Diary of a Shopkeeper, 8th November
Mr C and Mrs S?
‘Do you have any Orkney charcuterie?’ said Mrs Stentorian.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘There used to be a guy called Brian who made fantastic cured meat on Rousay. But he moved south a couple of years ago.’
‘Those Porkney Pies were bonzer too,’ said Kiwi Kate, studying the Sauvignon Blancs from behind her All Blacks mask.
‘They were,’ I said. ‘This is the thing, Mrs S. With that kind of niche product, it’s very hard to make a go of it if you’re a one-man band. Or a one-woman band. If you make small quantities, you make no money. But if folk like what you do, and you start to sell in volume, then you find yourself getting up at five in the morning and working till ten o’clock at night to meet demand.’
‘But if you want to get efficient,’ said Kate, ‘You have to spend thousands on machinery, and hundreds more each month on a premises to put the gear in. And before you know it, you have to work harder just to pay for the stuff that was supposed to make life easier!’
Mrs Stentorian looked over her glasses at Kate. ‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she said. ‘Are you a butcher?’
‘No, I’m a vegetarian,’ said Kate. ‘But when I first came here my Lamingtons won first prize at the Dounby Show, so I looked into the possibilities.’
‘Lamb-ingtons?’ I said, ‘I thought you were a veggie?’
‘No no,’ said Mrs S, ‘They’re a kind of cake with coconut round the outside.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I was joking.’
‘Oh, sorry. My late husband always said my sense of humour was missing presumed dead as a parrot. I didn’t really know what he was talking about, but I used to laugh just to keep him happy.’
‘Hey Kate,’ I said, ‘It’s a shame you never collaborated with Brian the charcuterie man. You could have made your cakes out of cured pork and called them Ham-ingtons.’
Kate laughed. Mrs Stentorian didn’t. She frowned.
‘I think I do have a sense of humour,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I was rather spoiled at an early age. When Bertie and I were married, we honeymooned in London. We travelled up from the West Country and had a marvellous week seeing all the sights. And on our last night in town we went to the Café de Paris to see Noël Coward in cabaret.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘What an amazing act to have seen.’
‘He was most amusing,’ she said. ‘And strangely enough, our favourite song was about charcuterie.’
‘Really?’ I said, ‘I don’t think I know that one.’
‘Look it up on YouTube,’ said Kate.
‘You don’t need that computer,’ said Mrs S, ‘I’ll sing it for you.’
‘I didn’t know you were a singer,’ I said.
‘There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, she said. ‘The stage was a second home to me when I was a girl. My Peer Gynt was much admired.’
I threw my arms out wide. ‘Lights, camera, action!’
I half expected her to shrink down into her tweed coat in silence, but instead she lowered her mask, gave an enormous smile (for the first time ever, that I’d seen), and started to sing:
Don’t put your sausage on the plate, Mrs Worthington
Don’t put your sausage on the plate
It’s really much too fatty
I’d rather have a pattie:
The mixture of duck and donkey meat
Is likely to repeat.
It’s a nice shape, to give the thing its due
But don’t you think the stink is like
A sweaty kangaroo?
I entreat, Mrs Worthington
Sweet Mrs Worthington
Don’t put your sausage on the plate
I raised my hands to applaud, but she wagged a finger at me, and threw herself with great gusto into a second verse:
Don’t put your sausage on the plate, Mrs Worthington
Don’t put your sausage on the plate
The portion size is generous
I’ll readily admit
But the hairy mould in which it’s rolled
Is bound to give you squits.
It’s a bold move to serve it slightly raw
But not even little Oliver Twist
Will ever ask for more
On my knees, Mrs Worthington
Please, Mrs Worthington
Don’t put your sausage on the plate!
With a resounding note, and a dazzling smile, she stopped. Kiwi Kate and I looked on in astonishment. Behind our masks our jaws had well and truly dropped. Then we burst into applause and cheers.
‘Henrietta!’ I cried, ‘What a performance!’
‘I’d never have thought it,’ said Kate. ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Mrs S. And I know about horses.’
She gave a little bow, then fanned her face with her hands. Her exertions had made her cheeks flush.
‘I probably got some of the words wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time since I heard Noël sing it.’
‘Not even The Master himself could better that performance,’ I said. ‘I take it all back about one-woman bands.’
She raised her mask, looped the elastic behind her ears, and clamped it firmly across her face.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 12th November. Other diaries will appear weekly. I am posting them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.
Speaking of corrections, I think Mrs Stentorian needs to make some to her song. As she suspected, she did indeed got some of the words wrong. In fact, just about all of them. It was a tremendous performance, but still…
Here’s what she surely heard Noël Coward singing in the Café de Paris:
