Read Online The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald - Free Book Online Page A

selected others to throw into the sea. The newspapers they brought with them to read had been torn away from them by the wind. The mothers had retreated from the cutting air into the beach huts, which were drawn up in a friendly encampment as far as possible from the coldly encroaching North Sea. Farther to the north unacceptable things had been washed up. Bones were mixed with the fringe of jetsam at high tide. The rotting remains of a seal had been stranded there.
    The Hardborough locals mingled fearlessly with the visitors. Florence saw the bank manager, unfamiliar in striped bathing-trunks, with his wife and the chief cashier.He called out, and was understood, in snatches, to say that all work and no play made Jack a dull boy, and that it was the first time he had been able to set foot on the beach this year. No reply was needed. Another voice, from inland, shouted that it had held up bright. Raven was running in his new van. Next week he was going to run some of the sea scouts up to London for their annual day out. They were going to check the progress of Baden-Powell House, and after that they had voted unanimously to go to Liverpool Street Station, and watch the trains go out.
    Walking further up the beach was more like plunging at every step. The wet sand and shingle sank as though unwilling to bear her slight weight, and then oozed up again, filling her footprints with glittering water. To leave a mark of any kind was exhilarating. Past the dead seal, past the stretch of pebbles where, eighty years ago, a man had found a piece of amber as big as his head – but no one had ever found amber since then – she reached a desolate tract where the holiday-makers did not venture. A rough path led up and back to the common. Human figures, singly and in pairs, were exercising their dogs. She was surprised to find how many of them were known to her by now as occasional customers. They waved from a distance and then, because the land was so flat and approach was slow, had to wave again as they drew nearer, reserving their smiles until the last moment. Withthe smiles, most of the exercisers, glad to pause for a moment, said much the same thing: When would the lending library be open again? They had been looking forward to it so much. The dogs, stiff with indignation, dragged sideways at their leads. Florence heard herself making many promises. She felt at a disadvantage without her shoes and wished she had put them on again before leaving the beach for the common.
    On wet afternoons, when the heavy weather blew up, the Old House was full of straggling disconsolate holiday parties. Christine, who said that they brought sand into the shop, was severe, pressing them to decide what they wanted. ‘Browsing is part of the tradition of a bookshop,’ Florence told her. ‘You must let them stand and turn things over.’ Christine asked what Deben would do if everyone turned over his wet fish. There were finger-marks on some of her cards, too.
    Ivy Welford called in to have a look at the books somewhat before her visit was due. Her inquisitiveness was a measure of the shop’s success and its reputation outside Hardborough.
    ‘Where are the returns outward?’
    ‘There aren’t any,’ Florence replied. ‘The publishers won’t take anything back. They don’t like sale or return arrangements.’
    ‘But you’ve got returns inwards. How is that?’
    ‘Sometimes the customers don’t like the books whenthey’ve bought them. They’re shocked, or say they’ve detected a distinct tinge of socialism.’
    ‘In that case the price should be credited to your personal account and debited under returns.’ It was an accusation of weakness. ‘Now, the purchases book. 150 Chinese silk book markers at five shillings each – can that be right?’
    ‘There was a different bird or butterfly on each one. Some of them were rice birds. They were beautiful. That was why I bought them.’
    ‘I’m not questioning that. It’s not my concern to