‘If you like. Or, you know, stone circles?’
My, how I’d love to say yes. How I’d love to be the kind of adventurous, earthy, vaguely mystical person who travels the land looking at long barrows and chanting inside Neolithic burial chambers. Truthfully, I don’t even know what they are – they’re just words I remember that feel relevant.
‘Not really,’ I reply meekly. ‘Though I did once go to Stonehenge on a school trip.’
It wasn’t very mystical at all, now I think about it. A coach load of hyped-up teenagers more interested in flirting (the girls) and farting (the boys) than in the ancient monument we’d been taken to see.
‘There you go then! It must be fate. Go on, sit down and have a little read. You look like you need a rest, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I respond, furious at the fact that I am tearing up. Life has been hard for a long time now, and this small gesture of kindness from a stranger is all it takes. ‘Thank you.’
I excuse my way past the other readers, desperately trying not to disturb them, and find a spot in a corner. I sigh as I sit, realising how exhausted I am, and close my eyes. Just a second of calm, a moment of peace, a few deep breaths. It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
I almost fall asleep, but do that weird thing where your body jerks itself awake just as you’re drifting off. I sneak a look at my companions, glad that none of them appear to have noticed.
I seem to get tired very easily these days, often conking out on the couch in front of Netflix. I work for an agency as a temp office manager, which isn’t exactly like working down a mine or anything – but I do long hours, it’s busy, and I’m often starting over in fresh places. That means constantly having to ask where the toilets are, meeting new people who immediately forget me, and wandering around looking for the break room. I travel all over London with my bus pass, and there’s often not much left in the tank at the end of the day.
Sitting still like this, somewhere warm and cosy and welcoming, is comforting in a way I’m not used to any more. Nothing has felt welcoming for a long time, and I know that needs to change. I can’t go on like this, I’m starting to realise. I need a life of my own, rather than the remnants I was left with after the divorce.
I glance down at my lap, at the book that is still there. The cover shows a single standing stone silhouetted by a bright orange sunrise. It looks beautiful, and intriguing, and nothing at all like overcrowded Stonehenge.
I open the book up, and browse a few strikingly photographed chapters about the Orkneys, and an ancient settlement called Skara Brae. It’s 5,000 years old, which ismind-boggling. You can still see the traces of the way the people lived, the places they slept, even the games they played. I wonder if cheating husbands were a thing back then, or if they were all too busy hunting and surviving to have such silly concerns? Maybe heartbreak is a modern invention. You probably don’t have time for an existential crisis when you can’t pop into the supermarket for your bits.
I stroke the pictures as I move through the book, the glorious colours and stunning landscapes completely transporting me to another era, another world. If only I could somehow jump into the pages, and start afresh. Sadly, even though bookshops might feel magical, that is a dream too far.
As I reach the middle of the book, the pages fall open to reveal an envelope. I stare at it for a few moments, taking in the creamy-coloured paper and the curling handwriting it bears. ‘For the right person, at the right time,’ it says, rather mysteriously. I smile at the sight, remembering a time with my grandmother when we found old train tickets being used as a bookmark in a shop just like this. The tickets were from 1978, and were from Truro in Cornwall to London. We’d had a fine time making up stories to go with them, creating a fictional life for the people who had enjoyed the trip.
I pick up the envelope, looking around the shop in case anybody suddenly jumps up and shouts: ‘That’s mine! I’ve been looking for it everywhere!’
Nobody does, so I decide that I will investigate further. It isn’t sealed, only tucked in, which encourages me. I could take a little peek, satisfy my curiosity, and then pop it right back where it came from. I turn it over, and see a few random messages jotted on the back like graffiti. One says ‘love this idea!’, and another, in different pen and different handwriting, adds: ‘Not for me – but when the right person finds it, I wish them all the luck in the world!’ Someone else has simply doodled a smallcluster of love hearts and kisses. How very odd – I’m clearly not the first person to come across this.
Still nervous about being caught doing something wrong, I slide the top of the envelope open, and pull out the card nestled inside it. I smile at the photo on the front – a gorgeous shot of a Scottish loch, clear and blue, surrounded by majestic mountains. It’s absolutely stunning, the snow-capped peaks reflected in the shining water.
Inside, there is more of the same flowing handwriting as on the envelope. I read:
Hello stranger! If you’ve found this card, then the hand of fate has just tapped you on the shoulder, and now she wants to give you a big hug! Life isn’t always easy, and our hearts are fragile things – made of glass, too easily broken. The people we love can be lost, and the people we love can hurt us. They leave, they are taken, they simply disappear from our worlds. Sometimes we even seem to disappear from our own. It’s not your fault, you know. You did everything that you could, and we all deserve a second chance. This is yours – an invitation to come and visit us and our perfect little bookshop by the sea.
Take a leap of faith and head north, to our tiny patch of paradise. You’ll find a warm welcome, friendship, free board and lodging, and a place to heal. A bed to sleep in, books to read, and wonders to explore. It won’t cost you a penny, and at the very least you’ll have a free holiday – and maybe something so much more.
This isn’t a hoax, and as they say, life isn’t a dress rehearsal. Are you brave enough to take a chance? If not, then at least remember this: don’t give up. Don’t accept that you have run out of choices. If you’re not the right person and this is not the right time, please leave this envelopewhere you found it, maybe with a message of your own. If you are, then we’ll see you soon. No need to call us, or book ahead – in fact we specifically ban it! You trust us, and we’ll trust you – just turn up. The address is on the back of this card. The Bookshop at the Edge of the World will be waiting!
I flip it over, and see a stamp. Bonnie Bay in Aberdeenshire, which certainly sounds like the kind of place that could be at the edge of the world. It’s got to be some kind of marketing gimmick, I think, reading the card again. Maybe people look it up, and then there’s an internet scam where they tell you the holiday is free, but you need to pay a one-off admin fee of £500.
Except… it doesn’t feel like that. Those words were real, heartfelt. Authentic. I could almost touch the warmth radiating from them, the very genuine sense of hope and honesty behind them. It’s crazy, but I feel like it might almost just be true. I also feel like those words, that message, could specifically have been for me. Kate Daniels, the invisible woman. That’s even more crazy, but it’s what I feel.
I’m still staring at the card when the shop lady joins me. I pass it to her, saying: ‘This fell out of the book. The book that fell on me. I think it must belong to you.’
She pops a pair of reading glasses on and inspects it, her mouth quirking into a smile as she takes it in.
‘Well,’ she replies, handing it right back. ‘I’d say it very much belongs to you. The book didn’t fall on my head, did it? Are you going to go? To Bonnie Bay?’
‘I can’t. It’s in Scotland.’
‘I believe they have these new-fangled inventions called trains these days, my dear. It’s Scotland, not Timbuktu.’
I turn the idea over in my mind, realise that I am actually considering it.No, I tell myself. It’s stupid. I’m stupid. I couldn’teven get the bus home tonight without messing up, never mind go on a wild adventure like this.
‘I can’t afford it,’ I say lamely. ‘Plus it’s stupid.’
