PART ONE
THE BEGINNING
PROLOGUE
MOIRA
Four years ago, Bonnie Bay
‘Have ye no homes to go to, now?’ Moira asks, her tone firm but her eyes shining with amusement. ‘Do I have to get one of those bells they have in pubs, and ring it to kick you all out?’
‘You can’t kick people out of bookshops,’ her grandson Robbie replies. ‘It’s against the law. Isn’t that right, Rory?’
Rory – Irish by birth, and in a former life a vastly successful barrister – peers at Moira over the book on Renaissance art he’s reading. He nods, his handsome face serious, and pronounces: ‘Absolutely right, Robbie. You’d be violating our basic human rights if you ask us to leave, Moira. This here is an essential public service you’re providing.’
He gestures around at the place, with its crammed shelves, higgledy-piggledy stacks of books, and its deliciously random approach to organisation.
Rory and Robbie are sitting together at the big round table that takes centre stage. Its surface is scattered with magazines, newspapers and empty mugs, dotted with plates that once held thick buttered slices of doorstep toast but now bear only crumbs.
The log fire is roaring away, issuing a gentle hiss and crackle as it shares its warmth, and music is playing in the background. A sweet, slow folk song, almost a lullaby. It’s warm and snug and welcoming, and it’s not unusual for visitors to drift off into a peaceful sleep as they nestle in one of the little alcoves with a good book.
Smaller tables pepper the room, with comfortable padded chairs and cosy corners, many of them still occupied by people reading or chatting. Truthfully, this might technically be a bookshop, but it’s always been as much library and community centre as a place where books are sold. A space where people come together, united by the magic of storytelling, by the joy of both reading and being among friends.
‘I’m not sure I trust your version of the law, Rory Callaghan,’ Moira replies, trying to be stern but unable to stop a grin reaching her lips. She knows that at least some of the people in the place right now are here for her, to offer her support, to let her know she is not alone. It’s sweet, and it moves her in ways that she never could have imagined… but it also has to end, at least for today. She has work to do. ‘Away with you, you charlatan!’
Rory holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat, and gets to his feet. He’s a tall man, towering over her, but what Moira lacks in height she makes up for in attitude. She might be in her seventies, but she’s wiry and fit from lifetime spent exploring the cliffs and crannies of Scotland. Robbie always says she’s part granny, part mountain goat. She stares up at him, hands on hips.
‘All right, all right,’ Rory says, smiling down at her. ‘I know when I’m not wanted!’
He lays a gentle kiss on her forehead, and gives her shoulders a quick squeeze. ‘You’ll be all right?’ he asks quietly, a hint of Ireland still in his accent.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Moira replies, patting his hand. Once Rory leaves, the other customers start to go as well. She says her farewells to each by name, even the two tourists who are staying in the holiday cottages – she makes a point of always knowing people’s names, and knowing what they like to read. How else could she suggest the perfect book for them?
Eventually, it is just her and Robbie. He’s sitting looking at his battered copy ofThe Seabirds of the Scottish Isles, which he’s loved since he first moved here to Bonnie Bay as a timid young boy. His granddad Angus used to sit with him by the fireplace, showing him the pictures of the cormorants, the Arctic skua, the puffins and the kittiwakes. He was shy and scared when he first arrived here, and the book helped heal that – it transported him to somewhere safe and magical, as all good books can.
‘Time for you to go too, Robbie,’ she tells him firmly. ‘I know you’ve got college work to do. I’ll be fine here.’
He looks hesitant, and she stands with her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side, face bearing an expression he’s learned not to argue with over the years.
‘Why don’t you come too?’ he asks. ‘I’ll race you home – first one past the jetty wins!’
They often do this, the two of them – it’s a common sight, the pair of them running through the pretty streets of Bonnie Bay, feet pounding over the cobbles, chasing each other around the little fishing harbour. Despite the age difference, it’s never guaranteed that Robbie will win. She shakes her head, and points at her bright orange trainers. She likes vivid colours, especially on her feet – she jokes that if she ever tumbles down a cliff, it’ll help emergency services to find her.
‘You’d lose, and we both know it. These trainers are built for speed. But not tonight, my love. I need a while here. I have things to do.’
‘You mean yours and Granddad’s special project?’ he replies, looking her directly in the eyes, searching for signs of distress.
‘Exactly. Plus I need to clear up a bit. You know it always helps to calm me, so don’t bother asking if you can stay and help. Go back to the cottage, get the fire going ready for when I’m home.’
He reluctantly agrees, and she walks with him to the door. She waves him goodbye, smiling fondly as he lollops away – so tall now, but not quite grown into his height. She sighs, and stands at the door looking out for a few moments, enjoying the fading sunlight of what has been a bright but brutally cold spring day. Now dusk is settling over this little village of theirs, casting its dark golden glow over their magical corner of the far north of Scotland.
Taking a moment to look around, she’s able to rejoice in what is right before her – just like her Angus always said they should. The brightly coloured boats are swaying in the harbour, their sails flapping and snapping in the breeze, their bells and fittings clanging out a discordant but still charming chorus. The cobbled street runs right through the heart of the village, lined with a long row of pastel-coloured buildings that stream along the waterfront like a pretty ribbon. And there, right in front of it all, is the sea – wild, glorious, filling the air with its fresh, salty tang.
Bonnie Bay is set on a firth, an inlet of the North Sea, straddled by the harbour on one side, and a beach on the other. The waves are glimmering in the dying light, the gannets are white streaks as they fly to and from their nests, and the curlews on the sand fill the air with their plaintive whistling cries. The waves roll in, the ever-present soundtrack to her life. It’s beautiful, and Moira’s eyes fill with tears at the sight.
She steps out then turns back to face the entrance to the Edge of the World Bookshop. It’s a brilliant name, all Angus’sidea. Bonnie Bay does feel like that, as though it’s perched right on the far reaches of the earth. There are islands further north, the Orkneys and the Shetlands, and eventually the coastlines of Norway and Iceland… but it doesn’t look like it from here. From here, it looks like infinity stretching out before them. Like God created something so absolutely perfect here that He just stopped bothering with anything else.
She shivers slightly, suddenly feeling the chill, and heads back inside. The little bell tinkles as the door opens and shuts, one of her favourite sounds. She leans back against the closed door for a moment, feeling a trickle of guilty relief at finally being alone. Here, in this place, where she feels as whole as it is possible for her to feel right now.
