The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 11- My Annual Holiday

My Annual Holiday

Every August, I take a week off.

I tell everyone I am going away.

Strictly speaking, this is not untrue.

I do, in fact, go away.

I go away from The Salty Page.

What happens after that is a private matter.

Generally speaking, I go home.

Experience has taught me that informing people you intend to spend a week quietly at home creates a dangerous misunderstanding. They immediately assume you are available.

Available for conversations.

Available for favours.

Available for helping them move furniture.

Available for finding a book they vaguely remember reading sometime during the Thatcher administration.

Far safer to say you are going away.

Mrs Thistlewood once attempted to obtain further details.

"Where are you going, Harold?"

"Away."

"Yes, but where?"

"Somewhere else."

She had considered that answer unsatisfactory.

I had considered it complete.

The truth was that I rather enjoyed my annual holiday. There was something deeply satisfying about remaining in one's own house while convincing the rest of the village that one might be anywhere between Cornwall and the Outer Hebrides.

I slept later than usual.

I read books that nobody had ordered and nobody was waiting for.

I listened to music.

I went for walks without somehow finding myself back behind the counter of The Salty Page five minutes later.

Most importantly, I took stock.

Running a village bookshop had a curious effect on time.

January became Easter.

Easter became summer.

Then, seemingly overnight, the schools broke up and Pebblewick filled with visitors, bicycles, campervans, children with ice creams, and tourists asking whether a bookshop happened to sell buckets and spades.

My August holiday gave me an opportunity to stop moving long enough to examine the year behind me.

Usually there was not very much to examine.

A few pleasant memories.

A handful of inconveniences.

The occasional mystery involving missing library books.

Nothing remarkable.

This year was different.

This year there was rather a lot.

An Eventful Summer

There had been Hank.

The American tourist who had arrived in Pebblewick searching for the England he believed still existed somewhere between old detective novels and Sunday evening television.

He had wanted winding lanes.

A church.

A harbour.

Fish and chips.

Ancient gravestones.

Possibly a ghost.

And, if circumstances allowed, a murder.

Instead, he had wandered into somebody else's wedding and suffered a fatal heart attack.

I still found myself thinking about his wife from time to time.

One moment they had been travelling Britain together in retirement, chasing postcards and memories.

The next she had been leaving Pebblewick alone.

There was nothing amusing about that.

Even Mrs Watkins had discovered that reality and detective fiction were very different things.

Hank had come looking for a story.

Unfortunately, he had become one.

Then there had been Kenji Kato.

A Japanese boy who had entered The Salty Page with his parents and almost no English.

My Japanese, regrettably, was equally limited.

Between us, we achieved remarkably little conversation.

Fortunately, books required less translation than people.

Attempting to be helpful, I ordered what I believed would be an appropriate Japanese novel.

My supplier responded by sending Bullet Train.

A story involving assassins, violence and an alarming quantity of death aboard a train.

Not exactly the gentle literary introduction I had intended.

Kenji loved it.

His parents were politely grateful.

I was mortified.

In the end, he left with two Agatha Christie novels.

Mrs Watkins would undoubtedly regard my decision to keep Bullet Train unread behind the counter as a crime in itself.

Perhaps Kenji was back in Japan by now.

I hoped he remembered Pebblewick fondly.

Ideally for the books rather than the seagulls.

Juliette

Then there was Juliette.

Eighteen years old.

French.

From Locronan in Brittany.

She had arrived for a summer job with one suitcase, limited English, and the increasingly worried expression of somebody beginning to suspect that travelling abroad alone had sounded considerably easier before leaving home.

On her first afternoon she walked into The Salty Page.

Conversation proved challenging.

My French was just sufficient to establish that she was not lost.

Though in Pebblewick, being new and being lost were often closely related conditions.

I gave her an old French copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Merci, Harold."

I remembered that clearly.

Over the following weeks her English improved in small but noticeable stages.

"Hello, Harold."

"I like Pebblewick."

A few words became a few more.

Each visit brought another sentence.

Another piece of confidence.

There was something quietly admirable about her.

Eighteen years old.

Far from home.

Working in another country.

Learning a language from people who frequently appeared unwilling to speak their own correctly.

And somehow managing remarkably well.

I hoped that when she returned to Brittany she would remember Pebblewick with affection.

Although I also hoped nobody had taught her English through extended exposure to Captain Haddock.

Hubert

Then there was Hubert.

Or, as he insistently reminded everyone:

H.U.B.E.R.T.

Not Herbert.

Never Herbert.

That difference apparently mattered enormously.

He had arrived on a bicycle burdened with panniers, maps and mysterious equipment, travelling between coastal villages while holding what appeared to be conversations with seagulls.

Initially I assumed this was a joke.

Later I became less certain.

According to Hubert, gulls possessed distinct calls for weather, food, fish and humans.

He did not claim complete fluency.

That would have been absurd.

He merely understood some of it.

Which, he assured me, was entirely different.

I once watched him standing by the harbour, listening to a gathering of gulls with the concentration of a diplomat attending international negotiations.

Then he answered them.

To my surprise, they answered back.

I still have no satisfactory explanation for that.

Later he visited the bookshop searching for a bird guide after rescuing a little tern.

That part, at least, seemed relatively normal.

Or as normal as circumstances involving Hubert ever became.

He spoke wistfully of living in a city with too many cars, too many buildings and, apparently, far too few gulls.

It remains the only occasion I have heard someone complain about a shortage of seagulls.

I occasionally wondered where he was now.

Somewhere farther along the coast, presumably.

Cycling.

Listening.

Conversing.

For all I knew, every gull in southern England was reporting his movements from harbour to harbour.

I preferred not to imagine the opinions of the Pebblewick contingent.

And Elizabeth

And then there was Elizabeth.

That was considerably easier to think about.

And considerably harder to stop thinking about.

Coffee at The Merry Teapot.

Molly's knowing wink.

Chips by the harbour.

Elizabeth laughing.

The gulls attempting organised theft.

The kiss on my cheek.

And her question.

Would I like to do something again?

I had said yes almost immediately.

A rare triumph over my usual tendency to think several days before answering anything.

I found myself imagining the empty shop next door to The Salty Page.

For months it had simply been a vacant property with a fading TO LET sign in the window.

Now I could see Elizabeth there.

Perhaps a gift shop.

Perhaps a boutique.

Perhaps simply Elizabeth unlocking the door beside mine every morning.

It was an absurd amount of optimism to extract from one coffee and a shared bag of chips.

Nevertheless, I persisted in extracting it.

Going Away

So, on Monday morning, I did not walk to Harbour Street.

I did not unlock The Salty Page.

I did not turn the sign to OPEN.

Instead, I sat by the window with coffee and a book.

It was wonderfully peaceful.

Nobody wanted postcards.

Nobody wanted directions to the public lavatories.

Nobody was searching for a book whose title, author and plot had all been forgotten, but whose cover had allegedly been blue.

No seagulls.

No Mrs Watkins.

No Mrs Thistlewood.

Just a cup of coffee.

A chair.

And a book.

I read the same page three times.

My thoughts refused to cooperate.

They wandered from Hank to Kenji.

From Juliette to Hubert.

From Lawrence Milton-Price and his missing heirs to Archibald Winterbottom and his investigations.

And finally, inevitably, to Elizabeth.

Especially Elizabeth.

I lowered the book.

Perhaps this explained why so many people went somewhere else for their holidays.

It was extremely difficult to escape Pebblewick when Pebblewick had taken up residence inside your head.

Still, I had a week ahead of me.

Seven peaceful days.

No bookshop.

No mysteries.

No complications.

After the summer I had just experienced, I really should have known better than to think that.

A Visitor

There was, however, one weakness in my carefully constructed annual strategy of informing everyone that I was "going away".

Elizabeth knew perfectly well that I wasn't.

During our evening by the harbour I had foolishly revealed the truth. My August holiday usually involved travelling no farther than my own front door.

At the time she had laughed.

I had not appreciated that the information might later be used against me.

On Tuesday afternoon there was a knock at the door.

I was halfway through a novel and had reached that particularly satisfying stage of a holiday where clocks, calendars and responsibilities had all become slightly theoretical.

I put down the book and answered it.

Elizabeth was standing on the doorstep.

A light summer dress. A small shoulder bag. A smile that immediately made reading feel like a poor use of the afternoon.

"Hello."

"Hello."

She tilted her head slightly.

"I thought you were away."

I looked at her.

"You know perfectly well I'm not."

"I do."

She held up a small paper bag.

"I brought cake."

There are moments in life when longstanding principles must be reconsidered.

Cake often creates such moments.

I stepped aside at once.

"Come in."

"So this is where Harold Quibble disappears every August."

"Please don't tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?"

I considered Pebblewick.

"Almost anybody would be dangerous."

She laughed.

I made coffee while she investigated my bookshelves with the curiosity of somebody entering a small private museum.

The cake turned out to be two generous slices from the bakery.

I had intended to spend the afternoon reading.

Instead I spent it talking to Elizabeth.

In retrospect, this was unquestionably the superior activity.

We talked about Dorothy.

The dental practice.

The bookshop.

The village.

And inevitably, the empty shop next door to The Salty Page.

"I walked past it again yesterday," she said.

"You're becoming obsessed."

"I'm thinking."

"That's generally how businesses begin."

"And how they fail."

"That as well."

She narrowed her eyes.

"You're supposed to be encouraging."

"I am encouraging you realistically."

"That's a very Harold answer."

"I've had years of practice."

The more she spoke, the more obvious it became that this idea was no longer merely an idle dream.

She had thought about suppliers.

Rent.

Displays.

Insurance.

Seasonal trade.

Tourists.

Local customers.

Even Christmas stock.

The amount of planning involved was slightly alarming.

"You've spent rather a lot of time thinking about this."

"A little."

"More than a little."

"Possibly."

"Quite a lot?"

"Quite a lot."

I nodded.

"Then perhaps you should speak to the owner."

Her smile faded slightly.

"That makes it real."

"It does."

For a moment she looked out through the window.

Then she said quietly,

"Would you mind?"

"Mind what?"

"If I took the shop next to yours."

The question caught me by surprise.

"Why would I mind?"

"I don't know. You might like having an empty shop there."

"It's very peaceful."

"There."

"I was joking."

"I hoped so."

"No, Elizabeth. I wouldn't mind."

I hesitated.

"In fact, I think I'd rather like it."

The smile that appeared then was enough to make me momentarily forget what we had been discussing.

"I'd rather like it too," she said.

For several seconds neither of us spoke.

I found myself becoming extraordinarily interested in my coffee cup.

It seemed safer.

The Rest of the Afternoon

Elizabeth stayed far longer than either of us had intended.

We did nothing remarkable.

No mystery appeared.

Nobody died.

No wills surfaced.

No long-lost relatives emerged from obscurity.

For Pebblewick, this constituted a statistical anomaly.

We simply spent the afternoon together.

We talked.

Listened to music.

Drank more coffee.

I showed her several books I had been meaning to read.

She picked one up.

"Another crime novel."

"Yes."

"Mrs Watkins is influencing you."

I looked horrified.

"Please never say that again."

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped the book.

At some point we wandered into the kitchen to make fresh coffee.

Later we walked around the garden.

The conversation drifted naturally from books to films, from childhood holidays to places we hoped to visit one day.

There was no need to keep the discussion moving.

That was what surprised me most.

The silences felt perfectly comfortable.

Neither of us seemed in a hurry to fill them.

And somewhere during those quiet hours, an uncomfortable truth finally became impossible to ignore.

I was developing feelings for Elizabeth.

Not merely an affection.

Not simply enjoyment of her company.

Something rather more significant.

Perhaps it had begun over coffee at The Merry Teapot.

Perhaps on the harbour bench defending our chips from organised gull activity.

Perhaps earlier.

I honestly did not know.

What I did know was that I liked hearing her laugh.

I liked making her laugh.

I liked seeing her walk through the door.

And I liked the fact that her presence seemed to improve even the most ordinary afternoon.

It had been a very long time since I had felt anything approaching that.

The discovery was equal parts wonderful and alarming.

For years I had been perfectly content with my own company.

Now I found myself wondering when I might see Elizabeth again while she was still sitting in front of me.

Books, for all their many virtues, contain remarkably little practical advice on such matters.

Eventually Elizabeth glanced at the clock and sighed.

"I should probably go."

I immediately disliked the clock.

"Probably."

She stood and picked up her bag.

I walked her to the door.

"Thank you for letting me interrupt your holiday."

"You brought cake."

"So that made it acceptable?"

"It certainly improved your chances."

She smiled.

"Did you mind me coming?"

The answer appeared before I had time to think about it.

"No."

I met her eyes.

"I'm glad you did."

Her smile softened.

"Good."

Then she stepped forward and kissed my cheek.

For the second time.

I was slightly more prepared than before.

Only slightly.

"I'll see you soon, Harold."

"I hope so."

As soon as I said it, I realised how much I meant it.

Elizabeth walked towards her car.

Then she stopped and turned back.

"Oh, by the way."

"Yes?"

"I might telephone about the shop."

I smiled.

"Good."

She waved and drove away.

I remained standing in the doorway long after the car had disappeared around the corner.

Eventually I returned to my chair.

My book was still open where I had left it.

I picked it up and attempted to continue reading.

Ten minutes later I realised I had absorbed precisely three sentences.

I put the book down again.

There was little point pretending otherwise.

I was thinking about Elizabeth.

My August holiday was supposed to be a chance to take stock of my life.

Instead, it appeared that my life had decided to alter itself while I was doing the counting.

The Rest of the Week

The remainder of my holiday passed quietly.

For Pebblewick, this represented a considerable achievement.

Wednesday

Wednesday arrived warm and bright.

I slept later than usual, made coffee and carried a book into the garden.

This time I actually managed to read it.

Mostly.

Every now and then my mind wandered towards Elizabeth. I eventually decided there was little point resisting. Some distractions deserved encouragement.

That afternoon I went for a walk.

I deliberately avoided Harbour Street.

Not because I did not wish to see The Salty Page.

Quite the opposite.

I knew exactly what would happen if I walked past.

I would notice that one of the display books was slightly crooked.

Or spot a leaflet trapped beneath the door.

Or discover a seagull perched on the sign.

Then I would take out my key.

Then I would open the shop.

Then I would spend the next three hours convincing myself I was only checking on things.

Experience had taught me not to trust myself.

So I walked inland instead.

For nearly two hours I managed not to encounter a single person I knew.

I suspected this might be some form of local record.

Thursday

Thursday rained.

Naturally.

A proper holiday requires at least one day of rain.

Otherwise Britain revokes your credentials.

I remained indoors.

I read.

Listened to music.

Made lunch.

Considered tidying a cupboard.

Then wisely decided that holidays should not be squandered on reckless behaviour.

At around three o'clock the telephone rang.

It was Elizabeth.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"No."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

She laughed.

"You make that sound like a full-time occupation."

"It has been surprisingly demanding."

We talked for nearly half an hour.

She told me she had contacted the agent handling the empty shop.

Nothing had been agreed.

There were figures to examine, contracts to read and practical questions to answer.

But she had made the call.

That alone felt significant.

"That's a good sign," I said.

"I think so."

"You sound pleased."

"I am."

"So am I."

There was a short silence.

The comfortable sort.

The sort that feels less like an absence of conversation and more like a continuation of it.

Then she said,

"I might arrange to see it properly next week."

"The shop?"

"Yes."

"From the inside?"

She laughed.

"That is generally how one evaluates a property, Harold."

"I've clearly been doing it wrong."

When the call ended, I discovered I was smiling again.

This had become an increasingly common problem.

Friday

On Friday I became adventurous.

I left Pebblewick entirely.

Not for London.

Not for Paris.

Not even for Exeter.

Just another town.

Nevertheless, by my standards this constituted international exploration.

I had lunch in a café where nobody recognised me.

Nobody asked about Lawrence Milton-Price.

Nobody mentioned wills.

Nobody discussed missing heirs.

Nobody called me Henry.

It was wonderful.

Afterwards I visited a bookshop.

Bookshop owners inevitably visit other bookshops during holidays.

We claim this is professional research.

It is not.

We are checking whether theirs is better.

Their shelves were straighter than mine.

Their carpet was newer.

Their front door did not whistle whenever somebody entered.

I disliked them immediately.

Naturally, I bought two books.

Professional rivalry only stretches so far.

On the journey home, I found myself thinking about reopening The Salty Page.

That was always the true purpose of my August holiday.

At the beginning, I needed a break from the shop.

By the end, I missed it.

Saturday

Saturday felt strange.

Ordinarily it was my busiest day.

The shop would be full of holidaymakers and locals.

Mrs Watkins would appear.

Dorothy would usually arrive.

Children would wander in looking for comics.

Tourists would ask impossible questions.

Life would bustle around me.

Instead, I sat at home.

I found myself wondering how Dorothy was getting on.

She had become such a regular part of the shop that it felt odd imagining a Saturday without her there.

Elizabeth telephoned that afternoon.

Only briefly.

"Still enjoying your holiday?"

"I think I'm nearly rested."

"Nearly?"

"I own a bookshop in Pebblewick."

"Ah."

"Complete recovery seems unlikely."

She laughed.

We agreed we would meet again soon.

After the call ended, I found myself thinking about a single word.

We.

It was a small word.

An ordinary word.

Yet somehow I liked the sound of it very much.

Sunday

By Sunday evening I was ready to return.

I had rested.

I had read.

I had walked.

I had listened to music.

I had accomplished remarkably little and somehow felt pleasantly tired because of it.

Most importantly, I had thought.

About Hank, who had travelled across the Atlantic searching for an idealised England and accidentally found his final chapter instead.

About Kenji and the book I had never intended to order.

About Juliette, bravely constructing a new language one conversation at a time.

About Hubert, who was probably somewhere along the coastline arguing with seagulls.

Or perhaps agreeing with them.

It was difficult to know.

I thought about Lawrence Milton-Price.

About Alf.

About Augustus, Jack, James and Jane.

About the paintings locked safely in a bank vault.

About Simon Atkinson.

About Archibald Winterbottom and the family history he might yet uncover.

About Dorothy.

And then, inevitably, about Elizabeth.

Especially Elizabeth.

A week earlier she had simply been Dorothy's mother.

Then we had shared coffee.

Then chips.

Then conversations.

Then an unexpected afternoon together.

Now I found myself looking forward to seeing her again with a degree of anticipation that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

The feelings were real.

Not imagined.

Not temporary.

Real.

I had no idea where any of it might lead.

Neither, I suspected, did she.

For the time being, that uncertainty felt surprisingly pleasant.

Life did not always need a complete plot before Chapter One could begin.

Before going to bed, I found my keys to The Salty Page and placed them on the hall table beside the front door.

The familiar sight made me smile.

Tomorrow I would return to Harbour Street.

Return to books.

Return to customers.

Return to Pebblewick.

And, if experience was any guide, return to whatever fresh absurdity the village had prepared in my absence.

My holiday was over.

Strangely enough, I was rather glad about that.