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 a mild-mannered gentleman, usually found wearing round spectacles, a knitted waistcoat, and the expression of a man who has spent thirty years learning that very few people enter a bookshop with the straightforward intention of buying a book.

I am the proprietor of The Salty Page, the only bookshop in the seaside village of Pebblewick.

Now, there are seaside villages that appear in travel guides, seaside villages that grace postcards, and seaside villages that sensible people drive through on their way somewhere else.

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

It was a small village tucked into a curve of the coast, a place of whitewashed cottages, fishing boats and sea air. A narrow promenade ran along the shoreline, and the council had been promising to repair various sections of it since 1957.

The High Street contained everything a village believed it needed. There was a bakery whose warm scent drifted across the street each morning, a post office where people discussed local affairs while pretending to queue for stamps, a tearoom called The Merry Teapot, and a fish-and-chip shop named The Codfather, whose owner insisted he had invented the name entirely by himself.

As for The Salty Page, it stood between the post office and an empty premises that had been awaiting redevelopment for so long that many residents assumed it was now a historical monument.

The shop itself was narrow, crooked, and old enough that nobody could remember what it had originally been. The front windows leaned slightly towards the sea, and during strong westerly winds the letterbox emitted a mournful whistle that sounded remarkably like a ghost reconsidering its life choices.

I had inherited the business from a distant cousin who had decided, shortly before his death, that I was the family member most interested in "reading". It was a somewhat vague qualification, but evidently sufficient.

That had been thirty years ago.

Since then I had sold novels to holidaymakers, biographies to retired colonels, gardening books to people whose gardens later died of neglect, and cookbooks to customers who continued to live almost entirely on takeaway meals.

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 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 mother was carrying a bouquet of flowers. Another had a box of chocolates tucked beneath her arm. The father was attempting to conceal a bottle-shaped parcel behind his back with all the subtlety of a man smuggling diamonds 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?"

A murmur of agreement followed.

"They're for the teachers," Mrs Evans explained.

"Of course."

"Our Sophie has Miss Cartwright."

"A very good 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 parcel cleared his throat.

"I'd like one for Mrs Partridge."

"How much?" I asked.

He paused thoughtfully.

"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 a 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 made my tea.

And someone had already knocked over a display of gardening books.

"Please don't touch anything," called one of the mothers.

Every child immediately touched something.

A boy picked up 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 isn't for her."

"Then why are we here?"

His mother closed her eyes.

I suspected she was silently counting to ten.

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 rear of the shop came a loud crash.

"What was that?" I asked.

"Nothing!" shouted several children simultaneously.

I continued writing.

"Mr Perkins, ten pounds."

"Could you make it seven pounds fifty?"

"Certainly."

"And Mrs Partridge?"

Mr Jenkins placed his 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 moved the parcel behind his back.

Mrs Evans became intensely interested in the ceiling.

I adjusted my spectacles.

"Five pounds it is."

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

I stood in the doorway and watched 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 quite wrong.

The remainder of the morning passed quietly enough, apart from a visit from Mrs Mabel Thistlewood.

Mrs Thistlewood was the widow of a retired bank manager and possessed the remarkable gift of knowing everything that happened in Pebblewick approximately twenty minutes before the people involved knew it themselves.

She arrived carrying her shopping basket and stopped beside me in the doorway.

"Busy morning, Harold?"

"I've been open for approximately eight minutes."

"And?"

"I've sold thirty-five pounds' worth of book tokens, rescued a railway book from a seven-year-old, picked up six gardening books and learned that Mr Jenkins places a higher value on whisky than he does on teacher appreciation."

Mrs Thistlewood nodded.

"Productive, then."

"I haven't even had my tea."

"Good heavens."

She looked genuinely concerned.

We spent a few minutes observing the peace before she entered the shop in search of a book on remaining calm.

It struck me that she had chosen the subject none too soon.

During the afternoon, two teachers from Pebblewick Village School arrived in search of presents for their colleagues.

"We need something for the librarian," one explained.

"Any particular book?" I asked.

The pair exchanged glances.

"That's the difficulty."

"She's surrounded by books all day."

"Yet neither of us has the faintest idea what she actually reads."

I considered this.

"A book token perhaps?"

Both faces brightened immediately.

"Perfect."

"And something for the headmaster."

"What does he enjoy reading?"

There was a long pause.

"School reports."

"And the occasional council letter."

I reached for another book token.

"Then perhaps we should not take any chances."

The only other customer of note that afternoon was the Reverend Horace Finch, who arrived carrying a bundle of parish newsletters beneath one arm.

"Afternoon, Quibble," he said, depositing the bundle on the counter. "Thought you might put a few of these by the door."

"Of course, Reverend."

"Parish news, church notices, flower rota, that sort of thing."

"Anything exciting?"

The Reverend considered this carefully.

"Mrs Watkins has resigned from the church cleaning committee."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Good heavens."

"Exactly. We're hoping to avoid a scandal."

As I arranged the newsletters beside the door, the Reverend mentioned that he would be conducting a wedding at St Bartholomew's the following day.

"Not a local couple," he explained. "Bride and groom are coming from away."

"Why Pebblewick?"

"Apparently they came here on holiday a few years ago and thought the church was charming."

I glanced through the window towards St Bartholomew's, whose ancient tower rose above the rooftops beyond the harbour.

"Very romantic."

"Indeed," said the Reverend. "Though they're bringing nearly eighty guests."

I stopped arranging the newsletters.

"Eighty?"

"So I'm told."

"On a Saturday. In July."

"Yes."

I looked towards the harbour, then towards The Codfather, and finally at the peaceful little street outside.

"Pebblewick won't know what's hit it."

The Reverend smiled.

"Oh, I'm sure everything will go perfectly smoothly."

I looked at him over my spectacles.

In Pebblewick, those were generally the last words anyone ought to say.

The Reverend departed shortly afterwards, apparently satisfied that he had distributed both his newsletters and his warning.

As evening settled over the village, I turned the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

The harbour was quiet.

The fishing boats rocked gently on the tide.

The bakery's final customers drifted home carrying paper bags beneath their arms.

A pair of seagulls argued noisily over something they had stolen from a dustbin.

Everything appeared entirely normal.

Naturally, that should have worried me.

For by this time tomorrow Pebblewick would be entertaining eighty wedding guests, welcoming the first great wave of summer holidaymakers, and taking the opening steps towards a sequence of events that would keep half the village talking for weeks.

But on that Friday evening, nobody knew that.

The village was peaceful.

The streets were calm.

And for one final night, Pebblewick remained blissfully unaware of the chaos that was approaching.