‘You’ve got that right,’ I sigh, and a memory of the opening of the kids’ section pops into my head.
I couldn’t have been more than five. Dad had figured out from doing the school run that there was a definite market for children’s books, and he’d set about putting a kids’ corner at the back by the window with beanbags and fairy lights. He and I held an opening event to which we invited my entire class. I was in charge of welcoming the kids and handing out bookbags at the end, Dad was in charge of pouring the wine, so the adults spent more than they planned. I remember how happy he was at the end of that night, the cash register full, the shelves of the kids’ section depleted.
Soon after that, Dad branched out more and more, catering for the mums’ love of fiction and piggy-backing on Mum’s career to host events and attract visiting authors. After that he brought in non-fiction, and soon the shop was the jewel of the once literary neighbourhood. It continued to do well for a good fifteen to twenty years, before the book industry changed.
‘The last ten years have been hard,’ I tell him, sure that he must be aware from the state of the place: the dusty shelves, the second-hand books spread across the entire back section, and tables stacked full of plastic bags full of donations, causing the whole space to smell more like a charity shop than the inviting bookshop it once was.
‘Still, nothing much better than growing up around books in the heart of Edinburgh.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, and this time it’s me who’s holding his gaze, his peaceful aura blending with mine.
‘How about you?’ I ask, when I realise the pause has been too long. ‘What is it you do?’
‘Marketing and events. It’s not my everything, but . . .’ He is momentarily pensive. ‘Actually, I wonder . . .’
I wait, intrigued.
‘This might sound a bit out there . . .’ He laughs a little nervously, cocking his head to one side. ‘But a job landed on my desk last week, after a colleague left unexpectedly – I’m organising a book festival, on board a train from Edinburgh to Paris.’
‘Sounds amazing,’ I say, loving the idea, though not entirely clear why he’s bringing it up.
‘It’s definitely caught readers’ imaginations – it sold out within three days – but my colleague left me with a few gaps to fill, namely a bookseller and an author.’
‘Huh,’ I nod, my cogs turning almost as quickly as his seem to be.
‘It pays pretty handsomely. I don’t suppose you and your mum . . .’
Thoughts speed through my mind like a bullet train: meet new people; explore a new place and opportunities; earn some cash to help keep Mum and Dad afloat.
‘Let me get her – don’t go anywhere,’ I add, already on my way to find Mum.
5.
FRAN
‘Mum,’ Carly says, appearing in the studio, her tone suggesting she has called me several times already.
‘Sorry, love. I must have been miles away,’ I reply, rinsing my brush in an old jam jar.
She looks at the canvas in front of us, her brow furrowed, then at me. ‘YouOK?’
‘Yes,’ I fib, never having shared marital issues with Carly before and not wanting to now. ‘Why do you ask?’
We both look at the sketch – a floating couple under the moon with an ancient church in the background, and a smoking village in the fore.
‘No reason,’ she says.
I wonder if Carly sees something in it that I do not.
‘Do you need me?’ I ask.
‘Oh yeah,’ she says, snapping out of her stare, her eyes brightening. ‘There’s a guy in the shop you really need to meet. Come down.’
‘Let me clean myself up. I’ll be there in a minute,’ I say, wondering who’s caused this burst of excitement.
Washing my hands, I look into the mirror at the little sink where Carly spent hours while I was writing, cleaning shells and making hand-bubbles as a girl, and practising applying make-up as a teenager. I let the warm water rinse the paint off my hands and notice my crow’s feet. As I dry my hands and tidy my ponytail, my mind returns to Robin’s unhappiness.
Deciding not to dwell, I hurry downstairs and enter the bookshop via the back, trying to ignore the piles of books on the floor by focusing on the photographs on the wall instead. The first shows my great-grandparents, pre-war, standing outside the building; the sign above the door readsHenderson’s Bookbinders and Stationers Est. 1832. In truth, they were much more than that: binding, restoring and selling books alongside stationery supplies. The second photograph is of my grandparents, also standing outside the shop with my mother and uncle as children, having taken over the business after the war. They let go of the bookbinding part of the business to concentrate on selling antique and second-hand books and stationery, with great success. The third photo, taken by me, is of my mother and father, and Elsa and Bill, after we’d all moved from London to Edinburgh when my grandmother died. The photo shows the four of them huddled together, on the opening night of the gallery, having converted the bookshop into a contemporary space, selling paintings and ceramics, alongside the sale of new and second-hand art booksand art supplies. And the last is of Robin, me and Carly at eight years old, years after my mother’s death, when Robin had transformed the gallery back into a flourishing bookshop. I stop to look at Robin’s face, so lit up with delight at what the bookshop had become, and full of ambition and excitement as to what it might still be.Such a contrast to how things are now. I dread to think what the generations of Hendersons gone by would make of it. My father, who moved out when my mother died, is generous enough not to comment.
