Candlemas by Shirley McKay Page B

itself. ‘I cannot stay so long. If you do not have what I want —.’
    The candlemaker showed no flicker of concern. ‘I have what you want. But this is a business that cannot be rushed. If it is rushed, it will spoil, do you see?’
    â€˜I see that.’ The visitor was courteous, conciliatory, even. The candlemaker sensed that he would not put up a fight. ‘But, I think you said to be here before nine. And it is nine now.’ To confirm this, the St Salvator’s clock at that moment could be heard to strike the hour.
    â€˜I believe, sir, it was you that fixed upon the time,’ the candlemaker said.
    The visitor conceded, ‘Ah, perhaps it was. My pardon to you, sir. But since you are still occupied, and I may not stay long, I shall come again. Tomorrow, if you will.’
    The candlemaker smiled. ‘Aye, just as you like. Though I must warn you, sir, that I cannot promise I will have tomorrow all that ye require.’
    â€˜But surely… since you say you have it now…’ The visitor, plainly, was baffled by this.
    â€˜I have it for ye now. And, sir, I have kept it for you, at some trouble to myself, when the commodity you look for is very dear and scarce. If you will not take it now, I cannot be expected to have it still the morn.’
    â€˜But I will take it now, if you will only give it to me!’ the visitor exclaimed.
    â€˜Very good. I will. When the rack is done.’ And the candlemaker, blandly, went on with his work.
    The candlemaker dipped, for such a length of time as he could see the patience of his customer last out; he judged it very fine, like the grains of sand running through a glass; and when he saw that the great mass of sand, all in a rush, was about to flood out, he straightened up quickly, and said, ‘If you will take it now, sir, I will fetch the stuff.’ And from a shelf in the shop, where it opened to the street, he produced a slender box. This he opened up. ‘Fine, is it not?’
    â€˜It is less substantial than I had supposed. That is, for the price…’
    â€˜As to that,’ the candlemaker intercepted smoothly, ‘it comes in at two pounds, six shillings and sixpence. And, I suppose, you would also like the box. A shilling for the box and the paper in it. I will not count a penny for the scrap of string.’
    The visitor blinked at him. ‘Two Scots pounds, we said.’
    â€˜So much had I hoped for. I do not set the price. And, as I have said, it was hard to find. But the profit to you is, I ask nor answer questions. Whatever you will do with it, is your own affair.’
    â€˜I understand you, sir. The pity of it is, I cannot pay that much,’ the visitor confessed. ‘This is all I have.’ And, to prove his point, he emptied out his purse.
    The candlemaker hesitated. ‘I do not always do this. But, as I believe, you have an honest face’ – so little of that face as was left to view. ‘Give me the two pounds. And you can owe the rest. Can you write your name? Then put it in this book.’ He took out from the counter a fat leather notebook, and opened to a page, on which the date was written: First of Feberwerrie . ‘That makes, in all, seven shillings and sixpence.’
    The visitor glanced at the book. He squinted at the figures. But he did not seem convinced. ‘Seven and sixpence? What are your terms?’
    â€˜Pay the money on account by the first of March, and the debt will be cleared, without further cost. If you cannot pay, interest will accrue, but we need not speak of that until the debt is due. Sign for it now, this very day, and you may have the stuff to take away with you. Or, if you will not, I must offer it for sale.’
    The visitor agreed. He signed his name and left, the burden of his dealings bundled in his cloak. He fled the crackling house, as though the devil’s spur and pitchfork pricked behind him. He did not look back. And