The Bookshop of Second Chances Jackie Fraser (ebook reader macos .txt) 📖

suppose they were reasonably middle class? Maybe she was a bit of a cut above? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s all morning calls and flower arranging and the Boer War and stuff. Some of it reminded me of – have you ever read any Molly Keane?’

‘Good Behaviour. And’ – I see him tracking through the files in his head – ‘Devoted Ladies–’

‘I read that one when I was sixteen,’ I tell him, ‘and found it appalling and terrifying.’

He laughs. ‘They are a bit, aren’t they. Her characters. Horsey. Emotionally abusive–’

‘Yes, everyone’s horrible and pathetic in a grotesque way. I do like them. The books. But anyway, some of it reminded me of that, although obviously they weren’t as…’ I flap my hand again.

‘Posh.’ He looks at me, a grin lurking.

‘Yes, thank you, they weren’t as posh as the people in Molly Keane books. It has mostly been quite rubbish,’ I add, ‘to be a woman.’

‘Yes.’ He pulls out one of the dining-room chairs and sits down. ‘How is it to be a woman right now at this moment?’

‘Are you asking me about Fourth-Wave Feminism or my personal womb experience?’

He snorts with laughter. ‘I meant, how are you feeling?’

‘Not too bad.’

He’s still laughing, shaking his head. He sips his tea and turns to look at the papers on the desk, pushing photographs around in the shoebox lid I’m using to corral them.

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘is this Fiona?’

‘Show me?’

He holds up the photo.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve only seen that one.’ He nods at the framed photograph on the little round table under the window: Fiona aged about nine with her hair in ringlets. The picture he’s holding is a school photo, Fiona in a blazer looking distracted.

‘Yes, that’s her.’ I rub my fingers against my temples. ‘Did he ever talk to you about her? I meant to ask Jilly’s mum, ages ago – apparently she knew her. But I forgot. I don’t even know what happened. Do you?’

‘Oh. Well. Yes, he did talk about her a bit. She liked cycling. They used to cycle about all over the place, her and her pals. That would be Kate’s sister, I suppose – maybe? There were two of them, anyway, in the accident, if that’s what you’d call it. Um – no, can’t remember the other girl’s name.’

I wait while he thinks about the story.

‘There were some lads – friends of hers – working on a boat somewhere – up beyond Kirkcudbright, I think. Fiona and Kate’s sister – if it was Kate’s sister – went up there to see how they were getting on. There was a jetty – a wooden one? It’s not there anymore, I don’t think. Anyway, it must have been rotten, or maybe she just tripped – I’m not sure. Anyway, they both fell in, and Fiona hit her head on the steps or something. The other girl couldn’t swim. The boys went in after them and they got them out, but it was too late for Fiona. There was nowhere to phone from, so one of the lads had to cycle for the doctor. Everything took too long. So she died.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘Yes, I had in my head that she’d drowned. How awful.’ I look across at the smiling face of my long-dead second cousin. How unfair everything is, how random. She might have had grandchildren, mightn’t she, if she’d lived. One of them might have been sitting here now; maybe even talking to Edward. I shiver.

‘Pretty bad,’ he agrees. ‘She’s buried in the churchyard. In the town.’

‘Is she? Do you know where?’

‘If you go in the gate, on the Co-op side, it’s just along to the left. You’ll see from the dates; all the newer stuff is on that side.’

‘I never even thought to wonder where she was buried. Or any of them.’ I’m slightly appalled by this.

‘Oh, well, they’re all there. Left room on her headstone for their names.’

We look at each other for a long moment. ‘God.’

‘I know. I’d say they’re all together now,’ he says, ‘if I was that sort of person. And physically it’s true.’ He shrugs.

I sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘They used to go to church,’ he says, draining his cup, ‘Mary and Andrew. They stopped after that, more or less.’

‘I can see how that might happen. I suppose you can go either way, can’t you.’

‘Indeed you can.’

Something else occurs to me. ‘Where’s your dad buried?’

‘Oh.’ He grins at me. ‘We’ve a tomb. In the church.’

Of course they have. ‘Oh really.’

‘Yeah, quite fancy. Brass and such like. Only the last three generations, though – you know, glorious war dead and so on. Before that, everyone got slung in the tomb at the house.’

‘Slung.’

He laughs. ‘Well, I imagine it was all a bit more, you know, elaborate than that. There’s a chapel.’

‘Is there? Whereabouts? I’ve never noticed that.’

‘It’s only tiny, round the back beyond the stables. A nice bit of exercise for them, walking three hundred yards of a Sunday morning. Anyway, I should get off and leave you alone, you still look–’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Fragile?’

‘I’ve literally never been described as “fragile” in my life,’ I say drily.

He shakes his head. ‘No, but you do. You should get an early night. But make sure you eat something.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

He ignores this and gets up. ‘I’ll take your cup, if you’ve finished. And I’ll be back in the morning to collect you. About nine-ish?’

‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

‘Whatever,’ he says, and takes the cups out to the kitchen.

Sixteen

Two weeks later, I’m in the Old Mill, drinking coffee and reading the paper in between emailing various people and fiddling about on Twitter. Cerys comes over and says, ‘Mind if I sit with you? I’m on my break.’

‘Feel free.’

‘So how are you?’

‘Good, yeah, just doing some Twitter stuff for the shop.’

‘Jilly was admiring your photos on Instagram.’

‘Yeah, I’m quite pleased with how that’s going.’

She stirs her coffee. ‘Never get Ed doing any of that.’

She’s the only person who calls him