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

‘Gosh,’ I say, ‘like Tony Benn?’

‘I should think Tony Benn was a pretty big inspiration, yes. So he – Edward – didn’t get on with his father, either. He and your uncle were good friends, actually. Because of the books.’

‘Oh yes, the books. We should look at the books?’

‘Through here.’ He leads the way up the corridor and opens the third door on the right. The room’s in darkness, blackout blinds at the window. Alastair pauses on the threshold and continues. ‘Yes – Edward’s a dealer. A book dealer, I mean,’ he adds, hurriedly, which makes Xanthe snort with laughter. ‘He has a shop in town – you might have noticed it? It’s across the square from my office. His father hated it. Anyway, when James died, Edward renounced the title, which passed to Charles. Charles is more business-minded, I suppose. Made a lot of money from property development in Edinburgh and Glasgow. He was determined to buy back the estate houses at least, although all the farmland is another matter. He got the Home Farm back about five years ago, but there’s a lot more land that was bought up piecemeal by various people in the fifties and sixties. And, like I say, he bought East Lodge and the Lower Farm cottages and so on.’ He taps his fingers on the door, and changes the subject. ‘But these are the books. Edward valued this lot for Andrew the back end of the year before last. The valuation probably still stands, but you might want to ask him to take a look for you.’

He flicks the lights on.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Xanthe.

The room is lined with bookshelves, and the shelves are full of books. Most of them are leather-bound and gold-blocked. Like a mini-stately-home library. Busts of Milton, Shakespeare and Newton, a very faintly musty smell overlaid with leather.

‘Shit,’ I say, and then apologize.

‘Yes, so, these’ – he waves a vague hand – ‘are all first editions, I think, Scott and so forth, and there’s quite a large Burns collection. And, anyway, I don’t know if you’ll want to keep them, but they are worth quite a lot of money. Edward has said he’d be interested, of course…’

‘So I could sell the house to Charles and the books to Edward?’

‘If you wanted, I should think so, yes.’

‘Handy.’

‘Yes. Or you might want to give the books to someone, I don’t know; the Burns people might be interested. Anyway, you should probably talk to Edward about that. Although I warn you,’ he says, ‘he’s not easy to get on with. My fiancée’ – Xanthe pulls a disappointed face at me; hopefully Alastair doesn’t notice – ‘prefers Charles – says ‘at least he’s charming”.’ He laughs. ‘But perhaps I’m being unfair.’

I can see he doesn’t think it’s unfair at all.

‘Yes, and as I say, they don’t get on. Did I say that? Hate each other.’

‘It’s like a soap,’ says Xanthe, delighted.

‘Why don’t they get on?’

‘Oh, heavens. Very complicated. Um. Something to do with Charles’s wife,’ he says, embarrassed. We both turn to look at him. ‘Ex-wife I should say. Or at least that’s the rumour. Or one of the rumours… Look, I’m being indiscreet, I should stop. Anyway, you might prefer to take the books home, and sell them in London or something. Edward knows his stuff, but he can be… difficult.’

After four days, Xanthe and I are doing well, sorting out Uncle Andrew’s belongings. It’s been quite a lot of work, but I feel like we’re getting somewhere. I’ve been through all his clothes, and the everyday stuff’s in bin bags ready for another trip to the charity shop; shirts and trousers and jumpers. I’ve kept some things – there are four splendid tweed suits, with waistcoats, and a kilt with all the trimmings. A pile of beautifully pressed handkerchiefs. Several hats, brimmed; I suppose they’re trilbies. I don’t know what I’ll do with any of it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to get rid of it.

In the wardrobe in the spare bedroom there’s a box of Fiona’s things – my dad’s cousin Fiona, Andrew’s daughter. A sad teddy bear, baby shoes, some school prize children’s classics, photographs. She was only fourteen or something when she died. So long ago. I’m still not sure what happened; I must remember to ask next time I speak to my mother. I put the lid back on the box and return it to the shelf. There’s enough going on without upsetting myself by thinking about the young woman who never really got to be, who should be the one doing this, who has been dead for such a long time.

Also in the wardrobe, and folded into the chest of drawers, are Aunt Mary’s clothes, or some of them, the clothes of her youth, beautiful full-skirted dresses from the fifties; some lovely knitwear, cashmere; and smartly tailored tweed skirts. I don’t think any of it will fit me, but I should be able to sell it, and the handbags and shoes and scarves. There’s a fur coat, too, which I wouldn’t wear, personally, but I know a few people do.

We’ve packed up the duller, less interesting kitchen stuff, and various ornaments that don’t appeal, and some fishing-themed prints and drawings that I don’t care for. It’s difficult to make decisions about the rest of it, since I don’t know what I’m going to do with the house.

‘You could let it,’ says Xanthe. ‘I mean as a holiday cottage. It’s just the right size.’

‘I could. In which case I should definitely keep some of the kitchen stuff. Although I guess people will prefer mugs, won’t they, and plates from IKEA. New things.’ I stand, hands on hips, and look at the contents of the cupboards, laid out before me on the table and the worktops.

She shrugs. ‘You’d need to get the bathroom done, if you’re going to let it.’

The bathroom is fine, but she’s probably right. It