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

I agree to make a payment to Thea to cover the cost of half the sofa and the tables etc., he writes. ‘Okay?’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Yeah, look, I don’t want to be a dick about this.’

‘More of a dick,’ says Xanthe, and laughs at his expression.

‘You know I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,’ he says. Not to her, to me.

I can’t look at him, or not full on. I keep glancing sideways at him, just catching glimpses. Our eyes never meet.

‘Yes. It’s all right. Or no, it isn’t, it’s… but I know you didn’t exactly do it on purpose.’

‘No. I really didn’t.’ He looks knackered, almost as bad as I feel.

‘Anyway, I’d better go.’

He nods, and then says, ‘Oh, wait. There’s a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘It only came yesterday. I thought, as I was going to see you… Hang on,’ he says, and disappears for a moment into the study. ‘Here. A solicitor’s letter, I think. Have you–’

‘Not my solicitors,’ I say, taking the envelope from him. I hesitate and then tear it open, rapidly scanning the contents. ‘Oh, weird.’

‘What is it?’ says Xanthe.

‘It’s Uncle Andrew.’ I look at Chris. ‘Great-uncle Andrew, I should say.’

‘The one who died?’

I nod. Great-uncle Andrew died last year. I didn’t go to the funeral; he lives – lived – in Scotland, and I’d only met him a few times. My grandfather’s eldest brother, he’d outlived Grandad by a good fifteen years and made it to ninety-three.

‘And?’

‘He’s left me his house,’ I say, rather stunned.

‘Ooh, really? Where is it?’ asks Xanthe. ‘Somewhere glamorous?’

‘It’s about an hour west of Dumfries,’ I tell her, and laugh at her disappointed expression. ‘I’ve never been there. It’s the arse end of nowhere.’

‘That’s useful,’ says Chris. ‘I mean, so you’ll be able to sell it, hopefully, and buy somewhere better. Than if you just had the money for this.’

I can see he’s relieved; it will make him feel better, if I can afford something reasonable.

‘I suppose so,’ I say. The letter mentions some money as well, but I don’t say anything about that. It’s quite a substantial sum. I’m suddenly aware that the mostly low-level but occasionally serious anxiety I’ve been feeling about my job, or lack of, has dropped away. It’s not enough to live on for ever or anything, but it’s certainly a relief.

‘How come he’s left it to you? No kids?’ asks Xanthe.

‘He had a daughter. Dad’s cousin. But she died, years and years ago.’ I try to remember what happened. ‘I think she drowned? Or something. It’s weird he didn’t leave it to Dad though, or Auntie Claire.’

‘How exciting,’ she says. ‘So do you have to go and pack all his stuff? I guess you’re in the right mood to sort through more boxes?’

This makes us all laugh, a release of tension.

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose so.’ I look at the letter again. ‘Apparently it’s all gone through and everything, so this bloke’ – I turn the letter over – ‘Alastair Gordon, of Smith, Gordon and Macleod, has the keys for me and some paperwork. “Let me know when is convenient for you to take possession of the property. I’ll be delighted to take you to the house and etc.” And yes, it says “contents” and it says,’ I continue, reading again more carefully, ‘he collected books and the library – ha, library – was valued a couple of years ago, but should probably be revalued, and should be sold through a reputable dealer if I decide I don’t want it.’

‘Wow,’ says Xanthe. ‘Does the house have an actual library?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s very big. West Lodge, it’s called. Anyway, we can look it up later. Poor Uncle Andrew. I feel bad now that I didn’t go to the funeral.’

‘Is that the will?’ asks Chris, as I unfold a fat photocopy.

‘Yeah. Oh look, he explains – “and to my great-niece Althea Lucy Mottram née Hamilton blah blah whom I have only met on four occasions, but who each time was intent on reading, rather than talking, which has always been my own preference.” Oh bless. Well there you go, Mother, so much for saying no good will come of it.’

Two

It takes me almost six weeks to organize myself sufficiently to take a trip to Scotland. I don’t know why; I’m not busy unless you count lying in bed and crying as busy.

I have several telephone conversations with Alastair Gordon, who has a delightful accent and sounds rather lovely. He says the Lodge is ‘perfectly habitable’ although it will need airing if I want to sleep there. The electricity is still connected, and the phone, so it won’t be like camping, which is lucky as it’s still March for another four days. We discuss how long I might stay, and he offers to go over and check how everything is, which I suspect is above and beyond, but I shan’t complain. I ask if this favour will cost me three hundred pounds an hour and he sounds shocked when reassuring me. He and Great-uncle Andrew were good friends, he tells me. I admit this is rather disappointing, as it must mean he’s at least sixty-five. Even that would make him thirty-odd years younger than Andrew.

Not that it matters how old he is; I just quite liked the idea of meeting a charming Scottish lawyer. He’s probably married. Most people are, aren’t they?

‘I’ll come with you,’ offers Xanthe. ‘How long you going for?’

We’re in our favourite coffee shop, downstairs amongst the second-hand books and bits and pieces. It’s always quieter downstairs because the staircase down is an unhelpful cast-iron spiral, off-putting to young mums and old people alike. Outside the rain is relentless, disguising the signs of spring.

‘I dunno, I thought maybe two weeks. It shouldn’t take too long to sort out his stuff. And then I can put the house on the market and do a