Scots terms
Pal – friend
A nosy – a look, a glance, a clandestine search
Aye – yes
Da – Dad
Loch Katrin (Ka-trin) – a Loch east of Loch Lomond in the Trossachs.
Telly – TV/television
Script
I haven’t really felt like telling these stories in a while. It’s not fair, is it? Life carries on, passes you by no matter how much you want to stay still. Customers still come in, lectures and tutorials need to be attended, exams need to be revised for, and I don’t want any of it. I’m not enjoying things the way I used to before. Drinking, clubbing, going out with pals, it’s all joyless. Coming to the shop has become a chore, and I dread it a lot more than I used to. I don’t really know how to explain it. I want to be fine, go back to how I used to be. But I just…can’t. I can’t get past what happened, what I did, to that customer, to Reid.
I know he’s been gone before, but never for this long. He was only released from the hospital a few weeks ago. He seems to be doing ok, the doctors are pleased with his recovery. He liked the hospital about as much as I did. I’m glad I don’t have to go there anymore, though.
The shop hasn’t been quiet. Just because I’m missing a familiar doesn’t mean the customers have let up. I’ve just not felt like recording them. It might be good to talk though, even if it’s to a computer.
It’s been mostly Chronos and I in the shop. Fionn has started coming in more than he used to, and I can tell it’s to keep me company. I’ve not told anyone about what happened with the owl at the bus stop, about what I’d done. I don’t like thinking about it, let alone sharing it with others. It was only Chronos and I this day when a customer came in.
We both could tell pretty quickly it was a special customer, even before the minimalistic white business card was pulled from his wallet. Which was stuffed with cash, by the way. I’m surprised it stayed closed. He wore too much aftershave and spent more on his watch and shoes than I earn in a month, probably a year. It’s been a while since there was a special customer. I almost forgot what to do.
As usual the Madam was waiting for us at the top of the stairs. After she’d motioned for the customer to go and sit in the front room, she told me we wouldn’t be needing tea. That’s never a good sign.
The customer told my boss that he’d been given her card by a friend of a friend who’d seemed to think she would have what he was looking for. This was a first. I’d been wrong about this bloke being a special customer. It didn’t seem like he had a problem the Madam could solve. Was he a Collector like Flora? This isn’t how I thought Collectors worked. They gave items to the shop. In the year and a bit I’d been working I’d never seen Flora come in and take something.
The customer explained he was looking for a rose. One single rose. I’m pretty sure there was a wee florist down the road from the shop, but I was wise enough not to say this at the time. He was a bit vague about this rose, but it must’ve been special if he thought it was in the shop. The only flowers I’d ever seen were embroidered in frames or handkerchiefs. I’d never seen a real one. It’s not like you can get an antique rose. They’re dead after a few weeks.
I, as usual, was the only one who didn’t have a clue what was being spoken about. Madam Norna confirmed that there were a few roses in the shop, and that he was welcome to look around for as long as he liked in order to find the one he wanted. If he managed to find it, he could have it.
I almost snorted. It was impossible to find anything in the shop unless you specifically hid it, and even then there was still a chance it’d be gone when you next checked. The items in the shop rotated of their own accord. How many times has a customer bought something I’ve never seen, even though I have a nosy around the shop regularly? I suppose that was the crux of it. Just because I’d never seen a rose in the time I’d been working there doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.
But this was different, wasn’t it? This customer was looking for this rose. He knew exactly what he wanted, unlike the other customers who came in and found something that caught their eye. Does it work the same in both cases? Could you go looking for your Fate? And if you did, did it necessarily mean you’d get what you expected?
This customer was delighted at my boss’s answer and went straight down into the shop to start rummaging around. The sleeves of his shirt were around his elbows and he was clambering on and over the larger antiques in the shop. I stayed at the counter with Chronos, wondering if it was too morbid to make a bet on which wardrobe would fall over and squash him.
There was never any order to the items in the shop. It was packed rows of chaos. Wardrobes beside mirrors, magazines piled like mountains on the floor, vinyl propped against vanity tables, salt and pepper shakers perched on a typewriter. As I said before, I could barely find anything and I was there practically every day.
As I was getting ready to go home, he assumed it was closing time and begrudgingly stopped his search. I guessed he’d only made it about a third of the way through the visible clutter. Chronos and I’d had to put up with his laboured breathing all the way through our card game.
I thought that was the end of it, but I realise in hindsight that was a stupid thought. When I arrived at the shop the next day he was there again, digging further through the mess. Chronos told me when I joined him at the counter that the customer had been there since first thing that morning. I sighed loudly before I could stop myself. Were we going to have to put up with him for another day?
The answer was aye. He huffed and puffed his way through the chaos until, a few hours after he’d stopped to have lunch, he pulled out a wooden box, audibly triumphant. Chronos and I stole glances. Or rather I had to steal glances, Chronos could just outright stare as no one told animals it was rude. We’d tried to hide our card game the previous day, but it was soon obvious that the customer wouldn’t even notice that some cards were lined up in front of a cat.
His triumphant huff soon gave way to a dejected sigh, a quiet growl of frustration. Whatever the box was, it wasn’t what he was looking for. He kept the first box in sight but continued to tear the rest of the shop apart looking for this rose.
By the time the second day was over he’d found two wooden boxes and still wasn’t satisfied. Chronos and I had to put up with him for another day. On the third day he only found one box, and that seemed to satisfy him. His cheer of triumph was all we heard. I think Chronos was almost disappointed it wasn’t followed by a swear word.
After a few moments, which was all the time I needed to hide the cards, the customer swaggered out of the depths of the shop, three small boxes balanced precariously in his hands. They reminded me a wee bit of jewellery boxes but had deeper sides. All three were almost identical, made from the same tan coloured wood. How did he know the difference?
The customer told me to thank the Madam, he was sure he’d found what he was looking for. I nodded politely and watched him leave, a spring in his step. After the last echoes of the bell had faded, I asked Chronos about this rose that was worth 3 days of being knee deep in the nightmares of the shop.
Before he told me the answer, Chronos commented he was surprised it’d taken me so long to ask, usually I was the first one to start quizzing him or the Madam. I hadn’t noticed. Even though the customer had been in the shop looking for this rose for three days, I just hadn’t been that interested. This is a shop where everything inside has a purpose, everything inside has the power to change someone’s fate, for better or worse. What did I care about the torture this rose could inflict? It’s not like I could do anything, it’s not like I really wanted to anymore.
I shrugged at Chronos, feeling it was probably best not to say anything at all about his observation. He began to tell me the rose’s story.
Many centuries ago, there’d been a man who lived in a cold and bitter climate. Winters were harsh and there was no summer, just extended springs and autumns. Very few things grew except hardy plants and trees. There were no flowers where this man lived with his wife and infant daughter. All this bairn had known were snow covered planes, distant craggy mountains, and frost covered grass and soil. Her father, the man, wished to give his daughter a gift, something that they could always cherish. Thankfully, this man was magically inclined.
On his annual visit to the local town, a journey of many days away, he bought a fresh rose bud and placed it inside of a specially crafted glass box, which he sealed so only he could open. He brought it back to his home and gave it to his daughter, explaining that once every year the rose would bloom, no matter the weather outside. The whole family gathered around the glass box every year to watch the petals unfurl, the delicate folds curling at the edges of a perfect red rose.
Every year for three years the family waited and watched as the rose bloomed for a day or two before shedding its petals and returning to an impossible bud. Before the fourth year arrived, the man’s daughter died.
Consumed by grief the man could barely look at the rose. He thought about throwing it on the fire, convinced it was useless, nothing but a reminder of happy times he would never experience again. It was his wife who convinced him to keep it since it had brought so much joy, perhaps it one day would again. The man, too captured by grief, only half agreed. He knew he would never be able to look at the rose with joy again, so he altered it to never bloom, to always remain a bud, fixed in time.
That was how the rose bud stayed for the remaining decades of the man’s life, until he found himself on his own deathbed. As he took his last breath, the rose took it’s first. The bud bloomed into the beautiful rose it had been back in the days of his daughter’s life. It was the last thing the man saw before he passed on, and every one hundred years, on the anniversary of his death, the rose bloomed again.
Over the centuries there had been many fakes made and exchanged, all in the quest to find the real one. The fakes were mostly harmless, real roses in a real glass box that died and never bloomed again, but some were vicious, sometimes killing and maiming the poor sods who had the misfortune to possess them. There were always more than a handful of Collectors or enthusiasts who looked for the rose. Some claimed they had the real one, others were convinced the real one had been destroyed long ago; not that it stopped them looking.
Chronos, after some contemplative silence, concluded that the hundred-year anniversary was coming up soon, which would explain the customer’s doggedness to find it. There was always a rush around that time, he confessed. I asked if the rose was different to any other one you can find in a florist. No, it was the same, but he admitted he didn’t think it mattered. The rose itself wasn’t the draw, it was the story behind it, the novelty of seeing something so rare and precious.
I wished that customer good luck and thought little of the story afterwards. Until I found a box of my own, and then another, both identical to the three the customer had left with. How many of these frigging things were in the shop? I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a never-ending supply.
One felt different to the other. They looked identical, but one was…warm. I know that sounds strange, and I don’t mean warm to the touch. As I felt its weight in my hand I began to remember this holiday my Da and I had taken to Loch Katrine. It was during the summer holidays but the weather was shite as usual. Every day we’d woken up to mist and rain. Our coats were permanently wet and socks always soggy. It ruined a few days out. Yet, in the evenings we’d sit on the sofas, draped in blankets even though it was summer, eating our favourite ice cream and watching some crap on the telly, laughing and shouting at the presenters. It’s still one of my favourite holidays, one I thought I’d forgotten until I touched that wooden box.
I put the other box back where I found it and kept the warm one. I didn’t take it back to the flat, that would’ve been a bitch to explain. For the next few days, I’d check the rose bud in the glass box to see if it’d bloomed in my absence. A few days later I was surprised to find that it had.
I put it on the glass counter and Chronos and I watched intently as each petal began to unfurl, the edges crinkle and quiver. It’s just a rose, like the ones you can buy in any florist, the ones that flood the shops leading up to Valentine’s day, but it’s so much more special than that. One single short-stemmed rose enclosed in a glass box, destined to keep blooming until the end of time, even when its creator is gone, even when the memories are gone, and its past is nothing but a fairy tale. I can kind of see why people desperately look for it.
It shouldn’t be mesmerising, but each day when I came in the shop I watched as it reached its full bloom, and as one by one the petals began to fall off. They didn’t congregate at the bottom, they didn’t become mulch, they just disappeared. One moment there’d be a few loose petals at the bottom, and then the next they’d be gone.
There was one day, when about half of its petals had gone, when I thought, for the shortest of moments, that I wouldn’t be here when it bloomed next. I’d be long dead and buried, and some other customer who hasn’t even been born yet would rummage through the antiques trying to find it.
Then I realised with sourness that wasn’t true. I would still be here. I’d be…well, we know what I’d be by then. And that’s never been a more bitter pill to swallow.
Script – Scots
I havenae really felt like telling these stories in a while. It’s not fair is it? Life carries on, passes you by no matter how much you want tae stay still. Customers still come in, lectures and tutorials need tae be attended, exams need to be revised for, and I dinnae want any of it. I’m no enjoying things the way I used tae, before. Drinkin’, clubbin’, goin’ oot wi pals, it’s all joyless. Comin’ tae the shop has become a chore, and I dread it a lot more than I used tae. I dinnae really know how tae explain it. I want tae be fine, go back tae how I used tae be. But I just….cannae. I cannae get past whit happened, whit I did, tae that customer, tae Reid.
I know he’s been gone before, but never fae this long. He was only released frae the hospital a few weeks ago. He seems tae be doin’ ok, the doctors are pleased wi’ his recovery. He liked the hospital aboot as much as I did. I’m glad I dinnae have tae go there anymore, though.
The shop hasnae been quiet. Just because I’m missin’ a familiar doesnae mean the customers have let up. I’ve just no felt like recordin’ them. It might be good tae talk though, even if it’s tae a computer.
It’s been mostly Chronos and I in the shop. Fionn has started coming in more than he used tae, and I can tell it’s tae keep me company. I’ve no told anyone aboot whit happened, wi the owl at the bus stop, aboot whit I’d done. I dinnae like thinkin’ aboot it, let alone sharin’ it wi’ others. It was only Chronos and I this day when a customer came in.
We both could tell pretty quickly it was a special customer, even before the minimalistic white business card was pulled frae his wallet. Which was stuffed wi’ cash, by the way. I’m surprised it stayed closed. He wore too much aftershave and spent more on his watch and shoes than I earn in a month, probably a year. It’s been a while since there was a special customer. I almost forgot whit tae do.
As usual the Madam was waitin’ fae us at the top ae the stairs. After she’d motioned fae the customer tae go and sit in the front room she told me we wouldnae be needin’ tea. That’s never a good sign.
The customer told ma boss that he’d been given her card by a friend ae a friend who’d seemed tae ‘hink she would have whit he was lookin’ fae. This was a first. I’d been wrong aboot this bloke bein’ a special customer. It didnae seem like he had a problem the Madam could solve. Was he a collector like Flora? This isnae how I thought collectors worked. They gave items tae the shop. In the year and a bit I’d been workin’ I’d never seen Flora come in and take somethin’.
The customer explained he was lookin fae a rose. One single rose. I’m pretty sure there was a wee florist doon the road frae the shop, but I was wise enough no tae say this at the time. He was a bit vague aboot this rose, but it mustae been special if he thought it was in the shop. The only flowers I’d ever seen were embroidered in frames or handkerchiefs. I’d never seen a real one. It’s no like ye can get an antique rose. They’re deid after a few weeks.
I, as usual, was the only one who didnae have a clue whit was bein’ spoken aboot. Madam Norna confirmed that there were a few roses in the shop, and that he was welcome tae look aroond fae as long as he liked in order tae find the one he wanted. If he managed tae find it, he could have it.
I almost snorted. It was impossible tae find anythin’ in the shop, unless ye specifically hid it, and even then there was still a chance it’d be gone when ye next checked. The items in the shop rotated ae their own accord. How many times has a customer bought somethin’ I’ve never seen, even though I have a nosy roond the shop regularly? I suppose that was the crux ae it. Just because I’d never seen a rose in the time I’d been workin’ there doesnae mean there wasnae one.
But this was different, wasn’t it? This customer was lookin’ fae this rose. He knew exactly whit he wanted, unlike the other customers who came in and found somethin’ that caught their eye. Does it work the same in both cases? Could ye go lookin’ fae your Fate? And if ye did, did it necessarily mean ye’d get what ye expected?
This customer was delighted at ma boss’s answer, and went straight doon intae the shop tae start rummagin’ roond. The sleeves ae his shirt were roond his elbows and he was clambering on and over the larger antiques in the shop. I stayed at the counter wi’ Chronos, wonderin’ if it was too morbid tae make a bet on which wardrobe would fall over and squash him.
There was never any order tae the items in the shop. It was packed rows ae chaos. Wardrobes beside mirrors, magazines piled like mountains on the floor, vinyls propped against vanity tables, salt and pepper shakers perched on a typewriter. As I said before, I could barely find anythin’, and I was there practically every day.
As I was gettin’ ready tae go home, he assumed it was closing time and begrudgingly stopped his search. I guessed he’d only made it aboot a third ae the way through the visible clutter. Chronos and I’d had tae put up wi’ his laboured breathin’ all the way through our card game.
I thought that was the end ae it, but I realise in hindsight that was a stupid thought. When I arrived at the shop the next day he was there again, diggin’ further through the mess. Chronos told me when I joined him at the counter that the customer had been there since first thing that morning. I sighed loudly before I could stop maself. Were we gonnae have tae put up wi’ him fae another day?
The answer was aye. He huffed and puffed his way through the chaos until, a few hours after he’d stopped tae have lunch, he pulled oot a wooden box audibly triumphant. Chronos and I stole glances. Or rather I had tae steal glances, Chronos could just outright stare as no one told animals it was rude. We’d tried tae hide our card game the previous day, but it was soon obvious that the customer wouldnae even notice that some cards were lined up in front ae a cat.
His triumphant huff soon gave way tae a dejected sigh, a quiet growl ae frustration. Whitever the box was, it wasnae whit he was lookin’ fae. He kept the first box in sight, but continued tae tear the rest ae the shop apart lookin’ fae this rose.
By the time the second day was over he’d found two wooden boxes, and still wasnae satisfied. Chronos and I had tae put up wi’ him fae another day. On the third day he only found one box, and that seemed tae satisfy him. His cheer ae triumph was all we heard. I think Chronos was almost disappointed it wasnae followed by a swear word.
After a few moments, which was all the time I needed tae hide the cards, the customer swaggered oot ae the depths ae the shop, three small boxes balanced precariously in his hands. They reminded me a wee bit ae jewellery boxes but had deeper sides. All three were almost identical, made frae the same tan coloured wood. How did he know the difference?
The customer told me tae thank the Madam, he was sure he’d found whit he was lookin’ fae. I nodded politely and watched him leave, a spring in his step. After the last echoes ae the bell had faded I asked Chronos aboot this rose that was worth 3 days ae bein’ knee deep in the nightmares ae the shop.
Before he told me the answer, Chronos commented he was surprised it’d taken me so long tae ask, usually I was the first one tae start quizzing him or the Madam. I hadnae noticed. Even though the customer had been in the shop lookin’ fae this rose fae three days, I just hadnae been that interested. This is a shop where everythin’ inside has a purpose, everythin’ inside has the power tae change someone’s fate, fae better or worse. Whit did I care aboot the torture this rose could inflict? It’s no like I could do anythin’, it’s no like I really wanted tae anymore.
I shrugged at Chronos, feelin’ it was probably best no tae say anythin’ at all aboot his observation. He began tae tell me the rose’s story.
Many centuries ago, there’d been a man who lived in a cold and bitter climate. Winters were harsh, and there was no summer, just extended springs and autumns. Very few things grew except hardy plants and trees. There were no flowers where this man lived with his wife and infant daughter. All this bairn had known were snow covered planes, distant craggy mountains, and frost covered grass and soil. Her father, the man, wished to give his daughter a gift, something that they could always cherish. Thankfully, this man was magically inclined.
On his annual visit tae the local town, a journey of many days away, he bought a fresh rose bud and placed it inside ae a specially crafted glass box, which he sealed so only he could open. He brought it back tae his home and gave it tae his daughter, explaining that once every year the rose would bloom, no matter the weather ootside. The whole family gathered aroond the glass box every year to watch the petals unfurl, the delicate folds curling at the edges ae a perfect red rose.
Every year fae three years the family waited and watched as the rose bloomed fae a day or two before shedding its petals and returning tae an impossible bud. Before the fourth year arrived, the man’s daughter died.
Consumed by grief the man could barely look at the rose. He thought about throwing it on the fire, convinced it was useless, nothing but a reminder ae happy times he would never experience again. It was his wife who convinced him tae keep it since it had brought so much joy, perhaps it one day would again. The man, too captured by grief, only half agreed. He knew he would never be able tae look at the rose with joy again, so he altered it tae never bloom, tae always remain a bud, fixed in time.
That was how the rose bud stayed for the remaining decades ae the man’s life, until he found himself on his own deathbed. As he took his last breath, the rose took it’s first. The bud bloomed intae the beautiful rose it had been back in the days ae his daughter’s life. It was the last thing the man saw before he passed on, and every one hundred years, on the anniversary of his death, the rose bloomed again.
Over the centuries there had been many fakes made and exchanged, all in the quest tae find the real one. The fakes were mostly harmless, real roses in a real glass box that died and never bloomed again, but some were vicious, sometimes killing and maiming the poor sods who had the misfortune tae possess them. There were always more than a handful of collectors or enthusiasts who looked fae the rose. Some claimed they had the real one, others were convinced the real one had been destroyed long ago, not that it stopped them looking.
Chronos, after some contemplative silence, concluded that the hundred year anniversary was coming up soon, which would explain the customer’s doggedness tae find it. There was always a rush around that time, he confessed. I asked if the rose was different tae any other one ye can find in a florist. No, it was the same, but he admitted he didnae think it mattered. The rose itself wasnae the draw, it was the story behind it, the novelty of seeing something so rare and precious.
I wished that customer good luck, and thought little ae the story afterwards. Until I found a box ae ma own, and then another, both identical tae the three the customer had left wi’. How many ae these friggin’ ‘hings were in the shop? I wouldnae be surprised if we had a never ending supply.
One felt different tae the other. They looked identical, but one was…warm. I know that sounds strange, and I dinnae mean warm tae the touch. As I felt its weight in ma hand I began tae remember this holiday ma Da and I had taken tae Loch Katrine. It was durin’ the summer holidays, but the weather was shite as usual. Every day we’d woken up tae mist and rain. Our coats were permanently wet, and socks always soggy. It ruined a few days oot. Yet, in the evenings we’d sit on the sofas, draped in blankets even though it was summer, eatin’ our favourite ice cream and watchin’ some crap on the telly, laughin’ and shoutin’ at the presenters. It’s still one ae ma favourite holidays, one I thought I’d forgotten until I touched that wooden box.
I put the other box back where I found it and kept the warm one. I didnae take it back tae the flat, that would’ve been a bitch tae explain. Fae the next few days I’d check the rose bud in the glass box tae see if it’d bloomed in ma absence. A few days later I was surprised tae find that it had.
I put it on the glass counter and Chronos and I watched intently as each petal began to unfurl, the edges crinkle and quiver. It’s just a rose, like the ones ye can buy in any florist, the ones that flood the shops leadin’ up tae Valentine’s day, but it’s so much more special than that. One single short-stemmed rose enclosed in a glass box, destined to keep blooming until the end of time, even when its creator is gone, even when the memories are gone, and its past is nothing but a fairy tale. I can kindae see why people desperately look fae it.
It shouldnae be mesmerising, but each day when I came in the shop I watched as it reached its full bloom, and as one by one the petals began tae fall aff. They didnae congregate at the bottom, they didnae become mulch, they just disappeared. One moment there’d be a few loose petals at the bottom, and then the next they’d be gone.
There was one day, when aboot half ae its petals had gone, when I thought, fae the shortest ae moments, that I wouldnae be here when it bloomed next. I’d be long dead and buried, and some other customer who hasnae even been born yet would rummage through the antiques tryin’ tae find it.
Then I realised wi sourness that wasnae true. I would still be here. I’d be…well, we know whit I’d be by then. And that’s never been a more bitter pill tae swallow.