fact been fun for their father after all.

  Zoe moved over to the sink so her face didn’t betray her mood. Ramsay glanced at her and saw she’d moved. Larissa noticed and tried her most appealing smile.

  ‘Pleeeease?’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Ramsay, getting up. ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘Plllleeeeeeeassssssee,’ imitated Mary nastily as soon as they were out the door. ‘Plllleeeeeeaasssseee marry me and get rid of your children. Pllllleeeeeaasssssseee!’

  ‘Mary!’ said Zoe. ‘None of that. I mean it.’

  ‘Maybe you’d be glad to be rid of us too,’ said Mary. ‘Everyone else is.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me,’ said Zoe. ‘Especially now the ghost has left.’

  There was a sudden silence. The three children all looked at one another and Zoe, who had taken a calculated risk, suddenly felt oddly relieved.

  ‘Um, what ghost?’ said Mary innocently.

  ‘We told you to stop it,’ said Shackleton crossly. ‘Just . . . just stop it.’

  ‘STOP BEING A STUPID GHOST!’ shouted Patrick. ‘I absolutely don’t want Hari to go!’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mary, marching out and slamming the door.