Diary of a Victorian Shopkeeper, 26th November
The kirkyard at the time of Granny Groatie’s funeral. See below for credits.
There follows the seventh 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. At the end of the previous transcription, the Countess of Culsh revealed her plans to evict the Kirknesses from their home and business, and turn the premises - and as much of Broad Street as she could get her hands on - into summer rentals for gentleman and lady travellers.
The cathedral was thrang for Jean Groatie’s funeral. Her life had been long and her heart unblemished. Half the town came to bid her farewell.
Afterwards, we laid her to rest in the lair with her gudeman. Locky Omand had taken the few steps from tollbooth to kirkyard to perform his role as gravedigger, and stood with his head bowed, gnarly hands resting on his shovel. The minister’s voice rose against the brisk November wind, and James dropped earth onto the coffin.
The crowd started to disperse, and Locky sidled up to me. ‘She was a fine body,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ve kent her all my life: me and her were ages, you ken.’
‘Lokkars!’ I said. ‘She was 92. And you’re still working in the tollbooth!’
‘I’d rather be in the jailhouse than the poorhouse,’ he said.
We stood and looked back across to the empty site where the new town hall was to be built, and to the handsome sandstone-fronted shops on either side that had so improved our town’s appearance since my childhood.
‘Kirkwall is changing,’ I said. And then, thinking of our encounter of the previous evening, ‘For good and for ill.’
Lucky wheezed in agreement, then nodded his head towards the far side of the kirkyard. ‘There’s some unkan folk about theday,’ he said. ‘Like that wife there. She’s been glooming about the whole of the funeral.’
I looked where he indicated. Two dark figures stood by the gate, one a tall woman in a cloak, the other a boy servant. She was gazing, not at the cathedral, but at the bonnie buildings that lined Broad Street – including our house and shop. My heart leapt to my mouth. I looked around to find James, but he was no longer at the graveside. To my astonishment, I spotted him threading through the headstones towards the Countess of Culsh. I hurried after him and caught up just as he reached her.
She had her back turned to us, her eyes fixed on our premises, as if already half in possession.
‘No one of any respectability would want to live in such a place,’ she said, without turning to face us. ‘But for a week in summer it will serve as quaint rustic accommodation. The gentlemen will be out at the loch most of the day, and the ladies can take tea at the Castle Hotel.’
‘Mr Ross will find it hard to buy tea for his guests if you close my shop down,’ growled James.
She whipped around. ‘He can have it sent from London,’ she said. ‘They have superior victuallers in abundance.’
James boldly met her eye. ‘Well, I think they best keep them there,’ he said. ‘For James Kirkness’s Grocer and Wine Merchant is not going anywhere. And neither is the man himself. Nor his wife.’
And he took my arm. I didn’t know what made him so bold, but I was proud to be at his side at that moment. The Countess drew herself up to reply, but James was not finished.
‘I consulted with Mr Drever the lawyer this morning,’ he said. ‘He looked after all the affairs of my grandmother. And he assures me that the deeds for our shop and apartment remain in his possession. And that granny’s will specifies they be left to me as her sole heir.’
I gasped, and held tight to James’s arm: our home was safe!
He was not finished. ‘I don’t ken what that piece of paper you waved about thestreen was. A ruse, I suspect, to frighten us simple island folk. But we’re not feard and we’re not simple. And we have the law on our side.’
At this she gave out a long, low laugh, as hollow as the sound of clods hitting the coffin lid a few minutes before.
‘I think you’ll find, Mr Kirkness,’ she said, ‘that the law is very much on my side.’ Her face was like one of the skulls carved on the cathedral gravestones. Now it cracked into a hideous rictus. ‘Crambo!’ she bellowed.
Out from behind the kirkyard gatepost appeared Inspector Crambo, who must have been concealed there the whole time.
‘How fortunate you happened to be passing,’ said the countess. ‘Is Mr Rosey with you by any chance?’
Crambo bowed and scraped. ‘Yes, your ladyship,’ he said, bending himself nearly double. And Rosey slinked out from behind the other gatepost.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘I’m waiting, gentlemen.’
Crambo turned to face James. ‘Mr Kirkness, you are hereby indicted with the importation of contraband produce, contrary to Customs and Excise legislation. You are to stop trading forthwith, and kept in custody until a trial date is set.’
Rosey grabbed James’s arm and pulled us asunder.
‘Take him away,’ sneered the countess.
To be continued.
The rare and fascinating photo at the top of the page was posted to the indispensable Orkney Image Library by Grant Leonard in 2008. Thanks to them both.
It’s particularly interesting as the scene looks so different today. It appears to have been taken from what is now the Virgin Money bank on the corner of Castle Street. The angle is slightly strange, though, so it may have been taken from a first floor window. The curved wall on the left surrounded a garden that is now a carpark.
The road or track right across the Kirk Green - a dual carriageway parallel to Broad Street - is startling, as is the bruck lying in the long grass and weeds against the kirkyard wall. On the far right you can see the edge of the old tolbooth, where Margaret was incarcerated in Chapter 3 - and which provides a further dramatic setting later in our story.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 29th November 2023. 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.