“You just noticed?”
“No, no. I just meant . . . I know you’re not from around here. But it feels like you’ve fit in really well. And not everybody does.”
Nina beamed with pleasure. “Thank you,” she said.
Archie banged on the side of the van and it stopped. Nina banged on the side of Surinder, and she stopped, too.
“Aww,” said Fat Tam.
“Another time,” said Nina, jumping down and giving Surinder a hand. Surinder had drunk more cider than Nina had.
“This is a great place,” she was saying. “This is just . . . this is good. I like Fat Tam.”
“He liked you, too,” said Nina. “He was going at you like you were breakfast.”
“Oh yeah?” said Surinder, who was carrying her shoes. “Do you think he was maybe just hungry? And can you make me more breakfast now, please?”
Chapter Sixteen
Both the girls slept long and late the next day. Nina sat up about eleven as Surinder made coffee, and they both looked at something Nina had bought called “potato scones.” In the end they decided to toast them and slather them with butter, which turned out to be a better solution than either of them could have imagined possible, as they ate them looking out into the windy sunlight.
“What a beautiful day,” Nina exclaimed.
“Lots of wind,” pointed out Surinder.
“Yes,” explained Nina patiently. “It keeps you from getting too hot.”
“You have gone totally native,” said Surinder.
“Not as much as you have,” said Nina. “I haven’t swapped DNA with anyone.”
“When did you get so cheeky?” said Surinder, wolfing down another potato scone. “Oh my God, these are good.”
“I don’t know,” said Nina, genuinely musing on it. She’d noticed it in herself. She opened the door and stood enjoying the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze beneath it. “I think . . . I think it was when we moved the books out. Found them a home.”
Surinder nodded. “I think you’re right. A psychological weight has been lifted.”
“And also an actual weight,” pointed out Nina. “But yeah. It’s like we can just be normal friends again without you tutting at me all the time.”
“Because you were about to bring my ceiling down,” said Surinder.
“Yes. Exactly. Weight. Lifted.”
“I’ve noticed something else,” said Surinder.
“What?”
“You haven’t got a book in your hands.”
“Well . . . I’m just about to go to the book van. With all my lovely books. And then I’m going to go out and sell some books.”
“I know. But you didn’t read a book over breakfast.”
“I was talking to you.”
“You didn’t take a book to bed.”
“We were drunk and it was four o’clock in the morning.”
“You’ve stopped clutching one everywhere like a security blanket.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“Mm,” said Surinder.
“Anyway, what’s wrong with reading?”
“Nothing is wrong with reading,” said Surinder, “as I have told you a million billion times before. But it finally seems you’re doing both. Read/live/read/live. And proceed, et cetera.”
Nina looked out at the wildflowers growing in the meadow to the left of the lower field. They rippled gently in the breeze. Over in the woods she could smell the faintest drift of bluebells on the wind.
“Mm-hmm,” she said.
“You know I’m right,” said Surinder. “You’re getting happy. I can tell.”
“It’s not that,” said Nina. “I just want another one of those potato scones.”
“You’re also hungrier,” said Surinder. “Also, I can tell you, a very, very good sign.”
“Shut up! And oh LORD, I am going to work. Yes I am. You can lie here and hang out.”
“I totally intend to,” said Surinder. “Got anything to read?”
“Shut up! Again. And if Mr. Farmer Grumpy Pants comes around?”
“Mmm?”
“No, don’t say anything. He’s an arse.”
“Roger.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was blowy but bright, and Nina pulled a sweater on over a gray dress and leggings. The Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After, minus its Second World War hardbacks, still looked as tremendous in the light of a new day as she remembered it. She made sure that all the canvas straps were pulled tight to keep the books from falling out, then got behind the wheel, treble-checking, as she always did now, that the hand brake was on and the gearshift was in neutral before she even thought about pulling away. She took a deep breath and started the van.
It was market day in neighboring Auchterdub—she’d checked everything out before she started, and planned to follow the crowds around—so she headed straight there. Sure enough, there was a throng around the stalls where people had gathered to sell their handmade cheeses (and occasionally a little unpasteurized milk under the counter if you asked nicely); straw dollies; warm eggs; and enormous big splurges of cakes, vast, soft pillowy things chock-full of sensational ingredients. Nina kept her eye on a large ginger sponge cake for later.
There were handmade sausages: venison, beef, and even ostrich. There were early harvests of artichokes and potatoes, still marked with the dark earth; vast deep green cabbages and fresh young sweet lettuces; some forced tomatoes, which were still small and awkward looking, but the cauliflowers and carrots were already gorgeous. Nina had also been told about the strawberry season, where the fruit threatened to pour over the sides of the baskets, there were just so many.
Land Rovers, Jeeps, and all forms of mud-splattered cars were parked along the little narrow cobbled streets and pale gray stone walls, but Nina found her booked slot easily enough and pulled up happily. Even before she had put out the big illuminated letters, shoppers were circling around. As she pulled the doors wide, the women in particular were practically jumping inside to have a look.
Nina looked behind her proudly. The stock looked neat and tidy and enticing; some of the particularly beautiful covers were turned out to face the room. In a moment of madness that morning, she had hung a chandelier from the light connector on the ceiling, but she was pleased now, as it swung prettily in the breeze.