That's The Way To Do It!

What is that smell?

Whenever we visited the old bookshop, as soon as you opened the glass panelled entrance door and you heard the soft ring of the brass bell that announced a new customer, it was always the same - you were met by this unidentified stench, a sickly sweet odour that immediately stimulated a desire to puke.

But then, two or three paces into the small, book-lined walls of Jefferson's Book Emporium, the pungent smell disappeared completely.

I looked at my wife and smiled.

"Why don't you mention it to old Jefferson?" she said, heading for the romantic fiction section.

Old Jefferson was a tall, pale, thin man. He looked like an undernourished stick insect, clinging to what remained of his life. A friend had told me he was now well into his eighties.

"Can I help you at all, sir?"

I immediately recognised the trembling voice, each word struggling to escape from the confines of Jefferson's weak human frame.

"Just browsing, Mr Jefferson, but I'm sure that either I or my wife will find something to entice us," I said, hoping to cheer him up with the possibility of a sale or two.

He seemed rather dismal, more so than usual, with a worried, concerned look and I involuntarily asked.

"Is there anything wrong, Mr Jefferson?"

He looked at me cautiously, paused and then answered.

"Well," he whispered, "I think I might have a ghost on the premises. Some strange things have been happening. Events that I can't explain."

"I'm intrigued," I answered.

At that moment, the door of the bookshop was suddenly flung open, and it crashed against the Victorian doorstop modelled as Mr Punch - an item I had always openly admired.

But no new customer stood in the doorway.

"That," Jefferson nodded towards the door, "has become a regular occurrence."

He moved away wearily and gently closed the offending door.

He seemed reluctant to talk further, so I meandered off to find a tome of interest.

Five minutes later, my wife joined me in the Modern History section.

"Did you speak to Jefferson about the pong?"

"No. He says he's attracted a ghost from somewhere."

I told her about the door being thrown open by an unseen hand.

"Poltergeist," she remarked in passing.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was about a week later.

I had settled down in the armchair and picked up the local newspaper and scanned it for anything worth my attention.

And then I saw it.

I rushed into the kitchen.

"What's the matter, darling?" asked my wife. "You look as if you'd just seen a ghost."

"It's old Jefferson. They found him dead in his shop, under a pile of books. They think he had been lying there for days before they found him. His was the oldest bookshop in the county according to this," I poked at the news story.

My wife took the newspaper and read.

"The book store is to continue trading under the new owner, Jefferson's nephew. Keeping it in the family then. Poor Mr Jefferson."

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Several months passed before we went back to the bookshop.

They had painted the outside a soft, country cream colour and the old door had been revarnished and fitted with a new, brass letterbox and knocker.

We entered and, thankfully, the same old door bell tinkled to announce our arrival.

"The smell has gone," my wife whispered.

I sniffed.

"So, it has," I replied.

A tall, young man, dressed in a psychedelic t-shirt and faded jeans, was behind the counter peering at a sheet of paper. He looked up and smiled.

"Good morning," he said, cheerfully.

I nodded in response.

"Okay if we browse?" I asked.

"No problem."

"Very sorry to hear about Mr Jefferson," I added. "We always dropped in when we came this way. He was always very helpful."

"Yes," the young man replied, now wearing a pair of black spectacles. "His death was a great shock to us all."

"Did he have an accident?" I asked hesitantly, not wishing to pry but naturally curious.

"The bookcase near the door must have fallen on him as he was trying to reorganise one of the shelves. His heart was not strong. They don't think he suffered."

"I see, great shame, he was a gentleman."

And with that remark, my wife and I ventured into the shop, each to our own sections, to look for something enticing to read.

We spent an hour searching the shelves, finally deciding on our purchases and went to the counter to pay our dues.

"I see Mr Punch has gone," I said, gesturing towards the front door. "He's not in his usual place."

"Mr. Punch?"

The young man looked at me with a quizzical, blank expression.

"Yes, the old doorstop. I used to admire it. Do you still have it?" I asked.

"Oh, that. Yes, it's here under the counter somewhere. Our legal advisor warned it might be a safety hazard. Someone could trip over it and then decide to sue us," he smiled knowingly. "Here it is."

He disappeared from view for a moment and then resurfaced placing the nine inch long, cast iron figure of Mr Punch before me.

"Look, if you've decided not to use him," I said, "would you be interested in selling? As I say, I've always admired the old boy. That's a fine casting and a good representation of the infamous Mr Punch."

I sensed my wife was a little embarrassed and, she wandered off to do some more browsing while the young man and I haggled amicably over the price for Mr Punch.

With the transaction completed, and with Mr Punch snug under my arm, we left the shop and headed for home.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

I must admit to ignoring my new antique purchase for several days - he went into a cupboard when we returned from the bookshop that day.

But eventually, he was given a good clean and polish and placed to the side of our front door: in virtually the same position as in old Jefferson's shop. We lived in a Victorian house so Mr Punch seemed perfectly at home in his new surroundings.

Having placed Mr Punch by the door, we went out for the day to visit some old friends who had moved into the area.

I remember we returned early evening. It was just getting dark. I put the key in the front door and opened it.

"What's that smell? my wife said.

We stared at each other.

We both recognised it.

That sickly sweet odour of something rotting away and Mr Punch had, somehow, moved to the centre of the hallway to greet us.