The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 7 - Interlude

Interlude

For the next seven days, Pebblewick behaved itself.

This was unusual.

It was also deeply unsettling.

After a week that had included a wedding, a deceased American, a bewildered French visitor being left outside my bookshop, an unexpected Japanese novel, a cryptic postcard, a man who claimed to hold conversations with gulls, and the arrival of a volunteer I had never actually volunteered to employ, I felt the village had earned a brief period of peace.

Apparently, Pebblewick agreed.

Monday

Monday arrived with remarkable restraint.

I opened The Salty Page at nine o’clock, arranged the postcards, turned the sign to OPEN, and made myself a cup of coffee.

I drank it while it was still hot.

Every drop.

I regarded this as an omen of exceptional good fortune.

Mrs Thistlewood returned shortly after half past nine, her family emergency having evidently concluded.

“Anything happen while I was away?”

I reflected on the question.

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“I thought so.”

She removed her coat, settled behind the counter, and within twenty minutes had somehow absorbed every recent development in the village.

She learned about Dorothy, despite having arranged Dorothy’s arrival herself. She learned about Hubert’s little tern, the visiting Japanese family, Captain Haddock’s fish, and Mr Constable’s unexpected appearance in The Merry Teapot.

She knew no more about Mr Constable than I did.

I found this strangely comforting.

Mrs Watkins appeared shortly before lunch carrying the determined expression of someone who had finished a mystery novel.

“The brother did it,” she announced.

“I haven’t read it.”

“Oh.”

A pause followed.

“Forget I said that.”

“I’ll try.”

She purchased another crime novel.

Naturally.

Captain Haddock passed the window carrying a coil of rope.

He waved.

I waved back.

Neither of us mentioned knots.

Some subjects are safer left unexplored.

By five o’clock, not a single thing had gone wrong.

I locked the shop and went home feeling faintly suspicious.

Tuesday

Tuesday proved even quieter.

My first customers were a family from Birmingham: mother, father, son and daughter, all enjoying a short holiday in Pebblewick.

According to the father, they had chosen the village because they wanted somewhere peaceful.

In that respect they had certainly succeeded.

“Lovely place,” he said, glancing around the shop. “Very quiet.”

“It has its moments,” I replied.

His wife laughed.

“We went down to the harbour yesterday.”

“Ah.”

“The children loved it.”

“That depends entirely on which part of the harbour they encountered.”

She looked puzzled.

“The boats?”

“I was thinking more of the gulls.”

The boy immediately pointed an accusing finger toward the window.

“One stole my sausage.”

His father nodded gravely.

“Straight out of the bun.”

“Did you recover it?”

The boy looked appalled.

“No!”

“Sensible. Negotiation rarely succeeds.”

His younger sister found the whole story far more amusing than anyone else.

“It came down like this,” she said, sweeping her arm dramatically through the air.

“I’m familiar with their methods.”

“It was enormous.”

“They always seem enormous when lunch is involved.”

Her brother folded his arms.

“It wasn’t funny.”

“It was slightly funny,” his father observed.

The boy looked betrayed.

While his parents searched for guidebooks, the children drifted toward the postcard rack.

They inspected every card with the intensity of professional art critics.

Harbour views.

Fishing boats.

The church.

The lighthouse.

And several photographs of gulls.

The boy rejected those immediately.

His sister chose one featuring three gulls perched triumphantly on the harbour wall.

He stared at it.

“Why would you buy that?”

“I like them.”

“One stole my sausage.”

“It didn’t steal mine.”

There was no obvious counterargument.

Meanwhile their father had discovered the wildlife section.

“Got anything on birds?”

I glanced towards his son.

“Trying to identify the culprit?”

He laughed.

“No. We saw something diving into the water yesterday. Small bird.”

The remark reminded me instantly of Hubert’s excitement over his little tern.

I handed over the same field guide Dorothy had found for him.

“This looks perfect,” he said.

His wife arrived carrying a coastal walking guide.

“There’s a six-mile cliff walk.”

The children overheard.

“Six miles?” said the boy.

“It’ll be lovely,” his mother replied.

“That’s not a holiday.”

His sister nodded solemnly.

For the first time all morning, the siblings achieved complete agreement.

In the end they purchased four postcards, a walking guide and a book on British seabirds.

As I packed everything into a bag, the mother asked if there were any local attractions they should visit before returning home.

“The Merry Teapot is popular.”

“We’ve already been.”

“The church is worth seeing.”

“Yesterday.”

“The harbour?”

“Sausage,” said the boy darkly.

“Yes. Perhaps you’ve experienced enough of the harbour.”

His father smiled.

“What about fish and chips?”

“The Codfather.”

He blinked.

“The what?”

“The Codfather.”

A brief silence followed.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

His wife laughed.

“Well now we have to go.”

Most visitors said much the same.

I gave directions, and the family prepared to leave.

At the door, the young girl paused.

“Do the seagulls steal chips too?”

“Yes.”

She grinned.

Her brother did not.

I watched them disappear along Harbour Street.

One sausage lighter, perhaps, but otherwise successful tourists.

Pebblewick had once again demonstrated that local commerce and organised gull theft existed in perfect balance.

Later that afternoon Juliette arrived with Mrs Evans.

Her English was improving noticeably.

“Hello, Harold.”

“Hello, Juliette.”

“I like Pebblewick.”

“You’ve only been here a week.”

“Yes.”

“Give it time.”

Mrs Evans laughed.

Juliette did not understand why.

The remainder of Tuesday passed in complete calm.

Nobody deposited mysterious strangers outside the church.

Nobody stole fish.

Nobody died.

Even the gulls appeared unusually professional in their conduct.

By evening I was beginning to worry.

Wednesday

It rained.

Mrs Thistlewood did not come in.

Neither of these developments surprised me.

The rain began shortly after seven and settled over the village with the quiet determination peculiar to British seaside weather.

Holidaymakers wandered along Harbour Street in waterproofs, wearing expressions that suggested Pebblewick itself had arranged the conditions personally.

The shop did reasonably well.

Rain has always been good for bookselling.

People who intend to spend the day at the beach often discover a sudden enthusiasm for literature when confronted with continuous precipitation.

Shortly before eleven an elderly couple entered carrying a single umbrella which had evidently lost its battle against the weather.

The husband folded it and promptly deposited most of the collected water onto his own shoes.

His wife looked down.

“You’ve done that again, Arthur.”

“I know.”

“You always do.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Arthur considered the question.

“I honestly don’t know.”

They introduced themselves as Arthur and Margaret and explained that they had not visited Pebblewick in more than thirty years.

That fact became obvious almost immediately.

Everything prompted a memory.

“That wasn’t there before.”

“I’m sure that used to be a chemist.”

“Wasn’t there a bakery here?”

They moved through the village as though searching for traces of an earlier version of their lives.

Eventually Arthur discovered the local history section.

He opened a pictorial history of Pebblewick and began browsing old photographs.

Margaret suddenly touched his arm.

“There.”

Arthur adjusted his spectacles.

An image of the promenade from decades earlier stared back at them.

“Our bench,” Margaret said quietly.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then Arthur smiled.

“That is our bench.”

Apparently they had spent countless summer evenings there when their children were young.

Ice creams for the children.

Tea from a kiosk for the parents.

Sunsets over the sea.

The photograph preserved all of it.

“Is the bench still there?” Margaret asked.

“I think so.”

“We’ll go and see.”

“In this weather?”

I nodded toward the rain-lashed window.

Margaret smiled.

“We waited thirty years. We can wait another hour.”

They bought the book.

As they left, Arthur accidentally opened the umbrella indoors.

“Arthur.”

“Ah.”

He closed it again.

A fresh cascade of water landed on his shoes.

“You’ve done it again.”

“I know.”

They eventually disappeared into the rain beneath their umbrella, heading toward the promenade and, if luck allowed, a memory still waiting where they had left it.

I watched them go.

Most people entered The Salty Page looking for books.

Every so often, someone found thirty years instead.

Patrick Post arrived at lunchtime.

“Wet one.”

“I’d noticed.”

“Ted says it’ll clear by four.”

“Does he?”

“Definitely.”

The rain stopped at ten past four.

I found this irritating.

There was still no second postcard from Catherine Cartwright.

The original remained behind the counter.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

No explanation.

No details.

No further communication.

I was beginning to suspect Catherine possessed a very relaxed interpretation of the word surprise.

Thursday

Thursday arrived carrying nothing more alarming than a delivery van.

By Pebblewick standards, this counted as a triumph.

Scott appeared shortly after half past nine with two cardboard boxes and the expression of a man who had long ago accepted that booksellers were peculiar but had stopped trying to understand why.

“Morning, Henry.”

“Harold.”

“Yes. Henry.”

I signed the delivery sheet.

Our relationship continued to develop along exactly the same lines as it always had.

The boxes contained the latest order.

I opened them cautiously.

Recent experience had taught me not to trust cardboard.

The previous delivery had produced a Japanese thriller about assassins that I had never ordered and which had somehow set half the village investigating things.

Since then I had become wary.

This time everything was exactly as requested.

History books.

Travel guides.

Three crime novels.

A gardening title.

Several children's books.

Nothing inexplicable.

No mysterious substitutions.

No literary surprises.

I checked the invoice twice.

Scott watched me.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“You look worried.”

“Everything's correct.”

“Good.”

“That's the worrying part.”

He frowned.

“Why?”

“Because things are rarely this straightforward.”

Scott considered this briefly.

Then, deciding that further discussion could only make matters worse, he climbed back into his van and drove away.

Outside, one of the harbour gulls was sitting on a chimney opposite the shop.

It watched Scott leave.

Scott watched it.

The gull blinked.

Scott blinked.

Neither side appeared willing to surrender strategic advantage.

Eventually the gull looked away first.

I considered that a diplomatic victory for humanity.

The morning remained quiet.

Customers came and went.

Postcards sold steadily.

A woman from Leeds bought a guidebook on local walks.

A retired teacher purchased two novels and spent ten minutes explaining exactly why modern punctuation had deteriorated since 1987.

I largely agreed with her.

Shortly after lunch, Mr Milton-Price arrived.

This surprised me.

Mainly because he had only recently collected a sizeable stack of books and had assured me they would keep him occupied for months.

“I need another book.”

“Certainly.”

“On sheep.”

I blinked.

“You bought one on sheep last week.”

“I know.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“It doesn't tell me what I need to know.”

I immediately regretted asking my next question.

“What do you need to know?”

Mr Milton-Price looked mildly offended.

“About sheep.”

“Of course.”

We stood in silence for several moments.

Eventually I located another agricultural title.

It appeared considerably more detailed than the first.

He examined it carefully.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“This one looks promising.”

I decided not to enquire further.

Sometimes bookselling requires recognising the exact moment a conversation should be allowed to end.

Mr Milton-Price purchased the book and departed, apparently determined to advance his understanding of sheep by whatever means necessary.

The afternoon drifted by peacefully.

No emergency meetings in The Merry Teapot.

No mysterious strangers.

No rogue fish.

No unexpected international visitors.

At one point Captain Haddock crossed Harbour Street carrying a bucket.

I deliberately did not ask what was inside it.

A man who spends his mornings studying foreign knots and his afternoons walking around with unidentified buckets is entitled to a degree of privacy.

Towards four o'clock, Patrick Post pushed open the door during his rounds.

“Anything exciting today?”

“No.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

He looked disappointed.

Pebblewick residents had become remarkably accustomed to excitement.

A lack of it now seemed faintly suspicious.

Patrick glanced around the shop.

“How's the postcard mystery?”

I reached beneath the counter and held up Catherine Cartwright's latest communication.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

Patrick read it.

Then read it again.

“That's all?”

“That's all.”

“Any idea what the surprise is?”

“No.”

“When are you supposed to find out?”

“I don't know.”

Patrick nodded thoughtfully.

“That is quite a poor-quality mystery.”

“Thank you.”

“Needs more clues.”

“I couldn't agree more.”

He handed the postcard back.

“Well, good luck with that.”

With those encouraging words he continued on his route.

The final hour passed without incident.

The village remained calm.

The harbour remained quiet.

Even the gulls appeared strangely restrained.

As I locked the shop that evening, I found myself looking once more at Catherine's postcard.

A surprise.

Somewhere.

Eventually.

Perhaps.

I slipped it back beneath the counter.

There are few things more unsettling than an unidentified future event.

Except, perhaps, an unidentified future event announced by postcard.

Pebblewick, meanwhile, remained perfectly calm.

Which somehow made it all the more suspicious.

Friday

Friday morning brought Captain Haddock.

For once, he arrived empty-handed.

There was no fish under his arm, no bucket, no suspicious parcel wrapped in newspaper, and, rather disappointingly, no sign of General.

“The knot book's useful,” he announced.

“I'm glad.”

“Been practising.”

“Any particular knot?”

“Portugal.”

I waited for additional information.

None arrived.

“Are you going to Portugal?”

“Maybe.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

That appeared to conclude both his travel plans and the conversation.

He nodded once, apparently satisfied, and departed.

I watched him cross Harbour Street before disappearing towards the harbour.

Whether Portugal was involved remained entirely unclear.

Ten minutes later Mrs Watkins arrived.

She looked around expectantly.

“Anything interesting happened?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

She frowned.

“No mysterious strangers?”

“No.”

“Police cars?”

“No.”

“Bodies?”

“Definitely no.”

She sighed heavily, as though the village had failed in its civic duties.

“Quiet week.”

“Wonderful, isn't it?”

“I preferred the dead American.”

“Most people would not say that.”

“Well, it was interesting.”

Mrs Watkins selected a crime novel from the new arrivals.

The title involved murder at a country hotel.

This seemed to cheer her considerably.

Before leaving, she paused at the door.

“If somebody does discover a body later, let me know.”

“I don't keep a list.”

“You should.”

Then she left.

I sometimes suspected Mrs Watkins would have made an excellent detective.

Or an appalling one.

There would have been very little difference.

The late morning drifted by peacefully.

A retired couple bought postcards.

A tourist purchased a guidebook and asked whether the lighthouse was open.

An elderly gentleman spent fifteen minutes reading the back covers of books before purchasing exactly the one he had picked up first.

Normal bookshop behaviour.

It was strangely comforting.

Just after lunch, Reverend Horace Finch entered.

He looked mildly concerned.

“Harold, have I left my umbrella here?”

I looked around.

“No, Horace.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I was certain I left it in the shop.”

“When?”

“Tuesday.”

“You didn't come in on Tuesday.”

He considered this carefully.

“Ah.”

I waited.

“So where was I on Tuesday?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Neither do I.”

He nodded thoughtfully and left.

Twenty minutes later he returned.

“I've found it.”

“Excellent.”

“It's at home.”

“Good.”

“I never took it out.”

“Even better.”

Horace seemed pleased with this outcome.

“Thought you should know.”

“Thank you.”

“Wouldn't want the mystery remaining unresolved.”

“That would be terrible.”

He nodded gravely and departed for the second time.

That was the most dramatic event of the afternoon.

The remainder of the day passed with remarkable efficiency.

Books were sold.

Postcards disappeared from the rack.

Coffee was consumed.

Nobody required rescuing from anything.

Nobody smuggled foreign visitors into the village.

Nobody attempted to steal fish.

Nobody announced a surprise.

The postcard from Catherine Cartwright remained stubbornly unexplained beneath the counter.

Several times during the day I found myself taking it out and reading it again.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

That was all.

No date.

No details.

No indication whether the surprise was good, bad, expensive, alarming, or likely to involve Pebblewick.

Knowing Catherine, it could have been nearly anything.

By five o'clock I locked the door and stood for a moment looking out across Harbour Street.

The gulls were circling above the harbour.

Tourists wandered towards the promenade.

A dog was attempting to drag its owner towards Molly's bakery.

Everything appeared entirely normal.

After recent events, that felt less reassuring than it should have.

Pebblewick was quiet.

Far too quiet.

And whenever Pebblewick became that quiet, experience suggested it was usually gathering strength for something else.

Saturday

Dorothy arrived at precisely nine o'clock.

She was carrying her notebook.

Of course she was.

“Morning, Mr Quibble.”

“Morning, Dorothy.”

She removed her coat, produced a pencil, opened the notebook and looked at me expectantly.

“What shall I do first?”

I glanced around the shop.

Everything was already tidy.

The books were in order.

The postcards were stocked.

Even the counter looked respectable.

“Try to look busy.”

Dorothy immediately wrote this down.

“I was joking.”

She crossed it out.

“Sorry.”

“Don't be. That's probably the most professional response I've ever had from a volunteer.”

She looked pleased.

Saturday quickly settled into a steady rhythm.

Visitors wandered in from the harbour.

Holidaymakers browsed.

Locals stopped for conversations disguised as purchases.

Dorothy proved just as competent as she had been the previous week.

She found books before customers finished describing them.

She replenished postcard displays without being asked.

She sold bookmarks with the efficiency of a seasoned merchant.

At one point she quietly reorganised part of the children's section.

Unlike certain people in Pebblewick, she asked permission first.

“That's fine,” I told her.

“Thank you, Mr Quibble.”

Twenty minutes later the section looked considerably better than it had before.

I chose not to mention this.

Encouragement can be dangerous.

Mrs Thistlewood arrived shortly after ten.

She immediately inspected Dorothy's work.

This inspection was entirely self-appointed.

“Very good,” she declared.

Dorothy beamed.

Mrs Thistlewood nodded approvingly.

I noticed that she had somehow elevated herself from occasional assistant to unofficial management without consulting either Dorothy or me.

I was not entirely certain how it had happened.

I also suspected resistance would be futile.

The morning remained pleasantly busy.

Many customers were familiar faces.

A visiting couple bought a book on local history after spotting Arthur and Margaret's bench in the display copy.

A child spent ten minutes choosing a postcard before selecting the very first one she had picked up.

A gentleman asked whether we stocked books on sailing.

I directed him towards the relevant shelf and wisely avoided mentioning Captain Haddock.

Just before lunch, Elizabeth arrived.

She came in smiling.

“Hello, Harold.”

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

She looked towards Dorothy, who was helping a customer find a wildlife guide.

“She's enjoying herself.”

“She seems to be.”

“Thank you again.”

“There's really no need.”

But there clearly was.

For the third time that week Elizabeth thanked me for allowing Dorothy to help in the shop.

For the third time that week, I accepted gratitude for a decision that had largely been organised by everyone except me.

At a certain point, explanations become more exhausting than agreement.

Dorothy finished serving the customer and waved enthusiastically.

Elizabeth waved back.

Mother and daughter appeared equally delighted by the arrangement.

That afternoon, Molly appeared carrying two parcels wrapped in greaseproof paper.

This immediately attracted my attention.

Unexpected packages from Molly usually contained cake.

Experience had taught me this.

“One for you,” she said.

She handed over the first parcel.

“One for Dorothy.”

She handed over the second.

I looked suspiciously at her.

“What's the occasion?”

“No occasion.”

This was perhaps the most alarming statement I had heard all week.

People in Pebblewick did not distribute cake without reason.

Birthday cake had reasons.

Wedding cake had reasons.

Sympathy cake had reasons.

Celebration cake had reasons.

Random, consequence-free cake was almost unheard of.

“What sort of cake?”

“Lemon.”

That settled the matter.

Dorothy and I ate it.

It was excellent.

Molly seemed pleased and departed before either of us could question her further.

The afternoon drifted by peacefully.

Captain Haddock did not appear.

Mrs Watkins remained absent.

No tourists lost food to wildlife.

No foreign visitors arrived unexpectedly.

No mysterious clues emerged.

There was still no word from Catherine Cartwright.

No second postcard.

No letter.

No explanation.

Nothing.

Several times during the afternoon I found myself glancing towards the place beneath the counter where her postcard remained.

A surprise, apparently.

One that had yet to materialise.

By five o'clock Dorothy had gone home, the final customers had departed, and silence settled over The Salty Page.

I turned the sign to CLOSED.

For a moment I stood alone behind the counter.

Then I looked back over the week.

Nobody had died.

Nobody had been abandoned outside my shop.

No weddings had collapsed into chaos.

No cats had attempted organised crime.

No unexplained foreigners had appeared with mysterious stories.

No fish had been stolen.

As far as I knew, no gulls had successfully robbed anybody.

The police had not been required once.

By Pebblewick standards, it had been an astonishingly successful week.

I made myself a cup of coffee.

I drank it slowly.

It remained hot from beginning to end.

Another rare achievement.

Standing by the window, I looked out across Harbour Street as the evening light settled over the village.

Everything appeared calm.

Normal.

Orderly.

Peaceful.

I should have enjoyed it.

Instead, I found myself waiting.

Because life in Pebblewick had taught me something important.

Nothing happening was perfectly ordinary.

Nothing happening for an entire week was deeply suspicious.

And sooner or later, I suspected, Pebblewick would remember its responsibilities.