Chapter 4 #2
I’m surprised at how much that idea stings. I hope we were right to take this leap of faith, and that Beth won’t be receiving a lesson in how to be cynical at sixteen. It has of course crossed my mind that it could be a scam, but I desperately want to be wrong.
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out, I suppose!’ I reply, walking up the steps with more confidence than I’m actually feeling. I take a deep breath and push open the door, greeted by the sound of an old-fashioned bell tinkling overhead.
We walk through into a place that can only be described as splendid.
It’s lovely and cool, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers, of sea salt and lavender, with high ceilings and dark wood shelving.
It somehow manages to be both cosy and spacious, with scattered tables and chairs, books and magazines on every available surface.
Lots of sweet touches like strings of fairy lights that shine from little nooks, and squishy cushions in a gorgeous heather design.
There’s a big serving counter, adorned by a huge antique till, the kind you see in period dramas, and a massive fireplace.
No fire at this time of year, but a display of photos – they’re all of Scottish scenes, and similar enough stylistically to the one on our card that I suspect they were taken by the same person.
The walls are hung with beautiful framed pictures of mythical creatures, along with posters for upcoming events – music nights, poetry readings, and the intriguingly titled Bring Your Own Book and Bottle evening. I think I could be a fan of BYOBAB.
The books themselves are everywhere, not just on the shelves – they’re in display cases, stacked on top of the mantel, piled into some of the same pretty wicker baskets we saw down at the harbour.
It’s a beautiful space, peaceful and hectic at the same time, and I want nothing more than to sink into one of those chairs and fall asleep as I pretend to read the pretty edition of Jane Austen’s Emma that’s lying on one of the little tables.
‘Where are the staff?’ Beth asks quizzically.
It’s a good point. It’s late afternoon, so possibly near closing time – but the till is just sitting there, and some of these books must be valuable.
I’ve already spotted an old edition of Alice in Wonderland, the one with the gorgeous Mabel Lucie Attwell drawings, which in a shop in London would be under lock and key and only shown to people who flashed a credit card.
‘Invisible?’ I suggest, as we head off to explore.
There are a few rooms, all slightly different.
The last one is the best, because there are actual people in it.
Real life humans, young ones, all curled up on bright red bean bags, reading.
Even the teenaged girl has a book on her lap instead of her phone, and she looks almost embarrassed by it when she glances up and sees us.
‘Hi!’ she says, clambering to her feet and shoving the book under the bean bag.
Ha. It’s Warm Bodies, the one Beth got from the bookshop in Stratford-upon-Avon.
She’s wearing the exact same jogging pants as my daughter, baby pink and so baggy and balloon-like they remind me of MC Hammer, and a Panic!
At The Disco T-shirt. One of Beth’s favourites.
‘Hi,’ I reply, smiling at the other two.
Both boys, one six or seven, the other at that awkward age where he’s not quite a teenager but really wants to be cool.
All of them have the same gorgeous red hair, so I’m guessing siblings.
She and Beth immediately start chatting, and despite the very different accents, I can tell they are from the same tribe.
I leave them to it for a moment, browsing the books – so many, and all totally lush, everything from Black Beauty to Skulduggery Pleasant.
I lose myself in a chapter of The Wind in the Willows, letting the girls get acquainted as I catch up with Moley and Mr Toad.
‘Moira’s outside,’ Beth tells me a few minutes later, as though I should know who that is.
I guess I’d zoned out, welcoming the escape into the book.
I raise my eyebrows, and she adds: ‘Moira owns the shop, and sent out the cards. They’re expanding into a gallery next door, and that came with space at the back, which Brody has turned into a courtyard called the Secret Garden.
This is Laurel and her brothers, Sam and Charlie.
Her mum, Rosie, runs the café. She’s outside in the Secret Garden, drinking wine with Moira. You should join them. You like wine.’
She’s learned a huge amount in maybe five minutes max. I have no idea who any of these people are. I wonder if Beth has a future as a spy.
Wine sounds good, but I am consumed with an unexpected wash of anxiety at the thought of meeting new people.
I don’t appear shy on the surface, I can’t in my job, which involves being the buffer zone between a lot of often demanding personalities.
But underneath that, I am actually deeply private, and I hold my secrets so close that sometimes I even hide them from myself.
Not long ago I felt like this was right. Now I am suddenly eaten alive by doubt. What am I doing here, in this place that forces me to face the past?
It’s not too late to leave, to run. I could plead a work emergency and take Beth home.
Or I could claim a daughter emergency, and tell work I am no longer on call – book us a fly-and-flop to Corfu or Tenerife…
Or we could just leave here. There are hotels within driving distance, I looked them up before we came, just in case.
‘Mum!’ says Beth, interrupting my escape plans. ‘I asked if it was okay for me to go with Laurel? She’s going to show me around Bonnie Bay!’
She announces this with more enthusiasm than I’ve heard from her in years. How can I even consider dampening that joyful spark? What kind of a mother would I be if I put myself first like that? I’m here, and I’ll cope – we just won’t stay long.
‘Well, hello now!’ comes a voice from behind us. I whirl around, and see an elderly woman, brandishing a glass of something fizzy. She’s carrying some years, but carrying them well, lean and fit-looking still, her face lined but her eyes as sparkling as the wine. ‘I thought I heard the bell go!’
‘How, Moira?’ asks the youngest boy, clinging to her hand. ‘You were ages away in the outside!’
‘Well, I have magic ears, Charlie my love – as most women do.’
‘Like my mum, when she knows I’m in the biscuit barrel even when she’s watching telly in the other room?’
‘Exactly like that, Charlie. Remember that when you’re older.’
She turns to me and smiles, her already animated face even more vivid. She has beautiful hair, rich, thick curls in all the shades of silver. So much texture and flow – like a Rossetti painting if the model had aged.
‘I’m Moira McLeod,’ she says, holding out her hand for me to shake. ‘I’d give you a hug but I’m holding a wine glass, and I wouldn’t want to risk spilling any.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I reply. ‘Totally agree. I’m Jane, Jane Clarke, and this is my daughter, Beth.’
‘Och, it’s so lovely to meet you both! Were you looking for a book, or just having a wee mooch around?’