The Shop on the Corner
The smell of brewing tea hit me as soon as I eased open the heavy wooden door. I stopped for a moment, closed my eyes, and relished the feeling of walking from a crisp winter's morning into the glow of a hearty fire. The chime of the little door-bell that followed the door's close had long since been etched in my memory, and I felt one final shiver run through me as the remaining breath of frost-tainted air was devoured by the flame's aura. Opening my eyes, I was greeted by the familiar sight of stacks of books, haphazardly arranged around the quaint little room. Their smell mingled with the tea. I had always adored the smell of books.
I scanned the rickety columns of literature and knowledge for any sign of this curious abode's owner. He had never paid much attention to the door-bell. "If they're interested, they will stay. It is only the inquisitive who appreciate the wonders of a good book. They don't need a guide holding their hand," he would say, and follow on in his thick Scottish brogue with, "Care for some tea?" Those were his first words to me when I had stumbled apon this extraordinary little place many years ago on a chilled and frost-bitten morning much like this one. I had been seven, and it had been my birthday.
Twelve years had come and gone, and yet the shop on the corner of a little bits-and-bobs-shop cluttered street still had not changed. As when I was a child and every visit thereafter, I wandered through the looming turrets created by the books towards the inviting heat of the fireplace. In between the books and decorating the walls were hats, masks, and costumes, of every kind which fascinated me as a child and still continued to leave me in wonder. They alluded to the owner's earlier life as the costumier, Terrence McConnel.
Terrence McConnel had started off as a hatter before widening his field, and it showed. On every costume-toting mannequin, and slung on every hook and jutting corner, was a different, wondrous hat. The plumage, haberdashery, and textile colours of the headdresses far outshone the costumes and masks, indicating which was his passion. I had brought more material for him today.
Reaching the fire, I sat cross-legged on the carpet with my back to its glowing beauty, waiting for Terrence to show. I closed my eyes and allowed the crackling and snapping of the embers to lull me into a dazed rest. "Alice!" I smiled at the familiar, thick highlander accent and looked up at the friendly, wrinkled face framed by silver hair and beard, still flecked with fiery red strands. "Happy nineteenth birthday, Lass. Care for some tea?"