The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 12 - The following week

Monday

After a week away from The Salty Page, I returned on Monday morning.

"Away" may have been stretching the definition somewhat.

I had spent most of my annual leave at home, scarcely ten minutes' walk from the bookshop. Yet I had successfully managed not to unlock the door, straighten a shelf, or concern myself with invoices. By my standards, that qualified as a holiday.

The harbour greeted me exactly as I had left it.

Fishing boats rocked lazily against their moorings. Gulls wheeled overhead, already engaged in their daily programme of loud disagreement. Near one of the benches, somebody had dropped half a sausage, and three gulls were conducting what appeared to be complex diplomatic negotiations regarding its ownership.

None of the parties seemed willing to compromise.

I continued along Harbour Street.

The Salty Page stood exactly where it belonged.

Its front windows still leaned ever so slightly towards the sea. Its sign still looked as though it had been placed on a list of jobs to be completed several years ago. The floorboards inside would almost certainly still creak in precisely the same places.

And the shop next door was still empty.

TO LET, announced the notice in the window.

I stopped.

For the first time, I found it difficult to imagine the premises vacant.

Instead, I imagined Elizabeth.

A counter near the front.

Shelves filled with gifts and cards.

Perhaps clothing displays.

Perhaps handcrafted items.

Perhaps something entirely different.

I pictured Elizabeth standing in the doorway, welcoming customers with that confident smile she produced whenever she had already made a decision and everybody else was still catching up.

Apparently I stared rather longer than was socially acceptable.

A nearby gull seemed to think so as well.

It let out a sharp cry that sounded distinctly critical.

"Mind your own business," I told it.

The gull declined the suggestion.

I unlocked the door to The Salty Page.

The letterbox emitted its familiar whistle.

The floor answered with its familiar creak.

The familiar scent of old books, dust and polished wood drifted towards me.

It felt reassuringly like coming home.

The kettle was my first priority.

Some rituals deserved respect.

While it boiled, I sorted through the accumulated post.

There were invoices.

Catalogues.

Two advertising leaflets still addressed to the previous owner.

And very little else of interest.

To my disappointment.

Ever since receiving Catherine Cartwright's postcard from Grasmere—

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

—I had developed an entirely unreasonable suspicion that unexpected postcards might suddenly begin appearing in my life.

The absence of one left me faintly dissatisfied.

At half past nine, Mrs Thistlewood arrived.

"You’re back."

"So are you."

"I wasn't away."

"Neither was I."

She considered this carefully.

"How was your holiday?"

"Very restful."

"Did you go anywhere?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"A café."

Mrs Thistlewood stared at me.

"In another town," I added.

"That's better."

Apparently my holiday had now met the minimum legal requirement for travel.

Tuesday

Juliette Comes In

Juliette arrived shortly after ten on Tuesday morning.

"Good morning, Harold."

I looked up from a delivery invoice.

"Good morning."

She smiled.

"How was your holiday?"

I stared at her.

The smile vanished.

"Wrong?"

"No."

I pointed at her.

"That was a complete sentence."

The smile returned immediately.

"Yes."

"And grammatically correct."

"I practise."

"It's working."

The smile widened.

When Juliette had first arrived in Pebblewick from Locronan, conversations had required patience, interpretation and occasional intervention from Mrs Evans. There had been much pointing, several misunderstandings and one memorable discussion involving a mop, a bucket and what turned out to be a seagull.

Now she sounded different.

Not fluent.

Not yet.

But confident.

The distinction mattered.

"How's the hotel?" I asked.

"Busy."

"And the laundry?"

She shook her head.

"No laundry now."

I sat up slightly.

"You escaped?"

She laughed.

"I work there first. Towels. Sheets. More towels."

"I've heard hotels are primarily made of towels."

She considered this carefully.

"Maybe."

"So what are you doing now?"

"Chambermaid."

Mrs Evans had evidently decided Juliette's English was improving quickly enough to move her upstairs onto the guest floors.

She now spent her days making beds, cleaning rooms, replenishing tea trays and ensuring holidaymakers had enough biscuits to maintain morale.

"Biscuits very important," she said solemnly.

"In Britain, essential."

"More important than towels."

I thought about it.

"On balance, yes."

Juliette nodded as though this confirmed something she had already suspected.

"I like chambermaid better."

"Why?"

"In laundry, only sheets talk to me."

I laughed.

"And now?"

"Guests talk."

"That's better."

She thought for a moment.

"Too much sometimes."

Her expression suggested she had recently discovered one of the hidden disadvantages of learning a foreign language.

Once you understood people, you also had to listen to them.

"Mrs Evans says I do good work."

The pride in her voice was unmistakable.

That meant something.

Praise from Caroline Evans was not distributed freely. She treated compliments much like the Crown Jewels. Valuable, carefully guarded and only brought out when genuinely warranted.

"That sounds promising."

"Yes."

Juliette looked quietly pleased with herself.

As she should have been.

A few months earlier she had arrived alone in a country whose language she barely spoke. Now she was managing conversations with hotel guests and correcting my assumptions about towels.

That seemed respectable progress.

Eventually she wandered towards the fiction shelves.

"I want book."

"Fortunately, I know where to find one."

"Easy English."

"That narrows the field."

After some searching, we found a short contemporary novel with straightforward language and a minimum number of people speaking in dialect.

Juliette opened it and carefully read the first page.

I waited.

"Understand it?"

She nodded.

"Most."

"Most is enough."

She bought it immediately.

Before leaving, she paused beside the door.

"I like Pebblewick very much."

The remark sounded spontaneous.

I found myself smiling.

"Pebblewick likes you too."

She looked pleased.

"I have only few weeks before France."

"Then you'll need another book after that one."

She held up her purchase.

"I try."

Then she disappeared back into the sunshine.

For a moment I watched her cross the street.

A few months earlier Juliette had never travelled outside France alone.

Now she was working in an English seaside village, conducting discussions in another language and buying novels she could actually read.

There were worse ways to spend a summer.

Alf

Alf arrived later that morning.

He looked tired.

But it was a healthier sort of tired.

The previous week he had seemed lost.

Now he merely looked busy.

"How are you?" I asked.

"All right."

"And the farm?"

"Good."

That answer contained considerably more confidence than I had expected.

"The animals?"

"All right."

He paused.

"One sheep was limping."

"What happened?"

"Stone in its hoof."

"You fixed it?"

"Yeah."

The shrug suggested this hardly qualified as news.

Another sheep had escaped.

Alf brought it back.

A water trough had developed a leak.

Alf repaired it.

Each story was delivered with the same understated certainty.

The jobs needed doing.

So he had done them.

I found myself wondering how Lawrence Milton-Price might have described the same events.

Probably at greater volume.

Then I remembered something.

"Wait there."

I stepped behind the counter and retrieved a parcel that had arrived while I was on holiday.

A book.

Another sheep book.

Lawrence had ordered it shortly before he died.

It had arrived too late.

Alf recognised it immediately.

"That was for Mr Milton-Price."

"It was."

I placed it on the counter.

Alf looked uncomfortable.

"Do you send it back?"

"Usually."

I opened it.

Fortunately, it contained photographs on almost every page.

Sheep of every possible shape, size and temperament.

Alf moved closer immediately.

The hesitation vanished.

"I know that one."

He pointed.

"What is it?"

"Suffolk."

I checked.

Correct.

I turned the page.

"And that?"

"Texel."

Correct again.

Three pages later he identified a Welsh Mountain before I even asked.

"You seem surprisingly good at this."

Alf shrugged.

"We got some."

"You have Welsh Mountain sheep?"

"Yeah."

He pointed to the photograph.

"Mr Milton-Price liked them."

"Why?"

"Said they didn't need fussing over."

I laughed.

"That sounds exactly like him."

For the first time since Lawrence's death, Alf smiled properly.

A little later he was explaining breeding, fleece quality, grazing conditions and various other matters entirely beyond my expertise.

I understood perhaps half of what he said.

That was still a significant improvement on ten minutes earlier.

Watching him, I realised something.

Alf might struggle with the words.

But he didn't need words to understand sheep.

The knowledge was already there.

The book simply gave names to things he already knew.

"Take it," I said.

He looked up.

"What?"

"The book."

The surprise on his face was immediate.

"Can I?"

"It was ordered for the farm."

He hesitated.

"I can't pay."

"I wasn't planning to charge you."

"You mean keep it?"

"Yes."

"For me?"

"For you."

Very carefully, he ran a hand across the cover.

"Thanks, Mr Quibble."

"Harold."

A small smile appeared.

"Thanks, Harold."

He tucked the book under his arm.

Then, after a long silence, he glanced towards the harbour.

"Mr Milton-Price taught me how to fix that trough."

"Did he?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"He shouted a lot."

"I've noticed."

"He wasn't always bad."

"No."

Alf stared down at the floor.

"He showed me things."

Sometimes obituaries made people too tidy.

Real lives rarely fitted into neat paragraphs.

"Are you coming to the funeral?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Thursday."

Then his expression darkened.

"I ain't got funeral clothes."

"You don't need a suit."

"I don't?"

"Clean shirt. Clean trousers. That's enough."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

The relief was obvious.

A few minutes later he left with the sheep book tucked safely beneath his arm.

Lawrence Milton-Price had never managed to open it.

Alf probably couldn't read most of it.

But he recognised nearly every sheep inside.

That seemed a far better fate than sitting forgotten in a returns box.

Wednesday

Wednesday was uneventful.

I distrusted it immediately.

Pebblewick rarely allowed uneventful days to remain that way.

Mrs Thistlewood spent most of the morning reorganising a section of shelving which, as far as I could tell, had never requested reorganisation.

Captain Haddock arrived shortly before eleven.

"I need another book."

Those are among a bookseller's favourite words.

"What sort?"

"Flags."

I blinked.

"Flags?"

"Flags of the world."

"Planning an invasion?"

"No."

"Good."

He leaned comfortably against the counter.

"If I'm sailing abroad, I ought to know what flag I'm looking at."

This was annoyingly sensible.

"So Portugal remains a possibility?"

"Maybe."

"You've been saying that for weeks."

"I'm narrowing it down."

"To Portugal?"

"No."

A thoughtful pause.

"To the world."

That sounded suspiciously like the opposite.

Nevertheless, I located a reference guide filled with international flags and placed it on the counter.

Captain Haddock immediately began studying it.

"Portugal."

Page turn.

"Spain."

Page turn.

"France."

"You do know France is very close?"

"I know where France is, Harold."

"I merely wanted confirmation."

He continued silently.

Norway.

Greece.

Canada.

Japan.

Brazil.

An entire globe explored from the safety of a bookshop.

Eventually he closed the volume.

"I'll take it."

"Have you chosen a destination?"

"No."

"But you'll recognise it when you arrive."

"That's the plan."

He left carrying Flags of the World beneath one arm.

His growing collection now contained books about knots, sailing routes and maritime regulations.

At the current rate, Captain Haddock would become one of the most thoroughly prepared travellers in Britain several years before deciding where he intended to go.

Shortly after lunch, General appeared outside the shop.

He sat on the pavement.

And stared through the window.

The effect was immediate.

The gulls behaved themselves.

This alone was remarkable.

Two were perched on a nearby roof.

Another stood near the bins.

Yet none ventured closer.

General ignored them.

He had no need to do anything more.

His reputation seemed to handle the matter on his behalf.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

The standoff continued for nearly ten minutes.

"What does he want?" Mrs Thistlewood asked.

"Fish."

"You haven't got any fish."

"He may not know that."

General remained where he was.

Silent.

Unmoving.

Judgmental.

Eventually he rose, stretched and wandered away.

Within seconds a gull landed outside the shop.

Order had been restored.

I watched it happen.

Then looked down the street where General had disappeared.

For reasons I couldn't entirely explain, I felt as though I had just failed an inspection.

Thursday

Thursday morning arrived bright, calm and suspiciously civilised.

In Pebblewick, that was usually a warning.

At half past ten, Elizabeth entered The Salty Page carrying a folder.

A folder of that size generally meant one of two things.

Either somebody was starting a business.

Or somebody was planning a murder with excellent administrative support.

"Morning," I said.

"I've arranged it."

I looked up.

"Arranged what?"

"To see the shop."

I glanced automatically through the window next door.

"The shop?"

"No, Harold. Buckingham Palace."

"I thought that might be ambitious."

"Tomorrow afternoon."

There was an unmistakable excitement beneath her calmness.

She had finally spoken to the owner.

The shop was available.

The lease existed.

The rent, while alarming, had apparently not reached the point of inducing immediate collapse.

This was progress.

Real progress.

"I'm going to look at everything properly," she said.

"Measurements?"

"Measurements."

"Lease?"

"Lease."

"Problems?"

"I'm expecting problems."

"A sensible attitude."

She opened the folder.

Inside were notes.

And more notes.

Gift suppliers.

Clothing suppliers.

Estimated start-up costs.

Insurance queries.

Floor plans.

Questions written in neat handwriting.

I noticed one page held nothing except three names.

A Royal Gift

The Queen's Gift

The Queen's Wardrobe

I read them carefully.

"There appears to be a theme."

"My surname is Queen."

"Fair point."

"I feel I should exploit it."

"You've waited your whole life for this opportunity."

"Apparently."

I tapped the first.

"A Royal Gift sounds like a gift shop."

"That's what I thought."

The second.

"The Queen's Gift could be almost anything."

"Exactly."

Then the third.

"The Queen's Wardrobe sounds expensive."

Elizabeth laughed.

"That was Dorothy's opinion."

I studied the page.

"You haven't decided what sort of business this is."

"No."

"But you've already named three versions of it."

"That's called planning."

"I'm a bookseller, Elizabeth. To me this looks alarmingly like organisation."

She smiled.

"I know."

That smile told me something important.

She had already moved beyond dreaming.

Dreaming was easy.

She was now working with numbers.

Numbers were dangerous.

Numbers were where ideas either survived or died.

Mrs Thistlewood arrived midway through the discussion.

Unfortunately.

She took in the scene instantly.

Elizabeth.

The folder.

The shop window.

My expression.

Her eyes brightened.

"No," I said.

"I haven't spoken."

"You don't need to."

Elizabeth laughed.

This was deeply unhelpful.

A few moments later Mrs Thistlewood discovered the list of shop names.

She examined them one by one.

"I like The Queen's Wardrobe."

"Why?" I asked.

"It sounds expensive."

"That isn't usually a selling point."

"It is if you're selling expensive things."

I looked at Elizabeth.

She looked at me.

Neither of us could fault the logic.

Before she left, Elizabeth touched my arm gently.

"I'll tell you how it goes tomorrow."

"I'd like that."

"So would I."

She left.

Mrs Thistlewood watched her cross the street.

Then she looked at me.

"Excellent."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Keep it up."

Friday

Friday afternoon was almost impossible.

Not because anything bad happened.

Quite the opposite.

Elizabeth was inspecting the shop next door.

And I could see her.

Through the window.

All afternoon.

This made concentration surprisingly difficult.

She was accompanied by a gentleman carrying paperwork and a measuring tape.

Presumably the owner's representative.

They walked slowly around the premises.

Elizabeth measured walls.

Measured windows.

Measured areas I hadn't previously realised could be measured.

She made notes.

Drew sketches.

Pointed at corners.

Stood where a counter might eventually go.

At one point she looked across the street.

Saw me watching.

And waved.

I immediately pretended to be examining a shelf.

Sadly, Mrs Thistlewood witnessed the entire performance.

She said nothing.

This was far worse.

Twenty minutes later Elizabeth came into the shop.

Her eyes were shining.

"Well?" I asked.

She set down the folder.

"It needs work."

That sounded promising.

"What kind of work?"

"The walls need painting."

"Normal."

"The lighting needs replacing."

"Still normal."

"There is something peculiar happening in the back room."

"Structural?"

"I hope not."

"In Pebblewick it's wise not to make assumptions."

She laughed.

Then her expression softened.

"But I like it."

There it was.

Not I might like it.

Not I can imagine it.

Not It has potential.

Simply:

I like it.

The three words carried more conviction than everything else.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"I go through the figures."

"And if they work?"

Elizabeth turned and looked through the window towards the empty premises.

For a moment she didn't answer.

Then she smiled.

"Then I may make an offer."

The ridiculous amount of pleasure this gave me was impossible to disguise.

Elizabeth noticed.

Judging by her smile, she wasn't unhappy about it.

"What about the name?" I asked.

"We're still deciding."

"So the kingdom remains divided between A Royal Gift, The Queen's Gift and The Queen's Wardrobe?"

"For the moment."

"I should warn you that Mrs Thistlewood is generating alternatives."

Elizabeth's expression became noticeably alarmed.

"Can we stop her?"

"I've been trying for years."

She laughed.

A little later she left.

Mrs Thistlewood emerged from nowhere.

"You'd like her next door."

"Yes."

The answer escaped before I could stop it.

Mrs Thistlewood smiled.

I sighed.

"That was a trap."

"It was."

Simon Atkinson Calls

The telephone rang not long before closing.

I answered.

"The Salty Page."

"Mr Quibble?"

I recognised the voice instantly.

"Mr Atkinson."

"Good afternoon."

Simon Atkinson always sounded as though every document in his office was filed alphabetically and dusted weekly.

"I wished to provide a brief update concerning the Milton-Price estate."

I straightened immediately.

Mrs Thistlewood looked up from across the shop.

She possessed an astonishing ability to detect important conversations.

"I've now formally instructed Mr Winterbottom."

That was encouraging.

"So Archibald has begun?"

"He has."

"And?"

A pause.

"Mr Winterbottom has confirmed that Augustus Milton-Price survived the war."

I glanced at Mrs Thistlewood.

She had become perfectly still.

"That much isn't surprising."

"No," Simon agreed. "But we now have documentary proof."

That mattered.

In genealogy, certainty was valuable.

"Anything else?"

"Augustus appears to have married."

That made me sit down.

Married.

Which meant descendants were increasingly likely.

Children.

Grandchildren.

Perhaps great-grandchildren by now.

"Has he found them?"

"Not yet."

The excitement vanished slightly.

"But we're progressing."

"Addresses?"

"Several possibilities."

"Names?"

"Not yet verified."

That was Simon.

He preferred facts to speculation.

An admirable quality.

Occasionally frustrating.

"The funeral is next Thursday."

"I am aware."

"Do you think we'll find anyone before then?"

The pause was longer this time.

"I don't know."

It wasn't the answer I wanted.

But it was honest.

And perhaps honesty was worth more.

After we ended the call, Mrs Thistlewood appeared beside me almost instantly.

"Well?"

"You were listening."

"Only to your half."

"Which is usually enough."

She ignored this.

"Has he found them?"

"Not yet."

"Augustus?"

"Alive after the war."

"We knew that."

"Now we know officially."

Mrs Thistlewood looked dissatisfied.

Professional genealogical research was proving far slower than village gossip.

Saturday

Dorothy arrived at precisely nine o'clock.

Not approximately.

Not nearly.

Exactly.

I checked the clock because the precision felt intentional.

She carried her notebook and wore the expression of somebody bringing news.

"Mum's been talking about the shop all evening."

"I'm aware."

"She really likes it."

"I'm aware of that too."

"She thinks it might work."

"Good."

Dorothy studied me for several seconds.

Then she smiled.

"You're pleased."

"Yes."

"You really like Mum, don't you?"

I briefly considered feigning temporary deafness.

Unfortunately, Dorothy was standing three feet away.

"Yes."

Her smile widened instantly.

"Good."

Apparently that settled the matter.

She immediately wandered off to organise postcards.

Teenagers, I was discovering, occasionally possessed a directness that surpassed even Mrs Thistlewood.

It was deeply unsettling.

The remainder of Saturday passed peacefully.

Holidaymakers bought novels.

Visitors purchased postcards.

One child asked whether the gull pictured on a harbour postcard was famous.

I assured him it probably was.

In Pebblewick, fame among gulls was difficult to measure.

As the afternoon wore on, I found myself reflecting on the week.

Juliette was speaking more English every day.

Alf was keeping the farm running.

Captain Haddock was now equipped to identify the flags of nations he still had no intention of visiting.

Elizabeth was seriously considering becoming my neighbour.

And somewhere in London, Archibald Winterbottom was patiently unravelling the scattered branches of the Milton-Price family tree.

I turned the sign to CLOSED shortly before five.

Outside, the harbour glowed in the late sun.

The empty shop next door no longer seemed entirely empty.

Possibility had begun to occupy it.

Yet my thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To Lawrence Milton-Price.

To Augustus.

To Jack, James and Jane.

Names in records.

Names in conversations.

Names attached to people who might now be living ordinary lives hundreds of miles away.

People who perhaps had photographs in drawers.

Stories in memory.

Family histories they had never thought to question.

People who might not even know that Pebblewick existed.

The following Thursday, Lawrence would be buried beside generations of his family in St Bartholomew's churchyard.

The question was no longer whether the family existed.

The question was whether we could find them before it was too late.

And for once, the mystery facing Pebblewick was not about what people knew.

It was about the people who knew nothing at all.