The Enchanted Charity Shop
I, Evelyn, often recall my childhood, and every time, that charity shop flickers before my eyes—like a mystic emporium where my friends and I would dart into after school. I was eleven, in Year Six, and the world seemed brimming with secrets. With Sophie and Emily, we spun ordinary days into adventures, and that shop was our treasure trove, a place where every object whispered its own tale. Even now, years later, I shut my eyes and see its shelves, the scent of ageing paper, and that childlike wonder I can never reclaim.
That year, we girls were inseparable. Sophie, with her perpetually tousled plaits, dreamed of becoming an archaeologist, while Emily, the most serious of us, lugged around a notebook where she scribbled “profound thoughts.” I, Evelyn, floated somewhere in between—lost in daydreams, imagining myself as a heroine from a novel or an intrepid explorer. After lessons, we’d rush not home but to that charity shop tucked on the corner of our road. It was shabby, its sign weathered and its door creaky, but to us, it was Aladdin’s cave, packed with riddles and marvels.
The shop was small, yet inside, it felt endless. Shelves groaned under the weight of curios: tarnished candlesticks, dog-eared novels, dresses with lace collars, clocks frozen in time. The shopkeeper, Auntie Margaret, always sat behind the counter with her knitting, clucking, “Girls, no mischief now, don’t break anything!” But mischief was the last thing on our minds—we were explorers, treasure hunters. Sophie once unearthed a copper beetle brooch and declared it an amulet from an Egyptian princess. Emily pored over yellowed fashion magazines, plotting to stitch herself a gown just like the ones inside. And I adored the books—especially one, its cover frayed, about pirates. I’d fantasise about finding a treasure map tucked between its pages.
One drizzly November afternoon, we scampered inside again. Rain pattered outside, our wellies squelched, but inside it was warm, smelling of dust and lavender. I bolted straight for my beloved bookcase, while Sophie dragged Emily toward a box of trinkets. “Evie, come here!” Sophie yelped. “Look at this ring!” On her palm lay a delicate band with a murky green stone—dull yet somehow enchanting. “It’s straight out of a castle!” she declared. Emily, squinting, added, “Or a baroness’s jewellery box.” We giggled, taking turns sliding it onto our fingers, and for a moment, I felt like a character stepping out of a fairy tale.
Auntie Margaret, noticing our frenzy, ambled over and smiled. “Fancy it, do you? Only fifty pence, girls. Grab it before it’s gone.” Fifty pence! Our pockets held barely enough for the tuck shop, but we weren’t deterred. “Let’s pool our money!” I suggested. We scraped together every coin: I had twenty pence, Sophie ten and some odd coppers, Emily fifteen. Still short, but we refused to surrender. “Auntie Marg,” Sophie pleaded, “can we owe you? We’ll pay tomorrow!” Auntie Margaret shook her head, though her eyes twinkled. “Alright, take it—but I’ll have that fifty pence sharp tomorrow!”
We spilled back onto the street as if we’d pulled off a heist. The ring nestled in Emily’s pocket, and we took turns stroking it, as though it truly held magic. That night, I lay awake, picturing some globe-trotting adventuress who’d once worn it. The next day, we squared our debt—I even skipped my jam tart to scrape together my share. And though the ring later vanished (Sophie swore she’d left it in her satchel), the thrill of it never faded.
That shop wasn’t just a clutter of old things. It taught us to dream, to spot the extraordinary in the ordinary. Sophie, Emily, and I grew up, scattered. Sophie became a geologist, Emily a fashion editor, and I, a schoolteacher. Yet whenever we call each other, someone always sighs, “Remember that charity shop?” And we laugh, as if we’re eleven again, standing before shelves sagging with stories.
Now I live in London, and shops like that have all but vanished. Sometimes I wander into antique boutiques, but they’re not the same—too polished, stripped of that old enchantment. I miss the creaky door, Auntie Margaret, our childish flights of fancy. Just last week, I found an old book in a box—the very one about pirates. I opened it, inhaled the musty pages, and for a breath, I was back in Year Six. Maybe that shop was our treasure—not for the things it held, but for who we were inside it. And I’ll always be grateful for a childhood brimming with friends, dreams, and a little emporium of wonders that never truly left me.
