**The Enchanted Charity Shop**
I, Emily, often think back to my childhood, and every time, that little charity shop comes to mind—like some enchanted treasure trove where my mates and I would dash after school. I was eleven, in Year Six, and the world felt full of mysteries. With Charlotte and Sophie by my side, even the dullest days turned into adventures, and that shop was our secret haven, where every item seemed to whisper its own story. Even now, years later, I close my eyes and see its shelves, smell the old books, and remember that giddy joy we’ll never quite recapture.
That year, the three of us were inseparable. Charlotte, with her forever messy plaits, dreamed of being an archaeologist, while Sophie, the serious one, carried a notebook in her rucksack where she scribbled “important thoughts.” Me? I was somewhere in between—lost in daydreams, imagining myself as the heroine of a novel or an explorer on some grand quest. After lessons, we’d never rush home. Instead, we’d bolt straight to that charity shop on the corner of our street. It was old, with a peeling sign and a creaky door, but to us, it was Aladdin’s cave—packed with wonders.
The shop was small, but inside, it felt never-ending. Shelves groaned under the weight of curios: tarnished candlesticks, dog-eared books, lace-collared dresses, clocks frozen in time. The shopkeeper, Mrs. Bennett, always sat behind the counter with her knitting, chuckling, “Girls, don’t meddle—mind you don’t break anything!” But we weren’t meddling; we were explorers, treasure hunters. Charlotte once unearthed a copper brooch shaped like a beetle and swore it was an Egyptian princess’s amulet. Sophie pored over yellowed fashion magazines, dreaming up dresses she’d design. And me? I loved the books—especially one with a battered cover, a pirate tale. I’d fantasise about finding a treasure map tucked between the pages.
One cold November afternoon, we scampered inside again. Rain drizzled outside, our wellies splashing, but in the shop, it was warm, smelling of dust and lavender. I beelined for my beloved book nook while Charlotte dragged Sophie to the jewellery box. “Em, come look!” Charlotte crowed. “It’s a proper ring!” Nestled in her palm was a delicate band with a green stone, dull but spellbinding all the same. “Must’ve come from a castle,” she declared. Sophie, squinting, added, “Or some duchess’s jewellery box.” We giggled, trying it on in turn, and for a heartbeat, I felt like a storybook queen.
Mrs. Bennett, watching our fuss, ambled over with a grin. “Fancy it, do you? Only five quid, girls. Best snap it up.” Five pounds! We barely had enough for school buns between us, but we weren’t beaten. “Let’s pool our pocket money!” I said. We scraped together every coin: I had two quid, Charlotte one and change, Sophie a pound fifty. Still short, but we pleaded. “Mrs. B,” Charlotte begged, “can we owe you? We’ll pay tomorrow!” She shook her head, but her eyes twinkled. “Go on, then—but I’ll have my money by Friday!”
We spilled out of the shop like we’d pulled off a heist. The ring sat snug in Sophie’s pocket, and we took turns touching it, half-convinced it was magic. That night, I barely slept, imagining it belonged to some globe-trotting adventuress. The next day, we repaid our debt—I even skipped my bun to scrounge up my share. The ring vanished eventually (Charlotte swore she’d left it in her bag), but the thrill of it never faded.
That shop wasn’t just a pile of old things. It taught us to dream, to find the extraordinary in the ordinary. Charlotte, Sophie, and I grew up, scattered—Charlotte became a geologist, Sophie a designer, me a literature teacher. But whenever we call, someone always sighs, “Remember that charity shop?” And we laugh, eleven all over again, surrounded by shelves of forgotten stories.
Now I live in London, and places like that are nearly gone. I wander into antique shops sometimes, but they’re too polished, missing that spark. I miss the creaky door, Mrs. Bennett, our wild little fancies. Just last week, I dug out that old pirate book—the very one. I opened it, breathed in the pages, and for a moment, I was back in Year Six. Maybe that shop was our treasure—not for the things inside, but for who we were within its walls. And I’ll always be grateful for a childhood like that—with friends, with dreams, and with a tiny, enchanted shop that still lives in my heart.
