The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (e books for reading txt) 📗

‘I know; don’t make me feel worse than I do already. But you know I’ll probably sell the house – I don’t have room for a library – oh and now I’m so anxious about the Newton,’ I say, wringing my hands.

He laughs. ‘Don’t be.’

‘Easy to say.’

He walks across to the desk by the window. There’s a cupboard beside it, supporting the bust of Shakespeare.

‘There’s no key for that,’ I tell him. ‘Or at least I haven’t found one.’

‘It’s got a catch,’ he says, and leans round behind it to press something. The cupboard door springs open to reveal the green-painted door of an old-fashioned safe.

‘Oh!’

‘Yeah, the lock’s fake, on the door,’ he says. ‘The safe came from one of the banks in town. He had the cupboard made to fit round it.’

‘How clever. But how do we get it open? I don’t have the combination.’

‘Fifteen, ten, twenty-eight,’ he says, twirling the knob. ‘Mary’s birthday. Unless he changed it. Ah, no, there we are.’ He opens the door and we peer inside. The books lie on the top shelf. There doesn’t seem to be anything else in there, no jewels or piles of cash, sadly. He pulls a pair of white cotton gloves from his coat pocket and puts them on. ‘I’ll put them on the desk.’

I watch as he places the first volume carefully on the desk. It’s remarkable to own such a thing; in fact, I’m not convinced I really do. It should be in a museum or something, surely. He turns some pages. There are diagrams and equations and the text is in Latin.

‘Oh lord, it’s all so intimidating.’

‘It’s just a book. No need to be intimidated.’ From the way he runs a finger down the edge of the pages, though, I’m not sure he thinks it’s ‘just a book’.

‘There,’ he says, ‘I’ll leave it out for you to look at. Make sure you put it away later.’ He takes off his gloves and hands them to me. ‘Try not to touch it without these.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ I’m not sure I want to touch it at all; the whole thing is overwhelming.

He clears his throat and turns away from the desk. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘the Scotts. I had a look online this morning, I could give you five hundred pounds for the matching 1871 set – they aren’t first editions. Retail is about six hundred. This Ivanhoe is a first edition, and in lovely condition. Six grand. I forgot he’d bought that.’

‘Wow.’

‘The other first editions aren’t in such good shape. Two hundred quid each for Guy Mannering and Heart of Midlothian. Five hundred for the rest.’

‘Okay.’ It’s terrifying, frankly.

‘Your Burns collection’s worth about eight grand. I doubt there’s anything amazing there that the Burns people would want.’

‘Would you buy them?’

He pulls at his lip. ‘Yeah, probably. I can usually shift Burns. The Trollopes are good; the matching bindings mean they were put together as a collection, probably in the twenties. Three and a half thousand.’

‘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