Diary of a Shopkeeper, 1st May

‘You’re looking very pale, shopkeeper,’ said Mrs Stentorian. ‘You need to get out in the fresh air.’

‘I would if I wasn’t stuck behind this counter,’ I said. ‘It’s not that I don’t love being stuck behind the counter, but it does make it hard to soak up some rays. The lights from the cheese fridge just don’t cut it.’

‘I had the most marvellous time on the Brooch of Birsay yesterday,’ she said. ‘I feel quite reborn.’

‘Reborn as a freshly boiled lobster? You’re the same colour!’ I thought, but didn’t say it.

Instead I said, ‘Brough Mrs Stentorian, is usually pronounced broch, not brooch. A brooch is something you pin to your tweed jacket. Like that lovely silhouette of Queen Victoria you’re wearing.’

‘That’s not Queen Victoria,’ she said, ‘It’s my late husband, Bertie. We had matching cameos made to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary. Though of course the settings are not silver, but tin, from Bertie’s family mines in Cornwall. And the portraits are carved out of mussel shells.’

‘I can see the blue sheen.’

‘We were walking the pilgrim trail through northern Spain, the Santiago de Compost. That was our way of honouring our anniversary. But silly old me thought one started in Santiago, and that’s where I bought flights to.’

‘Really you should have finished there.’

‘So it transpired. When we left the pilgrim accommodation – I think it was a Ritz-Carlton – and headed west, we hit the sea almost immediately and had to stop.’

‘And where were you?’

‘A lovely old town called Fisterra – the end of the earth, famous for its mussels. What could be more natural than to commission a local artisan to commemorate our stay in mollusc form.’

‘What indeed.’

‘So we sat for our portraits, then left the little man at his workbench by the harbour. And we made our own pilgrimage down a road less travelled, the Costa da Morte.’

‘The Coast of Death? Sounds a bit ominous.’

‘Only if you’re a barnacle, a razor clam or a mussel. Those creatures die in their millions that the good people of Spain may enjoy their mariscada seafood platters. Other than that it’s a place of solitude and natural beauty.’

‘Rather like the Brough of Birsay.’

‘Sometimes as I walk the cliffs of Orkney I feel I’m trying to recreate those happy seaside days Bertie and I spent in Galicia or Brittany or Amalfi. But of course it’s never the same. Because he’s not by my side.’

‘I’m sorry, Henrietta. That must be hard for you.’

‘It is. It means I have to carry the picnic basket. That was always his role, but he’s not around, so…’

She turned away, hoping to conceal from me the tear in her eye. But I spotted it. Shopkeepers notice things like that.

‘If you walk two paces ahead, and turn to your left,’ I said, ‘You might see something to cheer you up.’

She did as I suggested.

‘It’s one of our specialities,’ I said. ‘Tinned seafood from various parts of Europe. Sardinillas from Spain, anchovies from Italy, mackerel in escabeche, squid stuffed with inky rice from Portugal, and mussels from Galicia! A slice of sourdough, a dab of Normandy butter, and a tin of fish – a feast in five minutes.’

She sniffed. ‘I never eat seafood now,’ she said. ‘Not since Bertie passed away. There he was, resting in peace on the foredeck of his beloved yacht, An Megrim, all ready for the burial at sea he’d requested. And on his chest the cameo brooch with my portrait in it.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘And then, from out of clear blue sky, a fulmar swooped down, pecked at the mussel portrait, and flew off with it in its beak. My head had literally been eaten by a seagull.’

She put her hand up to touch the brooch on her lapel, and held it there.

‘So you’ll understand,’ she said, ‘Why I’ve never touched seafood since. It really would leave a nasty taste in my mouth.’

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 4th May 2022. A new one appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.