The Music Shop Read online

  ‘Sounds more like Petula Clark,’ said Kit.

  ‘Are you both fools?’ Undeterred, Mrs Roussos lifted her chin and sang some more.

  Frank closed his eyes. He dug his fingertips into the soft sockets, trying to concentrate. He felt churned up. It wasn’t just the sharpener. He couldn’t stop thinking about the woman who had fainted. It had been like this the first time Peg played him La Bohème. Again when he saw David Bowie on Top of the Pops performing ‘Starman’, and the night he heard John Peel playing ‘New Rose’ by The Damned. What he had felt in those moments was like being wired up to something explosive. It was so new to him, it had felt all wrong – and at the same time he had known it was entirely right. But that was music. Not a stranger in a pea-green coat.

  And yet when Frank had knelt at her side on the pavement, when he had touched her neck for the pulse – when he carried her towards his shop – everything had changed. She had gazed at him as if she knew him, but she was a complete mystery. He had never heard such silence in a person. Nothing had come from her. Not one note.

  ‘Pst, pst.’

  Kit’s warm mouth whispered violently in Frank’s ear.

  ‘Pst, pst. She’s back. The woman who ran away.’

  She was standing on the doormat, so that even though she was inside the shop, she appeared more outside it. Frank felt his heart surge as if on a wave. She was wearing the same coat and held a bag in one hand, a potted plant in the other. Something had happened with her hair – bits of it were piled up on top of her head like a flower, while other bits hung loose. Her too-short fringe only accentuated the roundness of her eyes and mouth. How could so much irregular loveliness have been put together in one small frame? He was terrified.

  Saturday Kit was already skipping forward to help. ‘It’s you! It’s you! Hello! Are you OK now? Are you better?’

  ‘I am looking for the man,’ she said in her wispy voice and choppy accent, ‘who runs this shop.’

  Kit swung his leg like a pendulum while explaining that he was the assistant manager. When he was excited or nervous, he had a way of talking in exclamation marks, suggesting everything was a marvellous surprise. He added that he wished he had a proper blue uniform!! Like the sales assistants at Woolworths!! With a badge that said ‘KIT WELCOMES YOU’!! He made all his own pin badges, he said. He pointed to a selection on his camouflage jacket. Wham!, Culture Club, Haircut 100, as well as I Shot JR, Frankie says Relax, Coal not Dole and Choose Life!!!!

  This was possibly more information than the woman required. She’d only walked into a record shop. She said, ‘Is there another man who works here, please?’ She spoke slowly, casting her gaze, as if she wasn’t sure she would find the right words and was wondering if they might have the goodness to appear like cue cards somewhere to her left and right.

  Frank eyeballed the door to his flat. It was only a matter of feet away. If he crawled on his hands and knees he might escape without her noticing—

  ‘Yes, Frank is sitting right there,’ said Kit, pointing expansively. ‘Behind his turntable.’

  So there was nothing for it. Frank shambled past the central table, only halfway he lost his nerve and stopped to rearrange a few record sleeves.

  The woman crossed the floor as if she didn’t quite trust it. She stood on one side of the unit. Frank stood on the other. She smelt of lemon and expensive soap.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she said. ‘I’m new here.’

  Frank’s eyes were fixed on an album sleeve, and yet he had no idea what he was looking at. He listened and listened – and it was exactly the same as before. Nothing came from her. If anything, it was like listening to an absence of sound.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she repeated. ‘That’s all.’

  Kit went the colour of a cooked prawn and rushed to the door, gabbling something about Blu-Tack from Woolworths. Before Frank could ask what the hell he was up to, he flew out.

  What do you say to a woman with a potted plant, whose tender long neck you have touched even before you said ‘Hello’, and whom you have thought about ever since she ran out of your shop? In the circumstances, Frank thought the best thing would be to look like a shopkeeper who was extremely busy doing shop-like things. So he flipped through record sleeves. Kit had clearly been here before him – a stack of B’s had been gathered up and placed together in something almost amounting to alphabetical order. Bach was beside Beethoven and Brahms, along with Count Basie, The Beat, The B-52s, Art Blakey, Big Star, Chuck Berry, The Beatles and Burt Bacharach. (But also Thin Lizzy.)

  She said, ‘What a lot of records.’

  He said, ‘Yes.’

  She said, ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then he said, ‘I have even more upstairs.’ Granted this was not the most exciting dialogue, but at least there was a lot of basic truth in it.

  ‘I see you don’t have any sections?’

  ‘I put records where I think they should go. I am more interested in what it’s like when you – when you, uh, you know …’

  He dared a glance at her. Her eyes were so wide they were practically popping from their sockets. ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘When you – listen. So if a customer asks for Rubber Soul, they usually find something else they would like as well. Not just The Beatles but maybe something, uh, classical as well; a record they wouldn’t have tried if the two weren’t together.’ This part of Frank’s answer was addressed to his plimsolls. In fact now he examined his feet it occurred to him his shoes were the size of loaves and held together with electrical tape. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him to buy new ones.

  Her shoes were narrow – pointed toe, slim heel. He thought her bare foot would fit in his hand.

  She said, ‘You don’t sell CDs?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘CDs? They are round things—’

  ‘CDs aren’t music. They’re toys. And before you ask, I don’t sell cassette tapes either.’

  He hoped she hadn’t read his mind – about her feet in his hands, and so on.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘this is for you.’

  She held out the plant. It was about the size of a child’s fist and covered in vicious prickles. He wasn’t sure how you accepted a gift like that without getting hurt.

  He said, ‘Did you faint? The other day?’

  ‘I decided to have a little nap.’

  She stared straight at him with her huge, dark eyes. Then her great bud of a mouth did something funny.

  It smiled.

  Two dimples punctured her cheeks. His heart seemed to fall over.

  She said, ‘I didn’t really. That was a joke.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A joke? To make you laugh?’

  ‘Oh. I see. Yes.’ HAW HAW HAW he went. HAW HAW HAW.

  ‘Frank,’ interrupted an imperious voice from behind. ‘Are you intending to spend all day with that person?’

  Mrs Roussos. Frank had completely forgotten her.

  ‘Wait!’ Frank said to the woman-in-green-with-a-cactus-plant. ‘Don’t go!’

  He shot back to his turntable, in so far as he ever shot anywhere, and opening his Music Master catalogue he made a show of flipping through the pages. Words spilled. All he could think of was her, waiting still and silent. Never mind Mrs Roussos, what music did this woman need? Blues? Motown? Mozart? Patti Smith? He hadn’t a clue. And he was still none the wiser as to why she had fainted. Where was Kit when you actually needed him?

  ‘Frank, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Of course I’m listening, Mrs Roussos.’

  The old lady sat with her chihuahua in the booth, the door wide open – there was something mildly unsettling about that – while Frank moved around the shop, fetching one track after another. ‘Solsbury Hill’? ‘The Fool On The Hill’? ‘Blueberry Hill’? And all the while the woman in her green coat was watching him—

  ‘Wait.’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘There is a green hill far away?�
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  That was it. Bingo. Mrs Roussos hobbled from the booth with her chihuahua clutched to her chest like a pop-eyed brooch. She told Frank he was a good man, there weren’t many in the world; now she could sleep. He fetched the record from its sleeve behind the counter, and tapped the details into his sales return machine, same as always, only nothing about this was the same as always because here she was, this woman with her rod-like back, her head lifted proudly, one heel dug deep and the toe pointing upwards, watching him steadily, but so unknown.

  ‘You seem to have an audience.’ She drifted towards his turntable but she pointed her finger over her shoulder at the window.

  Five faces were smudged against the glass: Kit, the baker, Father Anthony and the two Williams brothers. Maud was also with them, but she was not looking inside the shop. She had her back to it and was apparently surveying the street, though it would be a small miracle if anything went and happened out there.

  Clearly Kit had not gone to Woolworths at all – he’d run straight to the other shops along the parade to share the news about the return of the mysterious woman. You’d think a new star had been spotted in the sky and now here they all were, waiting for Frank to identify it.

  Kit pushed open the door – ding-dong – and the shopkeepers shuffled inside in single file. They got extremely busy pretending they weren’t there. The baker stood in a puddle of flour, Father Anthony began folding an origami bird, the Williams brothers passed their hats through their hands like wheels, while Kit unwrapped the foil from a chocolate biscuit in a meditative manner. Maud just scowled. She was dressed in Doc Martens, her leather jacket, stripy tights and a sort of sticking-out netting skirt. She looked every bit the bad fairy.

  Frank felt both colossally large and vacuous. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to say something enlightening.

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with today? A record?’ It was the best he could think of, in the circumstances.

  At first the woman didn’t reply. She just remained standing in her still and solemn way, as if she honestly believed he was addressing someone else. Then the penny must have dropped.

  ‘Oh no,’ she answered. ‘I don’t listen to music.’

  A jolt passed through the shop. Everyone stopped what they (weren’t) doing and all-out stared. Kit was open-mouthed. You could fit a whole plum in there.

  ‘You don’t listen to music?’ Frank repeated her sentence very slowly and even so, it made no sense. ‘Why not?’

  She gave an awkward smile. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you like jazz? Do you like classical?’ This was Kit. He had obviously decided Frank required assistance and was rushing around the shop, pulling out record sleeves and holding them up. ‘Do you like choral? We don’t have the Messiah because Frank can’t listen to that one, but we have loads of other stuff.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ murmured the woman. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘We have all sorts of music. Don’t we, Frank?’

  But now Frank seemed to have mislaid his vocabulary. Silences were springing out like potholes.

  Father Anthony came to the rescue. He told the woman it was lovely to see her again, they had all been worried; she was always welcome on Unity Street. An ease came over her as she listened, as if she were breathing suddenly all the way to her feet. He repeated that he hoped she was feeling better and assured her that if they could help her in any way, they would.

  Fortunately the woman remembered something. ‘Do you know a record called the “Four Seasons”?’

  ‘We have the “Four Seasons”!’ sang Kit. ‘We have that one!’

  He fetched the album cover and gave it to her. She looked and looked, which was strange because it was only a picture of trees and some autumny leaves.

  ‘Would you like to listen?’ said Kit, already bounding towards the booth.

  ‘No.’ She sounded terrified. She turned again to Frank. Hitched up her chin. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me about it?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ He stared at her, equally terrified.

  ‘I have no idea. I was just hoping you could introduce me to this record. But that was a stupid idea. Sorry.’ Her accent made the English words sound broken up; she hit her d’s like t’s. Stupit.

  ‘You can introduce her to this record, Frank,’ said Father Anthony softly. ‘You can do that.’

  So he told her the ‘Four Seasons’ were a set of concertos by a composer called Vivaldi. Vivaldi was Italian and lived in the Baroque period. In reply she nodded her exquisite head.

  ‘Would I like it?’ she asked. ‘Do you like it?’

  Would she like it? Frank hadn’t a clue. ‘Well, everyone likes the “Four Seasons”.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Maud.

  ‘I do,’ said Father Anthony.

  ‘Us too,’ said the Williams brothers.

  ‘Oh, I like it very much,’ agreed Mr Novak.

  ‘I love it,’ sang Kit.

  ‘Is there anything else could you tell me?’ asked the woman.

  So Frank attempted to explain that Vivaldi was telling a story in the ‘Four Seasons’. It was why he kept it with his concept albums, like Ziggy Stardust, At Folsom Prison by Johnny Cash, ABC’s The Lexicon of Love and John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme. Concept albums told a story over a number of tracks; Vivaldi’s happened to be one about the seasons. Sentences were falling out of Frank’s mouth and he hoped they had verbs in them. He added that people knew the ‘Four Seasons’ so well that even when they listened they didn’t actually hear it. They didn’t get the little trills that were birds, or the staccato notes like slipping on ice. He reached for a smoke and realized he had one.

  ‘Well,’ said Maud, marching to Frank’s side and folding her arms. ‘Look at that. It must be closing time.’ It was like being sweet-talked by a traffic warden. Not entirely without complications. ‘Are you going to buy that record, or what?’

  Humbled, the woman moved to the counter where she began to fill out a cheque in such a hurry she failed to remove her gloves. Ilse Brauchmann. Despite the funny way she gripped her pen, her signature was careful and neat. It gave away nothing.

  Kit said, ‘That’s a very nice name.’

  ‘Oh.’ She unclipped her bag and replaced her chequebook. ‘Do you know it?’ She shot another glance at Frank.

  ‘German?’ asked Father Anthony.

  She nodded.

  ‘Are you visiting?’

  ‘I just arrived.’

  ‘To stay?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘How do you say your name?’ interrupted Kit.

  ‘IlsA. Ilse BrOWKmann.’

  Frank tried to repeat it but couldn’t. His mouth just wasn’t ready. But everyone else was ready. They couldn’t wait to give it a try. Everyone; except Maud. ‘IlsA, Ilse BrOWKmann,’ they repeated, so that now it sounded less of a name and more like a blessing before dinner.

  Taking hold of her record, she thanked Frank again and then, since she didn’t seem to know what else to do, she moved to the door.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ called Frank. He was beginning to feel more confident. He even put his arm in a fatherly way around Kit. ‘I hope you come back. I’m always here. I could find you another record—’

  She hesitated at the door, lingering with a troubled expression, as if she were trying to make up her mind how to respond. Then she opened her mouth and said something so devastating it was like being whacked with a stick. ‘I can’t. I’m getting married. I’m an extremely busy person.’ With that, she swung the door back on its hinges and all but threw herself into the street.

  So it was over. The thing was lost before it had begun. Frank paced the Persian runner, up and down, trying to shake her off. Because if he thought too hard about her, he might want other things, and after that it would be a house of cards. No one would be able to put him back together. He lumbered over to his turntable. Well, he would never see her again. GOOD. She was getting married. She was an ext
remely busy person. That was all GOOD too. It had been a close shave but he was unscathed. He had his shop, his customers; yes, life was exactly as he had always wanted. No risk of loss or pain. Really he should be grateful she had someone else—

  And there it was. Her prickly cactus. Beside it, his yellow pencil sharpener. The two broken halves neatly replaced to form a whole. So perfect, and so ordinary, it hurt to keep looking.

  ‘Oh dear me,’ called Father Anthony from the counter. ‘She’s left her handbag. What will you do now, Frank?’

  8

  The Red Priest

  ‘PEOPLE CALLED VIVALDI the Red Priest,’ said Peg. ‘Because he had this fabulous red hair.’

  Balancing the new LP in her hand, she began to clean it. Jingle, jingle, went her bracelets.

  ‘But poor Vivaldi, he wasn’t cut out to be a priest. He liked the ladies too much and he couldn’t get through Mass because he had asthma.’

  She lifted the vinyl towards the French windows and they checked for scratches. She tipped it this way. That way. Light spilled over it like water.

  ‘So Vivaldi got a job as a violin teacher at an orphanage for girls. These girls, they were not your average girls, they were shit-hot musicians. So whenever Vivaldi wanted to show off how clever one of them was, he knocked out a new concerto. Now then. Can you open the Dansette?’

  ‘Yes, Peg.’

  She lowered the disc on to the spindle and he held his breath, afraid the slightest movement might distract it.

  ‘People play Vivaldi as background music, but he was doing big new things in his time. He took one instrument and he made it the star of the show. No one had tried that before. And he was painting pictures with music. That was new too. So you’ve got to listen. There will be wind and rain and a storm. There will be birds and flies, and a day so hot you can hardly move. There will even be a cuckoo and a sheepdog. You’ve got to lie on the floor and close your eyes and really listen.’

  ‘Yes, Peg.’

  ‘Vivaldi was so famous he was like a film star. There was a time everyone wanted to hear Vivaldi, but when he died, they’d all moved on. He had nothing at the end. Do you know the saddest thing?’