The Christmas Bookshop(19)

‘It’s coffee that tastes of gingerbread. You should try it: it’s delicious.’

He frowned.

‘I don’t think I would like that.’

Fastidiously, he stirred the slice of lemon in his tea in a dainty cup and saucer with a willow pattern and a tiny handle.

‘No,’ smiled Carmen. ‘Maybe you wouldn’t.’ She looked around. ‘But I have to say, your filing system came up trumps. Look! Everything about Christmas!’

Mr McCredie frowned.

‘So you’re saying we only sell books about Christmas?’

‘I think it has potential,’ said Carmen bravely.

They looked at each other. Carmen wished he wasn’t putting quite so much faith in her.

The shop had started to look like a shop, but it still wasn’t getting many people through the doors. Carmen dusted and attempted to look cheerful over the following week, but people would still ask her for the new Jack Reacher or Richard Osman and she’d have to look apologetic, or they’d ask for something incredibly esoteric and difficult, and Mr McCredie would suddenly appear at the desk from his nook and contentedly spend hours discussing with the person (generally a man) their area of interest and what they’d read around the same subject which, although it often would not end in a sale, clearly made Mr McCredie very happy.

One morning, a long shadow fell across the floor. It couldn’t be that late already, thought Carmen, looking up from where she was practising her wrapping, which was still terrible. It was just an idea, in an idle moment, that they could offer gift-wrapping. Unfortunately, if it took ten thousand hours to become an expert, she thought, she had probably done it already with gift-wrapping, but she still wasn’t very good at it, even though – crucially – she was only wrapping flat square things. She was slightly regretting her suggested innovation.

One of the tallest men Carmen had ever seen slouched through the door, with a couple of boxes at his feet. He looked at her, bemused.

‘Hello?’ said Carmen.

‘Um. Hello. Where’s young Mr McCredie?’

‘He’s busy … reading.’

The very tall man frowned.

‘Well, yes.’

Carmen expected the man to start browsing, but instead he folded his arms and just stood there, leading Carmen to the ridiculous but inescapable conclusion that he wouldn’t buy a book from a woman. He wasn’t an older man either, although in his cords, tweed shirt, worn muddy-coloured jumper, cap and waxed jacket, he certainly looked like one.

‘Can I get him for you?’

He looked at her.

‘You’re allowed in the stacks?’

Carmen beamed.

‘Apparently so.’

‘Goodness. What next: the metric system?’

He glanced out at the street where he had left the Land Rover with its hazards on, a call known to attract the most implacable enemy of all Edinburgh drivers: the traffic warden. He peered down the road, enjoying a clear line of sight. Nothing yet, but they had the habit of popping up stealthily out of nowhere.

Mr McCredie appeared from the stacks eventually, brushing crumbs from his jumper and feeling for his spectacles.

‘Ramsay!’ he said joyfully. He peered out of the window. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, won’t you just pay for parking?’

Ramsay sniffed. ‘Never! Those robdogs.’

‘Well, we’d better be quick. How’s the family?’

‘Good, good.’

‘How many is it now?’

‘Five … Well, it’s going to be six actually.’

Ramsay went rather pink with pride.

Carmen couldn’t help it. ‘You have six children?’

‘Well … five and a bit.’

Carmen blinked. ‘Doesn’t your wife mind?’

‘Well, she isn’t my wife yet and it’s mostly her idea so … ’

Ramsay’s voice trailed off, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth as there always when he thought of Zoe.

‘Cor,’ said Carmen. ‘I hope you have a big house.’

Mr McCredie laughed.

‘Oh, there’s plenty of room up Ramsay’s way.’

‘So you have a huge house but not enough cash to pay for parking?’

‘It’s not the money!’ said Ramsay. ‘It’s the sport.’

‘What have you got for me?’ said Mr McCredie.

‘Hang on, you’re a sales rep?’ said Carmen.

They both nodded as if this were obvious. Carmen had assumed they were friends (which they were). Mrs Marsh treated all sales reps as if they were dangerous criminals.

Ramsay’s face lit up. ‘Wait till you see what I’ve got for you today!’

‘What? Don’t tell me: an Up on the Rooftops?’

‘You are joking, aren’t you? We’d all be in the Bahamas right now.’

Nonetheless he heaved the two heavy boxes up onto the old desk and, curious despite herself, Carmen inched closer.

‘Oh, this is Carmen,’ said young Mr McCredie finally. ‘She’s helping me out over the holidays.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Ramsay. ‘You have … ’

He indicated something, and Carmen, who had been rather cross with him not dealing with her as the person in charge of the shop, put her hand up to her head. Somehow she had managed to stick a red bow on the side of her neck.