The Bookshop on the Corner (18 page)

A
fter several days busier than she'd have thought possible, Nina decided it was time to start story hour. The sky was overcast and gray, so she didn't have to keep the blackboard outside for very long before lots of families started to crowd into the van.

She read the children the story of the nine tumbling princes who wove the sky, and they sat, snot encrusting noses, missing teeth whistling occasionally, utterly rapt, and she sold lots and lots of books afterward, but my goodness they left the most dreadful mess, particularly if they had small, clambering siblings. She was just looking up with a cloth in her hand, and trying to deal with other customers, when she saw the girl again.

This girl had a look that Nina recognized. She looked avaricious, hungry for books, desperate to get her hands on something.

“You again!” said Nina cheerily. “I'll have to start charging you rent. Come on in. Have a look.”

Lumpily—her posture was terrible—the girl mounted the
two little steps into the van. Inside, her face lit up. It changed her completely; she had the loveliest smile.

“It's nice,” she said, speaking so quietly Nina could barely hear her. She moved toward the shelves, entranced, running her fingers across the spines, smiling at certain books as if they were good friends.

“What kind of thing are you looking for?”

“Oh.” The girl's face dropped. “I can't really afford to buy books. Hey, this is misfiled.” She took out a Daniel Clowes that had slipped between two Frank Darabonts.

“Thanks,” said Nina in surprise. The girl handed her the book and expertly continued scanning the stacks.

“You like books?”

The girl nodded. “More than anything. It was shite when they shut the library. I don't . . . There aren't any books in my house.”

“None at all?”

“Neh. My mum would sell them. If she knew what they were.” She didn't say it in a self-pitying way, simply as a statement of fact.

Nina noticed that the girl's clothes were cheap and not heavy enough for the breezy weather. She glanced thoughtfully around the post-story-time mess.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “You know, I could do with an occasional helping hand around here. I can't afford to pay you very much to begin with.” She couldn't afford to pay herself at this point, by the time she'd bought a bit of gas and put something aside for stock and the occasional sandwich. “It would only be half an hour here and there, and you could take a book at the end of it. Would that work?”

The girl's face lit up. “Seriously?”

“It's not a job,” said Nina hurriedly. “I don't want to exploit you or anything like that. It's literally just a quick tidying.”

But the girl had already started neatly arranging the children's books in height order, so the little ones could easily pick out the brightest colors and jolliest creatures.

“Um, what's your name?”

“Ainslee.” The girl didn't even turn around.

“Right, thanks, Ainslee,” said Nina, and went back to the steps of the van, where she sold a full set of Regency potboilers to a local lady with an enormous Labrador, a woolly tweed dress, and a completely bizarre accent. It was only when she took out a large checkbook (Nina would have said that they didn't take checks, but the woman was buying an awful lot of books, plus she was quite frightening) that Nina saw she was Lady Kinross. Then she didn't know where to look.

“That's the posh woman from up the road,” said Ainslee when she'd gone. “Her house has a hundred rooms. She hasn't even been in some of them.”

After twenty minutes, Ainslee had straightened everything perfectly and had made a start on sweeping the floor. Nina was embarrassed and insisted on buying her a coffee, then looked around to choose a book for her.

Eventually she realized exactly what it should be, even though it was outrageously expensive:
Fore Girl
, a graphic novel written by a young South American girl about a female superhero in Rio, taking from the absurdly rich and giving to the poor in the favelas. It was funny, glamorous, and completely and utterly kick-ass, and Ainslee's face lit up like a lightbulb. Her distressed, downtrodden look had lifted completely.

“Can I come again?” she whispered.

“Yes,” said Nina. “Come again on Saturday, it's market day.”

Ainslee almost shook with pleasure. Nina noticed that she stashed her book away incredibly carefully, tucked right at the bottom of her bag among scruffy papers and dog-eared homework. Nina worried that this was to keep it away from prying eyes. Ainslee caught her looking, and blushed deeply and scurried away. Nina watched her go, wondering.

“I need to get a message to Marek,” said Nina. “Seriously, I do. No messing around this time. Work stuff.”

“You mean, start a major smuggling exercise?” said Surinder, who was kindly doing the accounts in return for food, as they explored with alacrity the excellent fresh fish, cheese and fruit and vegetables of the region. “You know, I'm not sure this is right.”

Nina sighed. “But I didn't know . . . I didn't know we'd be this busy.”

It was true. Everywhere they'd gone in the Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After, every market they'd stopped at, they'd been overwhelmed by people who hadn't had a bookshop or a library in their community for the longest time.

“I know,” said Surinder. “Remember when they used to let you out of work at four
P.M.
?”

“On WEDNESDAYS,” protested Nina. “Not every day. Just one day. Anyway, when are
you
going back to work?”

Surinder shrugged. “Oh, I have a ton of vacation stored up.”

“Yes, but I thought you were going to Vegas or L.A. or Miami, somewhere more suitable for how fabulous you are,” said Nina. “Those are exactly the words you used. You didn't say, ‘I'm just off to rural Scotland to do some accounts.'”

“I know, but . . .” Surinder looked slightly embarrassed and gazed at her feet. She was wearing . . .

“Are those new wellies?”

She was indeed sporting a pair of very fancy new floral Wellingtons.

“Because, you know, there isn't much call for new Wellingtons in Las Vegas.”

“And how would you know?”

Nina conceded this was a fair point, but even so she narrowed her eyes at Surinder.

“Have you been calling Fat Tam?” she said.

“None of your business.”

They were at a stand-off. Nina knew from long experience that it was best to change the subject.

“So anyway, I was wondering,” she began nervously. “What would you think if maybe I asked Marek—”

“You'll get him in trouble,” said Surinder, with a warning glint in her eye.

“It's just that Griffin has told me about another library that's trying to unload a lot of stock before it closes, and they'll sell it to me pretty cheaply.” Nina had given Marek's e-mail address to Griffin in preparation for moving the stock but hadn't discussed it with Marek yet. “They keep on shutting libraries,” Nina said sadly.

“Oof, that's harsh,” said Surinder.

“I know!” said Nina.

“But you can't risk getting Marek in trouble! I thought you liked him.”

“I like to think of it as evacuating the books to safety,” said Nina. “Letting them fly free into the world, don't you see? It's a good thing.”

“Only it's against the law. What if Marek was secretly transporting dynamite?”

“Books aren't dynamite.”

“What about
Mein Kampf
?”

“Surinder!”

“What? I'm just saying. You're asking him to do something bad.”

“I don't think he'd mind.”

“He wouldn't mind because of you asking him. Which is worse.”

“Okay,” said Nina. “I suppose you're right.”

“I am right!”

“I just wanted to ask him. I thought he wanted to do it.”

“I'm sure he does. You still can't ask him. Neens! I know you're a major successful businesswoman now, but I'm telling you, this is wrong.”

Nina paused.

“All right. Okay. I won't. I'll try and figure out another way.”

“Fine.”

“What are we doing tonight?”

Surinder turned away looking slightly embarrassed. “Actually,” she said. “Actually, I'm going out. Kind of. I kind of have a date.”

Nina stood up. “No way! I knew it! No way.”

“What? No one would ask me on a date?”

“Of course they'd ask you on a date, you idiot,” said Nina. “Who is it? Fat Tam, I hope.”

“No. He was really a Highland gateway drug. Angus. Or Fergus. One of the Gusses, anyway.”

“You don't even remember which one?”

“Big sturdy forearms. Broad manly chest. Thick curly hair.”

“You sound like you're dating a tree! What was wrong with Fat Tam?”

“Oh, I was just warming up,” said Surinder. “No. It's another lovely boy from the ceilidh. I can't understand a word he says, up to and including his name, so it barely matters.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“A Michelin-starred restaurant followed by a top West End show,” said Surinder. “JOKE! We're going to the pub, of course. Where else would we go?”

Surinder got ready while Nina felt mildly jealous. She would have gone and tidied up the books, but Ainslee had already done that for her, and the stock was looking decidedly low anyway. Instead, she decided to heat up some soup and reread something—anything—set in a boarding school, which rarely failed to cheer her up.

“I mean it. Don't go and see Marek. Don't do anything bad,” Surinder said once she had finished getting ready.

“I wasn't going to! And don't you do anything bad with someone WHOSE NAME YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW.”

“I don't mean that. I mean the delivery thing. Just because you're quite good at losing jobs doesn't mean everyone else is.”

“I won't.”

Then there were lights on the gravel driveway and a large car drew up.

“Ooh!” said Surinder excitedly. “It's the Hogwarts Express.” She kissed Nina on both cheeks and danced out of the door, even as a tall outline stepped down from the SUV to open the door for her, and they drove away into the misty evening, not the slightest bit dark at 8
P.M.

Nina tried to read, but for once she couldn't concentrate. The words swam in front of her eyes as she was distracted by the baaing of lambs in the fields and wondered if any of them were her own personal lambs. Then she thought about stock for the shop, but there wasn't anywhere in Scotland that could provide what she needed; she'd checked online, almost falling down a rabbit hole of beautiful first editions and ancient manuscripts for sale in Edinburgh.

No. She knew where there was a source of great and saleable and almost free books that would be greeted with joy and really enable her to get the business moving. And she knew how to get at them. All she needed to do was . . .

She decided to make some shortbread to take her mind off it. Just butter, sugar, and flour, all creamed together, simple and delicious and easily done. She made far too much. She looked at it sitting there and decided to wrap some up in a pretty bag she happened to have. And a gift box Surinder had bought her. It was only nine fifteen, and still light outside. She would just take a walk. She wouldn't run into the train, it wasn't due for hours yet. Just a walk.

She put her wellies on and walked up the side of the field, looking at the wind turbines spinning slowly far away and the lambs bouncing along beside the fence, playing and prancing with one another.

She took a handful of sweet meadow grass and held it out to a lazy-looking ewe, who came over and munched on it calmly as the little ones underneath her sucked milk steadily. It was a tranquil scene, and she smiled. Then she trudged onward. She needed the exercise after sitting in the van all day; the air was fresh, and she pulled her jacket closer.