Everything with her dad had worn her down, as well as the ongoing challenges of simply being a sixteen-year-old girl in the modern world. Being her age has never been easy, but the nineties seem like a breeze in comparison.
‘All right,’ I’d replied quietly, before she could built up a head of steam. ‘We’ll go. Check out the bookshop, maybe meet the person who wrote the cards and see how they’re doing? Even if we just do a flying visit, there are nice places nearby we could stay too.’
‘Really?’ she’d asked, eyes wide and voice a hopeful whisper.
‘Really.’
Now, after what feels like a lifetime of driving, we are here. I grab my bag and undo my seatbelt. She glances over at me, looking suddenly nervous, stubby fingernails digging into her palms. She’s probably worried it’s all going to be a disaster, and that I’ll be annoyed at her talking me into it.
‘It’s going to begreat,’ I say, more enthusiastically than I feel.
As we emerge onto the main street, I have to admit it is incredibly lovely. So close to the sea that it’s practically in it, with a harbour that is both functional and pretty. The first thing I notice is the smell: it’s so clean, so pure, a gorgeous mix of salt and seaweed. The sky is alive with seabirds, the sounds of their squawking and squeaking loud against the steady flow of the waves coming into land.
I look around, see that the long stone jetty disappears out into the glimmering turquoise water, that pretty boats bob and sway in the harbour. Bigger vessels for fishing, smaller ones with little cabins, a few with sails fluttering in the breeze. We stroll past boat sheds and wicker baskets and piles of fishing nets, heading towards the cobbled street.
I gaze ahead, shielding my eyes from the sun, poking and prodding at my feelings to see what they’re up to. I’m here, in Bonnie Bay. A place that holds near legendary status in mymind. I’m really here – twenty-six years too late, single, and with my teenaged daughter… but here all the same. How do I feel about that?
I look at Beth, who is skipping along in the sunshine, taking it all in with sparkling eyes that chase away all of her usual studied teenaged cynicism. I feel fine about it, I decide. I am a grown woman now, and I am doing something fun and impulsive with my daughter – something she will remember for the rest of her life. When I’m in my nursing home watching repeats ofPoldarkwhile I drool in my rocking chair, we’ll always have this:Remember, she’ll say,that time you took me to Scotland because of an invitation we found inside a book?
The village stretches up and away from the main road, higgledy-piggledy rows of stone cottages looking down over the bay. I can only imagine how amazing the views from those pretty little homes are. What would it be like, going to sleep with the sound of the sea as your lullaby? Waking up and pulling back the curtains and seeing all of this glory laid out before you? What a way to start the day. I like Watford, but when I pull back my curtains, I see a train track, next door’s motorhome and the back of a Tesco car park.
We make our way down the picturesque ribbon of buildings, a café, a little grocery with baskets of fresh produce outside, a pub. All of them are painted in shades of pastel and white, a blur of colour so sweet it makes the place look good enough to eat, like the bricks and mortar are actually fondant and icing sugar. As we move along past the harbour area, a beach opens up – rich golden sand backed by dramatic cliffs covered in yellow gorse. It’s like every colour in the world is here, putting on a show.
There is very little traffic, and we stand on the cobbles, looking between the pinks and mint greens and baby blues of the buildings and the dazzling vista of the shoreline.
‘Wow,’ says Beth, gazing out at the sea. ‘Living a rainbow or what? You should paint this, Mum.’
I smile, imagining for a moment that I am the type of woman with enough freedom and self-confidence to simply set up an easel, and paint. That I could move to Bonnie Bay and become an artist, live a different life. ‘I’m not sure anyone could do it justice,’ I reply. ‘Shall we find this mythical bookshop, then?’
She gallops off down ahead of me, and I follow at my ambling pace. People wave and call greetings, and initially I look behind me, wondering who they’re talking to. I need to switch off my London mindset and let myself relax, try and lose some of this tension.
I stop for a moment by the steps that lead down onto the beach. I see a man in the distance, leaning down and picking something up from the sand, his feet bare as the waves roll in around his ankles. Maybe he’s collecting shells. For just one moment, he looks familiar – he looks like my Romeo. I shake my head, tell myself I’m imagining it. It’s natural enough that I’m seeing ghosts, here in Bonnie Bay. I know he moved back to Dublin, I know it’s not actually him – my mind is just short-circuiting.
I’m still shaken, though, and try to hide it as I catch up with Beth. She stands in front of a tall lilac-and-white building right on the waterfront. This is it: the bookshop that called us all the way here.
Its next-door neighbour looks to be a work in progress, but the bookshop itself is unbearably cute. There are lush hanging baskets filled with trailing lobelia and pansies, and yet more flowers in full bloom in wooden containers either side of the steps. Dahlias, lavender, beautiful black-eyed Susans. A sign hangs from above, in the shape of a book, and the window display is a glorious swathe of fishing nets entwined with sprigsof heather, paintings of the sea, and tiny versions of books in glass bottles.
Beth and I share a look, a slow smile, and I savour the moment. The sea behind me, bookshop in front of me, happy daughter by my side. The sun is warm against my skin, and even the gulls sound welcoming. Like they’re telling me I’m the right person, at the right time. That now, I’m also at the right place. I might be seeing ghosts, but I refuse to feel haunted.
I close my eyes for a second, and send out a little prayer of thanks – one moment of perfection goes a long way to ease some of the stresses of the last few days. Weeks. Months. Hell, let’s face it, years.
‘I feel a bit nervous now we’re here,’ Beth says. ‘What if they didn’t mean it? What if the invitation on that card was a joke?’
I’m surprised at how much that idea stings. I hope we were right to take this leap of faith, and that Beth won’t be receiving a lesson in how to be cynical at sixteen. It has of course crossed my mind that it could be a scam, but I desperately want to be wrong.
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out, I suppose!’ I reply, walking up the steps with more confidence than I’m actually feeling. I take a deep breath and push open the door, greeted by the sound of an old-fashioned bell tinkling overhead.
We walk through into a place that can only be described as splendid. It’s lovely and cool, the air filled with the scent of fresh flowers, of sea salt and lavender, with high ceilings and dark wood shelving. It somehow manages to be both cosy and spacious, with scattered tables and chairs, books and magazines on every available surface. Lots of sweet touches like strings of fairy lights that shine from little nooks, and squishy cushions in a gorgeous heather design.
There’s a big serving counter, adorned by a huge antique till, the kind you see in period dramas, and a massive fireplace. No fire at this time of year, but a display of photos – they’re all ofScottish scenes, and similar enough stylistically to the one on our card that I suspect they were taken by the same person.
The walls are hung with beautiful framed pictures of mythical creatures, along with posters for upcoming events – music nights, poetry readings, and the intriguingly titled Bring Your Own Book and Bottle evening. I think I could be a fan of BYOBAB.
The books themselves are everywhere, not just on the shelves – they’re in display cases, stacked on top of the mantel, piled into some of the same pretty wicker baskets we saw down at the harbour. It’s a beautiful space, peaceful and hectic at the same time, and I want nothing more than to sink into one of those chairs and fall asleep as I pretend to read the pretty edition of Jane Austen’sEmmathat’s lying on one of the little tables.
‘Where are the staff?’ Beth asks quizzically. It’s a good point. It’s late afternoon, so possibly near closing time – but the till is just sitting there, and some of these books must be valuable. I’ve already spotted an old edition ofAlice in Wonderland, the one with the gorgeous Mabel Lucie Attwell drawings, which in a shop in London would be under lock and key and only shown to people who flashed a credit card.
‘Invisible?’ I suggest, as we head off to explore. There are a few rooms, all slightly different. The last one is the best, because there are actual people in it. Real life humans, young ones, all curled up on bright red bean bags, reading. Even the teenaged girl has a book on her lap instead of her phone, and she looks almost embarrassed by it when she glances up and sees us.
