Diary of a Shopkeeper, 27th December

This is the second half of the story started in the diary of 20th December. You better read that first, otherwise the following won’t make much sense, and could even be mistaken for a load of fantastical bruck.

In case you can’t be bothered to look back: A late-night delivery to the dark end of the Deilquoy Road ended with the van in a ditch, and me wandering dazed and confused.  The appearance of Willie Pickle as the Ghost of Christmas Parties Past didn’t help.  As he vanished into the night, a new vision loomed: half woman, half seal…

‘Holy hell!’ I yelled.  ‘What are you?’

The beast gurgled back at me, its words cold sea sounds, and kept on coming. 

‘Are you man or beast?’ I said in its general direction, as the shimmering body floated towards me.

‘Nee-bree-rrr,’ said the thing, then repeated itself, till eventually I realised it was saying, ‘Neither.’  It stopped a few feet in front of me.  ‘It’s me, Henrietta Stentorian.’

‘Mrs Stentorian!  What on earth…what’s this get up you’re wearing?  I thought it was the ghost of a seal coming to get me.’

‘It’s a Christmas present from my niece in Wiltshire,’ she said.  ‘I told her about my wild swimming group, the Silver Selkies, and she decided she should get me a festive wet suit.  The neoprene is impregnated, if you’ll excuse the word, with some kind of fluorescent substance, so it glows in the dark – helping creel boats and oil tankers see me coming, and so avoiding collisions.’

‘That’s going to be very beneficial,’ I said, ‘When you’re out in the Flow.  But what use does it serve in the middle of the night in the hills of Harray?’

‘The dear lady who organises the Selkies told me we were to meet here.  It was to be a historic event, the first ever sea swim in Harray parish.  But I must have misunderstood the directions: I can’t find the rest of the Selkies anywhere.  Goodness, I can’t even find the sea!’

She waddled past me and off down the track, the glistening sheen of the wet suit gradually fading as she disappeared into the darkness.

‘You better watch out if you meet any Harray Men,’ I called after her, ‘They might think you’re a crab and hit you with a hayfork.’

She said something back at me over her sparkling shoulder, but I couldn’t make it out, it was just those ghostly, watery, wavery vowels again: ‘Harray-crust-must-present…’.

Time was really getting on, but I wasn’t.  Back in the van was a case of wine to deliver to Goodman’s Croft.  But where was the house of that unkan name?  It could only be further up this rutted, muddy road.  ‘All very well to live in the back of beyond,’ I said to myself, as I staggered on through the mirk and mud.  ‘All very well in fine summer weather, but a different story in the rain and snow.’

‘Only if you want to go anywhere,’ said a voice.

‘God’s sake!’ I cried, ‘This place is busier than Broad Street on a Saturday afternoon!’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said the voice.  ‘I haven’t been in town since March.’  A figure loomed out of the darkness: an ankle-length black coat, a hood pulled down over the top half of the face, a black mask covering the bottom half.

‘Would you know something else, then,’ I said.  ‘Where can I find Goodman’s Croft?’               

‘You are addressing Old Nick Goodman,’ said the voice, ‘And my croft is all around us.  I am indeed the lord of all I survey.’  A black-gloved hand swept around in an arc of ownership.

‘Seeing as we can’t see two feet in front of our faces, you’re not the lord of very much right now.’

‘I am, you might say, the Lord of Lockdown.  Since March I have not stepped off my property.  Anything I have needed has come to me – as I hope twelve bottles of finest wine are about to do.  Though every other delivery operative has heeded the signs at the quarantine gate, and left my goods there, rather than entering into the disinfectant zone.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see…’

‘Shut your mouth.  And your eyes.’

Sweesh, sweesh, sweesh!

A cold clammy mist of some foul-smelling chemical spray settled on my face, my hair, my hands as I brought them up to cover my eyes.

‘Turn around.’

I did as I was told.  Sweesh, sweesh, sweesh!

‘Now walk back the way you came, go through the quarantine gate, and do not return.’

‘Okay, okay.  But what the heck is that horrible stuff you’re spritzing me with?  Is it sheep dip or something?’

There was a heavy sigh in the darkness.  ‘It’s Lynx Africa High Definition Body Spray.  My ex sent it to me for Christmas.  Her idea of a joke.  As if I’m going to be frequenting nightclubs and singles bars in the Black Moss of Evrigert.’

‘Not while we’re in Level Three, anyway.’

‘Exactly.  But it does kill 99% of all known germs.  So the laugh’s on her really.’

I set off walking back down the track – though trudging would be more accurate, I was feeling that daisket and dejected.

The voice of Lord Lockdown gave one further instruction: ‘Leave my wine in the metal box provided for that purpose by the gate.  And in the future, don’t even dream of setting foot on my land.’

If that was his idea of the future, I wanted no part of it, I thought to myself – careful not to think aloud this time.

On the far side of the gate, a pleasant surprise awaited me.  My van was sitting upright in the middle of the track.  The off-side was covered in gutter, and maybe dented in a couple of places, but no serious damage seemed to have been done.  On the driver’s seat was a bottle of Dark Island and a can of Merry Dancer, and a note written on the back of my map of the West Mainland:

Shopkeeper!

Got your van out no bother. All it needed was a bit of weight –  of which I have plenty – applied at the tipping point.   

Off to find that party now. Have a peedie party of your own with these two!

Willie Pickle

I transferred Lord Lockdown’s wine to his metal box, started up the van, and turned it homewards.  And as I drove down the Deilquoy road towards the light and warmth of home, cheery thoughts ran around my head:  thank goodness for practical, well-handed friends like Willie Pickle.  And for totally impractical friends like Mrs Stentorian – who might not be able to right a van, but could certainly raise a laugh: a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh, the mother of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.

A merry Christmas to everybody!  A happy New Year to all the world!

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 31st December 2020, apart from a few lines which first appeared on 19th December 1843, in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Other diaries continue to 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. Further new publications by Charles Dickens are less frequent.