The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter One: The Last Day of Term

The Pebblewick Chronicles

Chapter One: The Last Day of Term

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr Harold Quibble.

I am, by nature, a mild-mannered gentleman of advancing years, usually found wearing round spectacles, a knitted waistcoat, and the expression of a man who has spent three decades discovering that people rarely enter bookshops for the simple purpose of buying books.

I am the proprietor of The Salty Page, a small bookshop situated in the seaside village of Pebblewick.

Now, there are seaside villages that appear in travel guides, seaside villages that adorn postcards, and seaside villages that sensible motorists pass through on their way to somewhere more exciting.

Pebblewick belonged firmly to the second category, although the postcards were inclined to be rather generous.

The village nestled in a gentle curve of the coastline, its whitewashed cottages clustered around a harbour crowded with fishing boats. A narrow promenade stretched along the shore, a structure the parish council had promised to repair every year since 1957 and had somehow managed not to.

The High Street contained all the necessities of village life. There was a bakery whose scent drifted down the street each morning, a post office where queues formed over the purchase of a single stamp, a tearoom called The Merry Teapot, and a fish-and-chip shop known as The Codfather, whose owner maintained, despite considerable evidence to the contrary, that he had invented the name entirely by himself.

As for The Salty Page, it stood nestled between the post office and an empty premises that had been awaiting redevelopment since Britain won the World Cup.

The shop itself was narrow, crooked and sufficiently old that nobody could remember what it had been before becoming a bookshop. Its front windows leaned ever so slightly towards the sea, as though attempting a cautious escape, and whenever a strong westerly wind blew in from the harbour, the letterbox produced a mournful whistle.

I inherited the business from a distant cousin who, shortly before his death, decided that I was the family member most interested in “reading”. That assessment, while somewhat vague, proved sufficient to place ownership of the shop in my hands. I have been running it ever since, for the past thirty years.

During those years I have sold novels to holidaymakers, atlases to sailors, gardening books to people whose gardens subsequently died, and cookbooks to individuals who continued ordering takeaway meals with admirable consistency.

What follows is the account of an entirely ordinary week in Pebblewick.

Or at least, what should have been an ordinary week.

It began on the final day of the school term.

At twenty minutes to nine on Friday morning, I was walking down Harbour Street with the local newspaper tucked beneath my arm when I noticed a queue outside my shop.

Now, in Pebblewick, six people standing in the same location was generally considered a public gathering.

This particular gathering consisted of four mothers, one father and seven children.

One of the mothers was carrying a bouquet of flowers. Another had a box of chocolates beneath her arm. The father appeared to be concealing a bottle-shaped parcel behind his back with all the subtlety of a man smuggling treasure through customs.

“Morning, Mr Quibble!” called Mrs Evans.

“Good morning, Mrs Evans.”

“Are you opening?”

“That had been my intention.”

“We only need book tokens.”

“All of you?”

There was an immediate murmur of agreement.

“They’re for the teachers,” Mrs Evans explained.

“Of course.”

“Our Sophie has Miss Cartwright.”

“A lovely teacher.”

“Wonderful,” said Mrs Evans. “Absolutely wonderful.”

Sophie tugged at her mother’s sleeve.

“You said yesterday she was driving you round the bend.”

Mrs Evans smiled brightly.

“Children do have vivid imaginations.”

Another mother stepped forward.

“I need one for Mr Perkins. Ten pounds, please.”

Her son looked horrified.

“Ten pounds?”

“It’s from all of us.”

“But you said we were only putting a couple of quid in each.”

“Quiet, Peter.”

The father with the suspicious-looking parcel cleared his throat.

“I’d like one for Mrs Partridge.”

“How much?” I asked.

He considered the matter carefully.

“How much do you normally give a teacher?”

I unlocked the door.

“I sell books, Mr Jenkins. I do not set the national rate for teacher appreciation.”

The children immediately began squeezing past me.

“Not yet,” I protested. “I haven’t opened.”

“You’ve opened the door,” observed a small girl.

“That is technically true.”

“So you’re open.”

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

I had the distinct feeling she might one day become a solicitor.

Within thirty seconds, The Salty Page was full.

I had not removed my coat.

I had not opened the till.

I had not put the kettle on.

And somebody had already knocked over an entire display of gardening books.

“Please don’t touch anything,” called one of the mothers.

Every child promptly touched something.

A young boy lifted a large volume entitled A History of British Railways.

“Can I have this?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“We’re buying something for your teacher.”

“She doesn’t like trains.”

“It’s not for her.”

“Then why are we here?”

His mother closed her eyes and appeared to question several life decisions simultaneously.

Meanwhile, I began writing out the book tokens.

“Miss Cartwright, ten pounds.”

“Five,” said Mrs Evans quickly.

“I thought you said ten.”

“That was before I remembered I have two other children.”

From the far end of the shop came a crash.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Nothing!” shouted several children at once.

I continued writing.

“Mr Perkins, ten pounds.”

“Could you make it seven pounds fifty?”

“Certainly.”

“And Mrs Partridge?”

Mr Jenkins placed the mysterious parcel on the counter.

“Five pounds.”

His daughter frowned.

“That’s not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“You spent more than that on the whisky.”

The entire shop fell silent.

Mr Jenkins slowly slid the parcel behind his back.

Mrs Evans became suddenly fascinated by the ceiling.

I adjusted my spectacles.

“Five pounds it is.”

By ten past nine the parents had departed, and the children were racing towards the school gates carrying flowers, chocolates, book tokens and one slightly battered bunch of sweet peas.

I stood in the doorway watching them disappear up the hill.

The school bell rang in the distance.

A moment later a cheer erupted from the playground.

“Only another six hours,” I murmured. “Then peace will descend upon Pebblewick.”

I was, as events would soon prove, quite profoundly mistaken.

For by lunchtime the school gates would open.

And when they did, nearly a hundred children would be released into the village for six uninterrupted weeks.

In Pebblewick, history suggested that this was not something one should regard lightly.

I was still standing in the doorway when Mrs Mabel Thistlewood appeared around the corner carrying her shopping basket.

Mrs Thistlewood was the widow of a retired bank manager and possessed the remarkable ability to know what was happening in Pebblewick approximately twenty minutes before the people involved knew it themselves.

She stopped beside me and watched the last of the children disappearing up the hill.

“Busy morning, Harold?”

“I’ve been open for approximately eight minutes.”

“And?”

“I’ve sold thirty-five pounds' worth of book tokens, picked up six gardening books, rescued a railway book from a seven-year-old and discovered that Mr Jenkins spends considerably more on whisky than he does on his daughter’s education.”

Mrs Thistlewood nodded.

“Productive, then.”

“I haven’t even had my tea.”

“Good heavens.”

For the first time she looked genuinely alarmed.

“Are you coming in?” I asked.

“In a moment. I’m enjoying the peace.”

From somewhere above the village came another ringing of the school bell.

Mrs Thistlewood watched the school buildings thoughtfully.

“Last day of term.”

“So I gather.”

“Six weeks of children everywhere.”

“Yes.”

“And the holidaymakers will start arriving properly tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

Mrs Thistlewood sighed.

“There goes the neighbourhood.”

I looked along the temporarily peaceful Harbour Street.

“Only for six weeks.”

She turned and stared at me.

“Harold, I came here to find a book on remaining calm. Kindly don’t make things worse.”

I held the shop door open.

“In that case, you’d better come inside before the school lets out.”

And, as it happened, that was very sound advice indeed.

For the week ahead would bring wedding guests, holidaymakers, misunderstandings, rumours, misplaced property, and a variety of other complications that no sensible bookseller would ever volunteer to become involved in.

Unfortunately for me, nobody in Pebblewick had ever accused me of being sensible.