strange animal. She had to be in the mood for it. She reached into the box for another book. ‘The Little White Horse’ by Elizabeth Goudge. The title wrapped itself around her mind like a warm blanket. She’d read the book as a young girl and been totally entranced by it. Her childhood copy had long since disappeared, but seeing this old hardback version in the bookshop had been like stepping back in time. She’d known immediately she had to have it.
She spent the next hour or so sifting through the rest of the box. It was some time after eight when she straightened up and looked around. Books were spread haphazardly all over the floor, each one vying for her attention. She hardly knew which one to start reading first. Good thing Ciaran wasn’t here. He’d say she was mad buying all this old rubbish. She grinned to herself. She’d have to select one book to read and find a home for the rest before the thing turned ugly.
It was then that her eyes fell upon the old case full of sheet music. She decided she might as well look through that too; she’d soon know if there was anything worth keeping. She pressed her small fingers against the catches which, at first, stubbornly refused to budge. Then, just as had happened in the bookshop, they suddenly flew open. Beth lifted out a pile of sheets and began to leaf through them. They were piano scores; a mixture of easy-listening music – some of them forties wartime songs – and popular classical pieces. There were even a few old hymns thrown in amongst them. She took out the rest of the scores and flipped through them. Nothing outstanding at first glance. But then, she reasoned to herself, she’d got them for nothing after all. She glanced back into the case to make sure she’d gone through everything. The bottom of the case was lined with a fusty, yellowed newspaper. On its top sheet, an archaic-looking advert caught her attention. A beaming, fifties cartoon lady smiled up from the page, the patter below her extolling the virtues of some kind of wondersoap Beth had never heard of. Finding the picture rather quaint, her curiosity was aroused. Surely there had to be a date on this thing. As she reached into the case to take the newspaper out, her thumb hit on something hard. Removing the newspaper, she realised it wasn’t lining the bottom of the case at all. Rather, it was concealing a strange array of objects. An old tobacco pipe half-swaddled in a greyish-looking man’s handkerchief. A wad of cigarette cards held together by a thin elastic band. A miniature Toby jug with laughing eyes and bright, grinning mouth. A small, shallow tin, tarnished and dull. And an old, dog-eared notebook. Beth picked up the cigarette cards and flicked through them. They were mostly famous cricketers of yesteryear. Her brother Josh was into cricket; he might like these. Looking next at the Toby jug’s manic expression, she couldn’t imagine anyone liking that. The pipe was nothing special either, but holding it to her nose for a moment, she could still pick up the faint, woody scent of tobacco. It made her think of her own late grandfather. She could still see him sitting in his chair, his stained fingers meticulously pushing and compressing a carefully constructed nest of pungent brown shreds, his lips working carefully to coax the thing to smoulder. The smell of it all had hung in his very being, and as a child she’d found it intoxicating. In those days, it had been a source of secret indignation with her to realise that little girls were not encouraged to smoke pipes themselves. She replaced the pipe and picked up the tin. It was a brassy colour, but dirty and rather dinted, not quite the length of a six inch ruler and about three inches wide. It was embossed with the profile of a lady’s face, on either side of which were some rubbed inscriptions which appeared to be capital ‘M’s. Underneath the woman’s face it read, ‘Christmas 1914’ , and around the edge of the lid
She spent the next hour or so sifting through the rest of the box. It was some time after eight when she straightened up and looked around. Books were spread haphazardly all over the floor, each one vying for her attention. She hardly knew which one to start reading first. Good thing Ciaran wasn’t here. He’d say she was mad buying all this old rubbish. She grinned to herself. She’d have to select one book to read and find a home for the rest before the thing turned ugly.
It was then that her eyes fell upon the old case full of sheet music. She decided she might as well look through that too; she’d soon know if there was anything worth keeping. She pressed her small fingers against the catches which, at first, stubbornly refused to budge. Then, just as had happened in the bookshop, they suddenly flew open. Beth lifted out a pile of sheets and began to leaf through them. They were piano scores; a mixture of easy-listening music – some of them forties wartime songs – and popular classical pieces. There were even a few old hymns thrown in amongst them. She took out the rest of the scores and flipped through them. Nothing outstanding at first glance. But then, she reasoned to herself, she’d got them for nothing after all. She glanced back into the case to make sure she’d gone through everything. The bottom of the case was lined with a fusty, yellowed newspaper. On its top sheet, an archaic-looking advert caught her attention. A beaming, fifties cartoon lady smiled up from the page, the patter below her extolling the virtues of some kind of wondersoap Beth had never heard of. Finding the picture rather quaint, her curiosity was aroused. Surely there had to be a date on this thing. As she reached into the case to take the newspaper out, her thumb hit on something hard. Removing the newspaper, she realised it wasn’t lining the bottom of the case at all. Rather, it was concealing a strange array of objects. An old tobacco pipe half-swaddled in a greyish-looking man’s handkerchief. A wad of cigarette cards held together by a thin elastic band. A miniature Toby jug with laughing eyes and bright, grinning mouth. A small, shallow tin, tarnished and dull. And an old, dog-eared notebook. Beth picked up the cigarette cards and flicked through them. They were mostly famous cricketers of yesteryear. Her brother Josh was into cricket; he might like these. Looking next at the Toby jug’s manic expression, she couldn’t imagine anyone liking that. The pipe was nothing special either, but holding it to her nose for a moment, she could still pick up the faint, woody scent of tobacco. It made her think of her own late grandfather. She could still see him sitting in his chair, his stained fingers meticulously pushing and compressing a carefully constructed nest of pungent brown shreds, his lips working carefully to coax the thing to smoulder. The smell of it all had hung in his very being, and as a child she’d found it intoxicating. In those days, it had been a source of secret indignation with her to realise that little girls were not encouraged to smoke pipes themselves. She replaced the pipe and picked up the tin. It was a brassy colour, but dirty and rather dinted, not quite the length of a six inch ruler and about three inches wide. It was embossed with the profile of a lady’s face, on either side of which were some rubbed inscriptions which appeared to be capital ‘M’s. Underneath the woman’s face it read, ‘Christmas 1914’ , and around the edge of the lid
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