Glimpses: The Olde Bookshoppe

By Linda van Omme

A bookshop, particularly an Olde Bookshoppe, is home to the world. It is a meeting place for all sorts of people, good and bad, old and young, amazing and ignored, and there we get a glimpse into their worlds. We may, or may not, ever see them again. But still, they have an effect on our lives, our behavior, and our own mental picture of our world. Glimpses: The Olde Bookshoppe is the story of one such bookshop, and the interactions between the staff and the customers who inhabit it, however fleetingly. It is a fun, but also thought provoking, look at the ‘ordinary’ people of this wonderful country, who are often not ordinary at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649793942

Linda van Omme

Linda van Omme (MacLeod) grew up on a farm on Prince Edward Island, with two sisters, great parents, a ‘rootin’-tootin’’ grandmother, and surrounded by a whole bunch of other relatives. She trained in Ontario, and worked as an Occupational Therapist, in retirement homes, hospitals, and in the community, for 42 years, all across Canada, with the “world population” who end up living in our wonderful country. She has three dear daughters; three dear sons-in-law; and four (almost five) sweet and almost-perfect grandchildren. Her husband, also a ‘dear’, is a now-retired ‘Rev’.

Book preview

The Olde Bookshoppe – Intro

Look at this, Mary! William Brooke’s gone and won the lottery!

Little Billy…? Well, Isn’t that nice?

Don’t be calling him ‘Little Billy’ now Mary. He must be getting close to 35…and besides, you can’t be calling a rich man, ‘Little Billy’.

A rich man? How much did he win…? Oh, that’s not so much.

Enough though, I would think.

Enough for what? I wonder.

******

Well! Will Brooke’s won the lottery!

Really! I’ve always liked that man.

Umm…Maybe we should have him over for supper.

Good idea. I’ll give him a ring.

I wonder what he’s going to do with all that money.

******

"Look who’s won the lottery! William Brooke! That’s our Bill! And buying lottery tickets here at the pub every week for the last ten years never won me more than a free ticket! Life isn’t fair, Joe. It just isn’t fair.

I sure could use some of that hard cash. Old Bill likely can’t think of anything to do with it anyway…Wouldn’t mind parting with a bit of it, you think Joe?

******

"Oh Willie! You’ve won! That’s wonderful! What do you mean, you don’t know what to do with it? Of course you know what to do with it!

Quit the factory job and make your dream come true!

1) Madeline

Madeline was the personification of the old saying about the shoemaker’s children who had no shoes: Her father had been a busy physician, with a large practice. His two older children, a boy and a girl, were hale and hearty, and he didn’t really notice that Madeline, the youngest, didn’t seem to be growing up the way she should.

She was in her mid-teens, and it was too late to do much about it, by the time he actually clued in to the fact that his third child was not shaped like an exclamation mark, as the two others were, but more like a question mark, with her back bent, and her head facing the floor.

They called it Ankylosing Spondylitis, but naming it, at that time, didn’t change much, and Madeline, a shy teenager who could not endure the stares and whispers, became a ‘homebody’ who quietly ran the huge house, looked after her parents as they aged and eventually died, and cheered on her brilliant siblings, saving the newspaper clippings, and touring the world vicariously through their letters and emails.

But Madeline had inherited her share of the family brains too. In her, it came out as poetry. Beautiful, flowing verse, she carefully printed by hand, into dozens of blank books with colorful covers, which her family gave her for Christmases and birthdays.

She even had one self-published. ‘Wild Winds’ it was called, and she was very proud of the 50 copies—48 actually. She had given a copy each, to her brother and sister—sitting in the box, behind her bedroom door.

In spite of her disability, Madeline was pretty independent and except for Mrs. Hall, her cheery, chirpy housekeeper, who flew through the house once a week, Sebastian, her personal support worker, assisting twice a week with her shower, and ‘Dear Nahla’, a caring nurse practitioner who dropped in to check on her every once in a while, on the way home from the office, Madeline lived alone.

Her only full-time companion was an old bloodhound named ‘Hector’, who was as gentle as a kitten, but did have a certain presence.

Hector considered Madeline, as well as all her land and accoutrements, his own personal property, and if anyone was nosey, or unwise, enough to put in the considerable effort required to scale the high stone wall that enclosed the property, meeting Hector, eye to eye, at the top, tended to be, well, discouraging.

So Madeline lived a reasonably safe and quiet existence, in her own little decaying kingdom, smack in the middle of town.

Still, that didn’t mean she wasn’t aware of, or interested in, what went on, on the other side of that wall.

She regularly pumped the post lady, and the grocery delivery man, for the local gossip, and she kept track, from her high bedroom window, as the little shop across the street changed from a Mac’s Milk, to a video store, to a Cash Loaner, and now appeared to be morphing into some sort of bookstore.

Madeline felt this was definitely a step up, and she and Hector, heads side by side on the windowsill, watched its progress, and sometimes voiced their opinions, each in their own language.

The day The Olde Bookshoppe was to open, Madeline decided, to her own surprise, and likely Hector’s too, that she would like to venture out of her domain, to see the place in person.

It had been ten years since Madeline had been on the other side of her wall. She didn’t count an ambulance trip to the hospital, with pneumonia, which she couldn’t remember anyway.

She did remember the stares, and the comments, which had haunted her for so long, but she realized she didn’t care so much now as she had before, about those things, and that her interest was bigger than her fears…and besides, she was, after all, a ‘poet’ and a bookshop would be a place any poet would be interested in!

She dressed carefully with her favorite silk scarf draped around her neck, and her best cane…and she tucked a copy of ‘Wild Winds’ into her pocket, and clutched it to her hip, to give her confidence, as she and Hector walked down the driveway together.

Hector was instructed to stay inside the gate, that she would be back soon, and he huffed, and plunked himself down onto his backside…and he gave a little moan, as he watched his mistress stand by the edge of the pavement, until the traffic stopped for her and she made her careful way across the street.

It was ten to nine, and The Olde Bookshoppe did not actually open until nine, but Mr. Brooke had seen Madeline coming through her gate—he had wondered who lived in that big old house, a mansion really, in its time—and he had watched her bent figure’s slow progress from her sidewalk to his.

He bounded to the front and swung the door open for her:

Good morning, Madam. You are our very first customer, and you are most welcome!

Madeline nodded at his knees, and made a Canadian comment about the weather, and Mr. Brooke realized what a ridiculously long way it was from his knees to his eyes.

Come, he said. Let’s chat. He backed up and sat on the second step of the stairs to his office, and pulled a stool over, for Madeline to perch on, so they could talk face to face.

There. That’s better! He gave her a friendly nod, My name is William Brooke, and I am the proud, and a little nervous, owner of this fledgling establishment.

He called the staff over, and introduced Emma, Mrs. Lee, Tina, and Mr. MacGregor proudly to Madeline.

If there is anything we can do to help you, please don’t hesitate to ask, and otherwise, you are invited to relax and browse, for as long as you like, and, as we appear to be neighbors, we will hope to see you often.

Well, actually, I would like to take a look at your poetry section, if I may. If you have one?

Yes, of course we do! Tina will show you the way. Poetry and life. They go together, don’t you think?

That’s exactly how I feel, Mr. Brooke.

And she and Tina went off, chatting together.

Madeline thoroughly enjoyed herself in The Olde Bookshoppe that morning. It felt oddly like an adventure into a previously-forbidden kingdom, and she was shocked when she unconsciously counted the chimes from the grandfather clock in the corner, and realized she had left Hector at the gate almost two hours before.

On an impulse, she reached into her pocket, pulled out ‘Wild Winds’ and inserted it in snuggly at the back, between two big books of poetry on the shelf.

Well! she giggled quietly to herself as she left the shop, acknowledging the friendly goodbye waves from the now-busy staff. "I guess I really am a poet!

You can find my book in the Poetry section at The Olde Bookshoppe…But only if you look carefully.

She walked all the way to the crosswalk at the end of the street, and crossed with the others there, and she didn’t even notice if there were stares or whispers…and she didn’t actually care if there were.

By the time she got back to her gate, and it clicked shut behind her, she felt, for the first time in her life, a bit lonely…but Hector was so obviously glad, and relieved, to see her that the feeling went away quickly, almost before she recognized it for what it was.

I believe I’ll go back to The Olde Bookshoppe again some time, Hector, she commented as she walked up the driveway with her hand on his head. It’s really quite a nice place!

Hector just cocked one droopy eyebrow at her, and kept on walking. If he had any opinion on the matter, he was keeping it to himself.

2) Curley and Moe

Emma was just opening up the till, on a foggy spring morning, when a handsome older couple ducked through the door and into The Olde Bookshoppe, laughing as they shook the mist off their jackets.

He was well over six feet tall, even without his hat, and she too was tall, and willowy, with shining silver hair, and clothes chosen to perfectly set off her slim figure, and her deep violet eyes.

Emma, who despaired at times, about her hips, sighed: That’s just how she wanted to look, when she got old.

Good morning, my dear, said the gentleman, A bit dampish, ay? We’re the Hambletons, Charles and Maureen…But everyone calls us ‘Curly and Moe’. He tipped his hat to reveal a shiny bald head, with not a hair in sight.

"Sorry. It’s an old joke. I’ve been bald since I was 18.

We just moved into one of those condo buildings around the corner and we’ve been exploring the neighborhood. We saw your little ‘Bookshoppe’, and couldn’t resist…and besides, the 10% chance of a shower appears to be more like 99.9% at the moment, and he flashed her a cheery grin.

As he was talking his wife had moved off to the stacks. She was methodically pulling each book in the Fiction section, off the shelf, and was piling them all neatly on the floor.

Emma glanced in her direction, and Mr. Hambleton turned to see what had caught her attention.

Oh! Moe! Let me help you with that, Sweetheart. and, in half a dozen long strides, he was at her side.

As he picked each book off the floor, discussed it with his wife for a moment, and then put it back in its place on the shelf, she gradually lost interest and wandered on, and he stepped back to the counter.

She was a librarian, you know; the head librarian, at the main branch downtown. She loves books. He smiled proudly.

Then the smile left his eyes, and he suddenly looked old.

Do you, by any chance, have a book called: ‘Navigating the Alzheimer’s Journey’? he said quietly to Emma.

But his wife had heard him, and she instantly flared up, her violet eyes flashing with anger:

Oh Charles! Why do you keep harping on about that stupid book? Why would anyone want to read such a thing? She grabbed a volume off the shelf, and threw it viciously onto the floor.

But the anger died as quickly as it had come, and she drifted off to another area. As she passed the book on the floor, she gently picked it up, and smoothed the cover:

My! Who would have left that there? She commented to herself, People are so odd sometimes!

Emma found the title Mr. Hambleton had asked for, brought it back to the counter, and rang up the sale.

We’ve been married 60 years, you know…60 years today…High school sweethearts. He smiled at the thought as he watched his wife.

She was beautiful…Still is, don’t you think?

Emma nodded, and she could feel a lump in her throat.

And smart…So smart…! Way smarter than me…and funny…and a bit of a flirt…She still is that too.

Emma glanced at him and there was a twitch of his lips, and his eyes twinkled.

He turned away, and gazed for a moment through the window, out into the rain.

I miss her, he said softly, as if to himself.

Mrs. Hambleton turned toward him:

Young man! She called, and tipped her head coyly, Would you mind giving me some assistance with these books?

Of course, my dear! The twinkly smile was back in place again. But really, I think it would be much nicer for you just to leave these stuffy old books, and go for a walk with me in the park, don’t you think? Now that the sun is coming out.

Well now, I don’t know. My mother always told me to beware of strange young men…Especially those who call you ‘My dear’, and want to take you for walks in the park.

He held the door open gallantly, and raised his eyebrows in a question.

Come on now, he coaxed. Let’s go celebrate.

Celebrate what, pray tell?

Celebrate our future!

Oh, you boys! She swatted playfully at his arm.

Still, she eyed the rows of shelves, with all the books neatly lined up on them…and she straightened her dress and patted her hair.

I suppose I do deserve a bit of a lunch break…And he does have rather nice eyes, don’t you think, my dear? She whispered over her shoulder to Emma as she took her husband’s arm and they moved through the door.

So, what is your name, young man? and do you come her often, to the library? And what on earth happened to your hair!

3) Booker J.

Almost everyone but Emma called her ‘Booker’. But Emma, who was particular about names, knew what her real name was. It was scratched on a rusty metal tag, on the worn leather collar around her neck. So Emma called her ‘Jillian’.

Mr. MacGregor, a sworn enemy of ‘Dang cats!’, didn’t call her anything.

Booker was a decorative being. Her cream and mottled orange-brown coat, the result of a Siamese and Tortoise-shell alliance, made her a colorful addition to the sunny shop window.

No one had ever asked about her, since the day she had slipped through the open shop door and laid claim to her spot in the window, even though a large sign: LOST YOUR CAT? with an arrow pointing directly down at her head, had hung in the window long enough for it to fade into oblivion.

The only clue to her past was the fact that she had a twitch in one eye which, every once in a while, caused her to wink rather than blink—likely the result of some damage, in her earlier, less secure days.

She seemed content to accept her lowly status as just another part of the furnishings in The Olde Bookshoppe and, although even Mr. Brooke appeared to pay her no mind, fresh food and water appeared mysteriously every morning, before any of the staff of the bookshop arrived to start the day…except of course for Mr. MacGregor, who was up with the birds.

Booker led a life of leisurely days, working her catly wiles on her chosen ones, and turning her back on lesser beings, but it was at night that she came into her own.

At night The Olde Bookshoppe became a haunted house of wavering wraiths and whispering spirits.

At night Booker J. harkened back to her ancestors, and became again a jungle cat, her mottled coat invisible in the gloom, waiting, tense, and ready to spring, on any small creature more intent on a midnight nibble among the books, than on the fact that it’s already short life could suddenly become considerably shorter.

The aisles between the stacks became raceways; tests of speed and agility, and the sound of Booker galloping madly up and down, sometimes knocking over unexpected piles of books, set ready for shelving, when her agility wasn’t quite up to snuff on the corners, reached an amazing volume for so small a cat, especially when she added in the unearthly yowling tones inherited from her Oriental forbearers. At least twice, the unexpected racket caused a change of plans for shadowy souls in the alley, who had noticed the quality of the computer system in the store, or had wondered how much cash might be left in the till.

Booker’s litter box was stored discretely behind the shop’s back door, just out of the way of the mail slot, and Booker, being a tidy pussycat, visited it regularly. It was on one of these mid-night breaks, on the Monday night, the July 1st holiday, when Booker J.’s status changed:

She was just tidying up when she heard low voices, and nervous laughter, on the other side of the back door. Booker didn’t like the sound of those voices, nor that laughter, and she crouched low, a rumbling growl curdling in her throat, and her blue eyes glowing red in the reflected moonlight.

Then she heard a series of clicks, and the voices became louder, and more excited, as the mail slot creaked open. Fingers appeared in the opening, shoving an orange tube, with a sparking string attached to the end, through the slot.

Booker stared at the fascinating thing for a split second, then abruptly decided she didn’t like it either. She sprang at the fingers, her hours of precision practice among the stacks paying off, as she connected precisely, with teeth and claws.

The result was satisfying: startled howls of pain; the immediate disappearance of the invading, now bloody, appendages; and the sound of swiftly retreating footsteps.

Unfortunately, those fingers had left something behind: A sizzling firecracker, its fuse swiftly shortening, lay on top of the pile of newspapers and sales fliers, on the floor beneath the mail slot. Several of the papers were already beginning