Inside the bakery she looked at all the tempting bakes in the glass-fronted cabinets.
The jolly lady, with a name badge that saidCathy, beamed a smile Faye’s way. ‘What’s it to be, my love?’
‘I’m not sure. Everything looks so amazing, it’s hard to choose.’
‘Well, you’re not from around these parts,’ the woman said in a Dorset accent much like her uncle’s. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Australia.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘I am, but actually, I was born here.’
Cathy’s eyes lit up. ‘In the bay?’
‘No, but I grew up in West Lulworth.’
‘Is that right?’ She smiled. ‘And you’re back now?’
‘Just visiting.’ She retraced her steps in front of the glass cabinet before she made her mind up. ‘I’ll take one of the glazed ring doughnuts please.’
Cathy popped one into a bag. ‘You enjoy that and enjoy your visit to Dorset.’ She had another three customers milling and with a smile moved on to serving them.
Faye didn’t waste any time biting into the doughnut when she got outside, and it tasted every bit as good as she’d expected. She deposited the bag in the bin nearby and walked down the hill. Cleaning and spending time with her dad and her uncle had kept her busy so she hadn’t had a chance yet to nose inside the telephone box library that Howard had mentioned. She’d told Howard about the similar initiative in Australia where they had street libraries: miniature sheds on top of a post pushed into the ground in front yards. They were there for people to take a book and leave a book. It was always such an adventure, finding new titles, wondering who had read the story before and what effect it had had on them compared to her. Faye believed that everyone read stories differently, that our minds processed facts in a myriad of ways. It was all part of the fun and it was why she loved hosting the book club, because the discussions gave you more than the book had already delivered. Sometimes she’d reread a book just to see whether she could experience it in a way another person had.
She opened the door to the telephone box which was, just as Howard said, filled with books. She rooted around in her bag. She had just finished reading a paperback, one of the few that had been left at the caravan park and she’d been allowed to take it from the site office. She put it in an available space and perused the choices. There was a biography about a cricketer, another one for a celebrity, a couple of colourful teenage books, a few Harry Potters, some historical novels, some romance books, and on the lowest shelf she found a book she’d wanted to read for a while,Wildby Cheryl Strayed, but for some reason had never got around to it. Perfect.
She popped it in her bag, closed the door to the telephone box library behind her, and then she crossed the road to make her way back up the hill towards Bonnie’s cottage. But she didn’t get far because as she passed the bookshop, expecting it to still be closed with the same sign on the door, she noticed it was open, and more than that, people were inside. She hadn’t looked this way as she went down the hill; she’d been too focused on safely traversing the street to get to the bike rack and a bus had been blocking that side of the road ahead.
How had it suddenly reopened? Whatever the reason, this had to be a good thing, didn’t it?
Howard had said that most of his allocated state pension probably went on books. When he’d said that, other members had chimed in with their encouragement to keep on doing what he was doing. He was such a lovely gentleman, not as old as her grandad who had passed away a couple of years ago, but he’d always reminded Faye of a grandparent, the way he treated others and talked to them, the way he listened, how he was never afraid to share his own opinions either.
She couldn’t resist going inside the bookshop, and the smell instantly wrapped around her when she was through the door. It was intoxicating. This had been another topic of conversation in her book club, one that came up time and time again. They were all guilty of being book sniffers; there was something addictive about doing it and right now she was reminded of why she was such a bookworm. Between the pages she could escape, put herself in a different world far, far away from her usual one. Howard had joked when they talked about book sniffing that his Kindle didn’t quite have the same effect and had even picked up his device and inhaled while he was on screen, making them all laugh.
She wished he was here now to talk to, to hug hello and watch in his element selling books or talking about books to anyone who was interested.
She walked past the shelves on one side of the shop, the scent of fresh paper fibres, the ink, the glue all used to bind these beautiful books together filling the air. Dark, wooden shelves lined the walls, all stocked and very neat, a dark wooden counter stood just left of the centre and cosy nooks here and there had cushioned seating. There was a big rug spread out at the far end in what looked like the children’s corner with low-down shelves and plenty of colourful titles to fill them. She’d seen the bookshop through the window the first day she came here but actually being inside was something else.
She made her way around the shop. She stopped at the cookery section, then she moved to the romance books, then it was on to the travel section where she found books about Dorset landscapes and Australia’s outback. She slotted the Dorset book back onto the shelf as the gentle tap-tapping of paws accompanied a golden retriever coming her way.
‘Midas.’ A harried woman with an armful of books came bustling over. ‘Sorry, he’s very friendly and likes to say hello to newcomers.’
Faye had already crouched down to make a fuss of the gorgeous dog. ‘Actually, we’ve already met, haven’t we, boy?’ She noticed his collar, which identified him as a therapy dog. ‘I didn’t know you worked here,’ she said to him.
The woman smiled. ‘Midas here has been helping people for the last year or so. He’s fully certified as a therapy dog.’ She put the books she was carrying in a pile on top of the nearby table.
Faye had heard of therapy dogs – she had a client at the salon whose mother was in a care home and was delighted that a therapy dog had recently taken up residence there too.
‘How old is he?’ Faye fussed Midas round the ears as he looked right into her eyes, trusting, happy with the attention from a stranger.
‘He’s almost ten.’
‘Well, he’s beautiful.’
‘Where did you two meet?’ the woman asked her.
‘On the beach,’ said Faye.
