‘I think the wife would like this,’ he said ‘Can you gift wrap?’
Adam smiled. ‘No.’
‘You should think about it,’ the man suggested.
Adam walked back to the counter, accepted the man’s credit card and put the sale through the till. He put the book into a brown paper bag and said: ‘I’ll put the receipt in there, shall I?’
The man took the bag and turned round to face the shop, either a triumphant announcement that he had bought something or, more likely Adam thought, an attempt to engage the blonde in conversation. She didn’t look up; she appeared too engrossed in a book called ‘Psychosexuality and Cultural Impotence.’ Adam liked to imagine she was being sarcastic but he conceded she might be an academic.
For a few seconds everyone in the shop was perfectly still, waiting, and Adam had the sense that if the large man with the book about cake decorating didn’t leave now they would all be trapped here forever. Fortunately so did the man.
‘Best be off, she’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’ Which Adam doubted.
‘Bye.’ Adam actually lifted his arm in the air and waved. After the man had left there was silence for a few seconds and then Grimy Nige, who was looking over Jim’s shoulder at something by Richard Ford, said without turning round: ‘He was a tosser wasn’t he, Mr Sands?’
The blonde woman smiled to herself and blushed. The unknown thin young man looked up. Adam just nodded. ‘Yes Grimy Nige, yes he was. Still bought a big book on cake decorating. What am I going to put on that table now?’
The blonde walked over and put the book she had been intently reading on the counter.
‘Can I leave this here while I look around?’
Adam nodded. ‘I’m not expecting a rush but yes, of course.’
‘Got anything else like that?’
Adam paused for a moment. ‘Academic? Psycho-social-sciency stuff?’ She raised her head. She was pretty: high cheekbones, no make up, bright eyes, serious expression. Early forties maybe younger, dressed a bit older. She nodded.
‘I have a couple of boxes out the back I haven’t been through yet. I can bring them through and you are welcome to have a look.’
‘Boxes of what?’
‘Academic, psycho-social-sciency stuff. That is the technical term, right?’
‘Where would you get two boxes…? Sorry, yes please.’
Adam took the three steps required to go ‘out the back’. A door beside the counter led to a small room with a kettle, a tiny unused fridge and several boxes of unpriced books. He picked up two medium-sized boxes and brought them back through the door to the counter. ‘I have a friend who works for a publisher. They publish magazines about nursing, psychology, social work and stuff, and academic publishers send them books to review. However, they haven’t noticed that hardly any of the magazines have reviews pages anymore. He gathers them together and when they are beginning to get in the way or when they want to get a little bit of spare office cash for a jolly he calls me and I buy them from him. It used to be that university students would buy them. I suspect they get most of their materials online now so I don’t rush to put them out.’
The blonde woman was nodding while looking through the first box enthusiastically. ‘That’s brilliant!’ she said ‘I love it, I want to buy them, well some of them. A few of them, lots of them, maybe three of them. How often do you get them in?’
‘It varies: every couple of months, depends…’ Adam was wondering how he was going to price up these books that she may buy while she was there without feeling embarrassed.
‘I haven’t actually had time to price these up yet though,’ he said. He may have blushed.
‘Well, perhaps I can set aside the ones I want and come back a little later for them when you’ve worked out how much to charge me’? She smiled. She had a hard to place accent. The walk, he decided, was definitely a trick. ‘Take your time.’
‘We’re not going to have to barter, are we?’ he said.
‘Excuse me’ said the young man who was holding a copy of something by Christopher Brookmyre. ‘Are you Adam Sands?’
‘Yes, yes I am.’ Before the young man spoke again, as Adam looked at him and noticed the nervousness round the lips and the mass of taken-for-granted black, unattended hair, he noted to himself that this was the most social engagement he had had in weeks.
‘My name is Tom. Tom Newton. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes? I think you used to know my mum’.
It took Adam a few moments to absorb the name Newton and a few moments more to acknowledge the existence of this young man. And then, and this surprised Adam, he found himself looking at the boy for signs of himself, something round the eyes maybe? And the boy was tall.
The young man looked uncomfortable in the silence Adam presented him with. It wasn’t aggressive, it wasn’t challenging but it demanded something of him and he wasn’t sure what, and so he filled the space. ‘Anna? Anna Newton.’ And then ‘Do you remember her?’
‘Yes,’ Adam nodded. ‘Of course I remember her. How is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tom. ‘That’s sort of why I’m here. She’s gone missing.’
Adam stood very still, as if he was waiting for something and then he began to feel a slight tightening around his chest. He nodded in acknowledgement of the feeling. The nod must have appeared to be an invitation for the young man to carry on talking.
‘I know it must seem odd but I wasn’t sure what to do and I had to do something. Nobody from her real life knows where she is and it’s not like her. The police say that not being in contact for a few days is not technically missing…’
‘A few days?’
‘Four. Since she emailed me, since she spoke to Grace. Grace was worried but not saying much, which isn’t like her. You know Grace, right? She told me where to find you.’
‘Yes, I know Grace. I haven’t spoken to her in years. I didn’t know she and your mum were still in touch. That’s nice.’ Adam didn’t like the feeling in his chest. And now he felt hot as well. ‘But I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Anna since before you were born.’
The boy looked away and down at the counter. When he had introduced himself he looked about 23. Now he looked about 14.
Adam spoke again. ‘Tom? After your grandfather, yes?’
The boy looked at him and shrugged; he reddened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered and took a pen and piece of paper from his pocket. ‘If you hear anything, or perhaps think of anyone who might have any ideas, would you call and let me know please.’ He turned and walked to the door. Before leaving he looked back and said: ‘I had no idea my grandfather’s name was Tom.’ He tried to laugh and failed.
Adam had the sense that he needed to slow down the boy’s exit. ‘What did she say when you last spoke to her?’
‘She left a message, told me not to come home because the house was being fumigated. It hasn’t been. Emailed me to say she was going away with Grace for a few days but she didn’t. Mum never lies. I phoned Grace, Mum hadn’t told her the lie so Grace didn’t know what to say. I thought at first that maybe she had met someone, you know, and didn’t want to make a big deal about it but nobody has heard anything for four days…’
Adam gazed at Tom as softly as he could. The boy didn’t move. The blonde woman continued to look through the books. ‘There is something else, Tom?’ he said gently.
Tom glanced at the grey cord carpet. ‘When I went to the flat there was a man. He wasn’t in the flat, he was waiting outside and when I went in he knocked on the door and asked if he could come in. I said no. Mum has one of those chain things and she always made me put it on when I was in the house. He asked where my mum was and I asked who wanted to know. He wasn’t the most charming man I have ever met. He said there was a problem at work and they had been trying to get in touch with her but she seemed to have lost her pho
ne. I said her phone was broken and she was getting a new one but she hadn’t been in touch with me either. Then I said, no idea why, that I thought she was in France, that she had friends there. He gave me a card and said, and I thought this was odd, he said if she gets in touch call me. Not ‘if she gets in touch tell her we need to talk to her’, he told me to call them. What’s that about?’
The blonde woman had by now stopped pretending to look at the books and was listening to Tom. ‘What does your mum do?’ she asked. ‘Sorry, none of my business…’
‘She isn’t a spy or anything. She does research, in health stuff, that’s all.’
‘Why did you come here, Tom?’ asked Adam.
Tom shrugged. ‘I went round to see Grace. I asked her who mum knew that I didn’t know. She said logically only people she knew before I was born. I asked her where you were, I know who you are… I think I know who you might be… I don’t care, not right now anyway… She said the last she heard you were running a bookshop in Margate. You weren’t hard to find.’
The blonde woman looked at Adam. ‘Are you famous?’
‘Obviously not,’ Adam said without looking at her. ‘I haven’t seen her, Tom, or heard from her, not in years.’
‘I know.’ The boy nodded. ‘Nice tattoo by the way,’ he said distractedly.
‘If I hear anything or think of anything I will phone, I promise. Are you staying down here?’
‘I booked into a B and B in Margate. Wasn’t sure where else to go.’
‘OK,’ said Adam. Do you want to get a bite to eat later? We could just talk, see if that helps?’
Tom looked embarrassed. ‘Thanks, but its OK. I’m with someone; they came down with me…’
‘OK.’ Adam smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me know if you hear anything?’
Tom nodded half-heartedly, walked slowly to the door and left.
Two hours later the shop was empty. Grimy Nige and Jim had been the last to leave, having decided to join in the social revelry by buying a second-hand Jake Arnott book. Adam had priced up the books the blonde woman had wanted by halving the listed price and adding 10%. Anything more would have felt rude and Adam was never rude, believing that good manners functioned as a helpful barrier to intimacy.
Today constituted more conversation than Adam had accumulated in the previous three weeks. People were not really the centre of his life. He grew vegetables on a small allotment not far from the shop: it saved him money and gave him outdoor time. He fished from his rowing boat when the weather let him. Often, when it was warm enough and calm, he would head out to sea from the old nearly retired harbour in Margate until land or at least what was on it was out of sight. Then he would put down his anchor, and lay on his back with his head resting over one side and his legs over the other and bob around listening to the lapping of the water and the occasional curiosity of the seagulls. After a while he would slide quietly into the water and swim. Swim until the sea made him feel small. Nothing can shrink you like an ocean.
His contact with the world was half hearted. He exchanged words with a few old friends via email; he occasionally slept with a history teacher from a local girls’ school whose name was Lesley, a long-legged olive-skinned woman who wrote poetry and played the drums. She referred to him as ‘Sands’ and never phoned him. However, when he called her she always told him off for not calling sooner and invited him over. He was currently teaching himself in a distracted way how to make chutney and do yoga, and was playing guitar in a local bar for fun and a few drinks. None of these things demanded his full attention, or if they did he didn’t give it and that is perhaps why he did them. He had evolved a life that felt like a visit to the library: quiet, undemanding and pretty much devoid of surprises.
Adam was making himself tea and thinking of closing up when the blonde woman came back in. ‘I know you might not have had the chance yet, but I was just passing so I thought…’
‘It’s fine,’ Adam nodded.
‘Anyway,’ she added, glancing up from beneath her hair and smiling. ‘This seems to be a place of intrigue.’
‘You caught us on a strange day,’ Adam smiled. He pushed the pile of three new books along the counter. ‘Have a look and tell me if that seems fair.’ He regretted saying that immediately.
The blonde woman looked at them and nodded. ‘Yes, that seems fair. How do you work out a price?’
‘I work out how much I paid for them and add something for being a bookshop.’ He smiled, as he often did, to soften the possibility that he sounded either caustic or defensive.
‘Right,’ she nodded. ‘It’s just that, believe it or not, there would be quite a market for these sorts of books at these sorts of prices. I’m not surprised students don’t travel to bookshops to actually look at them but, if they were in some way right under their noses, I am sure they would want them. Certainly where I work. Academic books are so ridiculously expensive and I work with research students who don’t have much money.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘Kent University. I’m a psychologist by background.’
‘Ahh.’ Adam smiled ‘Can’t stand psychology.’
‘Tell me what you think, why don’t you?’ The blonde woman smiled.
‘I think it’s important to share all my petty prejudices whenever I am selling books,’ Adam said.
‘Do you have many?’
Adam paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. ‘Most television, Karaoke, people who are earnest about political parties, psychologists obviously, bad poetry, crystal healing…’ He looked at her and shrugged. ‘Who knew there was so much?’
‘And they say books broaden the mind,’ she said. ‘My name is Alison, by the way.’ She put out her hand.
‘Adam. And I don’t read the books. I simply profit from them.’ He gripped her fingers limply because he wasn’t sure how to shake hands with a woman. ‘So how might I advertise these books in your university, Alison?’
‘You could put up some leaflets?’ she said, almost demure, mocking them both.
‘What is this witchcraft of which you speak?’
‘Do you have a website?’
‘Yes, I have a website. I think part of me worries that if I advertise them too much the publishers will see and wonder how I got them.’
‘But you’re not getting them illegally?’
‘No but…’ Adam trailed off. ‘I’m not a natural businessman, I don’t think.’ Locked now into self-effacement, he noticed he liked this woman’s company and he knew that in all probability that would annoy him later.
‘So to recap, you don’t read them and you are not very good at selling them,’ she laughed.
‘You’re right!’ exclaimed Adam. ‘What the hell am I doing here? Want to get a coffee?’
‘Can’t,’ Alison said. ‘Have to be somewhere else fifteen minutes ago. Next time though? I’ll even buy. Unless you want cake, in which case you’re on your own.’
After she had gone Adam closed the shop and wandered around the shelves rearranging things that had been moved during the day for no other reason than people not knowing how alphabetical order worked. He turned the light out and went upstairs to the one bedroom flat he lived in and distractedly threw some oil and vegetables into a pan. Mixing them with pasta and pesto he ate slowly listening to the news on the radio and watching the sky fill with thick grey cloud.
By seven o’clock the flat had shrunk and he knew he had to get out. He headed, as he always did, toward the sea. Along the cliff tops there stretched wide green lawns that separated the rarely busy coastal road from the thirty-foot drop to the promenade. The lawns were punctuated by flower gardens every 400 yards or so. Sometimes these were hidden by well-kept hedges and one, the one Adam liked the best, was a sunken garden. You had to walk down steps to get into it and once in you were sheltered from the wind, the road and, if
you were lucky enough to find it free of cider-drinking teenagers, people. Adam used to work here. Tending the flowers and recovering from more difficult times. The last time he had seen Anna Newton, about twenty-three years ago, he had brought her to this place. She was six or seven months pregnant then. He had wandered down here when he left the hospital and got a job helping tend those gardens. They were kind to each other when she had visited. They had gone for coffee and people had fussed over her in the café and on the train he put her on at the end of the day. She had loved being pregnant. She had winked from the train window. He had blown her a kiss. He had liked her but had not felt anything about not seeing her again.
He had loved working outdoors but it wasn’t far enough away, so when he got some money he bought a ticket to Goa, the cheapest place he could think of to live and the furthest place from the hospital he could imagine. He had stayed there for over a year, playing guitar in a covers band twice a week in a large hotel that offered holidays to people who preferred the idea of being in India to actually being in India. He moved on to Thailand and then a Greek Island called Spetse. There he played guitar and sang songs he couldn’t stand in a bar most nights, and swam and read a lot. He had also written and sold a few songs, albeit under a made-up name. He had sent the odd postcard to Anna and Grace and Stephen, but always when he was about to leave somewhere. It was nearly ten years before he was back in England; by that time he had assumed everyone had moved on. He didn’t actually do anything to find out. And yet, for all the time and space in between then and now, he felt unsettled. It was probably the boy who was creeping under his skin; him and the tiny shame that accompanied his instinct to not try to be more helpful. He hadn’t looked at Tom as closely as he had wanted to. It was that that brought the fear, what he might see. Or what he might not. Anna? She was more an echo. Tom was perhaps something else.
He walked home just after eight and poured himself a glass of wine which he didn’t drink. He tried to read his book, Tender is the Night. He couldn’t concentrate, partly because whenever he read that book it made him feel sad. In fact, reading it invited sadness and now he didn’t want to feel anything, or at least anything more than he already was. He thought about doing some yoga to still his mind but only got so far as lying on the floor looking upward and out of the corner of his living room window, watching the darkness deepen and the shadows drop. He stayed there and wondered about putting a coffee bar in the shop. Turning the basement into a place with books and coffee and a sofa maybe, although how he could afford the coffee machines or someone to work there was beyond him.
Stranger Than Kindness Page 17