Henry Clemence isn’t that great, as it happens
Approaching forty years of age and suddenly feeling more tired than he could remember feeling before, Henry Archibald Clemence sat on what had used to be the counter he kept his till on. He swung his legs, banging out an irregular drumbeat on its wooden front, contemplated his ruin and waited patiently for the man from the council to arrive. He was late.
He was waiting for the man from the council because they had, in a belated fit of civic engineering, bought the block of units where Henry’s business had once been; it was previously the property of a distant pensions fund which had generally proved intractable in such matters as late rent and general upkeep, the council had lowered rents and made a big speech about how they were going to revitalise the high street.
There had been a presentation, and an artist’s impression of a sunlit concourse upon which couples strolled arm in arm whilst children gambolled merrily betwixt the lamp-posts. But it had all come a bit late for Henry, who’d run out of money last month, excuses a few months before that and the good will and patience of his wife two years before that; and now the man from the council was coming for the keys.
In the now empty shop, the sound of his heels drumming on his counter’s fascia echoed uncomfortably loudly. But he had nothing to do but drum, and whistle a little four-note tune. He’d packed up what little there was left to pack up. He’d hawked some odds and ends round various other shops nearby, trying not to sound desperate as he did so, and thrown the rest in a skip. This was no longer his business, it was merely a shell. But he could still see the shelves and displays. Still feel the boxes of loose screws, the rustle of a packet of seeds.
His dream, his “vision”, as Kate had called it in tones he deemed a few degrees too mocking, had been to open an old-style hardware shop. He’d walked into one when he’d been on holiday in Devon, and had been enchanted by the realisation that places where one could buy drill bits, garden ornaments and pyrex oven dishes all in the same place still existed. He’d bought a small stoneware dish and a pair of secateurs. He’d imagined himself behind the counter of such a shop , doling out sage advice on matters of gardening and home improvement. He’d envisioned Rainforest Alliance authenticated hardwood garden furniture, a quirky range of unusual seed packets for the nascent grow-your-owners who didn’t want all the boring old stuff. Try this Mizuna, he’d say. Try this Purple Shiso, easy to grow, like cress. You can do it in a window-box.
Despite Kate’s misgivings he’d pressed ahead with his dream, convinced that there was a gap in the market for personal service and specialised items. People wanted the experience, he’d said. You can’t beat the personal touch. Sadly, he now realised, he hadn’t factored in that the shop of his dreams, that peerless Devonian exemplar, thrived in a town which was pretty much at a remove from anywhere big, and despite the undoubted charms of Bideford and Barnstaple tended to rely admirably upon itself. He, on the other hand, had to contend with a giant B&M Bargains forty yards up the road, and an equally mammoth Home Bargain with a massive car park just outside town, both which did indeed sell drill bits, garden ornaments and pyrex oven dishes all under the one roof, as well as vitamin supplements, stationery, birdseed, energy drinks, condoms, pink Stetsons of the sort worn by ladies of a certain vintage at Robbie Williams concerts and Christ alone knows what else. And whilst their hardwood garden furniture was in no way Rainforest Alliance certificated, and had probably been responsible for the deaths of countless endangered species, it turned out people didn’t actually give a fuck about that, so long as it was cheap.
There was a tap at the window. It was the man from the council. He was short, smartly dressed, and gave the impression of being incredibly angry about something. Letting him in, Henry noticed the incredibly deep lustrous shine on his shoes, looking down, his own fascinated gaze was reflected back in them. “Good afternoon” said Henry.
The man from the council eyed him like a drill sergeant, then walked past Henry and into the depths of what had once been his shop. He peered round corners.
“Not left anything here have we? Only we can’t be putting things in the bin for you. It’s your job”
Henry shook his head. All his stock was long gone. The man from the council rapped on the wooden counter. “Any chance we can get this out?” Easier to sell the site of there’s nothing in it at all” Henry smiled wanly. It had taken a joiner friend of his hours to make that counter, he’d done it for mates rates and the promise of a discount, but he’d never come in. There was a Jewson on the Industrial estate. He went there. It was the only element of the shop that remained, he hadn’t taken it out because the safe underneath was concreted to the floor, and he didn’t feel able to shift it. The man from the council ignored his silence and moved round the counter, tapping and pushing. Eventually he saw the safe, grunted, and appeared to reach a decision. He held out an immaculately manicured hand, a silver watch which was covered in dials peeked out from behind a white cuff.
“The keys” said the man from the council abruptly, Henry smiled back at him with an entirely confected sunniness, and reached into his pocket. They weren’t there. The man was glaring at him with what Henry felt was undeserved hostility, his eyes bulging. Looking at the door, Henry saw with relief that they were hanging from the lock.
“Left them in the door when I let you in” he said “ha ha”. The laugh didn’t convince anyone, he felt the man glaring at him as he sidled past and, fumbling slightly, pulled them from the lock. They dropped to the floor with what he felt was an unnecessarily loud clatter, skittering across the tiles he’d so lovingly and optimistically laid just a few short years ago. He bent to pick them up.
They wouldn’t move, it was as if they had either melded with the floor or increased in weight to a titanic amount . Eyes crossing with the effort Henry, panting, pulled, the keys, obstinately, remained where they were. Bracing both feet he pulled with all the strength he had left, they weren’t going anywhere. His feet slid on the tiles and he fell. Sitting on the floor, still gripping the keys, his face felt hot, he could feel tears starting behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry” he said quietly “I’m not having a very good day.” Wordlessly, the man from the council walked over to him, shoes tapping with a metallic clatter, he took the keys easily and tucked them into his pocket, then, again without saying anything, he pulled Henry to his feet and propelled him out of the door. Stepping smartly out behind him, the man from the council turned the key which had been Henry’s a few moments before in the lock. Then, eyeing him critically, he put them in his pocket, turned smartly on his heel and walked away.
He was waiting for the man from the council because they had, in a belated fit of civic engineering, bought the block of units where Henry’s business had once been; it was previously the property of a distant pensions fund which had generally proved intractable in such matters as late rent and general upkeep, the council had lowered rents and made a big speech about how they were going to revitalise the high street.
There had been a presentation, and an artist’s impression of a sunlit concourse upon which couples strolled arm in arm whilst children gambolled merrily betwixt the lamp-posts. But it had all come a bit late for Henry, who’d run out of money last month, excuses a few months before that and the good will and patience of his wife two years before that; and now the man from the council was coming for the keys.
In the now empty shop, the sound of his heels drumming on his counter’s fascia echoed uncomfortably loudly. But he had nothing to do but drum, and whistle a little four-note tune. He’d packed up what little there was left to pack up. He’d hawked some odds and ends round various other shops nearby, trying not to sound desperate as he did so, and thrown the rest in a skip. This was no longer his business, it was merely a shell. But he could still see the shelves and displays. Still feel the boxes of loose screws, the rustle of a packet of seeds.
His dream, his “vision”, as Kate had called it in tones he deemed a few degrees too mocking, had been to open an old-style hardware shop. He’d walked into one when he’d been on holiday in Devon, and had been enchanted by the realisation that places where one could buy drill bits, garden ornaments and pyrex oven dishes all in the same place still existed. He’d bought a small stoneware dish and a pair of secateurs. He’d imagined himself behind the counter of such a shop , doling out sage advice on matters of gardening and home improvement. He’d envisioned Rainforest Alliance authenticated hardwood garden furniture, a quirky range of unusual seed packets for the nascent grow-your-owners who didn’t want all the boring old stuff. Try this Mizuna, he’d say. Try this Purple Shiso, easy to grow, like cress. You can do it in a window-box.
Despite Kate’s misgivings he’d pressed ahead with his dream, convinced that there was a gap in the market for personal service and specialised items. People wanted the experience, he’d said. You can’t beat the personal touch. Sadly, he now realised, he hadn’t factored in that the shop of his dreams, that peerless Devonian exemplar, thrived in a town which was pretty much at a remove from anywhere big, and despite the undoubted charms of Bideford and Barnstaple tended to rely admirably upon itself. He, on the other hand, had to contend with a giant B&M Bargains forty yards up the road, and an equally mammoth Home Bargain with a massive car park just outside town, both which did indeed sell drill bits, garden ornaments and pyrex oven dishes all under the one roof, as well as vitamin supplements, stationery, birdseed, energy drinks, condoms, pink Stetsons of the sort worn by ladies of a certain vintage at Robbie Williams concerts and Christ alone knows what else. And whilst their hardwood garden furniture was in no way Rainforest Alliance certificated, and had probably been responsible for the deaths of countless endangered species, it turned out people didn’t actually give a fuck about that, so long as it was cheap.
There was a tap at the window. It was the man from the council. He was short, smartly dressed, and gave the impression of being incredibly angry about something. Letting him in, Henry noticed the incredibly deep lustrous shine on his shoes, looking down, his own fascinated gaze was reflected back in them. “Good afternoon” said Henry.
The man from the council eyed him like a drill sergeant, then walked past Henry and into the depths of what had once been his shop. He peered round corners.
“Not left anything here have we? Only we can’t be putting things in the bin for you. It’s your job”
Henry shook his head. All his stock was long gone. The man from the council rapped on the wooden counter. “Any chance we can get this out?” Easier to sell the site of there’s nothing in it at all” Henry smiled wanly. It had taken a joiner friend of his hours to make that counter, he’d done it for mates rates and the promise of a discount, but he’d never come in. There was a Jewson on the Industrial estate. He went there. It was the only element of the shop that remained, he hadn’t taken it out because the safe underneath was concreted to the floor, and he didn’t feel able to shift it. The man from the council ignored his silence and moved round the counter, tapping and pushing. Eventually he saw the safe, grunted, and appeared to reach a decision. He held out an immaculately manicured hand, a silver watch which was covered in dials peeked out from behind a white cuff.
“The keys” said the man from the council abruptly, Henry smiled back at him with an entirely confected sunniness, and reached into his pocket. They weren’t there. The man was glaring at him with what Henry felt was undeserved hostility, his eyes bulging. Looking at the door, Henry saw with relief that they were hanging from the lock.
“Left them in the door when I let you in” he said “ha ha”. The laugh didn’t convince anyone, he felt the man glaring at him as he sidled past and, fumbling slightly, pulled them from the lock. They dropped to the floor with what he felt was an unnecessarily loud clatter, skittering across the tiles he’d so lovingly and optimistically laid just a few short years ago. He bent to pick them up.
They wouldn’t move, it was as if they had either melded with the floor or increased in weight to a titanic amount . Eyes crossing with the effort Henry, panting, pulled, the keys, obstinately, remained where they were. Bracing both feet he pulled with all the strength he had left, they weren’t going anywhere. His feet slid on the tiles and he fell. Sitting on the floor, still gripping the keys, his face felt hot, he could feel tears starting behind his eyes.
“I’m sorry” he said quietly “I’m not having a very good day.” Wordlessly, the man from the council walked over to him, shoes tapping with a metallic clatter, he took the keys easily and tucked them into his pocket, then, again without saying anything, he pulled Henry to his feet and propelled him out of the door. Stepping smartly out behind him, the man from the council turned the key which had been Henry’s a few moments before in the lock. Then, eyeing him critically, he put them in his pocket, turned smartly on his heel and walked away.
posted by Matt at 1:27 AM
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