Shelf Life

The shop sits quietly and anonymously amongst rows of red brick terrace houses. Two up and two down. Houses built for workers. Living space for the flesh and blood that was used to power a revolution of industry that now lays broken and bewildered in the weeds. Another illusory promise of glory that stole away youth and dream.

Blink and you would miss this shop. The windows dwell in the shadow of the high factory wall opposite. A wall that was painted to mimic the dwellings that surrounded it. Somehow the dark two dimensional outlines of houses fooled enemy bombers and the engines of war-machines were built throughout a war that educated an entire generation in the inhumanity that dwells in us all.

That knowledge of how we truly are has been discarded and all these tired buildings remain whilst lamenting their continued existence. This is no life. Never was. Here and there nature stakes her claim. Guttering repurposed as flower pots. Pavements cracking open to reveal a different life. A different way. 

Back when I first visited this shop, the sun shone more brightly, encouraging colours to come forth and strut their stuff. The sign for Grimshank’s Books had a circus feel to it. There was an adventure to be had here. Promises that would be fulfilled if only I would take my time and will myself to believe.

Revisiting the past is folly. There is nothing for us there. The mines have been stripped bare. The forests cut down and burnt as fuel for a venture that no longer makes any sense. The womb of history is barren. All we can do is listen to her song and pray we learn from it.

Yet here I am. The door is sun burnt and peeling. The wood beneath rotting. The windows opaque with decades of dust. Dry tears for the passing of the ages. Hiding a secret that we will always share. The place looks dead. But then it always did. An unwelcoming façade that opened up into the warmest of welcomes.

I stand in the street and with open eyes I dream of a time when I was unhappy enough to discover happiness.

“Old book shops contain powerful magic,” my Granddad smiled as he said this and I watched him very carefully to see if the smile was the precursor of laughter. No laughter came though. There was only warmth and that warmth was infectious. It was the sun on the first day of Spring and I craved it like flowers that had waited all their lives in the dark and dank soil for a change in their fortunes.

“But there are no bookshops around here Granddad,” I’d said earnestly. Saddened that I’d been deprived of magic and the adventures that come hand-in-hand with that magic. Children understand magic far better than adults. They understand all the important things better than adults do. That is why they are deprived of their voice. Seen, but not heard. When it came to magic, there was work to be done. The more a person worked at magic the brighter it shone and the more powerful it became.

Granddad smiled again. This smile was indulgent. My Granddad was a calm and quiet man. I seldom heard him laugh or even chuckle. But he didn’t need to. His smile said it all and he left me to the laughter. He loved those moments. I saw it in his eyes. There was magic in that too. The magic of love. He delighted in my joy and I will never forget that. He was the only one who truly listened to me. In his quiet he allowed me to be. Some grandparents become the butterflies we are all destined to be. There are too many caterpillars in this world and I find that heart breaking. All that crawling and feeding but never with the intended purpose and beautiful result.

“There’s a bookshop a short stroll from here,” Granddad told me.

I eyed him with a little suspicion. Granddad’s walks were legendary and his idea of the duration of a short walk was not shared by many.

“Have a think as to where you might find a bookshop in town,” he said in reply to my obvious doubt.

That man never spoon fed me. He asked me to think and to talk and to do. We built together and only now do I see how he encouraged me to begin building who I am today.

“They’re not in town itself,” I said with some confidence. Town was a place of high street shops. Town was too new and there was no place for magic there. Magic didn’t need to show off. You found magic, it did not find you. 

Granddad nodded. 

Encouraged, I travelled the side streets and lanes of town. Granddad watched me and I tried harder. Moved faster. I needed to find the treasure of this bookshop. I didn’t want to give up on this task of discovery. But I came up empty handed and tried to shrug the weight of my disappointment off.

Granddad smiled, “West Street,” he said.

I wanted to tell him no. Refute this knowledge he was imparting. Bravado in the strength and certainty of youth. I was still smarting from coming up empty handed, but it was more than that. Bookshops didn’t belong in a place like West Street. There was no room for such a place. Even though the street was miles long and drifted from one character to another along its flanks, at no point could it contain a shop full of books. That street was a place of physicality. And for me, it was a means to an end. A space to travel but not linger. Even as I revisited the length and breadth of that place in my mind, I could not see a bookshop.

Granddad saw my inner conflict. He saw me well. Much of what we said was unspoken, “you’ll find it,” he reassured me, “keep to the left side of the street and it’s on your left. Grimshank’s is the name over the door and the old man behind the counter is Grimshank himself. Some say he’s the original Grimshank,” Granddad leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “but that would make him far older than me and that is an impossibility!” He winked before straightening up, the business of magical bookshops concluded for the day.

I wanted to say more. I always did. But I was learning. Still am. I already knew everything I needed to know and I wasn’t going to change a thing with any further words on the subject. This was a solo venture. As much as I wanted my Granddad to take me to the bookshop and introduce me to the impossibly old Grimshank that wasn’t going to happen. This was for me and for me alone. 

And as I stand outside the bookshop my Granddad told me about all those years ago I see more clearly the reasons why he knew I must go alone. This was something intended for me and he did not want to take any of the magic away. He wanted it all for me and in that loving desire he was there with me all of the way. This was ours more than it would have been had he accompanied me on my first visit to Grimshank’s.

Did he visit this bookshop with me subsequently? Of course he did. And we enjoyed a separate and silent companionship as we wandered the cluttered premises. And I delighted in the conversations my Granddad had with the impossibly old Grimshank as they considered the books being purchased. The magic was so powerful I saw them both revert to boyhood and they no longer held any of the frostiness and aggression that adults believe makes them strong. Armour hides weakness. Only the brave show themselves to this world. 

I realise that I am nervous as my eyes fall to the doorhandle and a moment of truth. My hand is shaking. Do I want the door to open? Because if it does there are more truths to discover. This is a place where I began discovering truths and I will it with everything I have to remain untouched by the cruel years. Some places are timeless. Impossibly old and yet childlike in their energy. This is a part of me that I never want to grieve for.

The dented brass handle turns easily in my hand but speaks no secrets. It is for me to exert a pressure on the door and establish whether it will permit me entry. I want to pause, but I cannot. Just the same as that very first visit. My excitement overwhelmed my fear and I stepped into a stranger’s abode and was instantly welcomed by a million books containing the lives of people I was desperate to know.

The people contained in the magic of those books were everything to me. Friends I was yet to meet who would introduce me to worlds I was yet to visit. Somehow I knew that I was a part of the magic. The stories were mine as much as they were anyone’s. 

The door moves inwards and my breath stills. Does the magic still reside here and have I kept it alive within myself? The room beyond the door seems too dark and I feel the oppression of a sadness I have held at bay for far too long. Stepping inside is an act of will. I am telling myself that it must be done. I have said these words before and I am reminded of the melancholy that accompanied them.

Closing the door is an act of procrastination. My eyes downcast in worship of the sacred. The boy I was and still am has always struggled with his self-worth and his place in the world. So close to acceptance in the one place that made sense because of the magic it was brimming with. The potential for loss always too real.

I feel the books before I allow myself to look upon them. And I bask in the warmth of them. I am lighter in that moment and as I raise my head there is more light in the room. Dust motes dancing in celebration of my return.

The gentle clearing of a throat in welcome gives me a start with the familiarity it holds. My eyes follow the sound and my heart swells in my chest as I see the one person I would give anything to see once more. He is here! The impossible smile is his and the little boy in me grins a greeting. The moment is ours.

As the spell fades the joy remains. 

There is magic here and the magic is love.