The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 14 - The Last Weekend of the School Holidays

The Last Weekend of the School Holidays

Saturday marked the final weekend of the school holidays.

For a bookseller, this was no ordinary Saturday.

In previous years it had almost always been one of the busiest days of the entire summer, for it was the moment when parents, grandparents and, occasionally, children themselves experienced a sudden and overwhelming revelation.

School was about to begin.

And there were books they absolutely had to have.

Curiously, these same books had not seemed remotely urgent on Monday.

Nor Tuesday.

Nor on any of the preceding forty-two days.

Yet by Saturday morning they had become indispensable.

This year, as ever, the phenomenon arrived precisely on schedule.

By half past nine, The Salty Page was full.

Mothers entered carrying carefully prepared lists.

Fathers arrived carrying confidence until they discovered they had forgotten the lists and were forced to telephone the mothers.

Grandparents appeared with grandchildren who professed complete ignorance regarding their educational requirements.

One determined boy insisted he needed an atlas.

His mother insisted he needed a dictionary.

They eventually departed with both.

I regarded this as an excellent outcome for everyone involved, particularly the publishing industry.

Fortunately, Mrs Thistlewood was helping me.

She had arrived promptly at nine o'clock, which was fortunate, because Dorothy would not be working that day.

Dorothy was leaving.

Goodbye, Dorothy

Dorothy and Elizabeth arrived shortly after opening.

They could not stay long.

There was a train to catch, luggage to manage and, according to Elizabeth, a daughter who had packed enough clothing to remain abroad until Christmas.

"I haven't packed that much," Dorothy protested.

"You have three pairs of shoes," Elizabeth replied.

"That isn't a lot."

"For travelling around Europe?"

"Yes."

I wisely declined to involve myself.

Dorothy looked every inch the traveller.

She wore blue jeans, white trainers and a pale green T-shirt beneath a lightweight denim jacket. A small canvas backpack hung from one shoulder, already bulging slightly, while a larger travelling bag waited outside in Elizabeth's car.

Her dark hair had been tied back into a loose ponytail. Sunglasses rested on top of her head, and a small cross-body bag sat securely across her shoulder.

According to Elizabeth, it was the safest possible location for passports, tickets, money, spare tickets, emergency money, reserve emergency money and several additional items Dorothy had not realised she required.

As I watched her, it struck me how much she had changed.

Not completely.

The uncertainty remained in her smile.

But it was no longer the uncertainty of someone waiting for instructions.

It was the uncertainty of someone standing at the beginning of an adventure.

There was confidence there now.

Excitement.

Expectation.

She looked less like the nervous girl who had arrived at The Salty Page seeking work experience and more like a young woman eager to discover what lay beyond Pebblewick.

Europe, as it transpired.

Dorothy crossed to Mrs Thistlewood.

"I wanted to thank you."

Mrs Thistlewood blinked.

People rarely thanked her directly.

Mostly they received advice whether they wanted it or not.

"For what?"

"For helping me get this job."

"It wasn't a job," I said. "I never paid you."

Dorothy gave me a look.

"Work experience, then."

"That's much better."

She ignored me and turned back to Mrs Thistlewood.

"I really enjoyed it."

Mrs Thistlewood visibly straightened.

"I knew you would."

Of course she had.

Mrs Thistlewood had never once doubted the correctness of any opinion she had ever formed.

"And Harold says he'll give me a reference."

"I should hope so."

"I volunteered," I pointed out.

Mrs Thistlewood ignored that as well.

Then Dorothy hugged her.

For perhaps the first time all morning, Mrs Thistlewood looked genuinely surprised.

She stood perfectly motionless for several seconds.

Then, slowly, she returned the embrace.

"Enjoy yourself," she said quietly.

"I will."

"But be sensible."

"I will."

"And keep your money safe."

Dorothy touched her bag.

"Mum's already arranged that."

"And don't trust strange men."

"Mum's already arranged that too."

"Then listen to your mother."

Elizabeth smiled.

"We really do need to go."

Dorothy came around the counter to me.

"Thank you, Harold."

"You've already thanked me."

"I know."

Then she hugged me too.

"Have a wonderful time."

"I will."

"And good luck at university."

"Thank you."

"You'll do well."

"I hope so."

"I know so."

For a moment, her smile wavered.

Then it brightened.

The sort of smile young people carry with them before setting off towards futures they cannot yet imagine.

She stepped away.

Then Elizabeth moved closer.

"See you later."

There was something in her voice.

Something intended solely for me.

The previous evening had been Dorothy's final night of preparation. While she packed, Elizabeth and I had shared takeaway, conversation and several unexpectedly comfortable hours together.

It had been one of those evenings that changed nothing and yet somehow changed everything.

Now she leaned closer.

"I'm looking forward to this evening," she whispered.

"So am I."

She smiled.

Thankfully, Mrs Thistlewood appeared not to notice.

The rarity of this event was so great that I briefly wondered if she might require medical attention.

Then Elizabeth and Dorothy departed.

Through the window I watched them hurry along Harbour Street.

Halfway to the car Dorothy turned and waved.

I waved back.

Moments later they disappeared from view.

Mrs Thistlewood joined me by the window.

"She'll do well."

"Yes."

"I told you she would."

"You did."

"You needed her."

"I managed before."

"You survived before," she corrected. "That isn't the same thing."

Then she returned to the counter.

Apparently sentiment had reached its daily maximum allowance.

The Saturday Rush

The remainder of the morning passed at considerable speed.

The telephone rang repeatedly.

Several customers required books I did not possess.

I took details, placed orders and promised delivery by Thursday.

"Thursday?" one woman said.

"Yes."

"School starts before then."

"I'm afraid the books don't know that."

There was a brief silence.

Then she ordered them anyway.

Exercise books sold rapidly.

Pens vanished.

Dictionaries disappeared from the shelves.

An elderly grandfather purchased a grammar guide for his grandson and spent ten minutes reading it himself.

By lunchtime, the frenzy had finally subsided.

Harbour Street began to quieten.

Mrs Thistlewood made tea.

I sat behind the counter and looked through the window.

The end of the school holidays always altered Pebblewick.

For weeks the village had belonged to visitors.

Children carrying buckets and spades.

Families carrying beach towels.

Parents carrying ice creams.

Entire holiday parties attempting to occupy pavements designed in an era when human beings appeared considerably narrower.

Soon they would leave.

The hotel would begin to empty.

The beach would grow quieter.

And Pebblewick would slowly become ours again.

At least until the next coach arrived.

Frank Wilson and the Garden Gnomes

The afternoon delivered a surprise.

Frank Wilson.

Owner of The Codfather.

A man whose hobbies appeared to consist primarily of frying fish and avoiding unnecessary conversation.

Frank was somewhere in his late sixties, broad shouldered and solidly built. Years spent beside hot fryers had given him a permanently sunburned complexion, while thinning grey hair and a substantial moustache lent him the appearance of someone who disapproved of inefficiency as a matter of principle.

He entered.

Looked around.

Approached the counter.

And said five words I never expected to hear.

"I need a book."

Encouraging.

"What sort?"

"Garden gnomes."

I stared.

"Garden gnomes?"

"Yes."

I considered Frank.

Then his flat.

Then the tiny yard behind The Codfather.

Calling it a garden required imagination bordering on fantasy.

"You're interested in garden gnomes?"

"I just asked for a book about them."

"That isn't the same question."

"It's close enough."

Fair point.

To my astonishment, the catalogue contained several books about garden gnomes.

Apparently humanity had approached the subject with admirable thoroughness.

I found one that covered their history, designs, collectors and international varieties.

"This one might do."

Frank studied the description.

"Pictures?"

"Plenty."

"Good."

"Shall I order it?"

"Yes."

I wrote down the details.

"Thursday."

"Fine."

He turned for the door.

"Frank?"

He paused.

"What?"

"Why garden gnomes?"

For several moments he regarded me.

Then he replied.

"You sell books, Harold."

"Yes."

"I sell fish and chips."

"Yes."

"Let's keep it that way."

And with that he left.

Mrs Thistlewood appeared almost immediately.

"What did he want?"

"A book about garden gnomes."

She looked through the window after him.

"Why?"

"I asked."

"And?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

Her eyes narrowed.

No answer in Pebblewick was more dangerous than:

He wouldn't tell me.

The End of Summer

The afternoon grew increasingly quiet.

Eventually I persuaded Mrs Thistlewood to go home early.

She remained suspicious.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You can manage?"

"I ran the shop before you began helping."

"Yes," she said. "But you've become used to professional assistance."

When she reached the door she paused.

"Don't forget Frank Wilson."

"How could I?"

"Garden gnomes."

"Yes."

"There's something behind that."

"Perhaps he simply likes garden gnomes."

The look she gave me suggested this was among the most naïve interpretations of human nature she had ever encountered.

Then she left.

The shop fell silent.

I sat alone watching Harbour Street.

Another summer was ending.

And what a summer it had been.

A wedding that ended in tragedy.

A French student who found confidence.

A sailor who planned to visit every country on Earth without showing any sign of beginning.

A funeral that delivered a long-lost branch of a family nobody knew existed.

A baby born before the burial had even finished.

Dorothy leaving for Europe.

University waiting beyond that.

And Elizabeth...

I glanced towards the empty premises next door.

The possibility of her occupying that shop made me smile.

A few months earlier, my future had seemed comfortably predictable.

Now I found myself imagining something rather different.

Something that included Elizabeth.

Perhaps every day.

For once, I felt no urgent need to know exactly what came next.

The future could arrive in its own time.

Then the bell above the door rang.

I looked up.

And saw Catherine Cartwright.

Miss Cartwright Returns

Catherine entered carrying a look I had never seen before.

Nervousness.

This was remarkable.

Thirty schoolchildren could create absolute chaos around her, yet Catherine usually remained calm throughout.

Today she looked different.

Almost hesitant.

Immediately I remembered the postcard she had sent from Grasmere.

A simple message.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

The words had occasionally returned to me throughout the summer.

Now they returned again.

"Good holiday?" I asked.

"Very."

"Grasmere?"

"Beautiful."

She smiled.

But her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.

Something was clearly troubling her.

Then I remembered another detail.

"The teaching book you ordered."

"I know."

It had arrived weeks earlier and remained behind the counter awaiting collection.

I retrieved it.

When I turned back, she had removed something from her bag.

I placed the book between us.

She placed something on top of it.

For a moment I simply stared.

Then understanding arrived.

A pregnancy test.

I looked up.

Catherine smiled nervously.

"I'm pregnant."

The words seemed to settle over the shop and remain there.

I'm pregnant.

I looked down at the test.

Then back at her.

Only two days earlier a woman had delivered a baby in St Bartholomew's churchyard.

Pregnancy appeared to be enjoying a remarkably successful season in Pebblewick.

But another question arrived first.

A much simpler one.

Why was Catherine telling me?

The Mystery That Remained

"I haven't told anyone else," she said.

That only made matters worse.

"Anyone?"

She shook her head.

"You're the first."

The question burst out immediately.

"Why me?"

For one brief moment I thought she intended to answer.

Instead she looked towards the window.

Outside, Harbour Street sat quietly beneath the fading summer afternoon.

A gull watched from a rooftop.

The smell of frying fish drifted from The Codfather.

Beyond the village, the sea continued its endless conversation with the shore.

Catherine touched the pregnancy test.

Then withdrew her hand.

"I'll explain."

"When?"

"Soon."

There are few words in the English language less useful than soon.

She slid the test back into her bag.

Collected her book.

Paid.

Then headed for the door.

"Please don't tell anyone."

"I won't."

"Especially Mrs Thistlewood."

"I had already reached that conclusion."

A faint smile appeared.

Then vanished.

"Thank you."

She opened the door.

"Catherine?"

She turned.

I had dozens of questions.

Who was the father?

Did he know?

Why had she written that message from Grasmere?

Why had she chosen this day?

Why had she chosen me?

Yet all she offered was the same nervous smile.

"I'll tell you everything soon."

Then she was gone.

I stood alone in The Salty Page.

The space where Teaching in the Next Century had rested all summer was now empty.

Outside, summer itself seemed to be slipping quietly away.

Dorothy was travelling towards Europe.

Juliette would soon return to France.

Elizabeth was considering a shop next door and perhaps a future that included me.

Archibald Winterbottom continued searching for missing branches of the Milton-Price family.

Frank Wilson had developed a mysterious interest in garden gnomes.

And Catherine Cartwright was pregnant.

Nobody knew.

Except me.

I crossed the shop and turned the sign to CLOSED.

For six weeks Pebblewick had given me weddings, funerals, tourists, long-lost relatives, unexpected friendships, romance and considerably more involvement in other people's lives than I had ever requested.

I used to think mysteries eventually became answers.

Pebblewick had taught me otherwise.

Here, one mystery merely stepped aside so the next one could arrive.

I locked the door.

Across Harbour Street the gull on the roof gave a single cry.

It sounded suspiciously like laughter.

I looked once more along the road Catherine had taken.

Summer was ending.

The school holidays were over.

But one question refused to leave me.

Why had Catherine Cartwright told me first?

And somewhere in Pebblewick, the answer was waiting.