The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (best life changing books .TXT) 📕

must have been done in the seventies; the suite is pale green, avocado I suppose, with angular taps, and it doesn’t have a proper shower.

‘Might need to get a dishwasher if I was going to rent it out.’

‘I’d certainly never stay anywhere that didn’t have a dishwasher. I mean imagine washing up on your holiday?’ She pulls a horrified face.

‘But I don’t know where you’d put one. So that might mean a new kitchen, and then if I spend ten grand or something on doing it up… I don’t know. And Wi-Fi.’

‘Oh my God, yes.’

There’s barely a signal out here, no 4G, and of course Uncle Andrew didn’t have a computer. There’s a landline, a cream-coloured dial telephone that sits on a little table by the window in the sitting room, and a second one, in green, in the master bedroom. We spend a lot of time writing notes of things we need to look up when we’re next in town, using the free Wi-Fi in one of the cafés, or sitting in the car outside the town hall, piggybacking.

‘You’d have an income, though, which might be handy. I suppose it depends what you’re going to do when you go home. And when you get the money from Chris.’

‘Ugh. Yes. I don’t know what I’m going to do, I can’t even think about it.’

‘We’ll just get rid of the stuff you definitely don’t need. It’ll be fine.’

Clothes then, and non-essential/non-pleasing kitchenware. There are some ugly glasses, and some cups and saucers that don’t match anything else, and some elderly pans, which probably need to go to the tip, although I’ll try to offload them at the charity shop.

We’re filling the boot of the car with stuff, anyway, when the clip-clopping sound of a horse on the Drive grows louder and louder. We both look up, and watch as someone trots along the road towards us, coming from the direction of what I like to call The Big House, aka Hollinshaw.

‘Blimey,’ says Xanthe, ‘a man on a horse.’

The horse stops at the entrance to the driveway, where the gravel begins, and the man touches his hand to the brim of his riding hat.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says.

‘Good afternoon,’ I respond, interested. This must be Charles, surely, the twice-divorced lord, the brother of the bookshop man whom I have yet to meet. Although his hat hides his hair, mostly, I can see he’s dark, with firm eyebrows and a square jaw. Quite handsome, in fact. Not young, probably about the same age as us. Tweed jacket, biscuit-coloured jodhpurs, shiny black boots.

He swings himself down from the horse, which is large and brown. Bay, is that what they call it, that bright, almost ginger colour, with a black mane and tail, and a white blaze on its nose. Everything I know about horses comes from reading pony books as a child, so I’m no expert. It pricks its ears towards us. The man loops the rein loosely over the gatepost, and walks up the drive, unbuckling his black riding hat as he does so. He takes it off as he reaches us, runs his hand through his curls, and looks from one of us to the other. I wonder if he’s trying to decide if it would be racist to assume it’s me he needs to speak to.

He avoids choosing which of us is Mrs Mottram née Hamilton by saying, ‘My name’s Maltravers, Charles Maltravers. We’re neighbours. I live up at Hollinshaw. Thought I should pop down and say hello.’

Perhaps it’s not him then? Or do they have different surnames to their titles? I try to remember. Nancy Mitford’s father was a lord, but he wasn’t called Lord Mitford, was he?

I step towards him and hold out my hand. ‘How kind. I’m Thea Mottram, this is my friend Xanthe Cooper – she’s come up to help me get organized.’

He shakes my hand, and then Xanthe’s, and then looks at the car stuffed with boxes and bin bags.

‘Sorting out Andrew’s belongings?’

‘Yes, quite a job,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure he’d ever thrown anything away.’

‘Always difficult when there’s a whole life to deal with. He lived here for a long time.’

I nod, and we all stand and look at each other for a moment. Then he says, ‘He was your uncle?’

‘Great-uncle. My grandfather’s eldest brother.’

‘Ah, so you’re a Hamilton,’ he says, smiling at me. His eyes crinkle attractively. ‘I think we’re very distantly connected. And what are your plans? Are you going to sell?’

Xanthe snorts with laughter but manages, perhaps convincingly, to turn it into a cough. I smile winningly. ‘I’m not sure, I haven’t decided yet. I thought I might keep it, at least for a while. I’ve heard you let some of the houses on the estate as holiday rentals?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Just working on a conversion of some outbuildings, actually. When those are finished, we’ll have six holiday lets and two long-term rentals. You won’t be living here yourself?’

‘I’m not sure it’s practical,’ I say. ‘I generally live in Sussex.’

‘Ah!’ He laughs. ‘No, perhaps not. Well, you might hear from others that I’m keen to buy back the properties my father and grandfather sold off. If you do decide to sell, let me know. I’ll make you an offer. Market value of course.’

‘Oh,’ I say, pretending ignorance, ‘really? That’s interesting. I’ll keep it in mind.’

‘And do come up to the house, if you’d like,’ he says. ‘We’ll give you the tour. Have you seen it?’

I admit that we’ve sneaked a look from the road that crosses the park.

‘Just follow the Drive up,’ he says, ‘I’m usually about the place.’ He shakes my hand again. ‘Good to have met you.’

He shakes hands with Xanthe, puts his hat back on and untethers the horse, swinging himself smoothly up into the saddle. Once again, he touches the brim of the hat to us, and trots off in the direction he came from.

‘Who’s “we”?’ I wonder. ‘I thought he was divorced.’

‘Must have a girlfriend though, surely? I