Bohemia Village Voice

Mr Macfarlane’s Magical Shop

Lawrence had always wanted his family to have a television. Everyone else seemed to have one, and after all he was 9 years old and it was 1966. He decided to confide in George, his best friend. George came up with a brilliant wheeze.
“Come back with me after school for some tea, play some games, and then we can watch some tv, but you don’t need to tell your mother that last bit.”
Lawrence said “George, you’re a genius.”
The next week, it was all arranged. George’s parents’ antiques shop was called ‘Macfarlane’s’ and was half way along Bohemia. The shop bell tinkled as they pushed the door open.
George shouted “Shop!” as he always did, and Mr Macfarlane emerged from the inner recesses. He was a big man, balding, but with a round cheery face.
“Now then, you two,” he said, squeezing into the shop, “thought you were customers. Be off upstairs and I’ll get you some tea.”
But Lawrence had stopped where he was, transfixed by the beauty of the shop’s interior. There were two lamps, one suspended with glinting crystals from the ceiling, the other with a large shade placed on a dark oak corner table. The antiques glinted, gleamed and glistened as the soft light played on them. Toby jugs jostled for space with china dogs, and silverware. A Persian rug hung from one wall like a tapestry. An old master print of some blue flowers hung from another wall, and below them some silver snuff boxes sparkled on a small round Victorian cake stand. The whole effect was magical and inviting.
“Take your time,” said Mr Macfarlane kindly, noting Lawrence’s interest with approval. George nudged Lawrence violently to show it was time to go. They climbed the first flight of winding stairs and there was Mrs Macfarlane, seated in her studio on an antique recliner, dabbing with a long-handled paint brush at a canvas. Mrs Macfarlane was artistic, and faintly Scottish.
“Ah, boys, boys!” she boomed, “ready for your teas are ye – and what do ye think to my wee painting?” But the boys had gone, scampering up the last flight of stairs to avoid having to give a verdict.
The top floor attic was George’s bedroom. Laid out on the floor in a permanent state of readiness were his vast collections of toy soldiers, artillery and armoured vehicles, lined up against each other. The battle had reached a fever pitch when there was a loud knock at the door and Mr Macfarlane entered with the tea. There was lemonade, apricot sandwiches and a cake each.
“To the victor, his spoils,” quoted Mr Macfarlane theatrically, striking a pose as he set down the tray and withdrew.
Just as the combatants had agreed a truce, Mrs Macfarlane’s booming voice came from below:
“Avast there, land lubbers, time for Pugwash to set sail!” The boys scrambled downstairs and squashed up together on a very small settee in the back room to watch as Captain Pugwash and the Black Hand Gang flickered in black and white across a tiny screen. At last, Lawrence had seen tv!
And the very next year, as if by magic, his father, who did not live with them, decided to buy one of the new colour tvs and presented Lawrence’s family with his old black and white one.
“You can watch Z Cars now,” he said to Lawrence as he carried it in.
“No,” said his mother firmly “he’s still too young, but he can watch Captain Pugwash I suppose.”