The Christmas Bookshop(24)

‘The what?’

‘The expedition to the South Pole.’

‘With Captain Scott? That one?’

‘No! The Scottish polar expedition. 1902 or something. They did some exploring, didn’t get to the South Pole but they found a new bit of land and set up a weather station that was quite useful. They were very famous at the time, but nobody died on the expedition, so people don’t remember it now.’

‘Even so, that’s amazing.’

‘It is.’

‘Goodness,’ said Carmen. ‘Young Mr McCredie doesn’t look like the outdoor type.’

‘No, he isn’t, not at all. So then the other young Mr McCredie … ’

‘That’s not the South Pole one?’

‘Goodness no. That’s young Mr McCredie’s father.’

‘But he’s not still alive?’

‘Oh no. He was a great war hero, decorated and what-not. Then I think their son came as a surprise.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the whole family was known for its derring-do – lots of brothers in the military and so on. Lots and lots of boys.’ She paused. ‘All dead now. I have the archive in the office; it’s quite fascinating. But Mr McCredie was an only child, born just after the war, only interested in books really. Didn’t do anything that was expected of him.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Never married.’

‘Gay?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Hmm,’ said Carmen. ‘Is he nice? Do you like him?’

Sofia nodded. ‘He’s a little … distracted. But yes. Very kind, I think. I wouldn’t … I wouldn’t have sent you to work for someone horrible, Carmen.’

‘No,’ said Carmen. ‘Just the only person in this town skinter than me.’

‘You need to MAKE THE SHOP LIKE CHRISTMAS,’ interrupted Phoebe, chased inevitably by Pippa saying, ‘Don’t interrupt.’ ‘And DO STORIES.’

‘I am going to do a story time!’ said Carmen. ‘Tell your friends.’

‘She doesn’t have any friends,’ said Pippa, widening her eyes. ‘I am so sad for her, aren’t you?’

‘No,’ said Carmen. ‘Other children are total idiots, everyone knows that. Total buggers.’

And while Sofia internally gasped, Phoebe, for the first time, betrayed a hint of a smile.





Carmen gave the shop a critical eye the next morning. The problem was, everywhere else was so lovely. Victoria Street itself had hung sparkling silver stars down the middle. All along the street she could see decorations and lovely windows and shop proprietors chatting with one another while helping each other hang garlands, and wondered why Mr McCredie didn’t get involved.

She marched up to Mr McCredie, who was sitting by his fireplace in the nook, poring over accounts in his half-moon spectacles and looking unpromising. She startled him of course, but he went to pour her a cup of tea. She was beginning to not mind it with lemon in it. She had got nowhere trying to convince him to try a gingerbread latte though.

‘Do you have any Christmas decorations?’ she said. ‘I think we should put some up. Everyone else has absolutely loads.’

‘Doing things everyone else does has never been my speciality,’ said Mr McCredie.

‘I bet,’ said Carmen. ‘But do you have any?’

He led her through the door she had assumed led to his bedroom, but it didn’t: there was, in fact, a flight of stairs.

‘Edinburgh architects must just have been off their faces the entire time,’ said Carmen.

‘I think building vertically in a vertical city makes perfect sense,’ said Mr McCredie. ‘Look at Amsterdam.’

At the top of the staircase, Carmen gasped as the door opened into a huge drawing room.

It was above ground – absurdly, an entire storey above ground; nothing made sense – and it looked out onto the other side of the block onto the Royal Mile itself.

Two windows faced the front and two the back, but they weren’t in grand proportion like Sofia’s house; instead they were small and higgledy-piggledy. The room itself, however, was large, with high ceilings and a vast fireplace against the left-hand wall. There was a grand piano in the corner covered in a pink fringed cloth, with pictures in silver frames lining it. The rug was faded, with an old design of pink roses, covering the wooden floor. Old sofas of elegant design, with curled wooden arms, were put out tidily. A candelabra swung from the ceiling, and old paintings lined the walls. It was a beautiful room, although it felt like it belonged to an earlier age. Mind you, so did this city, Carmen was beginning to learn. It was beautiful, but somehow strange; out of time, like those houses people leave behind or board up, which remain untouched for sixty years.

There was nothing new in the room at all. There was a radio but no television; there were books of course, but no magazines; a clock, but no computer or even a charger. Nothing that looked like the normal detritus of modern life. Even the photographs were all terribly old: black and white and in dusty frames. Nothing from Mr McCredie’s own life. He was there as a child; he was not there after that.

‘Wow,’ said Carmen, looking for something to say. ‘Well. This is lovely. And you have a secret tunnel to the office. That is pretty cool.’