The Honesty Shop

   The tale of an old soul, his shop and ancient-world exploration, by the children, Holly and Howard.

There once was a blue-eyed man, born with an enquiring and creative mind, blessed with a good heart, full of ideals and, having nothing but the best intentions who, after many years of worldwide travel, by air, land and sea, observing the human condition and with high hopes in an inspired moment of ambition, took it upon himself to illuminate his world by opening a shop.

Not just any shop, this was to be no purveyor of ordinary, everyday items, the establishment was stocked to sell a diversified selection, from bygone eras, of such offerings as; Arcane Awareness, Careful Consideration, Essential Ethics, Genuine Goodness, Hardly-Ever-Heard-Of Honour, Mild Manners, Must-Have Morals, Keen Knowledge, Priceless Promises, Rare Realities, Seldom-Seen Sagacity, Crucial Scruples, Tender Thoughtfulness, Timeless Truths, Uncommon Common Sense, Valuable Veracities plus a plethora of other self-evident artifacts, in several and sundry forms of one-size-fits-all.

Situated at the very end of a cul-de-sac in London, where only the inquisitive with an inherent yen to explore might discover it, he opened The Honesty Shop with no fanfare and not so much as an announcement, and yet, for no immediately-apparent or perceptible reason, it instantly became a magnet that attracted inquisitive hordes.

They came in throngs, droves even... pushing and shoving one another to catch a glimpse of the items on display in the window of this new and amazing yet peculiar emporium. Despite the ancient packaging, there was not a single speck of dust, nor even the hint of lint, let alone a cobweb, and each item was bright as a brand new day (or penny) and seemed to beckon, to draw the people in.

There were those who denied any such attraction, others pooh-poohed it as yet another seven-day wonder, some even wrote angry letters to the newspapers and, of course, there were the self-serving, elected powers that be who, wishing to draw attention to themselves, but without taking sides, issued instructions for committees to be formed (at great expense) to discuss and debate (at great length) the merits of such an enterprise and it's viability as to its relationship with regard to the defence of the nation, its borders, boundaries and frontiers.

Upon entering the shop, 'wondrous to behold' may describe the interior as, the shelves were stocked with the collected works of the ages, museum-quality pieces, each pristine and still carefully cocooned in its original wrapper... unopened, untried, untested... but it was an over-powering feeling, more than the actual physical vision, that penetrated to the core of the customers' being... giving rise to an almost-audible collective sigh.

There was a warmth inside the shop, a feeling of home-coming, something unheard of in that day and age and, unfamiliar as it was, it served only to intimidate the customers... fear and mistrust, in many instances, being the first, usual and predictable reactions to the unlikely and unknown.

It effected them so much so that, shoppers would leave hurriedly and empty-handed yet, somewhat perplexed, for underneath, hovering just below the surface of their initial fear, was an emotion... an unexpected, far-away feeling of fulfilled longing, a somehow satisfying, but totally inexplicable, completeness.

It was a shared, although ethereal, moment, slowly slipping away as, the farther they fled from the shop, the more distance they put between themselves and the awareness until, all that was left was the mere suggestion of something which could not be grasped... in any sense of the word.

Couples would steal a sideways glance at each other, sheepishly, but with a knowing look, an understanding, an unspoken, "I know, I was there too."

Some, on returning home, kept their shared secret to themselves, even as it was fading from their memory, while others, intent on being the first to announce their dim recollection, came under the stony gaze of friends, or the suspicious scrutiny of family and, recognising the insinuated meaning in the black looks, chose instead to remain silent.

After a time it seemed, other than a smattering of discerning, singular individuals, few and far between, who came only to have their own convictions confirmed, The Honesty Shop items were no more popular a temptation today than when first they were introduced and appeared on the market all those many years ago.

It was all too obvious only the rich could afford such luxuries as The Honesty Shop had to offer and, all too soon, it became apparent, the rich were not one iota more interested than anyone else, unless in being so would increase the implied personal value they reflected. They would rather spend their money, and time, in the pursuit of what they considered their birthright, the ever-elusive butterfly of happiness.

It was not surprising to the ever-optimistic yet realistic shopkeeper, and no disappointment either as, each and every item on the shelf had a life all of its own and existed in perpetuity no matter how many or, in this instance, how few, appreciated or believed in them and took them to heart.

It has been observed, some require the recognition of others in order to reaffirm their existence, but not so with contents of The Honesty Shop... they are, they always have been and they always will be.

It all began one morning, before the usual hurly-burly and crush of would-be buyers, who were really only lookers, when a demure, young girl, named Holly, and her cheeky, younger brother, Howard, entered the shop with radiant smiles and a cheery, “Good morning Mr. Shopkeeper."

The two children carefully and quietly wandered about, touching nothing and, gazing in awe at everything on display, with eyes that had such a sparkle, taking in every minute detail then, turning to the shopkeeper Holly asked, “What are all these things?”

The shopkeeper replied, “A varied and assorted collection of quaint, archaic commodities, miscellaneous objets d'art, sundry bric-a-brac and a curious knick-knack...”

“Paddywhack, give a dog a bone?” quipped Howard with a sly chuckle.

“Indeed” encouraged the shopkeeper, “That's excellent, and one of the many things I enjoy about the young, an unspoiled mind of their own, not afraid to use it and a willing eagerness speak up.”

He then informed the children they may touch anything as they couldn't hurt it and Howard, picking up one such peculiarity, remarked curiously, “This is really a very odd hourglass, the sand goes left to right instead of from up to down.”

“Ah, yes... quite a quirky find, it's for those who like to keep odd hours,” the shopkeeper responded, “Which reminds me, most of these odd commodities have become oddities in their own right. For example, what we have here is a rather large book, an intriguing tome, a rarity in fact, about; Attentiveness, Civility, Courtesy, Friendliness, Helpfulness, Graciousness, Kindness, Politeness, Promptness, Respectfulness, Tactfulness to name-drop but a few and, as yet, it's covers are un-cracked with not a page turned.”

While Howard admired the relics, Holly, more interested in the finer things in life, implored the shopkeeper, "Tell us a tale, Sir, please."

“Happily,” said the shopkeeper. The children then sat down and, once they had made themselves comfortable, the story began...

Once upon a summer's day, oh so many years ago, there was a large rock, at the edge of a field, by the side of the road. There was a bright, clear, azure sky above, a gentle breeze barely disturbed the dust, and the soft buzzing of bees was the only sound carried on the air.

Looking up, the rock couldn't help but notice a big white, fleecy, fluffy cloud drifting gently into view overhead and, day-dreaming, wondered what it would be like to leave the field and float off footloose and fancy-free, to who knows where and who knows what adventures, and so the rock said, "Hello Cloud."

"Hello to you too, Rock" came the reply from the wild blue yonder.

"You are so lucky," said the rock, "I wish I were like you, up there sailing above everything, free as the wind, it's so romantic, you come and go as you please, if only we could trade places."

"Trade places?" asked the cloud, "What on earth would I want to do that for? From up here I can see seven counties and more, what can you see?"

The rock replied, "I can see all the insects that live in the field and I give them shade. I can see the birds that fly overhead who use me as a marker to find their way. I see all the animals that pass by and scratch themselves against me. I can also see the people who travel down this road who lean on me to rest awhile... and all of them remember me."

"H'mm," thought the cloud, "But at night, as I fly silently over the rooftops, I can peep in the windows and see all the children tucked up snug and safe in bed. What can you do?"

"As the night turns chilly," said the rock, "I have the heat of the day within to give warmth to all who come to me and they think of me as a good friend."

"Interesting, but... what is a friend?" asked the cloud."

"A friend? Now, let me see... a friend," replied the rock, "Is someone you can count on, lean on, who is always there, trustworthy, solid and dependable."

"Oh, does that mean I am too flighty to be a friend?" asked the cloud, a little uncertainly, knowing clouds never stay in one place long enough to make friends.

"Well, you do live with your head in the clouds and your feet rarely touch the ground," said the rock.

"But look at me," said the cloud, "I am a cloud, and, you may depend on it, a very good one at that too I might add. Quite unique, in fact."

'Well, that's a given, considering no two clouds are alike,' thought the rock, who then went on to observe, "Yes, but perhaps you're really not so lucky after all."

Deep inside, the cloud came to the realisation and murmured, "A cloud is friend to none."

The reason being, clouds are perceived for what they are not, and only remembered for what they resemble, or, are reminders of, as opposed to what they are, and no one of any intelligence, or substance, wants to be known as artificial or, a replica of the real thing — but, it's all in the eye of the beholder and, each to their own.

The cloud was then hopelessly lost, gazing in the mirror as seen through the eyes of the rock, and this precipitated the inevitable downfall.

Now understanding the meaning of true loneliness, quietly, the cloud began to cry, the tears turned into rain and the more cascades of tears were shed, the more it rained, and the more it rained, the smaller the cloud became... until, at last, the cloud had completely disappeared, not even a shadow of its former self remained and, when it was all gone, once again, it was a bright, clear, azure, sunny, summer sky.

There was absolute silence in The Honesty Shop for a moment or two, with warm sunlight streaming in through the front window, reflecting off flecks and motes of memories floating in the air, highlighting the room and then, a somewhat pensive, Holly said, "Oh, that's so sad," and inquired, "Whatever happened to the rock?"

The shopkeeper, with a winning smile replied in a kindly manner, "It is the nature of things for people and others to be what they are and yes, it was a perfect cloud. Clouds may come and clouds may go, and, by all means, look up and enjoy the sight of them but remember, don't forget to be who you are.

'But, what became of the rock?' you ask. Well, as luck would have it... you're sitting on it."

“Ooh,” said Howard, “That was a good one, may we come back tomorrow for another story, please?”

“But of course,” the shopkeeper told them, “Gladly”.

By this time, quite a large crowd had gathered outside, peering into the shop and, for as far back as anyone could remember, although not the first time anyone had stepped inside, it was the first time they had seen anyone actually speaking to the shopkeeper and, of all people, two very young children who appeared to be really enjoying themselves.

Looking at the crowd outside, "What do they all want, what is it they really need?" asked Holly innocently.

"Unfortunately," replied the shopkeeper, "Conditioned as they are, they don't know and it's their not-knowing that compels them to return, but it's their same not-knowing which keeps them at bay.

I hold my hand out to them daily, in the form of this, The Honesty Shop, and yet, it's a gesture wasted on both those who do and those who don't know as, if they did know, and there are many who do, there would be no need for them to come in at all and, as for those who don't know, they never will.”

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