The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 4 - Thursday

 Thursday Morning

The First Fine Day

The coffee mug knew things.

For years it had sat upon the counter of The Salty Page, observing the steady procession of visitors, residents, tourists and eccentrics who drifted through its doors. It had witnessed celebrations, arguments, discoveries, romances and one memorable occasion involving a seagull and a volume of Victorian poetry.

The mug never judged.

It simply watched.

At that particular moment, it sat beside the till beneath a warm lamp.

Its contents had once been coffee.

More importantly, they had once been hot.

Both conditions had expired some time ago.

I had opened the shop at nine o'clock sharp and, despite the promising start, already seemed destined to lose another battle against my morning coffee.

For the first time in three days, however, Pebblewick had awakened beneath clear skies.

The rain had finally gone.

After seventy-two hours of drizzle, mist, downpours and general atmospheric hostility, the clouds had retreated eastwards during the night. In their place remained a bright sky washed clean by the storm.

Sunlight sparkled across the harbour.

Fishing boats bobbed gently against their moorings.

The sea beyond the breakwater gleamed silver-blue beneath the morning light.

Harbour Street looked as though someone had polished it.

Every slate roof shone.

Every window reflected sunlight.

Even the gulls appeared unusually pleased with themselves.

Which was unfortunate.

A pleased seagull is rarely a good sign.

Inside, The Salty Page was warm and quiet.

Sunlight filtered through the front window.

The familiar scent of paper, polished wood and ageing hardbacks lingered pleasantly in the air.

For a brief moment, I convinced myself the day might remain peaceful.

That should have warned me.

Reverend Horace Finch Conducts an Inspection

My first visitor arrived shortly after half past nine.

Through the front window I watched Reverend Horace Finch emerge from the sunshine and pedal steadily along Harbour Street.

For the first time in three days the village was dry.

The sky stretched blue above the harbour.

Sunlight shimmered across the sea.

Fishing boats rocked gently at their moorings.

The entire village seemed to be blinking awake after seventy-two hours of rain.

Horace looked unusually cheerful.

His bicycle looked exhausted.

The machine had clearly seen better decades.

Several important components appeared to be held together by optimism, long-standing habit and what I suspected was a considerable amount of prayer.

He coasted to a halt outside The Salty Page.

The bicycle gave a faint metallic groan.

Horace dismounted.

The bicycle seemed relieved.

A moment later the bell above the door rang.

"Morning, Harold."

"Morning, Horace."

He removed his cap and beamed.

"Beautiful day."

"It is."

"About time."

"I think half the village was beginning to develop gills."

Horace chuckled.

"Dreadful weather."

"You were out in it."

"I had church services."

"You own waterproofs."

"I own several."

"You wore none of them."

"They seem unnecessary."

This was true.

Horace viewed most forms of practical preparation as slightly impolite suggestions that things might go wrong.

His spectacles caught the sunlight as he glanced around the shop.

Then his expression changed.

It became serious.

Whenever Horace looked serious, I generally prepared myself.

Not because anything was wrong.

More because it usually took several minutes to discover exactly what he was serious about.

"I thought I'd see how you were."

I looked up from the till.

"How I was?"

"After Saturday."

"Ah."

Horace nodded.

"The American gentleman."

"Hank."

"Yes."

A pause followed.

"Hank."

Another pause.

"Hank."

He sounded as though he was committing the name to memory.

"I believe that's correct."

Horace nodded firmly.

"I've been trying not to forget it."

"How's that going?"

He considered.

"Mixed success."

Outside, sunlight glimmered across the Harbour Street shop windows.

A small group of tourists wandered past carrying cameras and ice creams.

The village had clearly decided summer could resume.

Inside, Horace lowered his voice.

"I heard he bought a lot of books."

"He did."

"Good heavens."

I sighed.

"No, Horace, the books weren't responsible."

The relief on his face was immediate.

"Oh, good."

"Why would the books be responsible?"

"I wasn't sure."

"Responsible for what?"

"For the excitement."

I stared at him.

"The books did not cause the excitement."

"That's reassuring."

"It should be."

A thoughtful silence followed.

Then Horace pointed towards the local history section.

"Which books did he buy?"

I spent a few minutes explaining.

The harbour history.

The village guides.

The local church history.

Several other volumes connected to Pebblewick.

As I spoke, Horace listened carefully.

Or appeared to.

Every so often his eyes wandered towards a nearby shelf.

Twice they settled upon a gardening book.

Once they drifted towards a biography of Admiral Nelson.

At one point I suspected he might accidentally start reading.

Eventually he returned his attention to me.

"He seemed happy."

"He was."

Horace looked pleased.

"That's good."

"I think he genuinely enjoyed every minute he was here."

"Some people do."

"It wasn't just enjoyment."

I glanced towards the window.

"He was interested."

Horace nodded slowly.

"Curiosity is a blessing."

"It certainly helped book sales."

"That too."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Outside, a gull landed on the opposite roof.

The gull immediately adopted the expression of somebody profoundly unimpressed by civilisation.

Horace followed my gaze.

"I don't trust that one."

"Which one?"

"The gull."

"That's because it's a gull."

"Fair point."

The bird stared back through the glass.

I felt judged.

Horace seemed to feel judged as well.

Eventually he looked away.

"I was sorry to hear what happened."

"So was everyone."

He nodded.

"Still."

A pause followed.

"There are worse last days."

I thought about that.

The village.

The harbour.

The church.

The wedding.

The books.

The sunshine.

The excitement.

No.

There probably were worse last days.

"He seemed happy," I said again.

Horace smiled.

"That's how I prefer to remember him."

For a few moments neither of us spoke.

The grandfather clock ticked softly at the back of the shop.

A floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs.

Sunlight drifted across the shelves.

Then Horace frowned.

"What did you say his name was again?"

I closed my eyes.

"Hank."

"Of course."

He nodded vigorously.

"Hank."

This time he sounded extremely confident.

Which worried me more than before.

Satisfied that the matter had been discussed properly, Horace placed his cap back on his head.

"Well."

"Well?"

"I should continue my inspection."

"Your inspection?"

"Of Harbour Street."

I blinked.

"Has Harbour Street requested one?"

"Not formally."

"I see."

"But I feel it would benefit."

"From inspection."

"Exactly."

I had known Horace for years.

Questions rarely improved the situation.

"Then I wish you luck."

"With what?"

"Finding whatever you're inspecting."

He looked thoughtful.

"An excellent point."

The expression remained for several moments.

Then he brightened.

"I shall keep an eye out."

"Do that."

Horace headed towards the door.

Halfway there he stopped.

Turned.

And pointed at me.

"Hank."

"Yes."

"That's the name."

"That's the name."

He nodded in triumph.

Then departed into the sunshine.

The bell tinkled behind him.

Through the window I watched him walk purposefully up Harbour Street with the determined air of a man pursuing an important objective.

The bicycle remained exactly where it was.

I frowned.

A minute passed.

Then two.

Then five.

The bicycle continued leaning against my window.

Its owner did not return.

I looked at the machine.

The machine looked back.

"He's forgotten you already, hasn't he?"

The bicycle offered no comment.

Frankly, that was answer enough.

Scott and the Great Delivery

I was still watching the bicycle when the bell above the door burst into life.

The door swung open.

Sunlight flooded briefly into the shop.

A familiar voice followed it.

"My friend Henry!"

I sighed.

"Morning, Scott."

Scott stepped inside carrying a cardboard box roughly the size of a small refrigerator.

Behind him stood several more.

The morning had suddenly developed ambitions.

Scott grinned.

He was one of those people who appeared permanently pleased to be alive.

Rain, sunshine, traffic, seagulls, long journeys, heavy lifting. None of it seemed capable of discouraging him for more than thirty seconds.

"You have many books today."

"So I can see."

"You look worried."

"I am worried."

"This is because you are a bookseller."

"This is because I know publishers."

Scott laughed.

The first box landed on the counter with a thud powerful enough to alarm several nearby books.

Outside, Horace's bicycle remained exactly where it had been.

Scott noticed it immediately.

"Whose bicycle?"

"Horace's."

He looked through the window.

"Where is Horace?"

"Excellent question."

"You do not know?"

"I do."

"Good."

"He went to inspect Harbour Street."

Scott considered this.

Then nodded.

Apparently that explained everything.

"Of course."

"It doesn't explain anything."

"It explains enough."

Together we unloaded the remaining deliveries.

By the time we finished, the counter had almost vanished beneath cardboard.

Scott stood back admiring the pile.

"You are very popular today."

"I wish publishers would find less expensive ways to show their affection."

The smell of new books escaped as we opened the first carton.

Fresh ink.

Fresh paper.

Fresh bindings.

No two booksellers have ever successfully explained why the scent is so satisfying.

It simply is.

Scott handed me an invoice.

"I think many customers will be happy."

"I certainly hope so."

"The captain's book is here."

I looked down.

Sure enough, Captain Haddock's enormous volume on maritime knots sat inside the carton.

It appeared capable of mooring several ships simultaneously.

"Excellent."

"And these."

Scott produced two more books.

One on historic livestock breeds.

One on Georgian architecture.

Mr Milton-Price would probably celebrate by arguing with somebody.

Perhaps simultaneously.

Scott peered through the window again.

The bicycle remained where it was.

"No sign of him."

"Not yet."

"You should charge rent."

"For the bicycle?"

"Good location."

I looked out at Harbour Street.

The machine hadn't moved so much as an inch.

"You might be onto something."

Scott laughed.

Twenty minutes later the final box had been unloaded.

The paperwork completed.

The invoices checked.

The first customers' orders identified.

Scott returned his scanner to its holster.

"See you next week, Henry."

"My name is Harold."

"No."

His certainty was remarkable.

There wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice.

I had spent over a year trying to correct him.

The effort had achieved precisely nothing.

Scott headed towards the door.

Then stopped suddenly.

Across the road a large seagull had landed on a chimney pot.

Scott noticed the gull.

The gull noticed Scott.

Neither moved.

For several long moments they simply stared at one another.

Years earlier Scott had developed a fascination with Pebblewick's gulls.

The gulls had interpreted this as weakness.

Relations had deteriorated.

Since then, both sides had reached what Scott referred to as an understanding.

Neither party seemed eager to renegotiate it.

Eventually the gull looked away.

Only then did Scott leave.

I watched him cross Harbour Street and climb into his van.

Moments later he disappeared around the corner.

The shop settled into silence once more.

Sunlight stretched across the floorboards.

The harbour sparkled beyond the rooftops.

Outside, Horace's bicycle remained faithfully at its post.

I looked at it.

The bicycle looked back.

"Still abandoned, I see."

No response.

I wasn't surprised.

After all, it had spent enough years belonging to Horace Finch to understand that patience was occasionally necessary.

I turned back towards the mountain of books.

The reservation ledger waited nearby.

Several customers had been expecting these deliveries for weeks.

With a sigh, I picked up the telephone.

Time to begin the morning's round of notifications.

Captain Haddock was first.

Captain Haddock Receives Good News

Captain Haddock answered on the first ring.

That in itself was unusual.

Most people allow a telephone to ring several times before answering. Some seem to regard it as a negotiation.

Captain Haddock treated the matter very differently.

The telephone rang.

He answered it.

The process was refreshingly efficient.

"Harold."

"Captain."

"My book arrived?"

"No good morning?"

"You know it's morning."

Fair point.

"It arrived ten minutes ago."

"The knots book?"

"The very same."

A pause followed.

I heard movement in the background.

A gull cried somewhere nearby.

Apparently he was already down at the harbour.

"The Norwegian section is in it?"

"I haven't checked."

"You should."

"I trust the publisher knows what they're doing."

"You shouldn't."

Another fair point.

I opened the volume and consulted the contents page.

The book was substantial enough to qualify as defensive architecture.

Several hundred pages of knots.

Some people would find that alarming.

Captain Haddock would call it recreational reading.

I ran a finger down the chapters.

"Norwegian fishing knots."

"Excellent."

"Gannetman's hitches."

"Very useful."

"Traditional cod-line loops."

"Essential."

"Harbour mooring systems of the North Sea."

A satisfied silence followed.

"I'll be along presently."

"Take your time."

"I won't."

The line went dead.

I replaced the receiver.

Captain Haddock's relationship with telephones was straightforward.

Once the required information had been exchanged, conversation merely delayed progress.

I made a note in the reservation book.

The captain's book was ready.

One customer informed.

Three to go.

Outside, sunlight continued to sparkle across Harbour Street.

And Reverend Horace Finch's bicycle remained exactly where it had been.

Mrs Watkins and a Proper Murder

I dialled the next number.

Mrs Watkins answered almost immediately.

"It's arrived?"

No greeting.

No pleasantries.

No attempt whatsoever to disguise her priorities.

"The murder mystery?"

"What else would I be waiting for?"

A difficult question to answer.

"Yes. It arrived this morning."

A small noise of satisfaction emerged from the receiver.

"Excellent."

I glanced at the cover.

"Locked library."

"Good."

"Wealthy family."

"Very good."

"Stormy island."

"Excellent."

"Several suspects."

"Splendid."

I turned the book over.

"The publisher also promises a shocking conclusion."

Mrs Watkins snorted.

"They always promise that."

"They do."

"And?"

"I haven't read it."

"Obviously."

She sounded disappointed by this failure.

A brief pause followed.

Then:

"Is there a butler?"

I looked again.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Good?"

"I like having a butler."

"I wasn't aware butlers were mandatory."

"They should be."

The conviction in her voice suggested she had given the matter considerable thought.

"Why?"

"Because if there's a butler, everybody suspects the butler."

"I see."

"It provides structure."

There are conversations which only make sense in Pebblewick.

This was one of them.

"I'll put it aside for you."

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm rereading the previous one today."

Naturally.

"You've already read it twice."

"I know how it ends."

"Wouldn't that spoil it?"

"No."

I should have known better than to ask.

Before ending the conversation she added:

"If the butler did it, don't tell me."

"I promise."

"And if the vicar did it."

"I won't tell you that either."

"Excellent."

The line clicked dead.

I lowered the receiver.

Then I glanced through the window.

Horace's bicycle remained outside.

For one alarming moment I found myself wondering whether Mrs Watkins would consider Horace a convincing murder suspect.

I decided not to explore the question.

Mr Milton-Price Raises an Important Concern

The next call took longer.

Not because Mr Milton-Price enjoyed telephones.

Quite the opposite.

He regarded them with suspicion.

Nevertheless, he answered.

"Hello?"

"Mr Milton-Price. Harold Quibble."

"Ah."

"I have your books."

A pause.

"Both of them?"

"Both of them."

"Excellent."

I smiled.

The word sounded as though it represented the highest praise available in the English language.

"The livestock volume arrived safely."

"Wonderful."

"And the Georgian architecture book."

"Wonderful."

Another pause.

"I've been waiting for that one."

"I thought you might have been."

A thoughtful silence followed.

Then:

"My cousin has developed opinions."

I closed my eyes.

That rarely led anywhere sensible.

"Oh?"

"About alpacas."

Of course.

"What sort of opinions?"

"He believes they are superior to sheep."

The silence that followed felt significant.

Outside, a tourist paused to photograph the harbour.

Inside, Mr Milton-Price waited.

Apparently expecting a reaction.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you."

His relief was immediate.

At last, somebody understood the gravity of the situation.

"I shall collect the books tomorrow."

"Very good."

"I may bring evidence."

"Regarding the alpacas?"

"Naturally."

The line went dead.

I stared thoughtfully at the receiver.

Then wrote Mr Milton-Price beside the reservation.

Experience suggested the evidence would arrive whether invited or not.

Miss Cartwright Is Definitely on Holiday

The final call was answered after three rings.

"I'm on holiday."

I smiled.

"Good morning, Miss Cartwright."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I'm not thinking about school."

"Excellent."

"Not even slightly."

"Splendid."

A pause followed.

Then:

"Has my book arrived?"

There it was.

Right on schedule.

"It has."

Another pause.

"Good."

"Would you like to collect it?"

"No."

The answer arrived surprisingly quickly.

"No?"

"No. Keep it."

I looked down at the reservation book.

"Until when?"

"September."

"The beginning of term?"

"Exactly."

For several moments neither of us spoke.

Finally I asked:

"Why?"

She sighed heavily.

Because teachers often sigh heavily.

"I refuse to spend my summer holiday reading educational theory."

"A very sensible policy."

"If I collect it now, I shall read it."

"You probably will."

"I absolutely will."

"I'll keep it behind the counter."

"Thank you."

Then she added:

"If I change my mind—"

"You'll ring me."

"Probably."

"We both know that."

"We do."

She laughed.

For the first time during the conversation she actually sounded relaxed.

"Enjoy your holiday, Harold."

"You too."

The line disconnected.

I returned the receiver to its cradle and looked around the shop.

The calls were finished.

The reservations were updated.

The deliveries were sorted.

Sunlight streamed through the windows.

The harbour gleamed beyond the rooftops.

And outside, still patiently leaning beside the glass, stood Reverend Horace Finch's bicycle.

The morning, it seemed, was only just getting started.

Bookshop Silence

For a while, peace returned.

Not complete peace.

Bookshops are never truly silent.

Pages whisper. Floorboards complain. Buildings settle. Somewhere, inevitably, a shelf decides to express an opinion through a faint creak.

Still, it was close enough.

I stood behind the counter and looked around The Salty Page.

Morning sunshine streamed through the window, falling across the worn floorboards in long golden bands. Dust motes drifted lazily through the light. The newly arrived books sat in neat stacks awaiting shelving. Beyond them, rows upon rows of familiar spines stretched into corners and alcoves that felt as familiar to me as rooms in my own house.

Perhaps more familiar.

There are many varieties of silence.

Church silence.

Library silence.

Harbour silence.

A bookshop possesses an entirely different kind.

Bookshop silence is never empty.

It feels expectant.

As though every shelf is quietly waiting for somebody to discover a story they didn't yet know they needed.

I glanced towards my coffee.

It sat where I had left it.

The mug seemed optimistic.

The coffee did not.

Steam had long since abandoned its responsibilities.

I considered taking a sip.

Then reconsidered.

There are risks a sensible man does not take.

Outside, Harbour Street had begun to wake properly.

Three days of rain had left the village eager to experience sunshine again.

Families wandered past carrying ice creams.

Visitors stopped to photograph the harbour.

A pair of cyclists rolled slowly towards the waterfront.

Somewhere across the road, a dog barked enthusiastically at absolutely nothing.

Business as usual.

My gaze drifted towards the bicycle.

It remained exactly where Horace had left it.

The same angle.

The same position.

The same complete absence of ownership.

I checked my watch.

Nearly eleven.

"Remarkable," I said.

The bicycle offered no response.

Frankly, that was more useful than some conversations I'd had.

A gull landed on the opposite roof.

The gull immediately noticed the bicycle.

Then it noticed me.

Then it looked disappointed in both of us.

Some creatures carry judgement naturally.

I looked away first.

The gull appeared pleased with itself.

A customer entered.

Browsed for five minutes.

Purchased a postcard.

Left.

The bicycle remained.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

I unpacked two more cartons.

Updated the accounts.

Moved three books to entirely different shelves before eventually returning them to exactly where they had started.

The bicycle remained.

At this point I was becoming mildly attached to it.

It had been outside for so long that I was beginning to think of it as part of the shop display.

A local landmark.

Tourists might soon start photographing it.

Perhaps it would appear on postcards.

The Salty Page, St Bartholomew's Church, Pebblewick Harbour and Reverend Finch's Bicycle.

The village council would probably approve.

I was contemplating this disturbing possibility when movement outside caught my attention.

Two figures had appeared at the far end of Harbour Street.

Visitors.

That much was immediately obvious.

Visitors move differently from residents.

Residents know where they're going.

Visitors take time to look.

The couple paused near the harbour wall.

The woman pointed towards the church tower.

The man checked something on his phone.

They stood together for a moment, studying the village.

Then they turned and began walking slowly towards The Salty Page.

I watched them approach.

There was nothing particularly unusual about that.

Pebblewick attracted visitors throughout the summer.

People came for the harbour.

The sea.

The church.

The cakes.

Occasionally even the books.

Yet something about the pair caught my attention.

Not anxiety.

Not quite sadness.

Purpose.

They seemed to be looking for something.

Or perhaps someone.

As they reached the shop window, both stopped.

The man studied the display.

The woman looked at one of the local history books.

Neither spoke immediately.

Then, after exchanging a brief glance, they stepped forward.

The bell above the door rang softly.

A breath of warm sea air entered the shop with them.

And quite unexpectedly, the quiet morning began to change.

Visitors from America

For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Instead, they wandered slowly through the shop.

The woman paused by the local history section.

The man stopped to examine a framed black-and-white photograph of Harbour Street as it had appeared sometime during the 1950s.

Outside, sunshine glittered across the harbour.

Inside, only the soft creak of floorboards disturbed the silence.

I returned to the invoices spread across the counter, although not entirely.

Booksellers develop a remarkable ability to appear occupied whilst remaining fully aware of everything happening around them.

Eventually the man approached.

He was perhaps in his forties. Smartly dressed. Well spoken. American.

There was a warmth about him.

But also a tiredness.

The sort that comes from carrying something heavy for longer than you would like.

"Excuse me."

"Of course."

He glanced briefly around the shop.

"We're looking for some information."

"What kind of information?"

For a moment he hesitated.

The woman had joined him now.

She held a book about local churches beneath one arm.

Neither spoke immediately.

Then the man took a slow breath.

"We're looking for someone named Hank."

The name landed gently between us.

But it changed the atmosphere immediately.

A moment earlier they had been tourists.

Now they were something else.

I set down my pen.

"I see."

The woman exchanged a glance with him.

A small nod passed between them.

"My uncle," the man said.

For a second my thoughts returned to Saturday.

To the Panama hat.

To the armful of books.

To the broad grin.

To a man who had approached Pebblewick with the enthusiasm of somebody discovering a hidden kingdom.

"Hank was your uncle?"

"Yes."

His voice remained steady.

"We heard what happened."

The shop seemed very quiet suddenly.

Somewhere outside a gull cried over the harbour.

A church bell sounded faintly in the distance.

The woman smiled sadly.

"I'm Daisy."

I nodded.

"Harold Quibble."

"And I'm Davey."

We shook hands.

His grip was firm.

Grateful.

As though simply finding somebody who remembered Hank mattered.

"We weren't sure where to start," Daisy admitted.

"Someone at the Pebblewick Hotel suggested we try here."

I smiled.

"That sounds like Pebblewick."

Davey looked around the shop again.

"Apparently Uncle Hank spent quite a bit of time here."

"He certainly did."

A faint laugh escaped both of them.

"That sounds about right."

"He bought enough books to support the local economy."

Davey's smile broadened.

"Oh yes. That's definitely him."

The tension eased slightly.

Not much.

Just enough.

Grief rarely leaves completely.

Sometimes it merely steps aside for a minute.

Davey rested his hands on the counter.

"What was he like?"

It was a simple question.

The sort that appears easy until somebody asks it.

I looked towards the local history shelves.

A few books remained slightly misaligned where Hank had stood examining them several days earlier.

"He was curious."

Davey nodded immediately.

"Very."

"About everything."

"He always was."

"If somebody had written a detailed history of Pebblewick's drainpipes, he would probably have bought that too."

Daisy laughed.

A genuine laugh.

"Without question."

"He'd have wanted the signed edition."

That produced another smile.

For the first time since entering the shop, both of them looked a little less burdened.

I found myself smiling too.

Because that was what I remembered most clearly.

The enthusiasm.

The interest.

The delight.

Not the tragedy.

Not the shock.

Just the sheer enjoyment.

"He loved this place," I said.

"He was only here for a few hours."

"That was enough."

Davey lowered his gaze briefly.

"That sounds like Uncle Hank."

Outside, sunlight sparkled on the sea beyond the harbour.

A fishing boat moved slowly towards open water.

The church tower stood above the rooftops, bright against a washed-blue summer sky.

Davey followed my gaze.

"That's the church?"

"St Bartholomew's."

For several moments he stared silently at it.

Neither Daisy nor I interrupted.

Eventually he spoke.

"Would you tell us what happened?"

There was no dramaticness in the question.

No demand.

Simply a need to understand.

A need to picture those final hours.

I nodded.

"Of course."

Davey and Daisy pulled two chairs closer to the counter.

Outside, Harbour Street carried on with its business.

Tourists wandered towards the harbour.

Children chased pigeons.

A dog barked excitedly at something only it could see.

Inside The Salty Page, however, the world seemed to slow.

And so I began.

I told them about Hank's arrival.

About the campervan.

About the books.

About his excitement at discovering the village.

About how he had approached local history as though he'd uncovered buried treasure.

Both listened without interruption.

Neither wanted details edited.

Neither wanted the shorter version.

They wanted the real one.

And for the next half hour, that was exactly what I gave them.

Remembering Hank

For the next half hour I told them everything I could remember.

Not the dramatic details.

Those they already knew.

Families always learn the facts first.

What they seek afterwards are the smaller things.

The moments that tell them who somebody was at the very end.

The details that never appear in official reports.

The human parts.

So I told them about Hank.

I told them how he and his wife had arrived in Pebblewick shortly after breakfast.

How they had wandered into The Salty Page armed with curiosity and very little restraint.

How he had gravitated towards the local history section with the enthusiasm of a man discovering buried treasure.

Davey smiled.

"That sounds familiar."

"He spent twenty minutes deciding which books he wanted."

"And bought all of them anyway?"

"More or less."

Daisy laughed.

"That's absolutely him."

I nodded.

"He wasn't browsing. He was hunting."

Davey's eyes brightened.

"He did that."

"For books?"

"For everything."

Outside, a bus rolled slowly along Harbour Street.

Sunlight flashed briefly across its windows before it disappeared towards the harbour.

Inside, the shop remained warm and still.

I continued.

"He wanted to know about the harbour. The church. The old fishermen. Local traditions. Anything connected with the village."

Davey exchanged a glance with Daisy.

"He loved history."

"It showed."

"What kind of questions was he asking?"

I smiled.

"What wasn't he asking?"

That earned a genuine laugh.

"He was fascinated by everything."

I pointed towards the front window.

"The harbour."

Then towards the church tower visible above the rooftops.

"The church."

Then the bookshelves around us.

"Even the shop."

Daisy looked around as though trying to imagine him standing there.

"What did he think of it?"

"The shop?"

She nodded.

I looked around The Salty Page myself.

The shelves.

The floorboards.

The old grandfather clock.

The sunlight drifting through the windows.

"He loved it."

A smile touched Daisy's face.

"I knew he would."

For a moment nobody spoke.

The grandfather clock ticked quietly.

Somewhere upstairs a floorboard complained about being stepped on twenty years earlier.

Then Davey asked the question he had clearly been working towards.

"The wedding."

I nodded.

"The wedding."

He leaned slightly forward.

"What happened?"

I looked through the window towards St Bartholomew's.

The church tower stood bright against the summer sky.

A few white clouds drifted lazily above it.

For a moment I could almost picture Saturday again.

The flowers.

The bells.

The excitement.

The crowds.

"Hank heard there was a wedding taking place."

Davey's smile appeared immediately.

"He'd want to see it."

"He did."

Daisy laughed quietly.

"Oh, that's so him."

"He thought it might be interesting."

"It would."

"So he and his wife went to the church."

Neither interrupted.

Neither needed to.

I described the wedding.

The decorations.

The flowers.

The villagers in their best clothes.

The cheerful chaos which accompanies any gathering of Pebblewick residents in a confined space.

As I spoke, both listened carefully.

Not because the details were important.

Because Hank had seen them.

That was enough.

Eventually I reached the end of the story.

Silence settled across the shop.

Davey stared out towards the church.

Daisy lowered her gaze.

Neither seemed upset.

Just thoughtful.

At length Davey nodded.

"He would have loved that."

"He did."

The answer came without hesitation.

"He genuinely did."

Davey swallowed.

Then smiled.

"Thank you."

I wasn't entirely certain why he was thanking me.

But I understood the feeling behind it.

Families don't just want to know how someone died.

They want reassurance that they lived.

For a few moments nobody spoke.

Then Daisy looked up.

"Did he really buy that many books?"

I laughed.

"A remarkable number."

"How many?"

"I'm not completely certain."

"That many?"

"Scott needed both arms."

Davey groaned.

"That definitely sounds like Uncle Hank."

"He had excellent taste."

"He had expensive taste."

"That too."

The mood lightened slightly.

The sadness remained.

Of course it did.

But now it shared space with affection.

And memories.

And laughter.

Sometimes that is the best grief can manage.

Eventually Davey's eyes drifted towards a large history book displayed near the counter.

He picked it up.

I recognised it immediately.

It was the same volume Hank had purchased only a few days earlier.

A detailed history of Pebblewick Harbour.

The sort of book nobody bought casually.

The sort of book Hank would have regarded as essential.

Davey studied the cover.

Then shook his head and smiled.

"Unbelievable."

"What is?"

"Uncle Hank would've bought this."

"He did."

Davey looked up.

For a second neither of us spoke.

Then he laughed.

"Amazing."

"He was very enthusiastic."

"That's one word for it."

Daisy smiled at the book.

"I think he'd be annoyed if we left without buying something."

"I suspect you're right."

Davey turned the volume over in his hands.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I'll take it."

I nodded.

"I had a feeling you might."

And for the first time since they had entered the shop, both Davey and Daisy looked entirely at peace.

A Book for Hank

I rang the book through the till.

The receipt curled slowly from the printer.

Davey took the harbour history book and tucked it beneath his arm.

For a moment he stood looking at the cover.

The black-and-white photograph showed the harbour decades earlier. Fishing boats crowded the water. Men in flat caps stood beside stacks of wooden crates. Behind them rose the same collection of cottages, chimneys and narrow streets that still overlooked the waterfront today.

Much had changed.

Quite a lot hadn't.

"He would've loved this," Davey said.

"He probably did."

A smile spread across Davey's face.

"True."

Daisy had drifted towards the wall beside the staircase.

Several framed photographs hung there.

Most customers barely noticed them.

After a few years they became part of the background.

To visitors, however, they were windows into another Pebblewick.

She studied a photograph of Harbour Street taken sometime in the 1960s.

"This place hasn't changed much."

"No," I admitted. "Not really."

Davey looked around.

The floorboards.

The grandfather clock.

The shelves.

The reading lamp in the corner.

The narrow staircase disappearing upstairs.

"I like that."

"So do I."

Outside, sunshine flashed briefly across the harbour.

Through the window I could see fishing boats moving lazily across the water.

After three days of rain, half the village seemed determined to remain outdoors.

Davey glanced towards the church tower rising above the neighbouring rooftops.

"I think we'd better go and see it."

"St Bartholomew's?"

He nodded.

"I think Uncle Hank would've wanted that."

"I think you're probably right."

Daisy smiled.

"Thank you, Harold."

"You're very welcome."

For a brief moment none of us moved.

Strangers only a short while earlier.

Not quite strangers now.

Some conversations have a way of shortening distances between people.

Then Davey extended his hand.

We shook.

There was gratitude in the gesture.

Not for answers.

Those had been simple enough.

But for memories.

For helping transform a tragedy back into a person.

After all, families do not hold onto events.

They hold onto stories.

The evidence that somebody laughed.

Explored.

Asked endless questions.

Bought far too many books.

And thoroughly enjoyed doing all of it.

The bell rang softly as Davey and Daisy stepped outside.

Sunlight flooded briefly into the shop as the door opened.

I watched them pause beneath the sign.

Then they turned and began walking towards St Bartholomew's Church.

The ancient tower stood proudly against a bright blue sky.

A few gulls circled lazily overhead.

The sea glittered beyond the rooftops.

For a moment I stood watching them disappear up Harbour Street.

Then I looked down at the counter.

My coffee was still there.

Cold.

Utterly beyond help.

I was considering whether it now qualified as a historical artefact when the bell above the door rang again.

Captain Haddock entered.

Captain Haddock Arrives

Captain Haddock entered with all the subtlety of a small weather system.

The door opened.

The bell rang.

The captain appeared.

He nodded once.

"Harold."

"Captain."

His gaze immediately fixed upon the enormous volume waiting behind the counter.

"My book."

It wasn't a question.

I handed it over.

Captain Haddock lifted the volume with obvious approval.

The book was large, thick and heavy enough to stun a moderately sized shark.

It suited him perfectly.

He opened it.

Read half a page.

Turned another page.

Then nodded.

This seemed to satisfy him.

"The Norwegian section is present."

"So I discovered."

"Good."

For several moments he continued examining the contents.

Most people would have struggled to become excited about three hundred pages devoted entirely to knots.

Captain Haddock looked as though Christmas had arrived early.

Finally he closed the book.

"Excellent."

High praise indeed.

I told him the price.

He paid without complaint.

Which suggested he considered the volume indispensable.

As he tucked the book beneath one arm, his attention drifted towards the front window.

The bicycle remained outside.

Captain Haddock frowned.

"Still there?"

"Still there."

He studied it.

"How long?"

"Since this morning."

"Hmm."

A thoughtful silence followed.

"That's Horace's."

"I know."

Another pause.

Apparently both of us were waiting for further explanation.

None arrived.

Eventually Captain Haddock spoke again.

"Remarkable."

"It really is."

"Has anybody told him?"

"Not as far as I know."

He nodded slowly.

Then:

"That explains nothing."

"No."

"It explains less than nothing."

"Quite."

Captain Haddock looked at the bicycle one final time.

The bicycle appeared unconcerned.

"Well," he announced, lifting the book, "I have reading to do."

"I don't doubt it."

With that he turned and headed for the door.

The bell jingled softly behind him.

Moments later he disappeared towards the harbour.

The bicycle remained.

At this point I had begun to suspect it intended to stay permanently.

I looked at the clock.

Shortly after three.

Outside, the village basked in long-awaited sunshine.

Inside, the shop settled once more into gentle silence.

For approximately seven minutes.

Then the telephone rang.

I picked it up.

"The Salty Page. Harold Quibble speaking."

"Harold?"

Mrs Thistlewood.

I closed my eyes.

The afternoon had just become significantly more complicated.

Mrs Thistlewood Calls

The telephone rang.

I picked it up.

"The Salty Page. Harold Quibble speaking."

"Harold?"

Mrs Thistlewood.

There are certain voices which immediately command attention.

Mrs Thistlewood's was one of them.

Not because it was particularly loud.

Simply because experience had taught me that when Mrs Thistlewood telephoned unexpectedly, something was usually happening.

"Good afternoon."

"Harold, I'm terribly sorry."

I sat up slightly.

The apology alone was unusual enough to qualify as news.

"What for?"

"I shan't be in tomorrow."

That surprised me.

Mrs Thistlewood rarely missed a scheduled day at the shop.

The village could experience storms, roadworks, power cuts and minor civil unrest, and she would still somehow appear.

"Is everything all right?"

For a moment there was silence.

When she spoke again, her voice sounded different.

Quieter.

"My sister's been taken ill."

"Oh."

The single syllable was all I could manage.

It immediately explained everything.

Mrs Thistlewood rarely spoke about her own family, but when she did it was clear she cared for them very deeply.

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"We don't think so."

The answer was reassuring, though not entirely.

"I'm travelling to Exeter this evening."

"Do they know what's wrong?"

"Not yet. They're keeping her in overnight for observation."

I nodded despite myself.

Beyond the window, Harbour Street basked in afternoon sunshine.

Inside the shop everything suddenly felt a little more subdued.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you."

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then Mrs Thistlewood sighed.

"I feel rather guilty leaving you on your own."

I glanced around the shop.

The books would survive.

The customers would survive.

Whether I survived remained open to discussion.

"We'll manage."

"I know."

Another pause followed.

Then, reassuringly, part of her usual self returned.

"I still expect a full report when I get back."

I smiled.

"I was wondering how long that would take."

"Harold."

"Yes?"

"If anything interesting happens, write it down."

"I'll try."

"No. Write it down."

"I understand."

"You never remember the important details."

"I remember plenty."

"You absolutely do not."

This was, regrettably, difficult to dispute.

Her voice softened again.

"Look after yourself."

"You too."

"And Harold?"

"Yes?"

"Try not to let the village fall apart while I'm away."

I glanced through the window.

At the harbour.

At the church tower.

At Reverend Horace Finch's abandoned bicycle.

"I'll do my best."

"See that you do."

For the first time during the conversation, I thought I heard a faint laugh.

Then the line went quiet.

I replaced the receiver gently.

For several moments I stood staring at the telephone.

Mrs Thistlewood's absence suddenly seemed much more significant than it had that morning.

I hoped her sister would be all right.

Outside, the sunshine continued to sparkle across Harbour Street.

The village carried on as normal.

The bicycle remained exactly where it had been all day.

And somehow that felt oddly reassuring.

A Call from the Pebblewick Hotel

I returned inside and closed the door behind me.

The afternoon sunlight still filled Harbour Street. The harbour glittered beyond the rooftops and the village seemed determined to enjoy every minute of its first fine day in almost a week.

I had barely sat down when the telephone rang.

I picked up the receiver.

"The Salty Page. Harold Quibble speaking."

"Mr Quibble? Caroline Evans."

I recognised the voice immediately.

Mrs Evans managed the Pebblewick Hotel, the largest hotel in the village and one of the few places capable of accommodating entire coach parties without collapsing under the effort.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Evans."

"I wonder if you can help me."

"I'll do my best."

There was a brief pause.

"We have a Japanese family staying with us."

"A holiday?"

"I believe so."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"It's their son."

That could have meant almost anything.

I sat up a little straighter.

"What's happened?"

"He's run out of books."

For a moment I said nothing.

Then:

"Already?"

"They arrived three days ago."

I looked around the shop.

Three days.

Some customers took longer than that to choose a book.

"That is impressive."

"Apparently he's read everything he brought."

Outside, a gull landed on the bakery roof opposite and began surveying Harbour Street with professional suspicion.

Mrs Evans continued.

"He's quite a bright lad and I wondered whether you had anything suitable in Japanese."

I considered the question.

"I'm honestly not sure."

"Oh."

"Let me check."

I placed the receiver gently on the counter and wandered through the shop.

The search proved remarkably efficient.

Mainly because I possessed precisely no Japanese-language books.

I checked the fiction section.

Nothing.

The classics.

Nothing.

Translations.

Still nothing.

The entire exercise took less than five minutes.

I returned to the telephone.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything suitable in stock."

"That's a shame."

"But I can order something."

The relief was immediate.

"Oh, really?"

"I should be able to have a book here tomorrow."

"That would be wonderful."

I smiled.

One of the best things about running a bookshop was matching books to readers.

Even when the readers happened to be visitors from the other side of the world.

"Leave it with me."

"Thank you, Mr Quibble."

I switched on the computer beneath the counter.

It started with all the enthusiasm of a reluctant government employee.

Several passwords and an assortment of uncooperative menus later, I finally reached the supplier catalogue.

Thousands of titles appeared.

I spent several minutes reading descriptions.

Eventually I found a novel suitable for a young reader and, more importantly, available for next-day delivery.

A few clicks later the order was confirmed.

DELIVERY: TOMORROW

Excellent.

Somewhere in a warehouse, a book had just begun its journey to Pebblewick.

Mrs Evans thanked me several times before ending the call.

The shop fell quiet once more.

Sunlight drifted through the window.

The grandfather clock ticked contentedly in the background.

I switched off the computer and stretched.

Then, almost out of habit, I glanced through the front window.

Something felt wrong.

For a few seconds I couldn't work out what.

Then I realised.

The bicycle was gone.

I blinked.

For a moment I simply stared at the empty patch of pavement.

All day Reverend Horace Finch's bicycle had stood outside The Salty Page.

It had survived Scott's delivery.

Captain Haddock's inspection.

Mrs Thistlewood's telephone call.

Davey and Daisy's visit.

By mid-afternoon I had started regarding it as a permanent feature of Harbour Street.

And now it had vanished.

No explanation.

No farewell.

No accompanying vicar.

Simply gone.

I found myself oddly disappointed.

After spending nearly an entire day together, I felt we had developed a certain relationship.

I stepped closer to the window.

No sign of Horace.

No sign of the bicycle.

Nothing.

Apparently, at some point during the afternoon, either Horace had remembered it or somebody had remembered it for him.

Frankly, the second possibility seemed more likely.

I smiled and returned to the counter.

Closing Time

The afternoon slipped gradually towards evening.

For the first time in three days, the weather had kept its promise.

The clouds had stayed away.

Sunlight lingered across the harbour, turning the water beyond the breakwater into a sheet of rippling gold. Fishing boats rocked gently against their moorings. Along Harbour Street, visitors wandered unhurriedly between the shops, determined to make the most of a summer day reclaimed from the rain.

Inside The Salty Page, the rush of the day had finally passed.

The deliveries had been unpacked.

The invoices checked.

The shelves restored to order.

Even the pile of paperwork beside the till had surrendered.

The old grandfather clock ticked steadily at the back of the shop, measuring out the final minutes of trading.

I glanced around.

The familiar sight brought its usual comfort.

Rows of books stretched away beneath warm lamplight.

The polished wood of the shelves glowed softly in the evening sun.

Dust motes drifted lazily through shafts of golden light.

The shop felt settled.

Content.

As though it, too, was ready for the day to end.

Outside, a gull landed on a chimney pot opposite and immediately assumed responsibility for supervising Harbour Street.

The village appeared to accept this arrangement.

I checked the clock.

Five o'clock.

Closing time.

I walked to the door, turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, and paused for a moment before locking it.

The simple act always felt strangely significant.

One more day completed.

One more chapter quietly filed away.

Through the glass, I looked out across the village.

The harbour gleamed in the distance.

The church tower stood against a pale blue sky.

Children laughed somewhere near the waterfront.

A bell buoy sounded faintly out beyond the harbour wall.

Pebblewick was settling into evening.

My gaze drifted automatically towards the patch of pavement beside the window.

The bicycle was gone.

All day it had stood there.

Through conversations, deliveries, visitors and telephone calls.

By mid-afternoon it had become such a permanent feature of my view that the empty space now looked almost unnatural.

Apparently, at some point during the day, Reverend Horace Finch had remembered.

Or perhaps somebody had remembered for him.

Either explanation seemed entirely plausible.

I smiled to myself.

Then I began switching off the lights.

One by one the lamps dimmed.

Shadows lengthened between the shelves.

The scent of books, polished wood and old paper lingered in the quiet air.

The coffee mug still sat on the counter.

I picked it up.

The coffee had reached a stage where scientific testing would probably be more appropriate than drinking it.

Some battles, I reflected, are simply unwinnable.

I carried the mug towards the sink and listened for a moment to the familiar sounds of the old building.

The distant tick of the clock.

A floorboard settling somewhere upstairs.

The faint murmur of the sea drifting through an open window.

Old buildings are never truly silent.

They simply whisper.

For a moment I stood there thinking about the day.

Mrs Thistlewood was on her way to Exeter.

Captain Haddock was probably already absorbed in several hundred pages concerning Norwegian fishing knots.

Davey and Daisy had spent the afternoon following the path Hank had taken through Pebblewick, visiting the harbour, the church and the places he had seen during his final day.

And somewhere in the village, Reverend Horace Finch and his bicycle had finally found one another again.

All things considered, it had been a good day.

I switched off the final light.

Locked the door behind me.

And stepped out into the warm evening sunshine as Pebblewick settled peacefully towards another summer night.