Page 9 of Christmas at the Little Bookshop by the Sea

‘I think you’re right.’ Florrie giggled.

‘Anyway, if I’m not mistaken, I think we have some kisses to catch up on.’ Ed’s eyes twinkled at her.

‘I do believe you’re right.’ Florrie felt a flutter in her stomach.

‘Well then, what are we waiting for?’ he asked, before getting to his feet and scooping her into his arms, brushing his lips against hers.

SIX

The walk along the top prom to the bookshop that morning could only be described as bracing. Stretched out above the town was a vast expanse of cornflower-blue sky, white clouds scudding along on the brisk breeze. Seagulls called as they dipped and dived, skimming over the waves. Florrie and Ed strode forth at a vigorous pace, Gerty trotting along in her familiar jaunty way, tail swishing, nose twitching as it was assaulted by myriad interesting smells. They nodded at the familiar faces they encountered, dog walkers, people making their way to work, all wrapped up well against the wintry weather. Cyclists whizzed along the cycle lane in a whir of wheels. A particularly vocal herring gull was perched on the chimney pot of one of the imposing Victorian houses that enjoyed spectacular views of the bay, screeching for all it was worth, its cries carried off by the wind. The sea to the left looked bitterly cold, the frothy white breakers crashing on the shoreline sending foam splashing into the air. The usual group of surfers was loitering by the pier, bobbing in and out of the water, their shiny black wetsuits giving the appearance of a pod of seals.

Florrie and Ed followed the curve of the road, bringing the commanding line of cliffs on the opposite side of towninto view. Standing proud was the mighty Thorncliffe, its vast hulk a powerful presence on the coastline. From here it was easy to make out the quaint, whitewashed Clifftop Cottage that was home to Maggie and Bear. It sat within the curtilage of Thorncliffe Farm, to which the cliff had given its name, and its patchwork sprawl of fields sparkled with frost. Nestled below was the cluster of characterful cottages where Micklewick Bay had its origins. The higgledy-piggledy houses clung onto the cliffside like a cluster of limpets, their red-pantile rooftops glowing in the pale, winter sun. Here the meandering network of alleyways and snickets had a collection of names that tickled the tourists, amongst which was Micklemackle Yard, Herring Lass Row, Gabblewickgate and Blatherin Alley.

Standing before these cobbled streets was The Jolly Sailors pub facing bravely out to sea where it hunkered down against the elements. It had sat there stoically for several centuries, withstanding all that the salt-laden sea air and brooding high spring tides could throw at it. The hostelry was a favourite haunt of Florrie and her close group of friends, particularly so on a Friday evening. It had been their meeting place for years, where they’d indulge in the landlady Mandy’s famously hearty portions of fish and chips and a good old catch-up, sharing what had gone on in their week, offering words of comfort and support where needed over a bottle or two of wine and a good old belly laugh.

Gerty paused at a wooden bench, its pale wood and shiny brass plaque betraying its newness. The Labrador looked up at them with enquiring amber eyes – she’d already picked up on their new routine.

‘Good lass.’ Ed patted her head and she wagged her tail.

Florrie’s eyes scanned over the newly inscribed plaque that was fixed to the backrest of the seat, her heart squeezing.

Dedicated to the memory of Dinah and Bernard Harte of The Happy Hartes Bookshop, who loved this view.

It still stung that they’d both gone, but Florrie and Ed had agreed that funding a bench here on the prom, looking out to sea, would be the perfect way to commemorate them.

No words were exchanged as Florrie and Ed sat down, lost in their own thoughts, his leg pressing against hers as they gazed out at the view. A couple of ro-ro ferries in the distance punctuated the undulating dark blue of the North Sea, gulls dipping and diving and skimming over the waves. An unforgiving wind was blowing in off the sea, whipping around the couple and nipping at their cheeks. It was only a matter of minutes before the cold of the bench started seeping through Florrie’s duffle coat. She tucked her chin deeper into her scarf and hugged her arms around herself.

Ed gave a sigh. ‘I could never tire of looking out at this.’

‘Yeah, me neither. I still get a thrill every time I look at it – it’s different every day.’

‘I can see why my grandparents loved it so much.’

Florrie inhaled slowly, the chilly air filling her chest. ‘Me too.’ She felt a wave of sadness rise up through her as she recalled how Mr H used to push his wife along the prom in her wheelchair, stopping here so they could take a moment and sip tea from a flask while they savoured the view. Mrs H had suffered a stroke a couple of years before Mr H had died. It had affected her mobility, but her husband had been determined that nothing was going to stop her from enjoying her daily venture along the top prom and glimpse of her beloved Thorncliffe. Florrie and Ed had thought it fitting to fund a bench here in their memory and, since its installation, they’d taken to stopping at it for a few minutes each morning.

‘Here’s where I feel closest to my grandad,’ Ed said, pushing his wind-tousled hair off his face before wrapping his arm around Florrie. ‘I know the bookshop would be the most likely place, but it’s here, with this amazing panorama that he used to enthuse about all the time, where I really feel he’s near.’

‘I get that.’

‘We’ve picked the perfect spot for a bench in his memory – my grandmother’s, too.’

Florrie nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘You’re right. They’d both be thrilled with it. This view really touched him, he used to say it was almost a part of him, spoke about it all the time.’ She cast her gaze along the vista that stretched out before her, the silhouettes of industry looming way along to the left of the coastline, sweeping along the broad stretch of golden sand, all the way up to the cliffs. It really was breathtaking and easy to see why it had been so popular with wealthy Victorian holidaymakers, and why so many had built their grand homes in the town. In fact, the “new” part of town on this side of Skitey Bank was built on the money generated by the very industry that still powered ahead further up the coast. ‘I feel your grandad’s presence here, too.’ The happy thought prompted a smile. Her old boss had made a huge impact on her life in so many positive ways, as had his wife. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d never have got to meet Ed; she’d never have found out how aproper,all-encompassinglove felt, which was nothing like the lukewarm version she’d had with Graham. She glanced upwards, her smile widening.Thank you, Mr H.

Ed clapped his hands on his knees, pulling her back into the moment. ‘Right, I don’t know about you but I’m in danger of freezing to the spot here. I reckon we need to get cracking so we get warmed through by the time the bookshop opens.’ He got to his feet, pulling up the collar of his coat, then held out his hand to Florrie.

‘I’m not going to argue with that.’ She grinned up at him, slipping her gloved hand into his. The biting wind had started to make her eyes water and she could barely feel her fingers. The thought of wrapping them around a steaming mug of tea when they got to the bookshop was most appealing.

‘Come on, best foot forward,’ Ed said, slipping her arm through his, setting the pace as he strode ahead.

Before long they reached the top of Skitey Bank that twisted and turned its way down to the bottom prom and the beach. Taking advantage of a gap in the traffic, they hurried across to the other side, passing the derelict shell of the once magnificent Micklewick Majestic Hotel that occupied the end of a block with views out to sea. It had been on the market for a considerable amount of time, with rumours aplenty as to why it hadn’t sold, who was in the bidding for it and tales of what had become of its previous owner. In that time, it had fallen further into disrepair and Mother Nature had taken over, weeds self-seeding with abandon here, there and everywhere. The guttering was hanging off in places, water cascading down the former hotel’s walls when it rained. Florrie dreaded to think what another winter would do to the building.

Soon, she was unlocking the door of the bookshop, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked Christmas cakes wafting up from the bakery two doors down. As soon as she stepped into the warmth her nose started tingling and her glasses steamed up.

‘First things first,’ she said, removing her glasses and wiping them with a tissue she’d fished from her pocket, ‘I’m going to stick the kettle on. I won’t be able lift a finger – literally, they’re frozen! – until I have a hot mug of tea inside me and I’ve properly thawed out.’

Ed looked at her and laughed. ‘You usually can’t lift a finger unless you’ve had a hot mug of tea inside you whether they’re frozen or not.’

‘Fair point.’ Florrie giggled as she popped her glasses back on and began unwinding her scarf.

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