The Bookshop (10 page)

Everybody thought it was very obliging of young Mr North to help out at the Old House, particularly when the business was not doing nearly as well as it used to. It was regrettable, perhaps, that whenever Florence had to drive over to Flintmarket to see if the new orders had arrived, he immediately shut up shop and could be seen sitting in the comfortable chair, moved forward into the patch of afternoon sunlight which came through the
front window. But if business was slack, how could you blame him? And he always had a book of poetry, or something of the kind, open in front of him.

As Milo never remembered on these occasions to lock the backhouse door, Christine was able to come straight in, approaching on soundless feet, wearing her new school blazer.

‘Shower down thy love, O burning bright! for one

night or the other night

Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered

flowers are dead, Christine.’

‘You watch it, Mr North,’ said Christine.

‘What unpleasant expressions they teach you in that new school of yours!’

Christine turned very red.

‘I didn’t come here to mix it with your sort,’ she said.

A kind of unease had brought her back and she was disappointed not to find Florence there, partly so that she could cheer her up a little, partly so that she could show that she wouldn’t take the job on again at any price. Also, she might as well show her the cardigan which she had bought with the money she had been given. It buttoned up high, not like the old-fashioned sort.

‘Why don’t you help Mrs Green any more?’ Milo asked. ‘She misses you.’

‘Well, she’s got you, hasn’t she, Mr North? You’re always in and out.’

Hesitating, not wanting to seem to ask for information, she burst out: ‘They say they won’t let her go on keeping this bookshop.’

‘Who are “they”?’

‘They want the Old House for something else they’ve thought of.’

‘Why should you mind about that, my dear?’

‘They say she can’t hold on to it, do they’ll have her up. That’ll mean County Court. She’ll have to swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

‘We must hope that it won’t come to that.’

Christine hardly felt that she had reasserted her position as yet. She minced round, dusting here and there – the duster needed a wash, as usual, she said – and looking with a stranger’s recognition at her old acquaintances on the shelves.

‘These don’t ought to be with the Stickers,’ she said, heaving up the two volumes of the
Shorter Oxford Dictionary
.

‘No one has offered to buy them.’

‘Still, they’re not Stickers. They’re a stock line.’

There was nothing much more to do. Even now, at the end of the day, there was scarcely anything that needed putting to rights.

‘I don’t see so much wrong with this shop, give it’s terribly damp, and you can’t tell when the rapper’ll start up.’

‘Certainly there can’t be much wrong with it, or I shouldn’t be here.’

‘How long are you going to stay, then?’

‘I don’t know. I might not have the energy to stay much longer.’

‘You might not have the energy to get up and go,’ said Christine, watching him, with scornful fascination, where he sat. It would do him good to get a bit of garden and work it, she thought, even if it was only a couple of rows of radishes.

‘I never had time to sit about when I was assistant.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t. You’re either a child or a woman, and neither of them have any idea how to relax.’

‘You watch it,’ said Christine.

T
HE
cold weather came on early after the fine summer of 1960. By the beginning of October Raven had begun to speak pessimistically about the cattle, who were coughing piteously. In the early morning the thick white vapour came up to the level of their knees, so that their bodies seemed to float detached above the mist. Their heads, with large ears at half-mast, turned slowly in a cloud of steamy breath towards the chance comer.

The mist did not lift until nearly mid-day and closed down again by four o’clock. It was madness for Mr Brundish to go out in such conditions; and yet at Holt House, entirely by himself, he was slowly getting ready to pay a visit. By a quarter to eleven he had assumed the appearance almost of a boulevardier, with a coat collared in fur, and a grey Homburg hat, rather higher in the crown than was usual in those years. The natives of Hardborough only breathed the autumn air through woollen scarves, and Mr Brundish also wore one of these, and took a stick from the many waiting in the hall.

Because of the mist, only the hat and upper three-quarters
of Mr Brundish could be seen, bending down with an occasional terrifying gasp and wheeze, as he navigated the Ropewalk, the Sheepwalk and Anson Street. It was at first thought, by those at their windows, that he was heading for the doctor’s, or, still more alarming, for the church. Mr Brundish had not attended a service for some years. He was pale, and seemed afflicted. It was thought that he looked very moderate.

If not the doctor’s or the church, then it could only be The Stead. Improbable or impossible as it seemed, he was toiling up the front steps, and, clear of the mist at last, stood pressing the bell.

Mrs Gamart was making a morning entry in her diary, and had written
Wednesday: wretched weather for Oct. Hydrangea petolaria quite damped off
. She heard the bell and was ready to rise, making light of the interruption, when she realized who the visitor really was. Then she felt the same disbelief as the rest of Hardborough, who had watched the progress from Holt House. The young local girl who helped with the washing up and had answered the front door, looked half-stunned, as though she had witnessed trees walking.

To be accepted by this tiresome old man would be an entry into a new dimension of time and space – the past centuries of inhabited Suffolk, and its present silent and watchful existence. From the very first months of her arrival her invitations had been refused, on the steady
excuse of ill-health. Yet, beyond question, there were little gatherings at Holt House, distinguished by visitors who stayed the night, as well as ancient cronies drawn from the deepest recesses of East Anglia. Men only perhaps, although it was said – but Mrs Gamart didn’t believe it – that Mrs Green had been to tea, and her own husband had certainly never been included. The General, however, with the transparent complicity of the male sex, insisted that old Mr Brundish was a decent fellow. The inadequacy of this remark vexed Mrs Gamart into silence.

And now Mr Brundish had come. He made no apologies as he was shown in, for in his day none had been thought necessary for an eleven o’clock call. Without attempting to disguise his weakness, without pretending to stop for a few minutes to admire the proportions of the hall, he clung to the banisters, struggling for breath. His stick fell with a clatter to the shining floor.

‘I shall recover my stick later. Fortunately I have retained all my faculties.’

Mrs Gamart, who had come out to meet him, thought it best to lead the way into the drawing-room. The sweeping French windows overlooked the sea, as misty as the land. They both sat down. Without any further reference to his health, Brundish went on:

‘I have come to ask you something. That is not very good manners, but I do not know that I can put it any
better. If you mind being asked, you must say so at once. I could speak to your husband, of course.’

From long habit, Mrs Gamart rejected the idea that her husband might be necessary for anything. The concentration of her visitor appeared to waver and cease. For what seemed a considerable time he sat with his eyes closed, while his face took on a curious slatey pallor, as though he had been bleached by the sea. Then he resumed:

‘A curious experience, fainting. One can’t tell if one is doing it properly. There is nothing to go on. One can’t remember the last time. You had better offer me something,’ he added loudly, and then, in precisely the same tone: ‘The bitch cannot deny me a glass of brandy.’

Mrs Gamart looked doubtfully at the stricken man. If he was having some kind of attack, all that was necessary was to ring the doctor’s. Then he would be taken away. He would be under an obligation, of course, as anyone must be who is taken ill in someone else’s house, although Mr Brundish, she realized, might not recognize obligations. But he couldn’t have made the painful transit from Holt House, on a day like this, simply to tell her that he wasn’t well, unless he suddenly wanted to make amends for the short-sightedness of fifteen years. It would be better not to offer him stimulants, she thought.

‘Shall I see about some coffee?’ she asked.

‘The woman is trying to poison me. The moment will
pass.’ Mr Brundish opened and closed his hands, as though to grasp the air, yet even in that movement there was nobility. ‘I want you to leave Florence Green alone,’ he brought out.

Mrs Gamart was utterly taken aback. ‘Did she ask you to come here?’

‘Not at all. She is simply a woman, no longer young, who wants to keep a bookshop.’

‘If Mrs Green has any cause to complain,’ said Mrs Gamart, ‘I suppose she could employ a solicitor. I believe that she is rather given to changing her legal advisers.’

‘Why do you want her out of that house? I live in an oldish house myself, and I know how inconvenient they are. The bookshop is draughty, ineligible for a second mortgage, and, of course, haunted.’

Tact and good training had by this time come to Mrs Gamart’s assistance.

‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, as someone who must care so much for the welfare and the heritage of this place, that a building of such historical interest could be put to a better use?’

This was a false move. Mr Brundish didn’t care at all about the welfare or the heritage of Hardborough. He
was
, in a sense, Hardborough; it never occurred to him whether he cared or not.

‘Old age is not the same thing as historical interest,’
he said. ‘Otherwise we should both of us be more interesting than we are.’

Mrs Gamart had realized by now that though her visitor might be conducting the conversation according to some kind of rules, they were not the ones she knew. Some different kind of defence would accordingly be needed.

‘I say again, I want you to leave my friend Florence Green alone,’ shouted Mr Brundish. ‘Alone!’

‘Your friend, you know, seems to have fallen foul of the law, I rather think more than once. If that is the case, I, of course, can have nothing to say. If she goes on as she has begun, the law will have to take its course.’

‘I don’t know whether you are referring to a law that wasn’t in existence a year ago, and crawled through Parliament while our backs were turned? I’m talking about an order for compulsory purchase. You may call it an eviction. That is a fairer term. Did you put your precious nephew up to that Private Bill of his?’

She would not lower herself so far as to pretend not to understand. ‘It’s true that my nephew’s Bill may affect the bookshop, as there’s a provision that the premises must have stood empty for five years. That would certainly apply to the Old House.’ How had he come by this information? It seemed as though he had drawn it in through unseen roots, without moving from Holt House, without seeing or listening. ‘There are so many
authorities to consider, you know, Mr Brundish. Ordinary mortals like myself –’ she hesitated – ‘and you, would scarcely know where to begin. I’m on the bench, and fairly well used to public service, but I should be quite out of my depth. We shouldn’t even be able to find the right person to write to.’

‘I know perfectly well, madam, who to write to. Over the past years, if I hadn’t made it my business to know, I should have lost several hundred acres of my marshes, some farming land, and two pumping mills. Let me inform you that the purchaser of the Old House will have to be the Flintmarket Borough Council, and that they will proceed under the Acquisition of Land Authorisation Procedure Act of 1946, the Housing Act of 1957, and this grotesque effort of your nephew’s. If nothing has been done so far, we can make common front against them. If notice has been served that they are willing to treat, we must call for a private hearing in front of a government inspector.’

The significance and weight of that ‘we’ could not be mistaken. Violet Gamart perfectly understood the bargain that was being offered. An alliance was proposed, a working alliance at any rate, between Holt House and The Stead, and in return something was demanded which in fact she had no power to bring about. But did that matter? She would temporize. Mr Brundish would have to call again to undertake further persuasion, she must call on
him to discuss details. His mind was not under complete control, he would forget what had been said last time, he would become a regular visitor. She would have yielded nothing and gained considerably. Meanwhile it would be wiser not to promise too much.

‘We could certainly think of ways of making the move easier, if it has to come. There are still plenty of other shops to let, you know, in larger towns than Hardborough.’

‘That’s not what I am talking about! You must talk about what I am talking about! It was difficult for me to get here in this weather! – Either this woman is stupid, or else she is malevolent.’

‘I wish I could do more.’

‘I am to understand, then, that you will do nothing.’

This was exactly what she had meant, and what she intended. She had to restore the situation, and neither evasion nor frankness would answer; he saw through both of them. That frightful old men have hearts ready to be touched was, however, something that she had never questioned. She turned on him a delightful smile, which warmed her dark bright eyes and had moved many more important people than him.

‘But you mustn’t speak to me like that, Mr Brundish. You can’t realize what you are saying. You must think me outrageous. Is that it?’

Mr Brundish gave the impression of carefully turning
the words over in his mind, as though they were pebbles of which he must ascertain the value.

‘I find that I cannot answer either “yes” or “no”. By “outrageous” I take it that you mean “unexpectedly offensive”. Certainly you have been offensive, Mrs Gamart, but you have been exactly as I expected.’

With some difficulty he rose, and propping himself on the various bits of furniture, not all of them adapted to bear his weight, he regained his hat and left The Stead. But half-way across the street – the mist having cleared by this time, so that he could be clearly seen by the inhabitants of Hardborough – Mr Brundish fell over and died.

The local tradespeople, in consultation with the Flintmarket Chamber of Commerce, decided not to close on the day of old Mr Brundish’s funeral. It was market day, and there would be a fair chance of extra sales.

‘I’m not going to close either,’ Florence told Raven, who on occasion acted as sexton. Raven was surprised, because in his view she had a right to go to the ceremony, being able to claim better acquaintance with the deceased than many who’d be there. This was true, but she could not explain to him how much she wanted to be by herself, to think about her strange correspondent and champion. On what uncanny errand had he crossed the square, with his hat and stick, that day?

He was buried in the flinty soil of the churchyard among the Suffolk sea dead, midshipmen drowned at eleven years old, fishermen lost with all hands. The northeast corner of the acre was the family plot of the earth-loving Brundishes. Hardborough, huddled below the level of its marshes, was for one day at least a centre of interest. Who would have thought that old Mr Brundish would have known so many people, and that so many relatives would have turned up, and such a lot from London? He was a Fellow of the Royal Society, it seemed; how had that come about? The public houses had all applied for an extension, and there was a large cold lunch at The Stead, where the guests talked and laughed, and then subdued their laughs, and scarcely knew where to put them. It was known that the old man had died intestate, and Mr Drury had set out on the prolonged research which would dispose of Holt House and the marshes and pumping mills and the £2,705 13s. 7d. remaining in the current account.

While the church ceremony was still in progress, and Florence, without any expectation of customers, was slowly winding down the cash register, General Gamart came into the shop. He stood for a moment blocking the light. Then, evidently giving himself a command, he took three paces forward. At first, that seemed to exhaust the whole enterprise. He was speechless, and fidgeted with a pile of Noddy annuals. Florence Green did not
much feel like helping him. He had not been in the shop for some months, and she presumed that he had been acting under orders. Then she relented, knowing that he had come on a kind impulse. In the end, she valued kindness above everything.

‘You don’t want a book, do you?’

‘Not exactly. I just came in to say “A good man gone”.’

The General cleared his throat. It was the best he could do. ‘I believe you knew Edmund Brundish quite well,’ he added hoarsely.

‘I feel as though I did, but when I come to think of it, I’ve only spoken to him during one afternoon in my whole life.’