A familiar song blares out that instantly makes me smile.‘Great track. By New Radicals, I think.’
Logan nods, already getting into the beat, tapping hisfingers on the steering wheel. ‘“You’ve Got the Music in You”.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not actually called that, even thoughthose lyrics are in the song. It’s called “You Get What You Give”. It’s one of mydad’s favourite songs.’
‘Your dad has good taste.’
‘He does, doesn’t he?’
Logan turns the radio up, and for the nextthree-and-a-half-minutes we slide into an unspoken contest to see who can singthe lyrics the loudest.
Don’t let go!
You’ve got a reason to live!
‘Nice,’ says Logan when the track ends, and I nod, feelingquite flushed after our enthusiastic performance.
The loud intro to Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ blasts out next andI cover my ears. ‘Turn it down! Turn it down!’
‘Why? Abba’s my all-time favourite band,’ frowns Logan,deliberately turning it right up.
‘They’re great,’ I shout. ‘But not atthatvolume!’
Grinning, he turns it right down. ‘Sorry.’
‘Phew. My ears are still ringing. Are you really Abba’snumber one fan?’
He laughs. ‘No. Couldn’t resist winding you up, that’s all.’
I’m still teasing him about being a closet Abba fan as wedrive into the town of Little Havlock.
The car park near the old station building, now housing BarnhamBooks, is full – presumably people shopping at the last of the New Year sales –but after driving around, we eventually find a space on the outskirts of thetown. By the time we’ve hiked through the snow to the bookshop, I’m frozen tothe marrow, despite Logan insisting I wear his gloves. So when we walk in andthe first thing I see is a roaring log fire with a couple of comfy-lookingarmchairs and a vintage sofa beside it (all miraculously vacant), I make animmediate beeline for it to warm myself up.
There’s a machine selling hot drinks so within minutes,we’ve commandeered an armchair each and I’m warming my hands on a hotchocolate, while Logan drinks black coffee.
‘This place is amazing,’ I murmur, looking around the cosy entrancehall at the shelves lined with thousands of second-hand books.
‘This area was probably the old ticket office, I guess,’says Logan. ‘With no central heating, the sales assistant would have been extremelyglad of this fire in the depths of winter.’
‘That’s true.’ I finish my drink, eager to explore the restof this charming bookshop now that I’ve warmed up a bit.
As we walk through the doors to the main library section, withits intricate grid of book-stacked shelves, I soak up the lovely, olde-worldeatmosphere. It’s like being back in Victorian times, when it was first astation building, and my attention is caught by a vintage toy train andcarriages humming along tracks above our heads, and carved wooden signs indicating‘Reading rooms’ and ‘First editions’ and ‘Clock Tower’.
‘These must have been the old waiting rooms,’ says Logan aswe walk past three cosy, lamp-lit spaces, sectioned off with wide windows and woodendoors.
We step through the first door and find that the rooms areinterlinked, each one with comfy sofas, and tables and chairs, where visitorscan relax with a coffee and browse through the books they’ve picked out. Thethird room is like a buffet car, selling the most delicious looking cakes andpastries.
‘Tempted?’ asks Logan, as I’m standing drooling over some lemondrizzle cupcakes on a pretty floral cake stand.
I grin at him. ‘Yes. But shall we look at the books first?’
‘Delayed gratification?’
‘Something like that.’
We go our separate ways to look at the books. Logan likeshistorical non-fiction and thrillers, while I fancy browsing through theromance section and the classics. My slow wander eventually leads me to thefirst editions section, where the precious, rare books are protected underglass casing.
And that’s when I spot something I know would make a perfectbirthday gift for Dad.
