THE BOOKSHOP AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

THE BOOKSHOP AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

How to Impersonate Famous People
Christopher Fowler. Prince Paperbacks, 1984. first US edition. 85pp Very good/very good. Some rubbing at corners

Books. 
    That’s what the notice says. Books.
    It doesn’t read ‘Bookshop’. That would contravene planning law, as The Bookshop At The Edge of the World is actually an old, crumbling crofthouse called Da Kirk o’ da Shun, full of forehead-crunching doors, unexpected steps and rickety shelves that sway in the wind. Well, it’s the wooden panelling on the walls that occasionally flutters in a  big gust, sending the shelves into a mild rocking motion which can make you think you’re at sea.
    And in sense, you are. This is the remote north of Shetland’s biggest island, which is called Mainland, because it’s the main bit of land. As opposed to ‘the mainland’, which is Scotland, some 200 miles south. Locally referred to as ‘sooth’. The winds – big, frequently hurricane force – come howling in from the Atlantic or the North Sea, of which Shetland (never ‘The Shetlands’) is the crossroads, the receptacle for all sorts of driftwood, detritus, flotsam and jetsam. Things get washed up here. All sorts of things.
    Me, for instance.
    That notice. Books. Or, I supposed, ‘Books.’ Note the capital ‘B’. It could mean a number of things. It could be a simple proclamation that books exist. A gentle reminder to the passing motorist, cyclist, pedestrian or low-flying helicopter pilot of a form of communication  which involves paper, text, and card. Not some flourish of pixels on a screen. Objects, tactile and physical, organic, soft, prone to damage and rot. Cheap or ferociously expensive. but never worthless. Human outpourings of anguish and joy, learned irrelevance and breathtaking genius.
    And objects of trade. Books to buy, books to sell, books to trade.
    The truth is, the notice means simply that there are books lurking in the squat little crofthouse at the top of the track, that somebody (me) is to be found in said crofthouse, and, for the duration of the notice’s presence, is willing to receive visitors, potential customers, and exchange some of those books for money. I only put the placard (painted by my wife) out when I’m feeling relatively sociable, and few people actually respond to it. Apart from one or two friends and neighbours who take it as an indication that I’m in and willing to provide coffee, tea and the plain chocolate digestive biscuits I like. And the infernal mice absolutely love.
    Some of my local acquaintances will browse the shelves, occasionally borrowing a book that’s taken their fancy, or asking if they can listen to one of the several hundred vinyl LPs and singles that I also…own. ‘Stock’ seems the wrong word. Because selling books and records isn’t really the point,. Being here is the point. Among books. The smell of books. And peat smoke, from the cast iron stove, which if course doesn’t really provide the kind of humidity-controlled environment in which -some rather valuable – volumes should be kept. But then, as I sayd, this is a bookshop designed, first and foremost, for my comfort and pleasure.
     The coffee.. I offer free coffee to everyone who comes in, all my, well, customers. Or potential customers. Sometimes oyu have to take long view, cultivating someone for weeks or even months before they decide to buy that vintage copy of Biggles Goes West for, oh, 50 pence. the coffee is not to everyone’s taste. It’s made from fair trade Ethopian beans, roasted and packed in Lerwick, Shetland’s capital. Which is not generally known as a centre of coffee roasting expertise. That’s all my fault, actually, but I’ll tell you about that later.
     Oh, and there’s music, of course. The giant, 1960s loudspeakers, the ancient Quad valve amplifier, painted eggshell hospital blue, that glows orange and smells of burning pylons. The manual Linn Sondek record deck, made in Glasgow 30 years ago by redundant shipyard workers.  I also have a selection of guitars and other vintage sound equipment, most of it for sale. Probably. At the right price. To people who seem deserving of ownership. I mean, you have to be discriminating in this business. Did I say ‘business?’ My wife, Susan, says it’s a shed.
    “It’s the ultimate shed, Tom,” she anounced during her first visit. She had been before, but I didn’t actually formalised the retail nature, so to speak, of the building until about a year ago. “It’s a male thing. You’ve got your books, your records, your guitars. You’re happy as a pig in shit.”
    “Why do women not have sheds?” I wasn’t issuing any denials. She was right. This is a kind of shed, only with a public aspect. And I can claim the electricity against tax.
    “Women don’t have sheds because they have houses” replied Susan, crisply. “Homes. There’s no need to escpae to secret little worlds where they can..tinker. Play games. Actually” – and she glanced around, at the comfortable old couch, the ample floorspace – “I’m surprised you don’t have a train set in here. Or a Scalextric. There’s room.”
    I folded my arms and thought for a minute.
    “You’re quite right,” I said. “But what I really fancy is an O-gauge system for the garden, you know, like Neil Young has. Neil Young the Canadian singer songwriter, not Neil o’da Flitterwicks.” (Neil o’da (of the) Fliterwicks (his house), also surnamed Young is a well-known local crofter and aggressive drunk with a tendency towards public defaecation. There is general local concern that this habit could be the end of him on a really cold winter’s night).