The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 5 - Friday

Friday

Friday certainly began with a flurry of excitement.

I had not even reached the shop.

As I walked along Harbour Street towards The Salty Page, I heard a seagull calling overhead. In Pebblewick, this was nothing unusual. Then came a second cry, and then a third.

It was the third that made me stop.

Glancing towards the harbour, I noticed a man I had never seen before standing beside a bicycle. He was staring up at a gathering of gulls perched along the roofline of a nearby building.

Then he opened his mouth.

“Squaaawk!”

One of the gulls answered immediately.

The man replied.

Another gull joined in.

I came to a complete halt.

There are moments when curiosity overwhelms good manners. This was undoubtedly one of them.

I edged a little closer while attempting to give the impression that I was doing no such thing. On an otherwise empty street, this proved remarkably difficult.

To maintain the illusion, I pretended to examine a shop window.

Unfortunately, it belonged to The Codfather.

There are only so many times a man can appear genuinely fascinated by a notice advertising mushy peas.

“Morning!”

I turned.

The stranger had spotted me. He was already striding in my direction, smiling broadly, one hand extended.

“Hubert!”

He seized my hand and shook it enthusiastically.

“That’s H.U.B.E.R.T. Hubert. Not Herbert.”

“I see.”

“You’d be surprised how many people get it wrong.”

I suspected that spelling his name before anyone had attempted to say it might be contributing to the problem.

“I’m Harold.”

“Harold!”

He seemed delighted by this revelation.

Hubert was a cheerful-looking fellow, perhaps somewhere in his sixties, with a neat grey moustache and a well-worn bowler hat perched squarely on his head. He wore a plain collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms, sturdy trousers, and polished boots that had clearly seen many miles. Beside him stood a touring bicycle fitted with panniers over the rear wheel.

He pointed towards it.

“I spend the summer months travelling.”

“On that?”

“Absolutely. Up and down the coast. Village to village.”

“That sounds pleasant.”

“Oh, it is. Wonderful.”

His gaze drifted back towards the rooftops.

“I listen to the gulls.”

I waited.

“And talk to them.”

I looked at the gulls.

One of them looked back.

“You talk to seagulls?”

“Every day.”

“And do they talk back?”

“All the time.”

I had lived in Pebblewick long enough to know that anything involving seagulls should never be dismissed too quickly.

“What do they say?”

Hubert laughed.

“Oh, much the same things we do.”

“Such as?”

“The weather. Food. Where the best fish can be found.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“And people.”

I regarded him carefully.

“People?”

“Oh yes.”

“What do they say about us?”

Hubert glanced towards the gulls.

“That depends on the person.”

I followed his gaze.

Three of them were watching us now.

I found myself feeling faintly uncomfortable.

“So you can actually understand them?”

“Not every word,” he said. “It’s more complicated than that. You listen to the calls, the rhythm, the way they behave, how the others respond. After a while, you begin to recognise patterns.”

“And then you answer them?”

“I try.”

As if to demonstrate the point, he turned towards the nearest rooftop and produced another remarkably convincing gull cry.

A gull answered at once.

Hubert nodded with satisfaction.

“What did that one say?” I asked.

“Hard to tell.”

That was reassuring.

“Where do you live when you’re not travelling?”

His cheerful expression dimmed slightly.

“In the city.”

He said the city with the weary resignation of a man confessing to a chronic illness.

“You don’t like it?”

“Too much traffic. Too many buildings. Not enough gulls.”

Having witnessed what Pebblewick gulls could do to an unattended portion of chips, I had never regarded not enough gulls as a matter demanding urgent attention.

I glanced at my watch.

Far more time had slipped by than I realised.

“I’m afraid I have to go. I need to open the shop.”

“You have a shop?”

“The Salty Page. Bookshop. Just along there.”

His face brightened at once.

“A bookshop!”

“Yes.”

“I like books.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“I might call in.”

“You’d be very welcome.”

We exchanged our goodbyes and I continued towards The Salty Page.

After a few steps, another squawk sounded behind me.

A gull answered.

Then Hubert replied.

I resisted the temptation to look back.

I had a bookshop to open.

If I am being entirely honest, I was not convinced by Hubert's claim that he could hold conversations with seagulls. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, but chatting with gulls was the sort of accomplishment that demanded rather more evidence than a few well-timed squawks.

Besides, I was not entirely certain I wanted to discover whether he was right.

Knowing Pebblewick gulls, if they were discussing me, it was probably nothing complimentary.

As I neared The Salty Page, I could see two figures waiting outside.

I quickened my pace.

They were standing a few feet apart and talking with the careful politeness of complete strangers who had unexpectedly found themselves sharing the same doorstep.

One of them was a delivery driver carrying a small cardboard box.

“Morning, mate,” he said as I approached. “Got this for you.”

He handed it over.

I had barely managed to thank him before he climbed back into his van and disappeared up Harbour Street in pursuit of his next delivery.

Efficient.

Almost suspiciously efficient.

I glanced at the label.

Inside was the book I had ordered the previous afternoon for the Japanese boy staying at the Pebblewick Hotel.

I felt quietly pleased.

Promises involving next-day delivery do not always result in delivery on the next day. When they do, I regard the occasion as one of the minor miracles of modern civilisation.

The second visitor was a boy of about seventeen.

He was thin, awkward-looking and dressed for outdoor work. His trousers and heavy boots were coated with dried mud and his old jacket appeared to have endured rather more weather than care.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning, sir.”

He sounded nervous.

Not frightened.

Just uncertain.

I unlocked the door, turned the sign to OPEN and stepped inside.

The boy followed me.

I placed the parcel on the counter.

He remained near the entrance.

“What can I do for you?”

He glanced over my shoulder.

Then towards the window.

Then back at me.

After the third occasion it became noticeable.

Finally, he reached into his jacket and produced an envelope.

“Mr Milton-Price sent me.”

That explained the boots.

I took the envelope and opened it.

Inside was a short handwritten note informing me that Mr Milton-Price was feeling unwell and had therefore sent his boy, Alf, to collect the books on his behalf.

His boy.

Alf looked about seventeen.

Mr Milton-Price was somewhere in his eighties.

I suspected that from his perspective almost everyone counted as a boy.

The note continued.

Mr Milton-Price believed he had enclosed the correct amount of money. Should any change be due, he expected it to be returned.

He also required a receipt.

The final sentence had been underlined.

Apparently illness had done nothing whatsoever to diminish Mr Milton-Price's financial vigilance.

I looked inside the envelope.

The money was there.

Exactly the right amount.

Of course it was.

“Right, Alf. I've got them here.”

He approached the counter while I retrieved the two books waiting behind it.

One concerned breeds of sheep and cattle.

The other dealt with the history of Georgian architecture.

It remained a combination of interests that I did not entirely understand.

I rang them through the till.

As expected, Mr Milton-Price had supplied the precise amount.

No change was required.

I printed a receipt and placed it safely inside one of the books.

“There you are.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Alf took them and tucked them securely beneath one arm.

Then he glanced over my shoulder again.

I finally gave in.

“Is there something behind me?”

His eyes widened.

“No, sir.”

I turned anyway.

There was nothing there.

Only books.

A great many books.

“You work for Mr Milton-Price?”

“Yes, sir. Up at the farm.”

“How long have you been there?”

“A while.”

“You enjoy it?”

For the first time, he smiled.

A genuine smile.

“Yes,” he said. “I like the animals. I like being outside.”

“But?”

The smile faded.

Alf hesitated.

“Mr Milton-Price can be a hard man to please.”

I found that entirely believable.

“I imagine he likes things done properly.”

Alf gave me a look suggesting that properly was merely the starting point.

“He likes things done his way.”

“Ah.”

“And even when you do them his way, sometimes it still isn't quite right.”

That sounded even more like Mr Milton-Price.

Alf shifted the books under his arm.

“He's all right, really.”

The speed with which he added this was interesting.

“I'm sure he is.”

Alf glanced towards the window once more.

There it was again.

That nervous look.

As though he expected someone to appear outside at any moment.

Or perhaps hoped they would not.

Then he looked back at me.

“Better get these back to him.”

“Give Mr Milton-Price my regards,” I said. “And tell him I hope he's feeling better soon.”

“I will, sir.”

He headed for the door.

I watched him disappear along Harbour Street with the books clutched tightly against his side.

There was something about the boy that I could not quite place.

Perhaps he was naturally nervous.

Perhaps working for Mr Milton-Price had that effect on people.

Or perhaps something else was troubling him entirely.

I looked down at the small cardboard parcel resting on the counter.

The Japanese novel had arrived.

Mr Milton-Price had his books.

And it was not even properly morning yet.

By Pebblewick standards, things were going remarkably well.

Which, in my experience, was usually the moment to start worrying.

Lost in Translation

I picked up the telephone and called the Pebblewick Hotel.

I was rather more excited about the arrival of the Japanese novel than a bookseller probably should have been.

David Evans answered.

“Mr Evans, it's Harold Quibble. The book has arrived.”

“That was quick.”

“I know. I'm still trying to come to terms with it.”

He told me the family would come down in about an hour.

After hanging up, I looked at the small cardboard parcel resting on the counter.

I could have opened it.

Ordinarily, I almost certainly would have.

Curiosity and booksellers have a long and distinguished history together.

But I resisted.

The boy had apparently exhausted every book he had brought with him, and I liked the thought of him opening the parcel himself. There was something pleasing about the idea that a book had travelled all the way to Pebblewick specifically for him.

As it turned out, that decision would prove unfortunate.

The next hour passed quietly.

Mrs Thistlewood was still away dealing with her family emergency and, without her presence, the shop felt noticeably different.

Larger.

Quieter.

Almost empty.

I was beginning to understand just how much noise a single volunteer could generate.

Almost exactly an hour later, the bell above the door jingled.

Caroline Evans entered, followed by three people whom I immediately recognised as the family staying at the hotel.

“Mr Quibble,” she said, “this is Mr and Mrs Kato, and their son, Kenji.”

Behind him stood his parents. Mr Kato was a slim, thoughtful-looking man in his forties, with neatly combed black hair and rimless glasses that gave him the appearance of someone accustomed to spending long hours studying complicated things. Mrs Kato was of a similar age, elegantly dressed in a light summer coat and carrying herself with a calm confidence. Both wore the pleasant but slightly cautious expressions of people navigating a foreign language and hoping not to make mistakes.

Kenji was thirteen, quiet and polite, with a seriousness that made him seem slightly older than his years.

Then he looked around the bookshop.

His expression transformed instantly.

I recognised the symptoms.

A reader.

Mr and Mrs Kato spoke very little English, while my Japanese vocabulary remained firmly fixed at none whatsoever. Fortunately, they had brought a small electronic translator.

Mrs Evans made the introductions.

“This is Mr Harold Quibble. He owns The Salty Page.”

She entered the words into the translator.

A pleasant Japanese voice emerged.

Mr and Mrs Kato smiled warmly and bowed.

Kenji bowed too.

I bowed in return.

Whether I did so correctly remained open to debate, but nobody appeared offended.

So far, international relations were proceeding successfully.

Mrs Evans then explained that I had ordered a book especially for Kenji.

The translator repeated the message.

Kenji looked at me.

I pointed towards the parcel.

“That arrived this morning.”

More Japanese emerged from the device.

Kenji's face brightened.

Exactly the reaction I had hoped for.

I picked up the parcel and handed it to him.

“For you.”

He accepted it with both hands and carefully opened the box.

Everyone watched.

Mrs Evans.

His parents.

Me.

Kenji reached inside and withdrew the book.

For perhaps two seconds, he looked delighted.

Then the expression vanished.

He stared at the cover.

Then at me.

Then at his parents.

Mr and Mrs Kato looked at the book.

Their smiles disappeared.

Something had very clearly gone wrong.

Mrs Evans looked at me.

I looked at Mrs Evans.

“What?”

Kenji turned the cover towards his parents.

Printed across it was the title:

マリアビートル

Beneath it was the author's name.

Kōtarō Isaka

“That's Japanese,” I said.

Looking back, it was not my most useful contribution.

Mrs Evans sighed.

“Yes, Harold.”

Mrs Kato entered the title into the translator.

A moment later, the translation appeared on the screen.

Bullet Train.

I stared at it.

“Bullet Train?”

Mrs Evans nodded.

“Apparently.”

“That isn't the book I ordered.”

I took the novel and examined it more closely.

There had to be a mistake.

I went to the computer, checked the order, then retrieved the supplier's paperwork.

The explanation was waiting for me.

The book I had originally selected had become unavailable.

Rather than delay matters, the supplier had kindly substituted what it described as a suitable alternative.

I looked at Bullet Train.

I looked at Kenji.

Then I read the publisher's description.

Assassins.

Criminals.

Violence.

Several people attempting to murder each other while travelling on a high-speed train.

Slowly, I lowered the book.

“Suitable,” I said.

Mrs Evans was making heroic efforts not to laugh.

I could feel my face becoming warm.

“I'm terribly sorry.”

She translated.

Mr and Mrs Kato immediately smiled and shook their heads, trying to reassure me.

Somehow that only made me feel worse.

“I was trying to find him something appropriate.”

Mrs Evans glanced at the cover.

“Well, there is a boy in it.”

“That isn't helping.”

Her smile widened.

I turned to Kenji.

“Would you like to choose something from the shop instead?”

The translator conveyed the question.

I gestured towards the shelves.

“Anything you like.”

Kenji's eyes widened.

He vanished between the bookcases before anybody could change their mind.

While he searched, I spoke with his parents through a mixture of translation software, gestures and occasional assistance from Mrs Evans whenever technology and normal conversation failed to reach an agreement.

I learned that both Mr and Mrs Kato were research doctors.

They were enjoying a family holiday before beginning new university appointments at the start of the academic year.

They had chosen Pebblewick because they wanted somewhere small, quiet and peaceful before returning to academic life.

I thought about the wedding.

Hank.

The seagulls.

Hubert talking to them.

And the Japanese crime novel currently sitting on my counter.

“Peaceful” was becoming a somewhat ambitious description of Pebblewick.

Nevertheless, the Katos seemed delighted with their visit.

They enjoyed the harbour.

They enjoyed the hotel.

They enjoyed the village.

Most importantly, Kenji enjoyed having uninterrupted time to read.

A few minutes later he reappeared carrying two books.

He placed them carefully on the counter.

I looked down.

Then I looked at him.

Agatha Christie.

Both of them.

I picked up the first.

Murder.

I picked up the second.

Another murder.

I glanced across at Bullet Train.

Apparently, my concern about protecting Kenji from fictional homicide had existed solely in my own imagination.

“Are these the ones you want?”

The question was translated.

Kenji nodded enthusiastically.

I smiled.

“Excellent choices.”

His father reached for his wallet.

I shook my head.

“No.”

Mr Kato looked confused.

I pushed the books gently towards Kenji.

“They're a gift.”

The translator conveyed the message.

Mr and Mrs Kato protested immediately.

I shook my head again.

“I ordered the wrong book.”

Strictly speaking, the supplier had sent the wrong book, but explaining the finer points of bookselling accountability through an electronic translator felt unnecessarily complicated.

“Please. Let him have them.”

The translator spoke.

Mr Kato looked at me for a moment.

Then he smiled.

He bowed.

Mrs Kato bowed.

Kenji hugged the two Agatha Christie novels to his chest and bowed as well.

I bowed back.

By this stage, I felt rather proficient.

The Katos thanked me again and left with Mrs Evans.

At the door, Kenji turned and offered me one final smile.

Then they were gone.

The shop fell quiet once more.

I looked at the book still sitting on the counter.

マリアビートル.

Bullet Train.

I had set out to provide a thirteen-year-old boy with a nice, suitable novel.

The supplier had sent me a book about professional assassins.

The boy himself had selected two murder mysteries.

There was probably a lesson in all that somewhere.

I just wasn't entirely sure what it was.

I picked up Bullet Train and placed it behind the counter.

Mrs Watkins would almost certainly love it.

The New Recruit

After the Kato family departed, the morning settled into something approaching normality.

A handful of holidaymakers drifted into The Salty Page.

They bought postcards.

They bought bookmarks.

One gentleman spent the better part of ten minutes trying to decide between two postcards of Pebblewick harbour which, so far as I could determine, were completely identical.

Eventually he purchased both.

I considered this an excellent outcome and a notable victory for independent bookselling.

I was serving the last of these customers when someone else entered the shop.

A girl.

She looked about sixteen or seventeen and stopped just inside the doorway.

She was a slender girl with chestnut-brown hair pulled back into a practical ponytail and wore a blue cardigan over a simple blouse and jeans. There was nothing particularly remarkable about her appearance, yet she carried herself with a quiet seriousness that made her seem older than her years. A canvas satchel hung from one shoulder, and she clutched it rather tightly, as though entering a bookshop for the first time required considerably more courage than most people realised.

She didn't browse.

She didn't examine the shelves.

She didn't even glance at the postcards.

Instead, she stood there looking uncertain.

I finished the sale.

“Thank you.”

The customer left.

The girl remained.

I waited.

She waited.

After a few moments it became apparent that one of us would need to take the initiative.

“Can I help you?”

She looked slightly startled.

Then she approached the counter.

“Mr Quibble?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dorothy.”

“Hello, Dorothy.”

She smiled nervously.

“I thought I'd come in and have a look round before I start tomorrow.”

I stared at her.

“Start what?”

“Work.”

There are certain words which become unexpectedly alarming when you own a small independent bookshop.

Tax is one.

Rent is another.

Wages is particularly effective.

“Work?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

She nodded.

“At The Salty Page?”

Another nod.

I glanced around the shop, just to make certain there was not a second Salty Page that had somehow opened without my noticing.

“I'm afraid there must be some misunderstanding.”

Dorothy's smile vanished.

“Oh.”

“I'm not taking anybody on.”

Now she looked genuinely worried.

“But Mrs Thistlewood said…”

That explained everything.

“What exactly did Mrs Thistlewood say?”

“She said I could help in the shop during the summer holidays.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. She said you needed some extra help.”

The situation was becoming alarmingly clear.

“Did she mention wages?”

Dorothy shook her head.

“No. She said it would be voluntary. She thought it would be useful experience.”

Relief arrived immediately.

Voluntary, I could afford.

Mrs Thistlewood herself had provided years of evidence to support that arrangement.

Before I could ask anything else, the telephone rang.

I looked at it.

Then at Dorothy.

For some reason, I already knew who it would be.

I picked up the receiver.

“The Salty Page.”

“Harold.”

Mrs Thistlewood.

Naturally.

“Mrs Thistlewood.”

“I assume Dorothy has arrived.”

I looked across the counter.

Dorothy offered a tentative little wave.

“She has.”

“Excellent.”

“She tells me she's starting work here tomorrow.”

“That's right.”

“You arranged this?”

“Yes.”

There was a brief silence.

“With my shop?”

“Of course with your shop, Harold. Where else would she work?”

“That wasn't quite what I meant.”

Mrs Thistlewood continued before I had the opportunity to object.

“Dorothy is a very sensible girl. She wanted some experience during the holidays and I thought she could help us on Saturdays and whenever things become busy.”

“You thought.”

“Yes.”

“And when exactly were you planning to tell me?”

Another pause.

“I did tell you.”

“No, you didn't.”

“I most certainly did.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

I thought back.

Last week had involved schoolchildren, book-token enquiries, holidaymakers, Reverend Finch, Mrs Watkins, Captain Trelawney, and considerably more information from Mrs Thistlewood than any human mind should reasonably be expected to process.

“What exactly did you say?”

“I said, ‘Dorothy might come and give us a hand during the holidays.’”

I vaguely remembered a conversation resembling this.

“I thought you meant Dorothy might come and give us a hand during the holidays.”

“That is what I meant.”

“Occasionally.”

“I never said occasionally.”

“You never said every Saturday.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

There are few things in Pebblewick more dangerous than something Mrs Thistlewood considers obvious.

“And you told her to come in today?”

“Yes. I thought she could familiarise herself with the shop before she starts tomorrow.”

I glanced over my shoulder.

Dorothy was no longer standing beside the counter.

She had produced a small notebook and was slowly making her way around the shelves.

Fiction.

Crime.

History.

Children's books.

Travel.

Every section received careful inspection and a handwritten note.

She paused, wrote something down, and moved on.

“She appears to be familiarising herself.”

“Good. I knew she would.”

“Mrs Thistlewood…”

“I have to go, Harold. Family matters.”

Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I remained holding the receiver for several seconds.

Then I slowly replaced it.

Dorothy looked up from her notebook.

“Is everything all right?”

I looked at her.

She had already filled several pages.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Since Mrs Thistlewood asked me.”

“And you want to spend your Saturdays in a bookshop?”

Her face brightened immediately.

“I love books.”

That was, at least, an encouraging start.

“I thought I could learn how a bookshop works.”

I glanced around The Salty Page.

Having owned it for years, I was still trying to solve that particular mystery myself.

Dorothy returned to her notes.

“Crime over there,” she murmured. “Travel next to local history. Children's books at the back…”

She was taking the matter extraordinarily seriously.

Far more seriously than I had when Mrs Thistlewood first recruited me.

I watched her for a moment.

I could telephone Mrs Thistlewood back.

I could point out that she could not simply recruit volunteers for my shop without consulting me.

I could explain to Dorothy that a misunderstanding had occurred.

Then Dorothy turned to a fresh page and carefully wrote:

SATURDAY - FIRST DAY

She underlined it.

Twice.

I sighed.

How was I supposed to disappoint someone who brought their own notebook?

“Dorothy.”

She looked up.

“Yes, Mr Quibble?”

“Nine o'clock tomorrow.”

Her face lit up.

“Really?”

“Nine o'clock.”

“Thank you!”

She immediately wrote that down as well.

Apparently even the starting time required proper documentation.

I watched her continue her inspection of the shelves.

Mrs Thistlewood had somehow managed to recruit a new volunteer without even being present.

It was difficult not to admire the efficiency.

I only wished she occasionally applied it to something I had actually asked her to do.

The General

The only other visitor of any significance that afternoon was Captain Haddock.

I use the word visitor rather than customer, because he had no intention whatsoever of buying anything.

Instead, he arrived carrying fish.

Judging by the heavy canvas bag swinging from one hand, he had enjoyed a successful morning on the water and, true to his earlier promise, had decided to share part of his catch with me.

I spotted him through the window as he made his way along Harbour Street from the direction of the harbour.

Captain Haddock was difficult to miss.

What interested me rather more was the ginger cat walking behind him.

Not beside him.

Behind him.

At a distance of several paces, as though following under protest while still wishing to be associated with the expedition.

The cat was enormous.

Not fat.

Merely substantial.

There is a difference.

He possessed the broad shoulders, thick frame and calm self-confidence of an animal that had spent years successfully acquiring meals from a wide variety of sources. His fur was a deep ginger colour, his left ear bore the scars of numerous disagreements, and he walked with the air of a creature convinced that every building, boat and human being in Pebblewick ultimately existed for his convenience.

Captain Haddock entered the shop.

The cat remained outside.

For the moment.

“Afternoon, Harold.”

“Captain.”

He lifted the canvas bag.

“Had a good morning.”

“So I see.”

“Brought you some fish.”

“You did indeed.”

I glanced through the window.

The ginger cat had settled himself on the pavement.

Watching us.

More specifically, watching the bag.

“You seem to have brought company.”

Captain Haddock looked over his shoulder.

“Oh. Him.”

“You know him?”

“Course I do.”

The cat continued staring through the glass.

“Who does he belong to?”

“Nobody, as far as I know.”

“What's his name?”

“General.”

I looked at Captain Haddock.

“General?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The Captain considered this for a moment.

“Because he behaves like one.”

I looked at the cat again.

To be fair, I could see the resemblance.

Apparently, General was something of a local institution around the harbour.

He had been appearing there for years, especially whenever fishing boats returned with their catches.

Nobody seemed entirely certain where he lived.

Nobody officially admitted to feeding him.

Nevertheless, General remained in excellent condition.

“He knows the boats,” Captain Haddock explained. “Knows when we've had a good catch.”

“How?”

The Captain shrugged.

“He's a cat.”

This appeared, in his opinion, to answer the question completely.

“And the gulls?”

“What about them?”

“They leave him alone?”

Captain Haddock laughed.

“The gulls know General.”

I looked outside.

A seagull had landed a short distance away.

General turned his head.

The gull immediately decided it had somewhere better to be and moved farther along the pavement.

Interesting.

Pebblewick gulls feared very little.

I had personally witnessed them harass tourists, chase dogs, terrorise delivery drivers and, on one memorable occasion, pursue Constable Moss halfway across the harbour.

Yet they appeared remarkably respectful of one ginger cat.

General, meanwhile, continued watching the bag.

Captain Haddock placed it on the counter and opened it.

“There you are.”

Inside were several fresh fish.

I know very little about judging fish beyond the fact that they generally look better before somebody covers them in batter.

Still, even I could tell these were impressive specimens.

“They're fresh?”

“Caught this morning.”

“So you really were serious about bringing me some.”

“Harold,” he said solemnly, “I never joke about fish.”

Whether he meant that literally remained unclear.

With Captain Haddock, certainty was rarely available.

I reached for my wallet.

He immediately shook his head.

“No.”

“Captain—”

“No money.”

“At least let me pay something.”

“You found me that knot book.”

“You paid for that.”

“Aye. But you found it.”

“That is generally how bookshops operate.”

“Take the fish.”

There are moments when continuing an argument simply wastes everyone's time.

Especially when the person you're arguing with is both larger than you and in possession of several excellent fish.

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure.”

At that moment something moved behind him.

General had entered the shop.

Neither of us had noticed.

He was sitting a few feet from the counter.

His eyes were fixed upon the fish.

There are expressions that require no interpretation.

General's expression was one of them.

Captain Haddock turned around.

“You.”

General remained perfectly motionless.

“He followed you in.”

“He does that.”

The cat took a single deliberate step forward.

Captain Haddock pointed.

“Don't.”

General stopped.

For several seconds they stared at one another.

Then General sat down.

“He understands you?”

“When it suits him.”

I began wrapping the fish.

General watched every movement.

His tail flicked once.

I placed the first fish into a paper bag.

General moved slightly closer.

“General.”

The warning produced no visible effect.

I reached for the second fish.

Without warning, General sprang.

A large ginger paw appeared over the edge of the counter and made a determined grab for the prize.

“Oi!”

Captain Haddock reacted with surprising speed.

General withdrew his paw.

The fish remained in my possession.

For the time being.

“You thieving devil.”

General looked entirely unapologetic.

Captain Haddock pointed towards the door.

“Out.”

General sat perfectly still.

“Out.”

Nothing.

The Captain took one step forward.

General reconsidered his position.

He turned and strolled towards the door with all the majestic dignity of an animal choosing to leave of his own accord and under no external pressure whatsoever.

At the entrance he paused.

He looked at the fish.

Then at Captain Haddock.

Then at me.

I had the distinct feeling that negotiations were not entirely finished.

“Go on.”

General exited.

Captain Haddock shook his head.

“Always trying his luck.”

“I thought you said he was a general.”

“Aye.”

He glanced through the window.

General had resumed his position on the pavement.

“Doesn't mean he isn't a thief.”

I finished wrapping the fish and placed them safely behind the counter.

Captain Haddock tucked his knot book beneath one arm.

Apparently he had brought it with him.

“Good book, that.”

“I'm glad.”

“Exactly what I wanted.”

“That makes one of us. I'm still recovering from the Japanese one.”

He gave me a puzzled look.

I decided not to explain.

Captain Haddock headed for the door.

“Enjoy the fish, Harold.”

“I will. Thank you.”

He stepped outside.

General immediately stood up.

Captain Haddock began walking back towards the harbour.

General fell in behind him.

A gull landed briefly on a nearby chimney.

General glanced upward.

The gull reconsidered the decision and took off again.

I watched the pair disappear along Harbour Street.

Captain Haddock had given me several excellent fish.

General had attempted to steal one.

And the gulls of Pebblewick had finally revealed that there was, after all, something in the village they preferred not to argue with.

I looked at the fish behind the counter.

Then I looked towards the door.

I locked it.

Not because of the customers.

Because of the cat.

General was undoubtedly capable of reopening negotiations if given the opportunity.

I stood for a moment looking at the neatly wrapped fish Captain Haddock had left behind.

The afternoon had been quiet.

Business had been respectable.

Mrs Thistlewood had recruited a new volunteer without consulting me.

A Japanese novel about assassins was sitting behind the counter.

And somewhere in the village, Hubert was probably still talking to seagulls.

On balance, I felt I had done enough for one day.

I decided I would close the shop a little early.

Besides, I already knew exactly what I was having for tea.

For once, it wasn't a difficult decision.