Diary of a Shopkeeper, 22nd December 2024

It was the last day of December, and our West Mainland customers needed supplies to help them commemorate the end of the old year and celebrate the coming of the new one. I should have checked the forecast before setting out. But even if I’d known about the coming storm, what could I have done? We’d advertised our delivery day, we’d made up hampers, and we’d loaded the van. I was expected. I couldn’t let folk down.

Finstown and Stromness were easy. But as darkness started to fall, the wind got up and the rain came down. I circled out into the back roads of the West Mainland, with the drop-offs becoming harder to find, and the freezing rain soaking me as I stood on doorsteps, boxes of wine and cheese held out like offerings.

The maps I’d printed off back in Kirkwall had looked clear and certain under the bright lights of the shop. Now that I was out amongst the darkening fields, everything was confused and obscure. I paused at a sign for a farm called Boo. Was that the Bu I was meant to deliver to? And a house described as being ‘at the end of the Rowamo Road’ – which end? The Kiln end or the Standpretty end?

Nonetheless, with perseverance and a couple of calls back to the shop requesting checks on the Orkney Core Paths website (the most useful but worst-designed aid for all delivery drivers) I managed to get everything to its rightful destination. Nearly everything. One more box lurked in a dark corner of the van. I hauled it out and looked at the post-it address stuck to the lid: MUIR, EDEN, EVIE. I’d already been past Hell and Purgatory in Birsay, so the idea of a long-gone religious farmer choosing that name didn’t seem unlikely.

Where was the map I’d printed off? Nowhere to be found. I phoned the shop. No answer: of course, it was after six, they’d be away home. As I should be. But I couldn’t let down the good folk of Eden. I remembered, from when I’d glanced at it back at base, that I had to skirt the Hill of Dwarmo, then head south and east towards the sea. Down there somewhere, with the dark waters of Gairsay Sound dashing its gable end, lay my last port of call.

I passed a well-kept, brightly lit farm, then turned off onto a narrow road, which soon degenerated into a track. The van bumped into potholes and mud splashed up onto my windscreen, already streaming with rain. The road got narrower and darker, seeming to sink down between the dykes on either side. If it got any tighter, I’d be well and truly stuck. Could I turn back and ask for directions at the farm? Only if I could find a turning place. I had no choice but to creep onwards and hope I was heading in the right direction.

And then, glinting in the headlights, a metal gate, blocking my way. I sighed, killed the engine, and opened the door. Immediately a blast of rain smashed me in the face, sending ice-cold water down the back of my neck. I pulled up my hood, and fought against the gale to the loop of wire that held the gate against the strainer. At last, some good news. A faded wooden sign fixed to the post announced: EDEN. STRANGE HORSES. CLOSE GATE. I was in the right place.

I swung open the gate, jammed it against the verge, then jumped back in the van and drove through. It was hard to imagine any horses, however strange, being left out on a night like this; nonetheless, I got out again, closed the gate, then turned to get back in the van. And found myself face to face with a dark, dripping figure. A man of about my build, wearing the exact same raincoat I had on. His hood was up, so I couldn’t see his face, and his voice came out muffled when he spoke.

‘Have you seen my dog?’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘What does it look like?’

‘It’s black. Very black.’

‘Not easy to spot on a night like this,’ I said.

‘I threw a stick, ‘Fetch!’ I said. The dog ran after it, and I haven’t seen him since.’

‘How long ago has he been gone?’ I said.

‘Three score years and ten,’ he said. ‘I’ve never stopped looking.’

I felt a shiver go up my spine. Or maybe it was a drop of ice water. ‘I’m looking too,’ I said. ‘For a place called Eden.’

‘Look around you,’ he said. ‘You’ve one foot in it.’

I peered at the pitch-black fields, the dark rutted track, the dark sea with the black wedge of Wyre just visible against the dark sky. ‘Are you Muir?’ I said.

But he’d gone, vanished into the mirk.

The road led on. I had no choice but to follow it, through the dying hours of the old year.

What does it all mean? Nothing…it’s just a story. But readers with an interest in Orkney literature might notice a few nods to poet Edwin Muir. And readers with an interest in Glasgow literature might remember Liz Lochhead’s end of year poem about meeting her own double, ‘Fetch on the First of January.’ It must mean something…

Kirkness & Gorie will be closed from 4pm on Tuesday 31st until 10am on Saturday 4th. Thank you for all your custom in the past year. Happy New Year!

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 19th December 2024. 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.