The Bookshop of Second Chances

by Jackie Fraser

  ‘Gosh.’

  ‘I mean the whole lot’ – he waves his arms – ‘you’re probably looking at eighty to a hundred grand. I can’t afford to buy them all. Or not all at once, anyway.’

  ‘Shit, no. No, okay. But you could sell them for me? I mean I guess there’d be commission on that?’

  ‘Fifteen per cent.’

  ‘Yes. Fine,’ I say. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You look frightened.’ He smiles at me.

  ‘I am frightened. Also I’m a bit concerned you may have undervalued them, before.’

  ‘We talked about the tax,’ he says, ‘Andrew and I.’

  ‘Oh God, of course. Well, I don’t know if I–’

  ‘You can declare it if you want. No skin off my nose.’

  ‘I do believe in tax,’ I say, doubtful.

  He grins at me. ‘So do I. But we thought it would be useful to give you the option.’

  I stare round at the books. A lifetime of love, of seeking out, collecting. ‘Did Uncle Andrew know he was going to die?’

  ‘We all die,’ he says. I look at him. He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘I know, but–’

  ‘He was ninety-one when we did the valuation. That’s pretty old.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So. I’ll take the Scotts, shall I? And the Trollopes? Do you want me to write you a cheque, or shall I transfer the money?’

  ‘Oh… well, I guess a transfer is easier. As I’d have to drive to Newton Stewart to put the cheque in. Take the Burnses as well.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll write you a receipt. And then I’ll transfer anything that comes in if I sell them.’

  ‘What if you don’t? Sell them, I mean?’

  ‘I’m confident I will. How about, anything I haven’t sold in six months I’ll buy myself.’

  ‘Okay. Um. We should write that down or I’ll forget. And what about the rest?’

  ‘Newton?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

  ‘I can come back and take some other stuff another time. We can look at early twentieth century next time. The Fitzgerald and the Waugh are worth a bit. Got a first edition of 1984 as well; that’s worth at least fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen grand?’

  ‘Mm. If it was signed,’ he says, ‘it’d be worth fifty. He didn’t sign many. I’ve got a signed Down and Out… cost me twenty-three.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Twenty-three thousand pounds for a book? One that isn’t even a hundred years old? That’s… I don’t know what it is, really. Absurd.

  ‘Yes. I’d buy it all,’ he says, looking round the room, ‘but I don’t have a hundred-odd grand floating about.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. Bloody hell.’

  ‘If you need to shift it quicker, just let me know. I do know other dealers who have more cash flow than me.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a desperate rush. Gosh. Thank you so much, this has been really useful. And an eye-opener. Blimey.’

  ‘Still some money in paper books,’ he says, grinning at me.

  Six

  It’s the middle of May. I’ve been here for four weeks, pottering about. I’m enjoying myself, exploring, and going through more of Andrew’s belongings, and tidying up the garden. I’ve had people round to give me quotes for a new bathroom, and discussed where I could put a dishwasher with Angus, the plumber. His sister, Jenny, is the local vet, and also Alastair Gordon’s famous fiancée. It’s a very small place, this. Cerys, who owns the Old Mill with her girlfriend, Jilly, tells me to be careful what I say, and to who.

  ‘Just because everyone’s related,’ she says, ‘and you never find out until after you’ve said something awful. I was always putting my foot in it when I first moved here. If they’re not related, they went to school together. It’s a nightmare.’

  I believe her, and am suitably circumspect. I’m cautiously constructing a social life, which thus far has involved attending a talk about Kirkcudbright artists at the town hall, and the opening night (or private view, I suppose?) of an exhibition of quilts at the Old Mill. Alastair was there and he introduced me to his fiancée Jenny, rather surprised, I think, that I hadn’t yet put the Lodge on the market and headed back to England. Jenny has dark hair, cropped into a pixie cut, and fiercely bright blue eyes. She’s forthright and efficient; I like her a lot. I talked to them for ages, about art and crafting; it was an unexpectedly fun evening.

  I’ve made quilts in the past, most recently for Jasmine, Xanthe’s daughter, who had a ‘bedroom redesign’ for her tenth birthday; and I discover that Great Aunt Mary must have made them too. There aren’t any at the Lodge, but one of the drawers under the bed in the spare room is full of neat piles of fabric, fat quarters, ready to be turned into patchwork. I wonder who she gave them to, once she’d made them. I don’t know much about Mary, who died about ten years ago, and nothing about her family. Her sewing machine is much better than the one languishing in my storage unit though, so I’ll be keeping that. I think she probably made all the curtains at the Lodge; they’re certainly handmade and much better than I could ever manage myself.

  I’m still going through Andrew’s things – mostly paperwork now. It’s all quite tidy, nothing like the nightmare I helped Angela deal with when her dad died. He’d really never thrown anything out and we grew quite hysterical over bank statements from the sixties and receipts for long-discarded white goods and the unsteady stacks of Razzle and Men Only. Fortunately, there’s nothing like that at the Lodge. I could probably have done it all by now if I’d focused, but I’ve decided not to rush. Most of it is pretty straightforward; I’m putting anything interesting to one side, and not being too strict about what counts as interesting. He did keep a lot of things that were probably unnecessary, but of course the older something is – especially if it’s ephemera – the more interesting it becomes. I arrange all kinds of bills and receipts neatly on the table and take photographs for my Instagram. They prove popular with the font-obsessed and lovers of what you might call ‘local design’, from back when everything in your town was owned by some chap you went to school with, or his father. Back in the days when phone numbers had three digits, and everything was typed on a typewriter by a woman employed for the purpose. When my mother was at school, they made you choose between doing O Levels (for the academic girls who might go on to college) or Shorthand and Typing (for those who would need a job until they got married).

  Andrew also wrote notes – I suppose it’s a memoir, really, although it’s quite scrappy. Some of it is handwritten and some of it typed (and he must have done that at work, I suppose, or dictated it; there’s no typewriter at the Lodge); there are a couple of notebooks and a pile of loose pieces of paper. There are stories about his parents and grandparents (and I have to remind myself that I too am descended from these people, with their almost unimaginable lives), childhood tales of poaching and general japes, and a whole list of dinners and dances, along with dance cards and menus. It’s not exactly scintillating, but whose life is? I like his gentle stories. And it’s not like nothing ever happened to him; after all, he and Mary suffered the worst a parent can imagine when they lost their daughter. I don’t know if he wrote about that – if he did, I haven’t got to that bit yet. I might be avoiding it. You know that feeling where you might start crying and never stop? I’m trying not to get myself into a place where that might happen. I’d rather read about nineteenth-century furniture from Dumfries, and Baldochrie during the war.

  * * *

  As time passes, I’ve been wondering if I should get a job. Nothing too strenuous. Making sandwiches, or serving in the baker’s or something. Just something so I meet people and have something to occupy myself.

  I ask Cerys to let me know if she hears of anything, making it clear I don’t expect her to employ me. I don’t think I’d be very good in a café to be honest; I’m not sure could sustain that level of cheery service.

  ‘Did Jenny find a new receptionist?’ asks Jilly. ‘Since Pam’s at
the school now?’

  ‘Kirsty Macdonald took it, didn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, aye, of course she did.’ They both look at me, considering. ‘I heard they were looking for someone at the farm shop.’ Jilly straightens the labels on the cake stands by the till.

  ‘That’s a way out, mind,’ says Cerys.

  ‘It’s not that far really. Maybe I should give them a ring.’ I like the farm shop, with its neat shelves of fancy jams and chutneys, beautiful displays of locally grown and reared produce and excellent bread.

  ‘You’re staying up then?’

  ‘Oh, just for the summer. Or I might not, if I can’t find anything.’

  ‘Och, there’ll be something,’ Jilly says, reassuring. ‘If it’s not a career you’re after.’

  ‘I find I don’t much care about having a career. Or not at the moment, anyway.’

  * * *

  This morning I’m walking on the beach with Jenny and the dogs. Mags is an enthusiastic golden retriever, great-granddaughter of the dog in the painting in Alastair’s office, and Rollo is a collie cross, needle-nosed and wiggly. It’s sunny, but there’s a cold wind. The beach is quite exposed, a wide sandy strand, and the dogs bound away into the distance before dashing back again, winding back and forth ahead of us, noses to the ground, tails wagging. There’s no one else here, even though it’s a fine expanse of sand and shingle; no picnicking families, no other dog walkers, no children. Perhaps it’s too early – we were out by eight-thirty to make the forty-minute drive, and it’s probably not even ten o’clock yet.

  Jenny’s been talking about the plans for her wedding. She and Alastair are getting married in December and everything, more or less, is arranged. She doesn’t seem to be looking forward to it though.

  ‘I want to be married,’ she says, ‘but I wish we didn’t have to have a wedding.’

  It seems like a very long time since my own wedding, memories of which are pin-sharp in places and a blur of confusion in others.

  ‘I usually advise people to run away,’ I tell her. ‘It’s much easier. And cheaper. Unless you really want a dress and all that stuff.’ I stoop to pick up a bright orange periwinkle shell, and put it in my pocket. There are huge swathes of shells here, in every shade, and rolling banks of those narrow spirals, the ones like miniature unicorn horns.

  ‘I wish I’d thought of that. We could have just gone somewhere the weekend after we got engaged or something, and now it would all be a distant memory.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be lovely, though,’ I say. Both families live locally. She’s known Alastair since she was at school, despite the five-year age difference; he was the same year as her eldest brother. They didn’t get together until quite recently though, a couple of years ago. They’re getting married at the church in town, and the reception’s at the town hall, making best use of the municipal Christmas decorations.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s all over in a flash,’ I tell her, ‘and then you’re off. You don’t even have to stay to the end if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true. But still.’ She pokes with her toe at a piece of driftwood. The high tide mark wobbles away from us, crispy black seaweed and plastic bottles, gull feathers, twists of green and orange rope. My eyes are busy, searching for treasure.

  They’re going to Skye for their honeymoon, which I found amusing when she told me. I would prefer somewhere warmer, myself, than the Highlands in December, although it’s a beautiful cottage by a loch. It’s a seven-hour drive, which seems incredible, so their first night as husband and wife will be spent in a hotel near Newton Stewart.

  We pause, looking out to sea. The breeze is whipping up white horses further out, and white clouds are scudding rapidly across the sky.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘is it very insensitive to be talking to you about my wedding?’

  I laugh. ‘No, not at all. Why would it be?’

  ‘Totally none of my business. I like to pretend I’m not nosy,’ she says, ‘but of course I am.’

  ‘Isn’t everyone? It’s fine. You can ask me,’ I tell her, ‘but I might need you to not talk to anyone else about it.’

  ‘Did something happen, with your husband? Are you… separated?’

  ‘I suppose we are, yes. I mean, yes, we definitely are.’ It’s the first time I’ve said this since I came up here. I’m quite surprised by how much easier it is than when I had to tell all my friends back in January.

  ‘Are you getting divorced then?’ she asks, as we move on up the beach.

  ‘Not yet. If you leave it,’ I say, ‘and you’re separated for two years, that makes it easier, and no one has to go to court. At least, that’s my understanding. I haven’t really looked into it. Maybe I should.’

  ‘Are you selling your house?’

  I laugh. ‘God, no. No, he lives there with his, er, girlfriend.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve called her that, out loud at least.

  ‘Oh. But what about you? That’s not right, is it? Is it his house? How does that work?’

  ‘No, it’s ours. He’s buying me out. Eventually.’

  She hesitates. ‘Did he leave you for her, then, aye?’

  ‘Aye. I mean, yes.’ I tell her a bit about Chris and Susanna, just enough to explain how I come to be here, alone.

  ‘He sounds like a wee prick,’ she says, disapprovingly, which makes me laugh.

  * * *

  Cerys and I are at Bookers in Dumfries. I think she was quite surprised when I said I’d like to go with her, but that’s because I love a Cash and Carry and you never get to go to them unless you run the sort of business that uses them. We’ve filled a trolley with enormous bottles of olive and sunflower oil, and sacks of rice and couscous and quinoa. Everything’s giant, I love it. Lumps of cheese the size of your head, huge jars of herbs and spices. Tins of tomatoes like barrels. (She doesn’t buy those, disappointingly; they get their vast tins of tomatoes delivered.) I can never decide what I like best: tiny things, like dolls’ house furniture, or giant things, like those comical deckchairs you get at the seaside that make you look like a doll yourself.

  ‘You’re easily entertained,’ Cerys says, amused by my rapture.

  ‘I really am though. I think it’s a blessing. I never get bored.’

  ‘I’ll send you by yourself next time. I can’t say I exactly love coming up here.’

  ‘It is quite a long way.’ I help her sling various bags of pulses into her car. ‘I always wonder how you work out how much you’ll need of everything.’

  ‘I leave all that to Jilly; she’s the brains of the operation. And the one who went to catering college. I just do as I’m told. Buy what’s on the list, try not to get distracted by chocolate.’

  ‘That seems unfair.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Anyway,’ she says, slamming the boot closed and waiting while I return the trolley, ‘I thought we could stop on the way back and have lunch in Kirkcudbright. There’s a new place we’ve been meaning to check out.’

  ‘Ooh, a rival establishment?’ We get into the car, and she turns on the wipers to clear the drizzle from the windscreen.

  ‘I guess they’re not direct rivals, but yeah. Like to keep an eye on the competition.’

  ‘Industrial espionage,’ I say, happily, as I do up my seatbelt. ‘Plus lunch. Sounds great.’

  Kirkcudbright is probably the most touristy of all the little towns west of Dumfries. It’s got a fancy ruined castle, and a thriving arts scene, lots of charming eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings, and a very unusual 1920s concrete bridge that is (in my opinion) both ugly and beautiful. In addition to all this, it’s a proper, though tiny, fishing port. We park by the castle just as the rain begins in earnest.

  ‘It’s not far,’ says Cerys, and we hurry along, holding our hoods up as a sharp breeze blows down St Cuthbert’s Street. Cerys turns a corner, and another, and then we’re standing outside what was clearly once quite a grand shop, a draper’s perhaps, or a ch
emist. It has tall, beautifully curved windows, and the mosaic tiles in front of the door spell out Bristow’s in splendidly assertive curly letters. There are large, moss-filled pots of red and white tulips arranged in the windows, and a chalked A-frame sign on the pavement reads, CAKE! COFFEE! AND MORE!

  ‘Hm,’ says Cerys, and pushes open the door. Inside, it’s all original wooden shop fittings and mismatched furniture, a wide selection of lunching ladies, and a very impressive glass-fronted cake display, along with a chalked-up menu behind the counter, and a very shiny coffee machine. There are two women behind the counter, one about my age, and a teenager. They smile at us. Cerys is too busy looking about to respond, so I ask if we should order at the counter and they present us with menus and send us off to find a table.

  ‘Where do you want to sit?’ I ask her. ‘In the window?’

  ‘No, let’s go down the back so I can see everything,’ she says, and I follow her, past a staircase leading down to the loos and kitchen.

  ‘That’s annoying for them,’ she says. ‘Up and down the stairs all day.’ ‘Think of their calves though, Cerys – like iron.’ She splutters with laughter and we find ourselves a table with a long green velvet banquette against the back wall and a pair of unmatching dining-room chairs. I unwind my scarf, struggle out of my coat and finally sit down with my back to the room. She’s already poking at the little blue glass bottle in the centre of the table with its single tulip flower, and picking up the salt and pepper grinders to see who they’re made by. The walls are covered with vintage advertizing for corsets and things, so I’m inclined to think the shop must have been a draper’s or a dress shop or something. It has high ceilings and fashionable light fittings.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks me. I get my phone out to take some pictures of the tulip. The blue of the glass makes the orange of the petals sing. I lean awkwardly to get a different angle, and some of the white anemones on the next table.

  ‘Good florals,’ I say, scrolling back through my photos and deleting the rubbish ones. ‘Most Insta. I like the furniture too. I quite like that it’s dark. But not gloomy.’