Page 5 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
May offered Sophie an apologetic glance, but she was undeterred. ‘On the other hand, it would bring some brightness to your home, give you a reason to smile when things feel particularly bleak. A few glitzy baubles, some paper chains.’
He didn’t respond immediately, and she resisted the urge to say sorry. It wasn’t her fault that she liked daydreaming about families at Christmas, houses decked out in festive finery. She hadn’t meant to press on a sore spot.
‘Sophie,’ Harry said eventually, his voice rough.
‘Yes?’ She hated sounding hopeful, but she was glad he was going to apologize for being sharp with her.
Instead, he pointed past her. ‘It’s your turn.’
‘Oh!’ She spun round, and saw that the two women who had been in front of her had been served. Winnie was waiting for her with a smile, her grey hair a mane of curls. ‘Hi, Winnie.’ She hurried up to the counter with her parcels, her cheeks warming.
‘How are you, Sophie, love?’ Winnie asked. ‘Got more packages to send out to eager customers?’
‘Just a few.’ Sophie imagined she could feel Harry’s impatience as an oppressive force behind her, and rushed through her interaction with Winnie, wanting to get out of there and back into the cold, fresh air. It was no wonder that even Fiona, with all her powers of persuasion, hadn’t been able to change Harry’s mind about the business with Mistingham Green and the oak tree. Ifshewas in charge, she would probably have moved the events to another village altogether, simply to avoid his wrath.
But then, running away was her modus operandi, so it wasn’t a huge surprise Harry Anderly inspired that reactionin her. She took her receipt and thanked Winnie, then set her sights firmly on the doorway.
‘Bye, Sophie,’ May said.
‘Bye.’ She gave the other woman a warm smile, then risked a last glance at Harry. He was rubbing his forehead, a pained expression crumpling his features. As she escaped into the November chill, she realized she knew exactly how he felt.
Chapter Three
Sophie was buttoning her coat at the end of the working day when Ermin, Fiona’s husband, came in with Sophie’s pride and joy on his harness.
‘He’s been a delight, as always.’ Ermin ran a hand through his thick hair, blond with a liberal seasoning of salt and pepper, and handed Sophie the lead.
‘That’s a relief,’ Sophie said with a laugh, though her dog was mostly well behaved. ‘Thank you, Ermin.’
‘Not a problem,’ Ermin assured her. ‘I’m always happy to have him.’
She had no idea what mix of breeds Clifton was, but he was the size of a Cairn terrier, with black, curly fur and a fringe that fell into his eyes no matter how often Sophie got it trimmed. He was good-natured, and friendly with other dogs and people. Small children were his favourites, and cats were his enemies.
Sometimes he accompanied Sophie to work, curling up in a basket behind her counter, an added benefit forcustomers who loved to fuss him, and sometimes – especially if Ermin was visiting wholesalers in his van, or working in his and Fiona’s sprawling garden – Clifton spent the day with him. It had been her biggest relief when they offered her the shop space, because she refused to leave him alone for long stretches.
‘Have a good evening,’ she said now, pushing open the door.
‘See you tomorrow!’ Fiona called after her as she swapped the warm fug for the cold November afternoon, the daylight already starting to fade, the wind biting. The shortest day of the year wasn’t far away now, and Mistingham was, understandably, significantly quieter now than during the summer. The village had its fair share of second homes, as did many places in north Norfolk, but Sophie had never thought of it as bleak or desolate – even when she’d arrived in January. The independent shops, the picturesque green, the hotel with its flint exterior and large, lit windows gave it a friendly atmosphere that was cemented by the people, the majority of whom would say hello when you passed them in the street.
With Clifton at her side and her collar turned up, Sophie walked down Perpendicular Street towards the sea. If she kept her pace up, they could get a good way along the cliff path before they had to turn around.
The North Sea spread out ahead of her, silvery and boisterous, and when she was almost at the promenade she turned left, cutting through an alley that led onto a narrow road flanked by several town houses, then squat holiday homes, a few with pots of hardy grasses beneath their windowsills. They had no room for gardens, but there was no need either, when this was your view.
Sophie passed old Mr Carsdale’s house, a flickering gas fire visible through the living-room window. She waved, unsure whether he’d noticed her and then, bunching her scarf more tightly against her neck, powered on, with Clifton padding happily alongside her.
At the end of the narrow street the buildings fell away and the land opened up, a wooden signpost pointing behind her for the village centre, right for the seafront, and straight ahead for the coastal path. In front and to the left of the path, there was an expanse of parkland surrounded by a sturdy-looking, waist-high fence. The public pathway was uneven, edged by unkempt grass that stretched for several feet to the right, before the drop down to the promenade and then the beach. Here it was only a low, gentle slope, but further on the land rose, and so the cliff got steeper and more perilous.
Sophie couldn’t help glancing at the parkland as she walked. Harry Anderly owned some of the land in the middle of the village, including Mistingham Green and a couple of the shops on Perpendicular Street, but this was the edge of the Mistingham Manor estate; the grass running down to the sea, clusters of mature trees further inland that mostly shielded the house from view. But she could see glimpses of it through the foliage, grey stone and the flash of the evening sun reflecting off the windows.
‘If it was me,’ she said to her dog, ‘I would have cut some of those trees down.’ Clifton looked up at her, inquisitive. ‘What’s the point of having your grand house so close to the sea, then obscuring the view of it behind a mini forest?’
She didn’t expect a reply, so when a loud bleat cut through the background rush of wind and waves, Sophie jumped.‘Shitting shit!’ She pressed a hand to her chest as Clifton barked excitedly.
Her dog loved goats, and Felix the pygmy goat was a Mistingham celebrity: much better tempered than his owner, and with more advanced social skills.
‘Felix,’ Sophie cooed. She stopped so Clifton could put his front paws on a fence rung, then stick his nose through the gap. The goat trotted over to say hello. Today, Felix – who was white with black patches – was wearing a pastel paisley jumper, teal teardrops against a yellow and pink background.
‘Maybe I should get Birdie to knit you some jumpers too,’ she said to Clifton.
