The Bookshop on the Corner (27 page)

Then, bossed about by the green man, who wouldn't take no for an answer, they all had to take hands in two great rings, one clockwise, one counterclockwise, and, to the beat of the drummers and the skirl of the pipes and the fiddles, perform a strange stomping dance, around and around the bonfire, faster and faster, until Nina was utterly breathless and dizzy, overwhelmed with it all but still laughing wildly and feeling unable to stop.

“Behold the rites of midsummer,” boomed the green man through a megaphone. “Behold the lads and lasses and the spirit of growth and renewal and the shortest night and the longest day, and we shall CELEBRATE it, Mother Earth, for the fruit and flowers of your bounty!”

And everyone yelled and clapped, and then the dancers collapsed on the grass in heaps of giggles but the musicians played on, their music wild and eerie on the sweet night air, with its heavy scents of lavender and wild thyme, rippling foxgloves and honeysuckle and buttercups and maidenhair and baby's breath, for as someone had told Nina, with great seriousness and intent, she had to pick one of each type of flower, seven flowers for seven nights, and that would make her true love come. Once they'd all found them, the girls folded the flowers carefully into each other's hair as coronets, sipping from the horns that kept on being passed around, and as soon as they were done, the men came forward again, laughing, and grabbed their hands and made them dance.

Nina was having a great time. The evening passed in a blur,
until finally, after eleven thirty, when the twilight started to deepen and the night grew chill, tartan blankets were passed out and people huddled together next to the fire to watch the stars come out.

As the sky lowered to a deep blue—not black, not up here at this time of year—suddenly the drumming stopped and the music faded away to a mere light dance on a pipe, as if the god Pan himself was playing a haunting low tune many miles away.

And then even that died away, and for an instant in the cool air there was a tremendous silence, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Then, in the very far east of the night, over the sea, there was just the faintest glimmer in the dusky blue, a pale green and pink so light and subtle it was like fingers running delicately over piano keys.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Then suddenly everyone was stomping and cheering, people jumping up from their blankets and trying to take photographs, which rather spoiled the moment, but Nina barely noticed. She was entranced, looking at the faint shimmering colors of the aurora borealis against the night sky. She had never seen anything so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, had never read anything quite so lovely.

Then the MC shouted, and the drums and fiddles kicked off again, louder than ever, quite extraordinary; but she didn't hear them, or see everyone throw off their blankets and get up and start to dance once again around the bonfire; she was stuck still, gazing at the sky, as people celebrated around her.

Suddenly she felt a presence at her elbow, and whirled around. Standing there, tall, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was Lennox. He said nothing, simply followed her gaze
to the sky above and nodded. Then he reached out and gently touched her hand.

It felt to Nina as though it burned like fire, and she snatched it away instinctively. He looked at her for a brief moment, then stepped back into the whirling crowd and was gone so quickly it felt like she'd dreamed it.

Hours later, Nina sat with a bunch of brand-new friends, watching the sun come up when it had barely gone down, still pondering furiously on what had happened, if anything had indeed happened, or if she'd misread it.

But her instincts had said: stay away. She'd been so recently burned, had thought she knew what was going on when she didn't. She couldn't get into that again. And despite the fact that that evening in the car was the first time they'd ever managed a civil conversation, she generally found him rude and curt, and she knew from what he'd told her that he was in the middle of something emotionally horrible.

She thought back to Marek's big, sad, puppy-dog eyes and sighed. Wasn't there somewhere out there some available guy who wouldn't completely screw her over, who would be there just for her? Or was that something only for storybooks and fantasies?

Ainslee walked past. She was working there, Nina noticed, and she got up to say hello after Ainslee helped serve the utterly splendid breakfast that was included in the ticket price: great thick jugs of fresh creamy milk to stir into huge vats of porridge, with salt, sugar, or honey; slices of locally smoked bacon in rolls;
square Lorne sausage; kedgeree or scrambled eggs with smoked salmon from the nearby loch; and enough tea and coffee to sober up even the midsummer crowd, although there were plenty still imbibing the pink fizzy mixture.

“This is great,” said Nina. “It's an amazing party.”

“Aye,” said Ainslee.

“Is it fun working here?”

Ainslee shrugged. “No' really. But I need the money.”

“Is everything all right at home?”

“Aye,” said Ainslee shortly, and Nina realized she'd had too much fizz and was going too far.

“Sorry,” she said.

Ainslee looked over her shoulder. “Who's that grumpy guy over there?”

Nina glanced over. Lennox was standing by the bar, drinking whiskey. He turned back to his friends when he noticed her looking at him.

“Oh, just my landlord,” she said. “He's a miserable old bugger.”

“It's Lennox, isn't it? From Lennox Farm? He's dead old,” said Ainslee.

“He's in his early thirties!”

“Yeah. Really, really old.”

“Uh, all right,” said Nina.

“But he's pretty cute. For an older guy.” Ainslee had blushed bright pink.

“You think?”

She nodded. “I mean, not that it matters what I think.”

“Ainslee,” said Nina, leaning forward. “Never believe that. What you think always matters.”

Ainslee looked at her for a moment. Then they both heard
her name being called by whoever was in charge of the waitresses.

“So you're going to go for it?” she said, attempting a conspiratorial smile.

“Um, no,” said Nina. “But I value your opinion.”

Ainslee nodded, as if it was the way of the world for her to be roundly ignored, and lumbered off into the dawn.

A fleet of taxis, and cars that had been pressed into service as taxis, turned up to take the partygoers home. Several people were just flat out and would stay that way until they woke up, rather damply. Some well-prepared tents were dotted here and there. Nina felt very sobered up after about four pints of coffee and shared a cab with some of the villagers she'd met there, glad that she didn't catch sight of Lennox again on her way out. Her hair had gotten loose, and she didn't even want to think about her eyeliner.

“Did you have a good night?” asked their driver. “I always used to go as a young man. Great place to meet the lasses, oh yes.”

“Did you meet any?” said a very drunk girl squashed into the backseat.

“Met my wife,” said the cabbie. “She won't let me go anymore, unless I'm working. It was fun, though. Did you get the lights tonight? I've never seen them in the summertime.”

“They were amazing,” said Nina, thinking back. If she forgot about that awkward moment with Lennox, it had been, in many ways, the most marvelous evening. She recalled nights out she'd had in the city. Yes, it was definitely true. There was no com
parison. She might not go out as often here, but when she did, it really meant something. She wished Surinder had been there, she'd have loved it. And the Gus had been asking after her, too. She didn't think he'd ended up with anyone either.

But now, as she sank gratefully into bed, after taking off the lovely dress and checking it for marks—fortunately she appeared to have gotten away relatively unscathed, just some mud here and there; she'd need to look for a lovely set of new books for Lesley to say thank you, especially now that she knew what she liked—her memories weren't of the wild dancing or the sweet wine or the shimmering lights across the horizon.

They were, disagreeably, of the look on Lennox's face when she'd snatched her hand away; and a growing uncomfortable knowledge that what she'd felt wasn't dislike, or fear, or anything like that, which she suspected had shown on her face.

She had pulled her hand away because what she had felt, the very second he had touched her, even lightly, was heat, deep, instantaneous, burning heat. It had seared her.

She didn't want to—couldn't—think about that now, the trouble she could cause as she was on the point of losing her home, of losing everything she'd worked so hard to build.

(And she never cast a thought, never even considered that a couple of miles to the west, a train had stopped, sat idling on a train crossing, as the driver leaned his head out of the window beside an empty tree, and also gazed up at the astonishing lights in the sky, and thought that no one but he had ever felt so lonely.)

T
he morning sun fell across her bedspread as Nina woke late but arose feeling oddly better, considering how much she'd drunk and danced the evening before. After a long soak in the bath, using the incredibly expensive bubble bath and bath salts that had been left out in a basket, like a posh hotel, and which she'd never dared use before (she cared less now, if she was en route to eviction), she even felt cleansed.

As long as she didn't think about Lennox.

She blinked as she sat down and combed out her hair. This was terrible. This was a truly awful idea. He was a vulnerable man. In Wellingtons, for God's sake. Who had lowered his guard for one night, who had himself said he wanted to get drunk.

He was almost certainly every bit as embarrassed as she was this morning. Probably more so. The best, the only thing to do was to ignore him, because if he had to walk in here one day—soon—and tell her that she was being evicted and that Kate was getting the entire farm, well, she was going to have to deal with that. She looked at her computer and saw another friendly
message from Orkney Library suggesting she go up and have a look around, and saying that the northern lights were particularly tremendous this year, which made her smile. Perhaps she ought to. Anything to get out of the way for a few days.

To leave everything behind would be so hard, though. She thought back to the antics of the night before and smiled, couldn't help it. But then that was the Scots, wasn't it? Endlessly welcoming and hospitable, particularly up here. It didn't necessarily mean she belonged, did it?

But she didn't know what else to do. She didn't want to hang around, moping, on the farm. She really didn't want to see Lennox. No. She might feel strange, but she'd get out, make some money, stock up the van, make sure everything was in tip-top condition . . . try to see herself as a rolling stone, someone who liked moving on, who liked to travel and keep going.

Even though it was Sunday and none of the shops in the village was open, she decided to get out there anyway. The sooner the better. And also, she realized, the farther away she was from Lennox and his stupid farm the better right now. The idea that he might pop over and apologize made her feel embarrassed and awkward. She remembered again the look on his face when he'd first seen her in her white dress.

No, she told herself. She was imagining things. Again. As she always did, as Surinder kept pointing out. It was nothing. Or at the very best it was a lonely, angry man wondering if she'd oblige because she only lived up the hill, and that wasn't at all what she was after either.

Then her traitorous thoughts strayed again to the feeling of his strong, large calloused hand on hers.

No. No no no no. Moving on. She was moving on. This wasn't her home; they wouldn't really notice. It was a stopping point,
that was all, a way of getting her out of an unsatisfying career and into an interesting one. Life would go on here and she would go elsewhere, and no one would miss her.

Actually, it turned out, since the weather was still holding—almost unheard of for this part of the world—the little village was absolutely thronged, people everywhere exploring the historic cobbled streets. The pub had thrown open its doors, and Edwin and Hugh waved merrily to her, perched at wooden tables set up outside, both of them nursing their usual pint of 80 Shilling.

She stopped for a chat, as she normally did, and presented them with her latest finds: a Cold War submarine thriller for Edwin, which he adored, no matter how similar they ended up to one another, and a contemporary rom com for Wullie, of all people, who had accidentally stumbled across one and now adored the entire genre, notably unfazed when teased about how many pink-jacketed books he was reading.

And as Nina looked around the little village in the sunshine, she couldn't help but notice something.

Everyone
was reading. People out in their gardens. An old lady in her wheelchair by the war memorial. A little girl absentmindedly swinging on the swings, her feet dangling, completely engrossed in
What Katy Did
.

In the bakery, someone was laughing at a book of cartoons; at the coffee stand, the barista was trying to read and make someone a cappuccino at the same time.

Nina was amazed. It couldn't be—surely—that she had turned an entire town into readers. And yet, as she opened up
the Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After, and more people came cheerfully out of their houses, exclaiming that she was open on a Sunday, it seemed that she had.

“The kids have almost stopped playing Minecraft!” said Hattie. “Of course they just want to read books about Minecraft. But that's still a miracle as far as I'm concerned.”

“I don't even know when I stopped reading,” an elderly man confessed, picking up one of the most beautiful editions of Sherlock Holmes Nina had ever seen; she hated selling it and had stuck a huge price on it in the hopes that she wouldn't have to, but it appeared that she did. Still, it would help for her moving fund, she thought sadly.

“I think I just stopped seeing books around,” the man went on. “You know, on the bus, everyone used to read books. But then they were fiddling with their phones or those big phones, I don't know what they're called.”

“They were probably reading on their tablets,” said Nina loyally. She loved her e-reader, too.

“Yes, I know,” said the man. “But I couldn't see. I couldn't see what they were reading or ask them if it was good, or make a mental note to look for it later. It was as if suddenly, one day, all the books simply disappeared.”

Nina looked at him. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I do, I know how you feel.”

They both admired the Sherlock Holmes, with its hand-tooled leather cover and beautiful watered-silk endpapers.

“You don't want to let go of this, do you?” said the old man.

“Not really,” said Nina honestly.

“I'll look after it, I promise.”

“Okay,” said Nina, taking his check and putting it in her old tin cash box.

“You can come and visit it from time to time if you like,” said the old man, with a slightly flirtatious tone.

Nina grinned at him. “Oh, I'm not sure how long I'll be around,” she said, and tried to make it sound careless and lighthearted, although she did not think she succeeded.

She was sitting trying to unobtrusively watch mucky little Ben sitting on her steps, quietly sounding out a book with his lips moving, his eyes shooting up every ten seconds in case anyone was passing or saw him, when Ainslee came up and scowled at him.

“Don't run out of the house! I thought youse were lost.”

“I's no' lost.”

“Yeah, I can see that now, but you cannae just up and go and no' tell me.”

Nina frowned. Now Ainslee was hissing at him.

“If they see you . . . if they see you wandering the streets, Benny . . .”

“I dinnae care.”

“You will.”

“I dinnae.”

He looked back down at his book, and Ainslee sighed in exasperation and turned her attention to Nina.

“I didn't know you were open today.”

“I'm not really,” said Nina. “I just . . . I just came down to . . .”

She didn't know how to explain what was going on and changed the subject.

“Didn't you like the midsummer party? It was lovely.”

Ainslee shrugged. “It was boring.”

“There were lots of nice boys there,” said Nina, trying to raise a smile but not succeeding.

Ainslee looked around grumpily. “There's nothing to do.”

“I know,” said Nina, who'd had a flurry of anxiety-displacing tidying up. “Honestly, I don't need you today.”

Ainslee shrugged and set off again into the bright market square, her heavy black eye makeup and badly dyed hair looking strange in the morning sunlight.

“C'mon, Ben,” she snapped, and the little boy reluctantly put the book down—Nina would wipe it for fingerprints later—and trailed behind her, head down.

It was then that Nina made the decision. She had held off for long enough. And if she wasn't going to be here for long, it didn't matter if people thought she was a busybody. She waited an instant, then quietly closed and locked the doors of the van and slipped down the street, following the pair.

The village wound on through its cobbled central section and dribbled off into less attractive streets at the bottom: gray-built 1950s social housing, some of which was neat and lined with flowers and some of which was a little tattier, though it all overlooked beautiful green fields with long views across the countryside.

Even if you were broke, Nina couldn't help thinking, it was still obviously the loveliest place in the world to grow up.

Ainslee and Ben turned in at the most broken-down-looking house of all. Garbage was scattered all over the front yard, as well as an old armchair without legs and some broken toys. There was only dirt on the ground. The door was covered in scratches and dents; the glass in the windows was cracked. It was completely unloved and uncared for.

Nina swallowed. She realized suddenly that she was quite
frightened. In her darkest scenarios, she imagined Ainslee kept in by some horrible stepfather, or a family on substances who couldn't be bothered to look after the children. She didn't know if she had the courage for this. She was used to having to deal with various social problems in the library; they would often have a quiet word with social services if the same people were coming in every day and falling asleep, obviously without anywhere else to go, or if their regulars were becoming increasingly unkempt. And many people used the library as a kind of informal citizens' advice bureau anyway, so they tried not to mind.

But this was different. She was poking her nose in, it was undeniable. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that it was about a child after all, a child who wasn't well looked after, who wasn't clean, who could barely read at the age of eight, who wasn't attending school; and Ainslee too, who only came alive when alone with her books, whose lack of interest in everything else in life seemed to indicate a real issue somewhere, more even than for normal teenage girls.

Nonetheless, Nina still felt like a busybody, someone inserting herself into other people's lives, making herself a nuisance, the city girl turning up where she wasn't wanted, poking about where she didn't belong. It had been different back in the library, where people asked for help or were genuinely grateful for it. However carefully she'd tried to probe, Ainslee clearly didn't want to discuss it. But there was a child involved.

She sighed, twisting in indecision. What was right? To stay or to go? Ainslee was functioning, wasn't she? Although Nina thought back to that awful conversation about her not taking her exams. That wasn't right, a clever girl like her. She should be looking at universities, thinking about what fun she was going to have when she left home. Not slouching around the place,
shouting at her brother and planning absolutely nothing for the future. Maybe Nina could just have a gentle conversation with the parents, try and convince them of what a clever girl they had on their hands. Yes. That would do it. That would be it.

Boldly, she walked forward to the gate. The handle was broken, and the gate sat balanced gingerly on its hinges. She slipped through it carefully and walked up the cracked stones of the garden path. The road was eerily silent, empty of cars; a lone kestrel lazily circled the air above the trees. Nina watched him for a moment, in awe of his silent majesty, and slightly envious of his uncomplicated social obligations.

Then she stepped up to the door and knocked, briskly, before she had the chance to change her mind.