by Lucy Dillon
He browsed the nearest table, as if he had all the time in the world. ‘I’m looking for something to read to the old folk up at the residential home, something humorous and relatively short. What’d you recommend?’
‘The Radio Times?’
‘Maybe I’m asking the wrong person . . . I thought I might get a discount, in return for some reviews?’ He raised an eyebrow, in a junior professor-ish manner. ‘Cash for criticism?’
‘It’s only cash for compliments round here.’ Michelle’s heart was still thumping with unwanted adrenalin, and although she was itching to shut up shop, Rory’s pragmatic presence was quite reassuring. How could there be ghosts in the back room when Rory was standing there in his tweed jacket, making terrible jokes? ‘Are you going to be long?’
‘That depends on how good you are at selling me something. Any coffee on the go? Anna usually makes me a cup. Helps the selection process no end.’
‘I thought as much,’ said Michelle. ‘Only here for the free coffee.’ She poured two cups from the filter jug, her hand wobbling slightly, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the table she’d just wiped clean.
‘You’ve sussed me. Biscuit?’ He looked up from a vintage Agatha Christie, his hair falling into his eyes.
The cheek of the man, thought Michelle.
‘The café is next door,’ she said.
‘I meant, would you like a biscuit?’ Rory opened his briefcase and produced a packet of ginger cookies from its depths. ‘I’ve had so many free coffees in here, I thought it was only fair to reciprocate with some decent biccies. Since you’re the owner, I thought I should give them to you.’
‘Um, thanks.’ Michelle felt churlish; they were expensive ‘home-baked’ ones from Waitrose, not the digestives they handed out. Although she didn’t normally eat biscuits, she took one and nibbled it.
The biscuits would go on Anna’s ‘Rory’s not a bastard’ list, she thought, watching him as he read the back of a Dorothy L. Sayers novel, his brows beetled in concentration. How can a man who spends a fiver on gourmet biscuits to cancel out his coffee debt abandon a pregnant woman?
A companionable calm descended; she tidied while Rory browsed, but then the CD of quiet choral music came to an end. Michelle was walking over to restart it when she heard the noise from the back room.
‘Didn’t you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ Rory looked up from the crime table.
‘That noise.’ As she spoke there was another rustling noise, like someone brushing against the woodwork.
‘Don’t look so scared,’ said Rory. ‘It’s an old building, they creak all the time. I expect you live in some fabulous modern home with brand new double glazing, don’t you?’
‘I live down by the canal, thank you very much,’ hissed Michelle. ‘And I’m not scared.’
‘You look a bit scared.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Want me to go and take a look?’ He made a ‘brave soldier’ face.
‘If you want.’
‘I do want. I’ve often hoped this place might be haunted.’ Rory rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘Maybe it’s Agnes, come back to keep an eye on you? A ghost would be such a feature. You could do haunted Hallowe’en nights in October, or Christmas Carol readings in—’
‘Just go and have a look and tell me it’s a bird stuck in the chimney,’ said Michelle impatiently.
‘Come with me,’ said Rory. He beckoned with a long finger, then held out his hand. ‘I’ll need a corroborating witness if we’re going to be on Central Tonight with the Midlands’ first haunted bookshop.’
Michelle ignored the hand but followed him towards the back, trying to suppress the part of her brain that was suddenly considering the advantages of a haunted bookshop.
At the end of the main room, where the doorway had been knocked through to create one long space, she hesitated. Rory, though, strode on.
‘It’s not . . .’ Michelle began, and then, as she spoke, something black darted across the room, and she let out a shriek.
It was huge. A huge black . . . rat? She almost wished it had been a ghost now, because whatever it was, it was massive – it looked like the sort of mega-rat that was meant to be breeding in the London sewage system. Michelle felt sick. The whole point of moving out of the big city was supposed to be getting away from things like that.
To her horror, Rory was on his knees, crawling towards it.
‘I’ll get a box,’ she called, from a safe distance. ‘We can trap it under there and get someone from the council to come and zap it.’
‘No need,’ said Rory. He sat up and reached into his jacket pockets, patting them down until he found what he was looking for. ‘Ah. Good.’
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Michelle was frantically tipping paperbacks out of a nearby cardboard display box. ‘Should I get gloves from next door? It’s probably riddled with fleas.’
‘Possible, but I doubt it.’ Rory peeled off the top two Polo mints and offered them to the bottom shelf of boarding-school books in the children’s section.
Michelle stared at his long fingers with horror, waiting for whatever it was to leap out and gnaw them with its sharp teeth.
‘Come on,’ said Rory, in a soothing, sing-song tone. ‘It’s OK, it’s just me. Come on.’
Slowly, very slowly, a black nose appeared from under the shelf. A mass of black hair followed it and Michelle’s stomach turned because it was filthy and dirty and still looking pretty mega-rat-like to her and . . .
‘Don’t touch it!’ she blurted out, as Rory’s hand deposited the Polos in the thing’s mouth and then fondled its black ears.
‘He’s not an it,’ said Rory. ‘He’s a he, thank you very much.’
Michelle put a table of local maps between it and herself. ‘What the hell is he?’
‘Charming. Tavish, this is Michelle Nightingale, your new landlady. Michelle, this is Tavish, your shop dog.’
‘My shop dog?’
‘Well, not yours, technically.’ Rory reached out and grabbed hold of the collar buried under the matted coat. ‘Cyril’s.’
‘There was nothing about a dog in the lease. How long’s he been here?’ She racked her brains. ‘We’ve been open nearly two months, don’t tell me he’s been hiding under the floorboards all that time? What’s he been eating?’
‘I doubt he’s been here that long. He’s been living up at Four Oaks kennels since before Christmas, I do know that.’ The dog was now snuffling about Rory’s jacket pockets, in between licking his hand gratefully. Its tongue darted out from the matted fur, a shock of pink against the black. Michelle couldn’t even make out any eyes.
‘You’re in a bit of a state, aren’t you, laddie?’ he crooned, more Scottish than ever. ‘Ye couldn’t get him a biscuit, could ye, Michelle? Poor wee lad’s awful peckish.’
For a moment, Michelle considered telling Rory what to do with his dog, and his biscuit, but it was late, and she was tired, and spooked. Despite herself, relief was pounding through her system that it wasn’t a ghost or a super-rat, neither of which would do her business any good.
And although the voice in her head was wailing in irritation, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor bedraggled mutt. He looked exhausted, and more scared than she was.
‘Take him through to the staff room in the back,’ she said. ‘And stop doing that awful Braveheart voice.’
Rory straightened up, hoisted the little dog under his arm and smiled crookedly at it. He didn’t seem to care that the dog was depositing dust and drool on his wool coat. In fact, he seemed quite pleased to see it, and Tavish seemed relatively sanguine about being tucked under his arm like a camp handbag.
‘Shouldn’t Scottish terriers be more trimmed than that?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.
Rory turned his crooked grin in her direction. ‘Bit of a personal question. He is, normally. Bit of a doggy expert, are we?’
‘No,’ said Michelle and marched o
ut to the front of the shop to close up.
By the time she went back to the kitchen, both Rory and Tavish had got stuck in to a packet of digestives. She put a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, having made one for herself, and he slurped from it, setting Michelle’s teeth on edge. She added to her own list of Rory’s irritating tics, to counter the good biscuits.
‘So, how come he’s here and not up at the kennels?’ she said, nodding at the dog. ‘This would be a good time to come clean, you know. Have you been keeping him in the flat? As well as your occasional child?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rory stared at her, surprised.
‘Anna mentioned you had a son. The buggy, the other day. Upstairs. You never said it was your child when you told us to move the books.’
It had sounded a lot less rude in her head. Michelle wished it hadn’t slipped out, but now it had, she couldn’t take it back. Living alone had made her very witty on email, but not so good on non-edited, real-time conversation.
‘Should I have done?’ Rory carried on staring at her, and she found his expression hard to read. He wasn’t embarrassed, but he was clearly ticked off at being discussed. ‘I do have a son, yes, with my ex. And what else did Anna say?’
‘Nothing. Well . . .’ Michelle realised that she was annoyed he wasn’t embarrassed. Walking out on a pregnant woman was about as low as it got. It was cowardly. ‘She didn’t say anything else. Just that you and the mother split up before the baby was born.’
‘We did. I ended it, as a matter of fact.’ He sipped his coffee and regarded her squarely over the top of the mug. ‘Sorry, should I have issued you with some kind of press release about it? I didn’t realise you were running some kind of relationship drop-in centre as well as a bookshop.’
It hung between them, along with Michelle’s bubbling sense of outrage and his defensiveness. Hot air and cold air, mingling. Michelle couldn’t put her finger on why she felt so furious on behalf of a woman she’d never met, but she did. She fizzed with it.
‘Life is complicated,’ he said, in response to her glower. ‘I’m sure there are things in your life that haven’t worked out the way you hoped.’
Michelle opened her mouth to argue back, but something knowing in his tone stopped her. Was it so obvious, her failed marriage? Did he know? Was her mother right – that women who walk out on perfectly good marriages, looking for greener grass, ‘have that desperate air about them’?
‘You’re right,’ she said stiffly. ‘It’s none of my business.’
Rory looked surprised, as if he’d expected more of a fight from her.
‘What?’ She lifted her hands. Refusing to argue always wrongfooted Harvey; it was a tactic that had taken her a long time to learn. ‘I’m sure you had very good reasons.’
He left a thoughtful pause, then said sadly, ‘I did.’
‘Good. So did I.’
‘For what?’ The grey eyes were right on her face, at once, reading her.
Michelle couldn’t believe he’d lulled her into that. ‘For . . . the things that haven’t worked out,’ she said. Even that was more than she’d intended to say.
Rory said nothing, but let the tension slowly dissolve, which was helped by the dog’s curious snuffling.
‘So this was Cyril’s dog?’ asked Michelle, for something to say. ‘I didn’t notice it in the park. Did he walk him?’
Rory had brushed Tavish’s coat and now Michelle could make out a pair of shiny boot-button eyes above the black beard. He was staring at her with the same unnerving directness that Rory had.
‘Not since Agnes died. She had a little West Highland White terrier called Morag. You must have seen them. They used to go to the dog café on the high street.’
‘Oh,’ said Michelle, remembering. ‘Anna used to call them the salt and pepper dogs. Did they have matching coats?’
‘They did. Agnes and Morag died about the same time, then Tavish just stayed in with Cyril. I used to give him a quick trot round the block every so often, when I moved in upstairs. You’d be amazed how fast he could shift when he got near that café; I used to wonder if maybe he thought they’d be there, waiting for him.’
As he spoke, Rory stroked the dog’s long upright ears and it leaned in towards him, comforted. Michelle felt her heartstrings being tugged, but she resisted. She knew from experience how easy it was to let dogs sneak under your defences, and she had no room for one right now. Her heart still ached for Flash every time she spotted a spaniel in the park, and more than once, lonely in the middle of the night, she’d come up with a wild plan to kidnap him from the house when Harvey was at work.
Maybe in Phase Two, when she’d established both businesses, sold Swan’s Row for a profit and met an attractive silver-fox type man, she’d go back and get him. When she wasn’t scared of Harvey turning up, demanding access.
‘Did you run back here looking for your master?’ Rory asked the terrier, tickling his beard. ‘Have you been looking all over the town for him?’
‘Don’t!’ That had kept her awake for months, the heartbreaking image of Flash escaping to look for her, getting lost, starving, alone. ‘He’s fine now,’ she said, when Rory looked at her, startled at her outburst. ‘Can’t we just take him up to Cyril, if he’s such a quiet dog?’
‘Nope. They’ve got a strict no-pets policy at Butterfields. That’s why we had to take him to the rescue centre on the hill. Well, I had to take him.’
‘You did? Is that something you offer all your clients?’
Rory looked properly cross. ‘His son didn’t have time, and Cyril couldn’t face handing Tavish in – abandoning him, as he put it – so I said I’d do it. Not a fun experience.’ Tavish licked Rory’s hand. ‘I’d hoped someone would had given him a nice retirement home by now. I’d have taken him in myself, but we can’t have dogs in the office. Litigation risk. Shame, really, because he’d just sleep under the desk all day. They’d never know he was there.’
‘All dog owners say that,’ said Michelle darkly. ‘You always know they’re there. They have ways of making their presence felt.’
Rory snapped a biscuit in two, offered half to Tavish, and raised his eyebrow.
‘And that doesn’t help,’ she said without thinking. ‘He’ll get plaque.’
Rory gave Tavish the biscuit. ‘We’ve got to take our small pleasures where we can, at his age.’
Michelle’s heartstrings gave a mighty twang and she steeled herself. ‘Give the rescue a call, let them know we’ve got him,’ she said. ‘He can sleep down here tonight if they can’t come and get him till tomorrow.’
Clearly anxious at being left again, the little dog followed Rory as he tried to go, but he bent down and picked him up, plopping him on Michelle’s knee.
‘There,’ he said. ‘You might want to try to make friends with the wicked witch. She’s your new landlady for tonight.’
‘Just for tonight,’ said Michelle, raising a finger at them both.
12
‘Charlotte’s Web is a brave, beautiful story about true friendship, life, death and writing. I never ate a bacon sandwich afterwards or killed a spider.’
Anna McQueen
When Anna arrived at the shop in the morning, having dropped Lily at school with a promise to talk to Pongo about whether he wanted to read The Starlight Barking next, she was surprised to see Michelle and Rory standing by the front desk, apparently engaged in quite an animated discussion.
Rory was definitely talking while Michelle kept trying to interrupt him by waving her arms about and pointing at things. Particularly something by the lower crime shelves.
Anna was intrigued. What could they be talking about? Not books, surely. More likely it was something to do with the shop. Michelle had her business face on. Her stern one.
Don’t glare like that, Michelle, thought Anna, with a rush of matchmaking excitement. Be nice to him! Rory was single – despite the child complication – and there weren’t many nice single men under fifty in Longh
ampton. Not many that were smart enough for Michelle, anyway. She’d despatched most of them over the starters round at the McQueens, just for liking football or short-sleeved shirts.
Rory’s body language was a lot more encouraging than Michelle’s: he was really trying to engage her attention. Not only was he smiling and pulling amused faces, he reached into his briefcase and offered her a book. Michelle, predictably, did her best not to take it.
Then Michelle glanced up, responding to a question, and although Anna ducked, it was too late. Michelle caught sight of her and pointed through the window display, then pointed to the desk, then at her watch.
Anna pushed open the door and went in, all casual smiles.
‘Good, you’re here,’ said Michelle, rubbing her hands together briskly as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. ‘Just to let you know, Rachel from the kennels will be coming in before ten to collect Tavish . . .’
‘Tavish!’
Anna crouched down, delighted, as the stubby black terrier skittered across the floor towards her, his pink tongue sticking out from his square head. She kept her fingers at a wary distance; her memories of Tavish were of a ‘characterful’ elderly emperor, rather than a love-sponge like Pongo, who’d been trained from an early age to endure endless cuddles. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘He tunnelled out of the camp and came home,’ said Rory. ‘Like Greyfriars Bobby.’
‘Oh, don’t. We read that at school when I was little and I never got over it. Mum says I cuddled every statue of a dog for miles.’ Anna cautiously stroked Tavish’s ears. ‘Where’s Tavish living now? Don’t tell me he made his way back from wherever Mr Quentin’s son lives?’
‘No, he was dropped off at the rescue like an unwanted sofa,’ said Michelle. ‘And don’t look so droopy, Barbara Woodhouse – if Mr Quentin cared so much about his dog he’d have put some kind of legal protection order on him, like he did with his precious bookshop.’ She shot a pointed glance at Rory, but didn’t give him the chance to reply. ‘So the dog should be out of here by lunchtime, and I’ve marked up that list of orders you left last night. I’ve authorised payment at the warehouse, so go ahead and arrange delivery of the ones I’ve actioned. I don’t want to go overboard,’ she added, raising her hands against Anna’s protest, ‘I know we’re doing all right, but we need to focus on selling what’s here, first.’