Chapter 12
M irren had spoken to every dealer she could in Hay-on-Wye. She’d checked every shelf; looked at more Stevenson books than she could count; got her hands utterly filthy, dust in her hair and a distinct smell of old books about her that she could no longer notice. The general consensus from the dealers was that, number one, the book was a myth, or they would definitely have heard of it (book people, Mirren was learning, took any mention of a book they hadn’t heard of as a personal affront); number two, that it was a waste of time looking – if it wasn’t in their town, it wouldn’t be anywhere; and, number three, reluctantly, the next place to look might be Alnir, a town on the Northumbrian coast also famous for its bookshops, ‘Although,’ sniffed one fastidious-looking man in a bow tie, ‘everything is so frightfully DAMP.’
Having left her details everywhere she could think of, having done as much, she felt, as she could possibly do short of going house to house (which had also occurred to her), Mirren finally returned to the inn, ready for a very early night and to move on the following day to continue the search elsewhere. The receptionist smiled and pushed an envelope towards her.
‘This was left for you.’
Frowning, Mirren opened it, then instantly began smiling.
Dear Miss Sutherland,
it started, in a creditable stab at an italic hand.
It was a delight to make your acquaintance. As we appear to be in the same line of work, I hope our paths will cross one of these days. Do let me know via the most excellent innkeeper where your next port of call may be.
Yours faithfully,
Theodore Palliser
Mirren felt herself go pink. This was, obviously, ridiculous – just a travelling salesman, having a bit of a laugh with her.
But even so. Between Violet, and the rotten year she’d had, it felt like the first exciting thing to happen to Mirren in such a long time.
She begged a pen and paper off the innkeeper ... receptionist, she meant ... and, smiling, started,
Dear Mr Palliser,
Thank you for your rather forward note. I continue on to quite the largest bookshop in the country, the better to fulfil my quest. It was most bracing to meet you.
Mirren Sutherland, Miss
She addressed it to Theodore Palliser Esq, Poste Restante, and handed it back to the receptionist, who laughed and shook her head.
‘You could just swap phone numbers, you know. Is this some new way of dating?’
‘Not officially,’ said Mirren. ‘But I think it ought to be.’
The receptionist smiled. ‘I do too.’
The following morning, Mirren set her course northwards. She was running out of money, but had the bit between her teeth now, and set off in the complaining little Fiat. It began to snow as soon as she passed Leeds, and as she ascended the glorious Yorkshire Dales, conditions carried on deteriorating. Her Fiat felt very thin and fragile as she crept, lights on full beam, past vistas that in better weather would be exceptionally beautiful. Animals were huddled together, vague outlines in the whitening fields by the ancient old stone walls that had stood beyond memory in the harsh upland farms, the hills looming behind them. Blinking, Mirren carefully followed the red lights of the cars picking their way along the road in front of her, windscreen wipers squeaking as they attempted to keep the view of the way ahead clear despite the huge flakes fluttering in front of her eyes. Finally coasting downhill and on to the beach, even as it was darkening, was a huge relief.
The first bookshop in this little town was an absolute beauty, even by bookshop standards; a former factory that had been completely subsumed by books. There was a huge travel section, an ice cream parlour, a large display board full of leaflets for B old framed photographs of writers covered every part of the wall. Huge, mobbed sections on old trains and buses and planes; beautiful fiction and treatises on every topic under the sun.
Although she started feeling buoyed by the fresh town, her first day digging through the stacks yielded absolutely nothing. She left and went to every other bookshop in the town. They were charming, all of them. But not a sniff. She found a cheap B it was fine for mild grey London winters, where you were never more than a few feet away from a warm grate venting from the Tube as you walked past. But this – with the wild sea on one side, and the cold wind and empty fields on the other – was another matter.
Northumberland was clearly incredibly beautiful, wild and remote; Mirren loved it. While also feeling completely freezing. She left the last shop, a charming place that mostly focused on local history and birdwatching – she almost got sidetracked into a glorious Lindisfarne facsimile before tearing herself reluctantly away. Maybe if she went back to the big bookshop ... at least she could have a coffee at the ice cream stand, heat herself up a bit. It was after six; everywhere else was shut.
Suddenly, Mirren felt the air going out of her like a deflating balloon. This place was beautiful. But it was miles from home and everything she knew, and she was no closer to finding the book than when she set off nearly a week ago.
Outside, the wind pulled at her ferociously. It was freezing. If this book even existed, she was never going to find it here. Never in a million years. It was in some millionaire’s mansion, or shredded by someone who didn’t know its worth. It had been lost, was in the attic of somebody; had been used as firewood in a harsh winter after the war. This was a stupid errand; she should never have come, a total waste of time.
Mirren thought, fighting against the swirling flakes and howling wind, that she would get into her car, drive back to the motorway, and carry on until she got too tired, then pull off and have a night in a nice cosy Premier Inn, with a boiling hot shower and a comfy double bed. She could get some Jaffa Cakes from the petrol station and watch some terrible rubbish on television and then tomorrow she’d be back in London. Nothing like as nice, she reflected rather sadly, as the night in the coaching inn with that handsome young salesman. But even so. It would be warm.
And Violet would be soothed by her being there. That was a much more sensible idea than trying to do the impossible here, while her poor aunt was treated as an inconvenience by the rest of her family.
Shaking with cold, she headed over to where she’d parked the little Fiat. A thick layer of snow lay over it and she wiped it off the windscreen with her inappropriate raincoat, soaking it through.
Inside the car was freezing, and outside was now pitch dark, the glow of streetlights only dimly perceptible through the snow-clad windows. Mirren turned the key, ready to turn the heating up to absolutely full, when she realised that she had already turned the key over. And nothing had happened. She tried it again. A small groan from the engine. Nothing else.
Mirren felt tears pricking her eyelids, which she knew was ridiculous but even so. She’d been fantasising about that boiling hot shower for a long time and now it was dissolving in front of her eyes. She just wanted to go home and get warm, more than anything else in the world.
It was nearly seven o’clock. Her phone was almost completely drained; she couldn’t recharge it in the car any more. There was nowhere else to go, except the bookshop, where she could use the toilet – it was getting urgent – and ask if they knew somewhere she could stay. She couldn’t think of a better idea.
She got out of the car, fiercely wiping the tears from her eyes, her feet now soaking and freezing. Her car ... she’d have to look at it in the morning. Another expense she could barely meet.
She slipped and skittered her way up the ungritted high street, back to the big bookshop, where a tall man with a beard was just locking up for the night.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Please ...’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re shut.’
‘But I just wanted to use the bathroom and ... ask if there was anywhere to stay,’ she said.
The man shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Can’t I just grab one of the leaflets on your desk?’ she said. ‘My phone is out of juice.’
‘Didn’t you come in for hours the other day and not buy anything?’ said the man.
‘I was coming back!’
‘To use our facilities for free? Good, good.’
Mirren was staring at him, unsure as to whether or not she was about to start crying again, when suddenly, out of the dark, came a loud, posh and rather familiar voice.
‘Excuse me, good sir? Might I prevail on you to help this travelling young lady?’