“HE’S JUST TRYING TO WIND YOU UP,” I say to Violet as we leave the book dispensary and step back out into the cold. “Sebastian Eels likes to have an effect on people. Just ignore him.”
“He gives me the creeps,” says Violet. “Why did he leave the bookshop and then come back in again?”
“He’s a writer, isn’t he? Can’t keep away, I expect.”
“Well, for some reason, he seems especially interested in my book,” says Violet, patting her coat pocket where she’s slipped the slim green volume.
“We should get back.” I turn up my collar. “It’s getting colder, and I’d like to fire up my wood burner. Also, I need to open the Lost-and-Foundery again before Mr Mollusc gets ideas and decides to board it up for good.”
“I don’t want to go back to your cellar,” says Violet. “Not yet, anyway. I want to go and look at the sea.”
“Er, really?” I say, glancing up at the slate-grey sky and getting a fat snowflake in the eye.
“And I want you to tell me about this malamander thing.”
“OK, OK,” I say. “But let’s not hang around here.”
When we reach the sea wall, it has at least stopped snowing. We look out over the beach, which has appeared again now that the tide is retreating. To one side, the pier stretches out into the ocean, its iron under-structure emerging from the heaving waves. Seegol’s Diner is the only point of light to be seen on it.
“Hungry?” I say to Violet.
“Yes. But now I really don’t have any money.”
“My treat,” I say. “Come on, let’s go down to the beach first. I know a shortcut.”
The narrow stone steps to the shore are wet, and slimy with green. When we reach the sand, it’s odd to think that just a couple of hours ago the place we are now standing was over our heads with water.
“Are you paid then?” says Violet, as we set off across the wet sand and shingle. “For your lost-property job?”
“Oh, yes.” I straighten my cap, which the wind keeps pushing over one ear. “But not in money. Being the Lost-and-Founder at the Grand Nautilus is more important than that. I get to keep anything that is not collected.”
“Really? Anything?”
“Yes. Well, anything that is not collected after a century.”
“A hundred years!” Violet looks amazed.
“I know! At least once a week something gets signed out of the ledger for good. If no one has collected it after a century, they’re probably dead and gone, aren’t they?”
We crunch on through the shingle, picking our way over the piles of seaweed and sticks of driftwood. Ahead, someone well wrapped in tatty coats and scarves is approaching, carrying a metal bucket. On her head are at least three hats, all tied down with a piece of string.
“Hallooo!” the someone cries, and I hallooo! back.
“I don’t often see you on the beach, young Herbie,” says the woman as she draws near. “Who is your interesting friend?”
“This is Violet,” I say. “Violet, this is Mrs Fossil. She’s a beachcomber.”
“Professional beachcomber, if you please,” says Mrs Fossil, giving Violet a snaggletooth grin. “The only one in town. And I hope to see you both in my little Flotsamporium in the near future. I have some curious beach finds just in. They would especially suit a young man looking for something for that special someone in his life. Eh, Herbie?”
Mrs Fossils nudges me, and winks at Violet.
“Really?” Violet looks embarrassed. “What kind of things do you find?”
“Ah, things like this,” says Mrs Fossil, waving her bucket at Violet. Inside, a dozen strange objects – shells, twists of metal, frosty glass pebbles and funny spirals – slosh around. Mrs Fossil reaches a fingerless glove into the bucket and pulls out a glistening brown lump.
“What’s that?” asks Violet. Not taking the lump, even though it looks like Mrs Fossil is offering it to her.
“Coprolite, my dear. A lovely specimen. Prehistoric.”
“Copro… What?”
“Doo-doo,” explains Mrs Fossil with another wink. “Dino turd. Petrified poo! One hundred and thirty-five million years old, give or take a day or two. I’m probably the first person to pick it up since the Lower Cretaceous. Imagine that!”
Violet, whose hand had been hesitantly reaching for the brown rock, looks like she can imagine that only too well and thrusts her hand firmly back inside her pocket.
“Or maybe you’d prefer some sunglasses,” Mrs Fossil continues, dipping back into the bucket and pulling out a pair of shades. They’ve obviously been in the sea a long time. At least, if the barnacles on the lenses are anything to go by. “Clean up a treat, these will.”
“Not just now, thanks, Mrs F,” I say, pulling Violet away. “But we’ll come round to your shop sometime soon, I promise.”
“Just you see that you do!” Mrs Fossil calls back as she strikes off across the beach again, back hunched, eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Soon we are approaching the end of the pier that is out of the sea. As it looms over us, dripping from its seaweedy struts, I see the metal spiral staircase that I was looking for, rising up from the beach and connecting to an open hatchway in the wooden boards of the pier high above us.
“It’s not exactly a secret way,” I say to Violet, as I signal for her to go up first. “But hardly anyone uses it these days.”
I don’t tell her that another interesting feature of the staircase is that no one can see it from the town. Not even if they have such a thing as a cameraluna to spy with.
At the top, we emerge under a little ornate shelter encrusted with Victorian curlicues. From here we can see along the pier to the glow of warm light that spills from the windows of Seegol’s Diner.
“It’s the best fish and chip shop in town,” I tell Violet, leading her towards the light. “Well, it’s the only fish and chip shop in town. But it’s still really good.”
“Isn’t this a funny place for it?” says Violet. “On the pier?”
“It is a bit far from everyone, I suppose. Especially if you have to fight a Force 9 gale to get here. But people come anyway. And if they want to see Seegol, they have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Seegol never leaves the pier. Ever. He’s lived here, alone, for years.”
