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

do it. It’s not difficult. And I sold that Folio Society Austen box set because of Twitter.’

‘I know,’ he says, grudgingly. ‘I suppose you’re quite good at it.’

‘I don’t know if I am, but it’s hardly difficult. Interaction, Edward, that’s what it’s all about.’ I open a seventies travel guide to the Lowlands and flick through the pages. Some great photographs, oversaturated, my favourite kind of municipal flowerbeds, scenery with suspiciously blue sky and lochs. It’s the things you never think about, like bins and bus shelters, that make you nostalgic; the typeface on shop fronts. There are some shops in Castle Douglas that still have their sixties shop signs; I’ve been photographing them for my own Instagram. One got nearly eight hundred likes; I’m a social media maven. Ha.

I look back at my boss, who is huffing to himself.

‘I didn’t open an antiquarian bookshop in order to interact with people,’ he says with loathing. I laugh at him. I sincerely believe almost all this miserable grumpiness is a pose. Sometimes one he believes himself, perhaps. But mostly a pose, a concealment. I’m not sure why he wants to hide away like this, because although we often spend all day together, and sometimes go for a drink in the evening, we still don’t talk about ourselves much, being too busy talking about books.

‘Have you seen the forecast?’ he asks me, looking up from his phone.

‘No,’ I say, slicing open another box. ‘Ooh. Local history.’

‘Is that what’s in there? It’s taken him long enough. Anyway, look, it’s supposed to be twenty-three degrees later, maybe twenty-four tomorrow. What sweltering heat, we’ll never recover.’

‘That’s properly warm,’ I say, surprised. ‘I didn’t realize it ever got that hot up here.’

‘Tsk. Of course it does. About every five years, for two days. I’ll tell you what we should do.’

I put a final pile of books on the counter and begin to disassemble the box. ‘Oh yes? What should we do?’

‘Close the shop and go to the beach.’

This seems so out of character I laugh. ‘No. Seriously?’

‘We should go to the Shed.’

‘What’s the Shed? And don’t tell me it’s a shed, please.’

‘It is though. Although that’s… It’s a bit grander than a shed. But not grand in any way. They call them beach huts, but it’s not like the beach huts you get at Southwold or Brighton. It’s more like a shack. No electricity. But there’s a loo. It’s primitive, but more comfortable than camping.’

‘At the beach?’

‘Mm-hm. About ten miles away. A wee bay. There’s a burn and rocks and a bit of sand. Used to go there a lot when we were kids.’

‘Oh really?’ A snippet of family information.

‘Go home and get your swimsuit,’ he says.

I laugh. ‘I didn’t bring a bathing costume with me. I only came to empty the house; I wasn’t planning on staying.’

‘Buy one then.’

‘Oh, if only it were that easy. I doubt I’d get a swimming costume here. Which shop would you suggest? The Co-op? Have to go to Dumfries, I should think.’

He pulls at his lower lip. ‘Hm. You might be right. But anyway, go and get some beach clothes, and a towel. And your book. And maybe a jumper for tonight. I’ll sort out the food.’

I look at him. He’s excited by the idea, I can see that.

‘Tonight?’

‘Oh, well, it’s good to have a fire on the beach and look at the stars,’ he says.

Slightly doubtful, I ask, ‘Would we… sleep there?’ I’m not sure about sharing accommodation with Edward. Not that I think… But it’s intimate, isn’t it, even if you’re not intimate.

‘Oh, there is a bedroom, but I never sleep in there. It’s one big room mostly, but it’s comfortable. The sofa folds down, and… But I wasn’t thinking we’d stay over, just go for the day.’

‘Oh, okay, that sounds… okay.’ I’m relieved not to have to worry about spending the night with him. Or not ‘with him’, you know, but in the same building.

‘Go and get your stuff together. I’ll come and get you.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In about half an hour? Pointless to take two cars. Go on. Do you ever drink beer?’

‘Not really.’

‘A bottle of wine then, to have with lunch. I’ll pop to Rabbie’s and see what fish he’s got.’

‘Really close the shop?’

‘Ach, we don’t get weather this good very often. I’ll change the answerphone message and put a sign on the door. Go on, away with you. I’ll be across to collect you… say at ten-fifteen.’

Edward drives a Land Rover Defender which has seen better days. It’s filthy, and there’s a terrible scrape down the driver’s side. The back seats are piled with stuff, including a battered wicker hamper and a big red cool box. He jams my bag of odds and ends in as well and stands in the road, thinking.

‘Sun hat,’ he says.

‘Check.’

‘Sun cream.’

‘Check.’

‘Got your book? There’s no signal, so don’t expect to be able to get online.’

‘No problem.’

‘Okay. Come on then.’

I climb up into the passenger seat and admire the view from the dizzy heights of the 4X4.

‘Off-roading?’

‘We do actually have to, yes. There is a road, but it’s shit.’

I put on my sunglasses. ‘How thrilling,’ I say, ‘like going on holiday.’

‘I’ve only been down a couple of times this summer. I don’t mind going when it’s wet or windy – storms are great when you’re right on the beach – but it’s blissful in hot weather.’

I turn to look at him. I’ve never known him to be in such a good mood. ‘So is it, like, a family place? If you used to go when you were a kid?’

He’s silent for a while, thinking. ‘Yeah. My grandfather built it, just before the war.’

‘I thought you gave up all your family stuff,’ I say, cautiously.

‘Yeah, well. I wanted to keep the Shed. I guess I’m a hypocrite.’

He’s as scathing about himself as he is about everyone else, I suppose.

‘Oh, I think you’re being harsh,’ I say.

‘Am I? I don’t know that I am. Anyway, I