Diary of a Shopkeeper, 12th July

The rarely spotted July ba.

I thought I was seeing double on Saturday afternoon. The door of the shop had been wedged open all the warm windless day, so I heard the raised voices approaching before their owners appeared in the doorway: two Mrs Stentorians. My jaw dropped. Two women: the same height, the same build, even the same hairstyle – halfway between a beehive and a haystack. And their voices were identical too, battling each other ever more loudly as they both arrived at the conclusion of some heated argument.

‘Bollards!’ thundered Mrs Stentorian, ‘The word derives from the Old Norse bolr for tree trunk, so of course we Vikings love them.’

‘Which just goes to prove,’ trumpeted Mrs Stentorian II, ‘Righty tightly, lefty loosey – and that’s the end of it.’

They both nodded triumphantly and clapped their hands together as if they’d proved their point decisively, even though neither had been paying any attention to what the other was saying.

‘Welcome, ladies,’ I said as they approached the cheese fridge together. ‘Henrietta, good to see you as always. And you too, madam.’ (I don’t know why I said madam, I never say madam, it just came out.)

‘Hereford,’ she replied, ‘like the shire. Though it’s a long time since we owned it. You may call me Henley.’

And she held out a hand clad in a lilac kid-leather glove. For a second I thought she was expecting me to kiss it like a debutante’s suitor, then I noticed she was proffering a small printed card.

‘Henley Hereford,’ it read, then, ‘The Countess Much Cowarne and Hope’s Rough.’ Then there was a mobile number.

‘You may contact me when my order is ready,’ she said.

‘Of course. But you haven’t ordered anything.’

‘I only just arrived. Hen picked me up from your little airport and took me straight here. For essential supplies.’

‘Hen’s staying with me for a week,’ said Mrs Stentorian. ‘We’re sisters.’

‘I see it now,’ I said. ‘Hah! Your parents gave you both names that begin with Hen?’

‘It was most confusing when we were all young and at home,’ said Henrietta, ‘Wasn’t it, Hen?’

‘Yes it was, Hen,’ said Henley. ‘Especially as our brothers were christened Henrik and Hennessey.’

‘Our father used to call us his flock of Hens,’ said Mrs S. ‘Which was quite appropriate for a bishop.’

‘It also meant he never forgot our names. Whichever child he met he could address them as Hen, and know he was right.’

‘He had a way with words,’ said Henrietta.

‘A way of getting them wrong,’ said Henley.

‘Well, not so much wrong as different,’ said Henrietta.

‘I remember he went to the hospital to visit a parishioner who was in for a minor operation…’ said Henley.

‘…and he asked her how her cake-hole surgery had gone,’ said Henrietta.

‘Instead of key-hole,’ said Henley.

‘Or was it mouse-hole?’ said Henrietta.

‘I hate to contradict, but I believe it was pigeon-hole,’ said Henley.

I cleared my throat. ‘So, you’d like me to deliver an order for you? What can I get you?’

‘I’ve heard your Orkney gin is very good,’ she said. ‘I’d like to try it.’

‘Certainly,’ I said, waving my arm towards the three shelves of local gins. ‘Which one?’

‘Which one? Impossible to decide. I’ll have one of each please.’

‘That’s about 15 bottles,’ I said.

‘Really? In that case, you better give me a bottle of tonic too.’

‘Steady on!’ said Henrietta.

‘I know, dear Hen: dangerous stuff. I remember the day I drank a whole bottle of Fevertree with a bottle of Gordons. I felt decidedly sub-par the next morning, and I do think the tonic was to blame.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Fifteen bottles of gin and one bottle of tonic. Anything else?’

‘I’ve heard your Orkney cheddar is very good,’ she said. ‘I’d like to try it.’

I indicated the two blocks of cheddar we had sitting in our fridge. ‘How much would you like?’ I said.

‘Bigger than the smaller piece, smaller than the bigger piece,’ she said. ‘Can you make the smaller piece bigger?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘But I can make the bigger piece smaller.’

‘Marvellous! Hen was right: you really are one of the finest cheese shops on Broad Street. Now, if you could deliver that in about an hour I’d be most grateful. We’re going outside to watch the afternoon’s entertainment and it would be lovely to have a refreshment awaiting us when we reach Orfear. Now let us depart, Henrietta. I’ve read so much about this game, where Kirkwallians from the bad side of town battle the Kirkwallians from the better addresses. All over possession of a small piece of wood.’

‘A piece of wood?’ I said.

‘Yes, the baton. Or ‘the ba’ as the quaint local term has it. And it’s coming this way: I hear the skirl of the pipes! Come, Hen, come.’

She came, they went, and I started packing a big box of gin.

This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 16th July 2026. 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.