to get rid of the nasty stuff – it worried her having it lying about the place – but Mr Kirkby pointed out in return that you couldn’t get rat poison like that any more; his mother used to put it down in the shop, and once they got rid of it they’d never be able to buy any more. Only the other day there had been a story in the newspapers about how the government were making a new law to restrict the use of it after an accidental poisoning down south somewhere; it was only a matter of time, Mr Kirby told his staff, before they outlawed fly paper and made you surrender your mousetraps.
Kirkby’s Fancy Goods was very close to the Halifax Borough Market and they had always attracted more than their fair share of mice; despite being a very clean, high-class establishment. The laying down of poison was a routine he had inherited from his mother, and her father before her, just as he had inherited the shop. And although it was commonplace, on that occasion Mr Kirkby had been more cautious than usual, gathering all his staff and explaining to them personally that they were not to touch the new window display because he had added poison to the centrepiece to keep off the ants, and that when it was dismantled the casket was to go straight into the rubbish bin.
Mr Kirkby and his wife had invested a lot of money in this window display, but it had been worth it. The coronation of the new king and queen had brought brisk business, with all the neighbourhood coming in to buy bright bunting and party goods for their street parties. Yes, the spring of 1937 had been a boon for Kirkby’s Fancy Goods. The window display had been done up in red crêpe paper and golden curtain cord to look like an enormous royal crown, and lengths of blue satin ribbon with ‘God Save the King’ on them criss-crossed a screen behind it.
Mrs Kirkby had overcrowded the window with examples of every line they stocked that could possibly be connected with street parties, patriotism, or His Majesty the King. Coloured card hats in the shape of coronets; pop-up theatres for kiddies illustrating the inside of the abbey; special coronation editions of magazines; knitting and sewing patterns for items of patriotic apparel; even a bouquet of carnations, artificially coloured to a burst of red, white and blue. Finally, nestled in the bottom right-hand corner on a velvet cushion, was the presentation casket of Mackintosh’s ‘Fancy Bonbons’. They were not one of the shop’s usual lines, but oh, how wonderfully royal they made the window look. They were like a treasure chest or a jewellery box, sparkling in the late May sun.
Mr Kirkby often left open tins of toffees in his window and had never had cause to poison them before, but the sweets in the opened tins were usually safely wrapped in snugly twisted cellophane, or made from artfully painted plaster of Paris. These confections were naked, intricately decorated, and so very, very tempting.
‘We wouldn’t usually allow spoiled confectionery to leave the factory, but these were a special case. I mean, look at them,’ the Mackintosh salesman had said, ‘they couldn’t just go straight into the bin. I said to my sales manager, I said, “Can’t I let them go to a good home, just this once?” and I told them about the idea I had for making them part of your window display, and he let me bring them round.’ The Mackintosh’s salesman had sighed at the craftsmanship of the handmade bonbons. These were not the regular mass-produced toffees that he was used to dealing with – these were sweets of a premier class.
‘They don’t look spoiled to me, Mr Carstaff,’ Mr Kirkby had said. ‘I’ll certainly take them off your hands – people aren’t as fussy as you think. If I just mark the price down—’
‘Oh no, not this box. People might not be fussy but at Mackintosh’s we’re fussy for them. This one is just for your window. I saved it for you, Mr Kirkby, as you’ve always been so good as to offer me such a lot of window space over the years. It’s a sort of parting gift – my last window for you before I sail for Canada and my promotion – to celebrate the coronation. I’ve got a plan to make you a giant crown from crepe paper, with a ball and sceptre decorated with Quality Street cellophane. This casket will be the centrepiece, but it’s only leaving the factory on the condition that it’s absolutely not for consumption.’
Mr Kirkby admired the casket. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t the toffees good enough for sale? I’m not complaining as they’d look lovely in my window, but I just can’t see what’s wrong with them.’
‘Ah, well, our Head Confectioner, Mr Birchwood – that is to say, he was our head confectioner, they’ve let him go since this – he wore cologne on his hands while he was working on this batch. It’s expressly against company regulations and he’s tainted the product with it. Our director said he could taste it in the sweets and he wouldn’t let them go out.’
‘But what about the casket? It’s very fine. Surely you must want to use that and refill it.’
‘Can’t be done, Mr Kirkby. Do you see that emblem?’
‘Why yes, it’s the lion and the unicorn.’
‘It is indeed. I’ll let you in on a secret, Mr Kirkby: we’re expecting a royal visit to Halifax, and these sweets were a sample of what the head confectioner thought to make for the King, that’s why the casket is emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. We couldn’t possibly use it for anyone else so it will appear in your window for the coronation display, but that will be all. Our new confectioner will make another casket for the King.’
‘King George? Here in Halifax? What an honour! And such an honour to have a casket with his coat of arms in my window. It will be a proud day for the town.’
‘That it will, Mr Kirkby. That it will.’
As Mr Kirkby dismantled the coronation window display he was already planning its replacement. Halifax was still gripped by royal fever, and now the secret was out and the town knew they were getting a royal visit Mr Kirkby thought it would be prudent to plan a display which would honour the King and also tell the story of his family business; ‘Kirkby’s Fancy Goods Welcomes His Majesty’ the display would say, and it would be resplendent in royal blue and emerald green. Oh, it would be a delight to construct.
Mr Kirkby had agreed that when he took down all of his coronation decorations he would give them to the local Brown Owl so the Brownies could put them to good use for the King’s visit in July. The shop, however, would have a completely new look. Mr Kirkby had expected Brown Owl to call by that afternoon, but he had not expected half the Brownies to come with her, proffering thank you cards which they had made, and waving pocket money which they wanted to spend in the shop.
‘Archibald!’ Mrs Kirkby put her head of tightly wrapped curlers around the parlour door which opened into the shop and called out to her husband who, truth be told, would have known that she was there by the smell of setting lotion alone. ‘Archibald, the Brownies are on their way!’
‘Yes, dear. I’ve seen them.’ Mr Kirkby sometimes wished his wife would watch their shop with the same enthusiasm she watched the road from their parlour window so that he wouldn’t have to serve eight customers all at once.
‘Have you got rid of that casket from the window yet?’
‘I’m just doing it, dear.’
‘Well, you make sure you put it well out of the way. I don’t know why you insisted on poisoning them anyway. Nasty stuff to have about the place!’ Mrs Kirkby’s thoughts on the subject of her husband’s vigilance against many-legged intruders was cut short when she saw the Brown Owl almost at the door and she ducked away back into the parlour, leaving behind only traces of hair ointment and disapproval.
Mr Kirkby quickly scooped up the casket of poisoned sweets from their velvet cushion, snipped off the attractive gold tassel on the top – he had a use for that – and put it on top of the rubbish bag beside the staff door,
