I have this uneasy feeling that ironmongeries are dying out. As I drive past village cores I am seeing many of these small shops shuttered up, their Brolac signs hanging outside – as recognisable as a pharmacy sign – being replaced by signs of cake shops or accessories or massage salons.

I am writing this out of fear that we will wake up one morning and Taż-Żebgħa will be no more.

You see, I love ironmongeries. They evoke a sense of all-will-be-well-with-the-world if you work hard and seek advice when the going gets tough. I have been going to ironmongeries since the age of six, when I did not even reach the top of their high cluttered counters. My father would take my sister and myself along with him, and then later he would send us to buy any items which would be missing from his DIY mission (there was always).

The shop itself was boring – it was mostly boxes and lots of items haphazardly hanging from the ceiling or resting against the counter. And we had to wait for a long time for men with long shopping lists of all sort of items, drain pipes, floor sanders, power tools, undercoats, elbows and what not. And I would have to wait patiently.

In those days it was expected of children to go to the town or village shops by themselves – even because everyone would know who you were even before opening your mouth. “Din mhux ta’ Chetcuti,” they would say. Sometimes I’d be allowed to skip the queue and get the one tiny measly bolt or paintbrush or Philips that my father needed. At other times, I’d have to wait my turn, which was probably the first and best training ground in people watching.

An ironmongery, you see, was the modern-day version of a chat room. Not unlike Facebook’s Are You Being Served. You went there and you said: Do you know how I can do this?/Where I can do that?/Who can help me with this?/What’s the best way to do that?

The man behind the counter – usually the head of the small family business – would have the answer and would dish out advice in a very no-nonsense, unchatty, authoritative manner. He was to be trusted, having earned his expertise from his father and grandfather before him. However, most often, people in the queue would pipe in with their very own suggestions or short cuts.

I’m aware I’m using the masculine, but ironmongers were mostly men (although Paola’s Helpful was run by a woman – which always fascinated me) and the customers were mostly men too.

I have been going to ironmongeries since the age of six, when I did not even reach the top of their high cluttered counters

To my mind, therefore, ironmongeries always meant comradery; mystery (how is he going to find this one nail that I want in those thousands of pigeonholes behind the counter?); and the smell: a mix of paint, white spirit, metal bolts and iron tools.

Because of this, wherever I’ve had a nest, I’ve always made a bee-line for the ironmonger’s. In Żebbuġ it was the Do It All, in Marsascala, JS Hardware in Triq il-Qaliet; in St Julian’s, it was The Village Ironmongery in Mensija; and now in Lija there’s the nameless one in Triq Sant Andrija. The minute I locate one, I heave a sigh of relief. A blocked, overflowing drain is always more urgent than an empty fridge (you can always eat cereal).

But my favourite of them all is Duminku of Paola. Well, it’s not Duminku’s anymore – the father has retired and passed on the baton to his son Mario. Last year he connected my daughter’s circuit for science when he placed all the sockets, batteries and crocodile clips on the counter and saw my panicked face. Never had a science experiment worked so efficiently for her.

How long will ironmongeries be around? The other day I went to one in Naxxar, and the customer before me was asking about something to do with plumbing. The young employee stared at the customer listlessly and then shook his head. “Oh I see, I don’t suppose there’s anyone to give me some advice? Maybe someone from the family?” The young man just shook his head again.

Admittedly ironmongers have survived longer than bakers, grocers and butchers but they haven’t had it easy. The Tal-Lira shops gave them a blow, internet shopping too. But mostly, now, they are closing because of the classic problem of trade going to the large stores, the superstores, the ones with yellow parking bays and rows and rows of items on shelves.

If you want a light bulb to replace your popped one you’re told to “Go to Aisle 4, Shelf 38”. If you want to ask whether there’s perhaps a more energy-efficient light bulb than the one you have, you have to run around the store, looking for people in yellow or red or blue shirts which have ‘STAFF’ printed on the back and hope that they won’t send you to the customer desk or to Aisle 4, Shelf 38, bottom right.

I realise that I am a tad nostalgic – but to me if we lose ironmongeries, we’d be snuffing out one more candle of the community spirit.

A few of the most treasured items I possess are basic tools – an industrial measuring tape, pliers, a screw driver and a hammer – tools that my father bought for me when I first moved out to live on my own. They’ve come with me wherever I’ve lived and they represent the independence, the team spirit and the diligence that ironmongeries stand for.

krischetcuti@gmail.com
Twitter: @krischetcuti