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

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 chemist. 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.’

‘Hm,’ she says, turning her attention to the menu. She wrinkles her nose.

‘Anything good?’ I ask, picking up my own menu – printed on brown paper, naturally.

‘Actually it all looks annoyingly good,’ she says. ‘The cakes looked ace, didn’t they?’

‘Your cakes are very good. I don’t think they looked better than yours.’ Jilly’s mum, Kate, makes their cakes – she’s a marvel.

Thinking of Jilly’s mum reminds me of something. ‘Kate’s always lived in Baldochrie, hasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ says Cerys, turning the menu over to consider the drinks. ‘And Michael too. They’re proper local.’

‘I should ask her about Fiona.’

‘Who’s Fiona?’

‘My cousin. Well, no – my second cousin. Uncle Andrew’s daughter.’

‘Oh yes, what about her?’ She frowns at me. ‘Why didn’t she get the house? Is she dead?’

‘Yes, she died when she was young. Fourteen.’

‘Oh my God, really? That’s awful. What happened?’

‘I know. And I’m not sure, I keep forgetting to ask my mum. But she’d be around Kate’s age, I suppose. I think she was born in the early fifties.’

‘Kate’s sixty-three,’ says Cerys. ‘So that sounds about right.’

‘I’ll try and remember to ask. It must have been a big deal, at the time.’

‘God, yes, I should think so. Her poor parents.’

Seven

I pop into Baldochrie to buy bread and milk. I park up by the bookshop, thinking I might go in and see if Edward has managed to sell any of my books. There’s a sign in the window: Sales Assistant Urgently Required. Apply Within.

I pause and study the sign. I’ve always quite fancied working in a bookshop. And working in town would help me meet people. If I’m going to be here for a couple of months, I’ll need to know more people than I do now; I can’t expect Jilly and Cerys, or indeed Alastair and Jenny, to take up all the slack. I’ve already been on several beach walks with Jenny and the dogs and to dinner at theirs twice. I like Jenny a lot, but you can’t swamp someone with friendship, can you? And you can’t expect someone to share all their mates with you.

I’m not sure whether Edward would be a great person to work for. But that doesn’t