The Christmas Bookshop(60)

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ said Carmen, turning round to where Mr McCredie was – but he had vanished.

With a quick side glance at Mrs McGeoghan, Carmen shot off through the stacks.

‘Mr McCredie!’

She came upon him practically cowering in his armchair, the complete opposite to the emboldened man he’d been that week, sweeping the snow from the pavement in his finneskos.

‘Mr McCredie, there’s someone here who wants a word.’

‘I don’t want to see them.’

‘Do you know them?’

His face paled, and he shook his head.

‘I don’t … I don’t think so.’

‘So what’s … what’s the matter? They’re not creditors, are they?’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t … I just … ’

‘Can I deal with them for you?’

‘No, I don’t … Thanks … No, please just say I’m unavailable.’

Carmen put her hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

He looked terribly pale in the dim light.

‘Yes. Please just … ’

He flapped his hands uselessly in the direction of the shop.

Carmen returned, looking warily at the family.

‘We are so sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I did not mean to disturb you. We found some very old letters that came from here, that was all.’

And she left a card reading Gretl Koonings, with a +49 code on it.





As if nothing had happened, shortly before 5.30 p.m., Mr McCredie appeared, dressed in a perfect tweed suit – very old, of course – and a polka-dotted bow tie. His glasses were rimmed with gold and he had smartly polished shoes on and it was very clear that the visitors were not to be discussed.

‘Mr McCredie! Look at you all dolled up,’ said Carmen, cashing up.

‘It’s Bronagh’s party.’ He frowned. ‘You told her we were coming. It doesn’t pay to get on the wrong side of a witch, in my experience. Especially not in this city.’

‘Oh God, the witch. I wonder if she would like some spell books?’ Carmen looked down at her denim skirt and stripy top. ‘I completely forgot about it – I’m not dressed for a party at all.’

On the chime of 5.30 p.m., there was a sudden hush outside – Carmen tilted her head, about to lock the door – when a pure sound filled the freezing air. It was clear as a little bell and took Carmen a moment to realise that outside someone was singing.

‘Oh good, good: she’s invited the St Giles boys,’ said Mr McCredie, referring to the cathedral twenty metres up the road, as more pure tenor voices joined in until a chorus was singing ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’.

Mr McCredie had offered Carmen his arm on the slippery pavement. Looking up and down the street, the groups of browsers and shoppers and tourists had all stopped too, many of them starting to film, or put money into the boys’ bright red collection bucket for Waverley Care.

It seemed to Carmen as if time had stopped, with the light snowflakes in the sky, the traffic muffled and faded, the tourists and their chatter and multilingual shouting and calling frozen in place, all entranced by the singing of children under a cold sky. They locked the shop and went two doors down. It made her feel cold and hot and lonely and happy and sad all at once; she felt a yearning, but she didn’t know what for.

‘Come, come,’ beckoned Bronagh as she saw them both. She was holding up goblets of what looked rather sinister drinks – they were steaming – but on closer examination turned out to be mulled wine.

‘Is that what you’re wearing to a Christmas party?’ said Bronagh, looking disappointed, even after Carmen handed over a beautifully wrapped copy of The Winter Almanac.

‘I know; it’s lame. I’m sorry,’ said Carmen.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Bronagh, vanishing inside and reemerging with a swirling purple velvet cloak. ‘It’s one of mine. Put it on.’

Carmen looked at it ruefully for a second, then, figuring she might as well go with the spirit of things, twirled it round her shoulders and took another gulp of the warming wine.

Inside was a huge collection of all sorts of people: other shop staff, Edinburgh regulars, a group of women playing mystical folk music in the corner, some people dressed as fairies, various suited and booted gentlemen-about-town – many with waistcoats. Carmen looked at the latter; she couldn’t help herself. He was in LA anyway. Who cares? He’d probably thrown the wellingtons away.

He was a less pressing concern by the time Carmen had drunk her second cup of the mulled wine – which tasted nothing like the watery Ribena you got down at the Christmas fair; rather more like something perfumed and spiced, a mysterious concoction that warmed you right through from head to foot.

She passed lightly through the party, enjoying the interestingly attired guests, who clearly all knew each other – some parts of Edinburgh, she suspected, were as interrelated as a village. The shop was just as idiosyncratic as their own: stuffed birds hung from the ceiling; there was a broomstick assortment; and antlers lined the walls. Also along the walls were ingredients and spell books, jewellery in different birthstones and with many different crystals on display, dream catchers, soul stones and all. Carmen eyed everything narrowly. Mind you, she thought, if you would ever believe witches existed, it would be down in the depths of Edinburgh, in its dark closes and hidden corners, where they burned women on the Grassmarket, right outside.