The Bookshop on the Shore Read online

  ‘But,’ she said, and then shook her head again. ‘How on earth . . . how on earth have you managed to have a baby?’

  Jaz rolled his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, right, well, you take a flower and a bee right . . .’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Surinder. ‘When were you going to tell Mum and Dad?’

  He shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘It just . . . it just kind of happened, you know?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Surinder. ‘You don’t accidentally just stumble on a baby. Oh my God, I’m an auntie again! Show me pictures! No, don’t – I’m furious with you. No, show me. No, don’t.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  He pulled out his closely guarded phone.

  ‘I thought you were weird about your phone because you had a girlfriend . . . Oh, you’ve got those too, haven’t you?’

  Jaz went pink to the tips of his ears.

  ‘So why are you telling me now then?’

  Jaz shrugged.

  ‘Well, the DJing isn’t really taking off and . . .’

  Surinder gave him the biggest Paddington Bear stare, which he did his best to ignore.

  ‘Are you here for money?’

  ‘It’s really tough out there,’ said Jaz. ‘People just don’t get my vibe.’

  ‘I get your vibe,’ said Surinder ominously. She opened the emergency biscuit tin, took one out for herself and didn’t offer Jaz any.

  ‘Are you going to tell Mum and Dad?’

  ‘They’ll kill me!’ said Jaz.

  ‘They won’t kill you,’ said Surinder. ‘They’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘That’s worse!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I just . . . she needs help . . .’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. Which you would know if you ever read a paper and had heard the term “Brexit” or “currency exchange” and worked in an import business.’

  Jaz rubbed the back of his neck.

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘I was going to go out DJing on the festival circuit – give it a really big push, you know? Make enough money to sort us out.’

  ‘So,’ said Surinder gloomily. ‘You’re planning on buying some magic beans.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry when I’m famous.’

  ‘Where’s her family?’

  ‘Spain,’ said Jaz. ‘She’s only got her mum really.’

  In Surinder’s head she saw some big lazy lump of a girl sitting on her arse expecting Jaz to pay for everything.

  ‘You are such an idiot,’ she said. ‘What’s she even like? Have you got a pic?’

  To Surinder’s horror, Jaz didn’t.

  ‘Ah, she’s all right,’ he said. ‘Reads all the time. She’s like that old flatmate of yours. Obsessed with it. Books books books. Really boring.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What?’ said Jaz.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Surinder. ‘Just . . . oh, I’m sure it’s nothing.’

  Chapter Six

  The harvesting boys and girls had moved on again, but the weather was still soft and golden, the breeze filtering through the now shorn fields. The evenings were still long, even as there was the faintest hint in the clear air that autumn was on the horizon. The geese had started to circle overhead, preparing for their long journey south.

  Nina had popped into Mrs Murray’s shop in the village to pick up some tarragon to go with the chicken she was roasting that evening, plus four sticky buns of which she would endeavour to keep at least one for Lennox.

  ‘Ooh, look at you,’ said Mrs Murray. Nina peered down at her stomach. ‘You’re huge!’

  ‘I thought I was average,’ grumbled Nina, conscious again that she was – as the rather peremptory health visitor kept telling her – quite obvious for how far along in her pregnancy she was.

  She had worked out she was pregnant at exactly the same time as a very famous celebrity, and was slightly obsessed with the very famous celebrity, who was showing off a tiny, barely noticeable bump at various hot spots around the globe, while she, Nina, was already having some difficulty leaning down to tie her own shoelaces.

  ‘Well, how many are in there?’ said Mrs Murray, who had always been rather direct.

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ said Nina, deciding against the buns.

  The old woman looked up. ‘It is wonderful news,’ she said eventually. ‘I never thought I’d see that Lennox being happy again.’

  Nina smiled, not over the moon to be reminded that she wasn’t Lennox’s first girlfriend.

  ‘So what are you going to do with yon van . . . ?’

  But just as she was speaking, the door to the little shop pinged open and a young girl neither of them recognised came in. She looked tearful. She was slender with high cheekbones and pale hair and spoke with a strong Polish accent.

  ‘Hello?’ said Mrs Murray, rather tentatively.

  The girl rubbed her face, which was rather smeared.

  ‘When is bus please?’ she said.

  Mrs Murray frowned.

  ‘Well, that depends where you’re going.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said the girl fiercely. Mrs Murray and Nina glanced at each other.

  ‘Tuesday,’ said Mrs Murray.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Nina gently.

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘They are monsters!’ she said and Nina was genuinely concerned.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Och!’ said Mrs Murray, suddenly realising. ‘You’re up at the hoose.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said the girl.

  ‘What house?’ said Nina.

  ‘The big hoose!’ said Mrs Murray, as if Nina was an idiot.

  ‘You know,’ said the girl. ‘They are . . . they are . . .’

  She looked at them both.

  ‘Wolves,’ she spat. ‘Little tiny wolves.’

  Mrs Murray quietly rang up the bar of chocolate Nina hadn’t realised she’d added to her basket.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I not stay . . . Tuesday?’

  ‘There’s a bus for Inverness . . . There’s an airport.’

  The girl nodded quietly.

  ‘Oh, that hoose,’ said Mrs Murray. The girl disappeared, pulling her heavy bag behind her.

  ‘What about the house?’ said Nina. She’d only been there a year. She’d got to know a lot of people, but village loyalties were strong and she normally caught gossip second-hand, if at all. Which was fine by her. Every time they included her more – a coffee morning here, a Burns’ Night supper there – she felt more and more accepted, on her own merits, as someone who was there for good, not a tourist passing through.

  Also, to be fair, absolutely tons of the gossip had actually been about her and Lennox and Lennox’s ex-wife. Loads of it. So people tended to shut up, just in case. And also if Nina had thought that the baby was going to damp that down at all she would have been very, very disappointed.

  ‘The Beeches?’

  ‘Oh yes . . .’ said Nina. She was dimly aware of something. ‘I think I met him . . . Tall bloke. Hit his head on the van?’

  ‘That sounds like Ramsay,’ said Mrs Murray. She sighed. ‘It’s a bad thing.’

  ‘Ooh, tell me,’ said Nina, who wanted to be distracted from the iced buns.

  ‘Wife left him,’ said Mrs Murray. ‘With the kids and everything.’

  ‘Oh God, really?’ said Nina. ‘That’s awful. How many kids?’

  ‘Three,’ said the Polish girl, who had popped her head back in, seeing as there was a rainstorm of the type so sudden and yet otherwise totally normal that even Nina had learned not to comment on it. Scotland’s weather was like everyone else’s weather. Just a little faster.

  ‘All evil.’

  ‘Come on now there,’ said Mrs Murray reprovingly. ‘They dinnae have a mam.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ said Nina. ‘Where is she?’

  �
�I never see her,’ said the Polish girl.

  ‘Nobody kens,’ said Mrs Murray.

  ‘Seriously?’ said Nina. ‘Why didn’t I know about this? Did he kill her? Is she mad and in the attic?’

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘She was a tricky one,’ said Mrs Murray finally. ‘But naw, she just left.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘It’s the big hoose,’ she said. ‘Strange things happen up there.’

  Chapter Seven

  It was a scorching hot day when Surinder got the train down. Not the kind of fun let’s go to the seaside kind of a day. It was hot, sticky, horribly crowded and unpleasant on the train. Overheated children moaned and wailed; there was a heavy stench of BO in the carriage. Stepping out of the train didn’t cool things at all. The station was mobbed and hot and fretful; trains were cancelled because of overheated lines and overheated people; and the whole of London felt oddly menacing.

  Jaz had begged her not to come, but she threatened to tell their parents otherwise, so there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  Zoe was incredibly excited and nervous all at once. Was this the beginning? Of Jaz taking her into his life, of building something for them together?

  She was profoundly disappointed to see Surinder stepping off the train carriage alone.

  She’d dressed Hari up in his absolute best outfit, noticing as she did so that it was already too small for him. She sighed and put him back in the denim dungarees she’d got at the charity shop. He had wriggled and looked put out, even more so when she’d decided to forego the buggy and tried to make him walk the long way to the bus stop. He wasn’t having it and she’d ended up having to carry him most of the way, wriggling and struggling hotly, and now she was sweaty and nervous and feeling a mess and this beautiful, put-together-looking girl stepping off the train had to be Jaz’s sister, she could see it right away.

  Of course he wasn’t there.

  Zoe put up a hand weakly.

  Surinder looked at her – well, not her sister-in-law, but even so. Goodness. She wasn’t what she’d have expected at all. Slim – actually, closer to scrawny was putting it better as she wasn’t really a type of slim you’d want to be – petite, messy black hair loosely tied back, and shadows under her eyes. She barely glanced at Zoe though before her gaze was pulled to the little boy hiding behind her legs. Her face broke into a smile.

  ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Hello!’

  She crouched down straightaway. The little boy eyed her up between his mother’s legs.

  ‘Are you Hari?’

  The child didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did . . . ?’ Zoe was conscious her voice sounded nervous. ‘Did Jaz explain?’

  Surinder straightened up. She was so pretty and confident-looking. Zoe wanted to be her friend immediately. She would never have got knocked up by mistake, Zoe found herself reflecting gloomily. Far too sensible.

  ‘Explain what? Hello by the way. I’m Surinder. Sorry my brother is a dickhead.’

  ‘Um . . . that’s okay,’ said Zoe. ‘Did he explain about Hari?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t speak.’

  ‘Oh,’ frowned Surinder. ‘Doesn’t sound like a Mehta.’

  They stood in the crowded concourse.

  ‘Is there anywhere cool to get a cup of tea?’ said Surinder. ‘And I don’t mean “London cool”. I mean, not nine billion degrees’

  There wasn’t much around Euston, but finally they found a little park with a set of swings. Hari looked at the swings, but didn’t dare go near them, and Surinder picked them up tea from a nearby stall.

  ‘So,’ she said finally. Hari clambered up on Zoe’s knee. Surinder kept trying to interact with him, but he buried his face away.

  ‘He’s shy,’ explained Zoe.

  ‘I see that,’ said Surinder, and they both wondered briefly, shockingly, that if Hari had been a more extrovert child, a charming, chatty boy, whether Jaz might have owned up sooner.

  He was, thought Surinder, a beauty though: long, dark eyelashes; flawless skin.

  Zoe sighed.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Surinder. ‘Has it been tough?’

  Zoe felt tears springing up.

  ‘Oh yes, well, being a single mum . . . you know,’ she said. ‘Well. You don’t know. But it’s tricky.’

  ‘Does Jaz not help you out?’

  ‘He did!’ said Zoe, springing to his defence. ‘When he was working, he did. But he just wants to be a bloody DJ and he can’t hold down a job until he at least gives it a shot . . .’

  ‘You’re good for defending him,’ said Surinder. ‘Look. We want to help. Well, I do . . .’

  ‘Your parents?’

  Surinder shrugged. ‘Jaz is really adamant,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Zoe. ‘Is it because I’m not Indian?’

  Surinder snorted.

  ‘God no, they love Angela.’

  Then she realised she’d been insensitive.

  ‘My other brother’s . . . Look. Never mind. Show me where you live.’

  As soon as she saw it, with the peeling wallpaper and the mean little electric fire, Surinder made her mind up almost immediately. She knew someone else who hadn’t fitted in in the big city. Who’d needed a bit of space to breathe.

  ‘Listen. Do you know much about books?’

  ‘I read a lot,’ said Zoe. Then she looked up. ‘And I’m ready . . . I mean, we need a place to stay. But if you know of a good job . . . I promise. I promise I can work hard. I do.’

  Surinder looked around. The tiny studio was horrible, but it was spotlessly clean and tidy, as was Hari himself.

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’

  She bent down. Hari immediately charged behind Zoe’s legs again.

  ‘And next time I see you, young man,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ll be nicer to your auntie-ji.’

  Chapter Eight

  Nina put it out of her mind – she was fine, she’d be fine, something would present itself, a solution would turn up, Ainslee would come home from college or something. She couldn’t take in Surinder’s waif – it was ridiculous – when a woman showed up that she recognised dimly from around town. Not a regular in the book van or anything.

  ‘Hello?’

  This woman was cross-looking, older, with the beginnings of a humped back, folded arms and a slightly forbidding expression. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Can I put a notice up?’

  ‘You can,’ said Nina. ‘It’s £1 a week.’

  The woman sniffed.

  ‘Daylight robbery,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not forcing you,’ said Nina. The woman grumped forward and handed the money to Nina. It was a ‘Help wanted’ advert: au pair, evenings and weekends, apply to Mrs MacGlone at The Beeches. Nina frowned, remembering the Polish girl. She looked at it again.

  ‘Did somebody called Surinder send you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Whit?’ said the woman. Nina looked at it again.

  ‘Are you . . . are you from the big house?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you need . . . ? Is it three children?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said. Nina stared at it.

  ‘And it’s a live-in job?’

  The woman shrugged.

  ‘There’s plenty of space.’

  Nina stared at it for a long time.

  ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘Give me the leaflet. No charge.’

  The woman handed it over, surprised.

  ‘Can I help you with any books?’ she said as the woman turned to leave.

  ‘Och no. Got more than enough of those buggers up at the hoose.’

  And she vanished in a bustle out onto the grey cobbles.

  Chapter Nine

  It was a chilly evening, and Nina drew the curtains – if she left them open, even before it was fully dark, Lennox would peer out of them and fret about his black lamb
– lit the stove and made shepherd’s pie, Lennox’s favourite, in the hopes that it would put him in a talkative mood, or at least a slightly more talkative mood than usual. She brought him tea on the sofa and he looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be doing that for you?’ he said. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Tell me about the big house,’ Nina asked without preamble.

  ‘Why do I need to be bribed by tea to tell you about the big hoose?’ said Lennox good-naturedly. ‘Is that a Penguin biscuit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many Penguins are left in the packet?’

  ‘Don’t ask me that.’

  Lennox smiled.

  ‘Well. Ramsay is the young laird . . . well, just the laird I suppose now . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got that much. Just tell me about whether he killed his wife.’

  Lennox half-smiled, sadly.

  ‘Oh God, you got to that story did you?’

  ‘Men always kill their wives,’ said Nina, settling down on the sofa.

  ‘No,’ said Lennox carefully. ‘People very rarely kill anyone.’ He thought about it. ‘But if they do, it’s their wives, yes.’

  ‘So . . .’

  ‘I met Elspeth Urquart once,’ said Lennox, his voice tapering off into the distance somewhere. ‘She was so beautiful. Like a fairy. She was tiny, with this big cloud of yellow hair all around her face. Green eyes. Pointed chin.’

  ‘Cobweb frock?’ added Nina. ‘What happened to her?’

  Lennox shook her head.

  ‘She was always . . . not quite there. As if she’d just woken up and didn’t quite understand what had happened with her life. She was beautiful, and it was a sudden story I suppose . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, young Urquart – Ramsay – he was at university in Cambridge when his dad died, sudden like. That was the old laird. And he had to come back and take on the hoose, which was in a right mess . . . still is. And he hadn’t been back three months when he pitched up with her. Had the children, and then . . . she was gone again. I’m not sure she was equipped to live in the modern world. That’s what people said.’