Last chapter! Thank you, everyone who reviewed this little piece of randomness! Hope your Christmas and the other holidays you may have celebrated were wonderful and that your New Year's continues that trend!
On a personal and more serious note, for the Christians reading this: I would greatly appreciate your prayers for the family of two friends of mine from college. They had just graduated last May, were married in August, and just a couple of weeks ago found out they were expecting. Early Christmas morning they were hit head-on by a car spinning out of control across the median on the ice, and were killed. Of course the families are grieving as are their friends, specially this time of year, and so prayers for them would be of great comfort to us all. Thank you very much.
Now, on to the last bit of this insanity...
During the many hours upon hours upon hours upon days that Uncle drilled into my head suitable methods of dealing with customers, proper service and representation, how to dispel crankiness in buyers if merchandise were out of stock, store policies on returning items that had obviously been used and abused, etc., etc. – throughout all those many lessons, I would be willing to swear on my copy of A Christmas Carol that there was nary a line on how to properly deal with a customer hiding behind one's counter and then tipping over a heavy oaken hat-stand, at least twenty hats, and several ornate gilt music boxes.
In consequence, my limbs seemed to freeze in one of those dear-heaven-this-cannot-possibly-be-happening-to-me-and-if-I-close-my-eyes-surely-it-will-go-away moments when the above scenario shattered what could have been merely a chaotic night; evidently the line between chaotic and Bedlamic is very fine indeed and said line had long since blurred undistinguishably.
My horror-frozen arms thawed in time to prevent the three closest music boxes from crashing to bits behind my counter (though not in time to prevent off-key renditions of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen and Silent Night from chiming tinnily to draw further attention to the melee), and the Doctor neatly caught the other two, one in each hand, stopping twenty pounds six shillings' worth of tawdry holiday merchandise from shattering on the floorboards.
My exclamation of relief turned into one of dismay by virtue of the fact that the hat-stand continued its descent and clouted the Doctor square on the side of the head and shoulder, knocking him backward into a sprawling heap on the floor, as soundly as if he'd been decked by a prizefighter.
I resisted the urge to swear, due to the gathering crowd, and turned to the cause of all the trouble – only to find that Mr. Sherlock Holmes had decided to take himself off (the coward!) before I applied that wonderfully heavy Penang-lawyer to his skull. I moaned in despair at setting this matter right without drawing attention, for a curious crowd had already begun to clot around my area like alley dogs after a ham bone. I hopped out from behind the counter and pushed my way to the aid of my fallen customer.
"All right, ladies, gentlemen – a little room if you please!" I shouted, trying to diffuse calmness into the mutters and exclamations of the tittering onlookers. "Just a slight accident, those things happen when the store is crowded. Please, just go about your shopping – everything is under control! One side, if you please, ma'am."
Disgusting vultures and busybodies. What is it about misfortune that makes it so magnetically attractive to everyone but the poor chap to whom the mishap occurs?
After I shouted again, the crowd began to mill about and slowly dissipate after seeing that there was no blood on the floor or physicians and/or police being called for (yet). Finally I managed to shove aside a fat old gentleman in tweeds, who placidly plucked two of the fallen hats from the mass and waddled off with them in search of a mirror.
The pile of headgear was moving feebly, and as I hauled the hat-rack upright once more the caps and bowlers tumbled about in a felt and wool cascade to reveal my customer, his face flushed in high mortification. Poor chap, it was not his fault his lunatic friend had decided to experiment in covert rudeness.
"I saved the music boxes at least," he muttered ruefully as I dropped upon one knee beside him to ascertain if he needed medical assistance (oh, the store policies that would have to be filled out if that were the case…this would not be good at all…).
I hastily thanked the Doctor and removed the items from his hands, set them with an indignant plink upon the counter, and then looked back to him. The poor fellow was wincing and rubbing his right shoulder as if it pained him – which was not surprising, for that hat-rack was deucedly heavy – and shaking his head unsteadily as if feeling a fit of dizziness.
"Are you hurt, Doctor?" I put my hand under the gentleman's elbow to help him stagger stiffly to his feet.
"I don't believe so, not seriously," he muttered after a moment, though it did not escape my notice that he was forced to catch his balance against the lip of the counter. His face was a bit pinched and slightly peaky, though, and I wondered at the truthfulness of the gentleman's assurances. His friend had said he was a veteran, I remembered; so perhaps he was accustomed to dealing with pain. Even so.
"I'm dreadfully sorry about this, Doctor," I endeavoured to apologise, though it was not my fault certainly! Mr. Holmes was going to have a deal to answer for; if he thought I was going to take the fall for this he was madder than my Aunt Hermoine at a full moon.
And what kind of a man does something like that to a friend – if the Doctor really were a friend to that blackguard, which would be a small Christmas miracle in itself – and then flees the scene?
I bent to collect as many of the hats as I could and began to dump them behind the counter to clear the pathway; already three or four of the smaller cloth caps were being trampled upon and kicked to other departments by careless (and just plain ordinary rude) shoppers who were hurrying to get their purchases made before closing time. My customer made to assist me in my headgear retrieval but straightened up with a muffled exclamation of pain, and I hastily waved him off.
"No, no, Doctor, please. I must apologise to you, sir; someone must have tipped the rack over and had the rudeness to run off afterwards." I spoke with sincerity, for the man looked a bit pale yet; perhaps he was indeed hurt after all. In fact I should be surprised if he were not, for that sturdiest of hat-racks could flatten someone my size (not that I had physically tested that hypothesis on myself).
"Not as if it was your fault, lad." The fellow sighed and absently moved the music-boxes back to their original positions as they finally tinkled out the last few bars in an increasingly slowing chime. Then the Doctor reached across the counter for his cheque-book with his right hand, and I saw his face pale suddenly; the poor chap now had two game shoulders or arms, from the look of things. Worried, I scooted the book across to him with one hand and re-hung the final derby on the hat-rack with the other.
"Thank you," he breathed, tearing off the paper in question and handing it back to me.
"More than welcome, Doctor. This should be ready for you to pick up tomorrow afternoon," I replied, placing the cheque in its appropriate position in the till and shutting the drawer securely. "You'll pardon me, sir, but I would suggest you take a cab; if you don't mind my saying so that hat-stand was dashed heavy and you look a bit off."
The physician's bright eyes suddenly glinted around the edges with a smile as warm and brown as hot cocoa, and just as welcomed on a night like this. "Thank you, lad, but I'm to meet my friend only just down the street for dinner…gracious, I am late already." He frowned in dismay, replacing his pocket-watch with a noticeable wince. "Thank you for your help, Master Cratchett; you were indeed the Spirit of Christmas Giving to this inexperienced gentleman," he rejoined with the slightest of mischievous smiles, pulling his gloves on as he spoke.
I grinned, not offended in the least. "If I am not here tomorrow to see you because of being moved to the stockroom or worse due to the fiasco this evening, then have a Happy Christmas, sir."
The doctor laughed and returned the greeting with the sort of heartfelt warmth that made one believe he meant it, every word, rather than just voicing the expected pleasantry as most of the populace did this Yuletide. He raised his stick briefly to his hat in a smart half-salute of farewell and then hurried through the crowd toward the door. I watched and moved to the left slightly so as to be within eyesight of the windows, just to ascertain he made the street without mishap; though the gentleman obviously was in no danger of fainting (not a man of that obvious strength), he doubtless was feeling a bit unsteady.
He did safely reach the street, however, and seemed to be in fine form; I watched as he tipped his hat slowly to two smiling, fur-enveloped young ladies before crossing carefully between traffic and disappearing in the swirling snow.
I turned with a smile and an air of relief (both strange, for usually I could not care one whit about when or where or how my customers left, so long as they did leave) and returned more cheerfully to my department. I had only just finished hanging the last top-hat back on the stand (deuced stiff things refused to stay put and had to be balanced individually on the pegs) when I turned around – only to run smack into the fellow that had started the entire nuisance in the first place.
I was not exactly thrilled (oh yes, I am a qualified master of understatement) to see the dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and my demeanor no doubt said so for he bristled defensively before my lips could part in an effort to have him forcibly removed from the premises.
"I didn't intend to cause that infernal thing to topple over!" he snapped crossly, sending me a glare that made me physically restrain an urge to squirm despite my irritation. In retrospect, I can now see that the fellow has an odd hypnotic power about him that automatically makes one want to cringe even if one has done nothing wrong. He would make a formidable headmaster for a troubled boys' school, I can attest to that most emphatically.
However, just at that moment I was far too infuriated with him to be thinking such thoughts. Or anything else that was polite and cheerful and befitting a holiday clerk.
"Be that as it may, you did cause it, and your friend – if he really is your friend, sir, which heaven alone would know why – no doubt has at least a bruised shoulder from it," I retorted with heat. Courtesy be hanged; someone had to tell the man how insufferable he could be, and judging from his attitude not many people had ever dared do so. What was he going to do to me, choke me in full view of twenty witnesses? Psh.
My irritation dissipated slightly when the fellow's brows screwed together and met in a fearsome black line, and his hand that had been resting atop the counter suddenly clenched. "What?" His eyes began to quietly bore a hole in my head, and I took a step backward to cool my skull.
"It fell right on top of him," I replied dryly. "Not that you cared enough to ascertain the consequences for your actions."
"I didn't – I mean – ohhh…" the fellow moaned and swore softly (in English this time). I watched as he pinched his thin nose and then looked back up at me. All defensiveness had apparently fled from his eyes, and he actually looked legitimately sorry; whether that were genuine or as much a charade as the rest of him was yet to be proven. "Was he hurt badly?"
I shrugged and folded my arms, and only just in time remembered to lean against the counter to hide the Doctor's walking-stick from his view. "He said he was not, but if you ask me he looked a bit off when he left. Said he was meeting a friend for dinner – not you, by any chance?" Mr. Holmes winced visibly, and I smirked. "The stand knocked him upside the head and shoulder."
"His left?"
"No, the right."
I started as the fellow gave vent to another oath, causing an elderly gentleman passing by to peer at him in utter disgust and growl something about "young people these days." The Holmes chap sagged against the counter, his horrendously self-important defenses deflating before my eyes into the helplessness I had seen the first time he slunk into the emporium yesterday eve. He slouched miserably and put his forehead in his hand, his thin elbow resting on the glass.
"Wonderful…" he moaned, massaging absently at his temple. "Now I've made matters even worse."
"Yes, you have," I agreed wickedly, very much enjoying the look of imminent death he darted at me after I said so. He gave as good as he got, and I was completely disregarding of his irritation.
"And I am late to meet him, too," Mr. Holmes growled, glaring at his small pocket-watch as if it were solely responsible for the night's string of mishaps. "What in all blazes am I supposed to do now?"
"I would prefer you buy a Christmas gift and move on to wreak havoc in someone else's department or emporium rather than mine," I interjected with a raised eyebrow.
"You are a most impertinent young fellow, you know that?"
I blinked calmly at the growling gentleman, not fazed in the least. "And you are a most difficult customer, sir. Now. What can I wrap up for you?"
For a moment the man stared at me, and then the stormy darkness of his eyes swirled and lightened into a more calm grey. At last he laughed, casting off his irritation and swinging without hesitation into calm geniality so swiftly that I wondered if he might possibly be affected by changes in the atmosphere or something. I have known people prone to rapid mood swings (my Aunt Hermoine for one, who could go from petting the cat lovingly one second to chasing Uncle through the billiard-room with a red-hot poker the next with absolutely no provocation), but this fellow had the shortest mental/mood attention span I had ever come in contact with.
"I really cannot fathom anything at all," drawled he pensively, inspecting one of the gilt music boxes upon the counter with a disgusted curl of the lips and hastily yanking his hand back when it gave a warning twing. "Are you quite certain the Doctor did not say anything he wanted, or looked more than once at something?"
"Other than the antique handguns?"
Mr. Holmes started and raised an eyebrow, and then chuckled. "He would. Yes, other than that; I doubt either of us need any more firearms in the house. My landlady would probably evict us both if I purchased another, after I accidentally shot the corners off the banister rail last Thursday..."
I decided to ignore that last statement, for I doubted we had minutes enough before closing time to explain it in such a way as to make sense to my poor normal brain. My eye suddenly fell upon the nearby book table. "Well, he did look at this more than once, Mr. Holmes," I answered contemplatively, moving round the counter to the table and indicating the leather-bound Shakespeare.
"He did?" The man appeared highly puzzled. "He already has at least one complete copy. A bit dog-eared, but I know he possesses one."
I laughed and ran a finger along the fine rich binding, for a moment savouring the smell of the leather and ink and paper. "Mr. Holmes, a writer, or a reader for that matter, collects books for the sheer joy of having them. A true bibliophile has one set of books he reads from, that he can make notes in or fold corners down in, and another set for display, the satisfaction of possession."
I received a blank look for my pains in explaining the popularity of the particular item; 'twas far too heavy to be read from regularly, but a most handsome volume and a quite popular gift among the peers of the realm whose sole purpose in obtaining reading material was to allow it to collect dust in stuffed and dreamless mansion libraries.
"The joy of what?" my customer asked incredulously. Judging from the look adorning his thin face, he thought me to be in the same category as I was placing him – namely, mentally unsound at best, stark raving mad at the worst.
"Trust me, Mr. Holmes; if he enjoys books –"
"Oh, believe me, he has altogether too many of them," he interrupted me with the same tone my mother always used when finding my scribble-pads under the sofa cushions.
"Then he will very much enjoy this. Shall I ring it up for you?"
The detective glanced at the price tag, pulled a most childish face, and bit his lower lip for a moment. All he needed now was to voice a snarled "humbug" to complete the picture of being a positive Scrooge.
"Shall I read to you the total cost for engraving the item you overheard him purchasing for you?" I queried slyly. I had learnt quite rapidly just in this one holiday season that guilt (and just as often a desire to out-do another) was often a motivating factor in nudging a person to purchase a Christmas gift they did not originally intend to spend so much upon.
Something akin to a faint blush of shame filled the gentleman's sallow face and he hastily shook his head. "No, no, I'll take it," he said hurriedly, hefting the volume and muttering something about it being 'more dashed heavy than any book has a right to be' and that he 'had better not find it lying about in his chemicals'…whatever that was supposed to mean.
"Very good," said I. "As you are running late yourself and the store closes in fifteen minutes, I shall make haste; would you like it to be wrapped in special paper?" I suited the action to the word and began hastily ringing up the item, for I knew that the last five or ten minutes of a store's shopping hours seemed to cause a panic and people would be positively swamping my counter in less than three hundred seconds.
"Special paper?"
"Holiday wrapping paper? Red or gold or silver or something equally Christmasy?" I glanced up from my work in some disbelief at the man's absolute cluelessness. This was a hopeless case; why was I even bothering with the man?
"Erm…no, brown is perfectly fine," the man muttered, fidgeting with his coat buttons and drumming his fingers upon the counter-top. "I've no desire to draw attention to the blasted thing." The fellow fingered the book absently and flipped carefully through a few beautifully-lettered pages as I added up the total.
"Don't forget to inscribe it when you get home, sir," I reminded the man, for I doubted – nay, disbelieved for fact – that he was the type to think of such a matter.
"Do not forget to do what?"
"Inscribe it – write on the inside cover some personal message to your friend." I took the chap's money and began making change even as he stared at me in some confusion, his thin lips pursed up in deep concentration.
"Write in it? Why on earth would I deface a book in new condition?" he inquired curiously.
"It's not defacing it," I replied with a weary sigh. "Here you are, three shillings sixpence change, sir. It isn't defacing it, Mr. Holmes; rather it is quite the time-honoured tradition to write a personal message inside the front cover of a gift of this sort."
"Oh…really?" The man looked at the book dubiously.
I shook my head desperately, took the tome from him, and began hastily wrapping it in brown paper, as the store was beginning to spread the word that closing time was drawing nigh (thank the Spirits). I rooted for a moment to find the twine and nodded to my customer. "Quite, Mr. Holmes. Just something to make it a more personal gift, you know."
"Ah, I see. Erm…have you any suggestions what one normally writes in such occasions, besides Happy Christmas?"
I eyed the man over the top of the parcel for a moment, forgetting to withdraw my finger from the twine bow and pinching off my appendage's blood supply for a fractional second. "You might try starting with an apology for tipping over a hat-stand onto the poor fellow." I grinned at the gentleman's sudden discomfiture and shoved the parcel across the counter toward him.
"But…" The fellow spluttered for a few seconds but finally gave a dismal sigh and nodded resignedly. "Now must I carry this enormous book around with me all evening?!"
"We do deliver, for a fee," I answered, "but most normal people enjoy carrying their gift parcels around."
Mr. Holmes completely either missed or disregarded my subtle emphasis of the word normal. "Why, in heaven's name?" he gasped. Those eyebrows bounced up to greet his hairline briefly before settling back into knitted position.
I smiled and tapped the package with a finger. "It gives one a warm and Christmasy feeling, knowing one is carrying about a present for a friend. Try it – this is what the season is all about."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Try it, Mr. Holmes," I said with a grin, motioning to the parcel taking up undue space on my counter. "You might surprise yourself with feeling something."
I received a rather rude snort for my pains in educating the man about the meaning of Christmas (and feeling rather like a foolish literary character as I did; surely this sort of thing does not happen to every clerk in real life?), but my customer growled something unintelligible and lifted the parcel, tucking it securely under his thin arm like Jacobson carrying the mannequins for his clothing department. For a moment the gentleman stood there, waiting expectantly, and I watched in great amusement at his anticipatory tension.
Finally a small smile crossed his face and he looked back at me, with his eyes twinkling and an abrupt change of voice that again made me wonder at the man's spastic attention span.
"Well, Master Timothy, I have much to thank you for, the least of which involves not getting me thrown out of here for the mess I caused earlier this evening," said he, his smile widening at me until the corners of his eyes gently crinkled. "If you should ever find yourself in need of the services of a private consulting detective, do call upon me. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street."
When the blazes would I need a private detective for anything? But as a dutiful store clerk I nodded solemnly and committed the information to memory in case I did get thrown out of my apprenticeship for the transgressions he had coerced me into committing of late; blackmailing would always remain open as a viable option were I short of a position and cash.
The man tucked his precious package more firmly under his arm, mashed his top hat snugly down upon his head against the bitter wind, nodded smartly at me, and completely ignored my tentative "Compliments of the season to you, sir," merely striding straight out the door without even a final glance at any of the holiday cheer.
I stared after him for a moment, wondering just how much more bizarre a holiday shopping season could get, until my attention was demanded by other customers, who were (thankfully) considerably closer to normality than Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson had been.
By the time I realised, some years later, just whom I had served that December in 1881, Mr. Sherlock Holmes's name had become a household word in London and indeed the entire country; and no longer did I wonder at the man's brilliant genius and eccentric habits, that had appeared to a child of fifteen to be so outrageously extraordinary.
In later years, "The game's afoot" would become as well known to any literate person as my literary namesake's constantly pious phrase of "God bless us, everyone," and those two men would become more loved by the common people than Charles Dickens's characters ever could dream of being.
And so it was some six years later, when I did find myself badly in need of the eccentric detective's services, that I had the pleasure and privilege of calling upon Mr. Sherlock Holmes for aid. Both he and the Doctor were of inestimable help and comfort, respectively, in clearing my name of a ghastly charge against it, and I remain to this day greatly in their debts for services rendered.
But that is another story.
Finis! Thank you for reading!