The Cartographer by Peter Twohig Page B

walking, and being extra careful not to overdo the exploring (in view of my track record) when I came to a particularly interesting box that had been dumped in the lane, probably because no one wanted it (the only reason something would be in a lane — or anywhere else, come to think of it). It was a box full of books.
    I once heard Granddad say to Jack Whaley, the SP bookmaker, that he was partial to a good book, and I know just how he feels. But these books had pretty boring titles. Checking my Spirax, I see that one was called Abbey Girl , and another Naughty Nights . They had thin covers that were made for folding back, like the Argosy and Reader’s Digest , but no pictures, even on the front. I decided to take one home for Mum, who had been doing a lot of reading lately. I chose Hot Housewives , because she was always complaining of slaving over a hot stove, but I could tell by the look on her face that it was not a good choice. Still, she read it. So the box was not a bonanza, but it did tell me something about the people who threw it out: they probably had a lot more books they didn’t want.
    The gate nearest the box of books was one of those high tin gates that you find at the back of most shops, and it had a hole you put your hand through to open it. I made sure I had a good look through the hole first, and also through the crack at theside of the gate, to make sure there was no dog in the yard as it is a well-known fact that a dog can be trained to keep quiet until a hand is stuck through the hole in the gate and then the dog bites it off. You can’t take the hand with you to hospital for it to be sewn back on either, because the dog would be trained to eat it. These dogs are called watchdogs because they are trained to watch you, and they live in watch-houses, which are kennels for watchdogs. I thought I heard something in the yard, so I decided not to stick my hand through the hole but climb up and take a peek over the fence instead. I hopped up on the box of books, my left foot on a copy of House of Sin , and stuck my right shoe in the hand hole to push myself up — I was not worried about getting my shoe bitten off because I’d heard that watchdogs are only trained to bite exposed flesh.
    The yard was empty, so I climbed over the fence and let myself down the other side. The back wall of the building was made of red brick, and was still damp from the last rain. Most of it was hidden by a shed that was joined to the building, which I guessed was a shop as it had a tin sign leaning against the wall, saying in red letters: THE ARGUS . The shed door had a padlock on it, which was unlocked.
    Inside, the shed turned out not to be a shed at all, but the back room of the shop, and it was lined with books, so that there was just barely room for me to squeeze through. I had smelt books before, but never like this place. It was so good I had to stop and sniff for a sec, and I see that on the map I gave it a six (though the memory is worth more). At the far end there was a door with a keyhole in it, which turned out to be unlocked as well. Inside was the back of the shop itself. The smell of books here was even sweeter, and there were other smells as well: pencils, newspapers and, of all things, tea. Ittook me a second or two to realise that the tea was right beside me, freshly brewed and in a cup. It was not one of those lady’s cups with red roses on it, but a thick white cup bearing the letters ‘VR’ with wings on either side. I knew what that stood for as Granddad had a cup the same, and he once told me with a wink that it had fallen off the back of a train. So I reckoned that some bloke who was a lot like Granddad owned that cup and he would be back any second to drink his tea. The last thing I wanted was to get caught by the kind of bloke who collects things that fall off the back of trains, so I crept out the door and carefully closed it again. That left me in the little back