Diary of a Victorian Shopkeeper, 10th December

There follows the ninth of ten installments of the Victorian journal of Margaret Kirkness, cofounder of our family business. If you have not yet read the story of this document’s discovery, I suggest you do so before proceeding.

Dawn comes late in December. The sky was barely starting to lighten when Mary and I left the apartment and hurried down Albert Street. We pulled thick shawls over our heads to disguise our appearance, and I drew mine tight against passing acquaintances and customers as we scuttled along in the shadows. It was not respectable for a married woman to visit a single man, but James had urged me to talk to Nathan Goldberg. After sleeping on the dilemma, I determined to do as he asked.

Mary, possessing as she does uncanny knowledge of everyone else’s private business, knew where Mr Goldberg lived: a small but well-presented house overlooking the beautiful gardens of Saint Catherine’s Place. I let the brass knocker fall on the door. Almost immediately Mr Goldberg appeared in his waistcoat, a linen napkin around his neck.

‘Madame Keerkness, what surprise! Will you step in?’

‘No, sir,’ I said, ‘I will not cross the threshold of the man who tised my husband into smuggling.’

He looked shocked, then after a moment started to laugh, continuing for such a time and to such excess that he had to dab tears from his eyes with the napkin. ‘We are no smugglers! We seemply want to introduce the fine things of my country to the people of thees town.’ In the distance the bells of St Magnus rang out: quarter to nine. ‘The hevidence will be before the court shortly, madame,’ he said. ‘I suggest you hexamine it closely.’

Mary seized me by the arm, and we departed post haste, hurrying along Queen Street, King Street and Copland’s Lane. As we turned right onto Palace Road, I became aware, to my alarm, of a great crowd gathered in front of the tollbooth.

‘The trial is a sensation for the town,’ said Mary. ‘Best kens there’s not much else to lighten the dark days around Yule.’

Breathless, I did not reply, but pushed my way into the steer. The crowd was packed tight and I had to use my elbicks to fight to the front. When I reached the foot of the steps, my heart gave a dunt.

There stood James, looking tired and tagsie after his night in the cells. Crambo and Rosey were on either side of him, each clinching an arm, puffed up with pride at their arrest. The crowd – many longtime friends and customers – were staring at James with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. I started to climb the steps towards him.

‘Mrs Kirkness,’ shouted Crambo. ‘Stop where you are!’

‘I will not stop,’ I replied, ‘Until I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.’

A wheezy voice spoke up off to my left, by the oak door that led to the courtroom. ‘Well, mistress,’ said Locky Omand, ‘you better spret ower here.’

The worthy was guarding a huge wooden barrel, of the type used to store and transport spiritous liquors. On the side was stamped the legend Produit de France. I swandered: who could argue with such testimony?

From the front of the crowd a familiar stentorian voice sounded out: the Countess of Culsh. ‘Do your job, old man, and get the exhibit up to the court. Justice must wield its sword with full force this day.’

‘That’s just my problem, lass,’ said Locky. ‘This barrel is so muckle, and the stairs to the court so steep, I don’t ken if I can get it up there. I wouldn’t want to spill…whatever’s in there.’

Something flashed in my mind, and with a single step I was standing by the cask. The great bung was strangely loose: with the merest effort I pulled it out and tossed it aside.

‘Stop her!’ bellowed the countess. ‘She’s tampering with the evidence!’

I lowered my nose towards the bung hole and inhaled. A pungent aroma flooded my senses, and an ineffable certainty filled every fibre of my body. ‘Locky,’ I cried. ‘Fetch me your gravedigger’s spade this instant.’

In a moment the gleaming instrument was in my hands. I raised it high above my head – the crowd gasped – Crambo spluttered and the countess squawked – and I smashed its blade on the side of the barrel with all my might.

Wood splintered. Iron hoops loosened and clanged to the ground. Staves collapsed and fell apart.

And out from the barrel flowed…no liquid of any sort. Rather, a cascade of straw-packing tumbled onto the ground.

I turned to the crowd. ‘I have worked in a grocer’s shop for 15 years,’ I declared. ‘And I have a nose for such things. This is not brandy, nor gin, nor even whisky. This is a barrel of CHEESE!’

To be continued. The tenth and final extract from MK’s diary will appear next week.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 13th December 2023. A new diary appears weekly. I post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations., and occasional small corrections or additions.