by John Hughes
* * *
Martin Allwright took a sip from his pint of Guinness, a draw on his Dunhill cigarette, and sat back in his chair with the air of a man whose contentment level is nigh on complete. He was slightly built with lean features; good looking and a snappy dresser. Today he was in a pinstripe suit with a paisley tie and highly polished shoes. He was attracted to, as well as attractive towards, women and to remain friends with him you had to get used to the fact that his eye contact was rarely on you, but any half decent woman within view. Nothing personal; it’s just the way he was.
We were in The Bunch of Grapes, a pub on the Brompton Road a couple of hundred yards down from Harrods, almost opposite the Oratory. A quick one after work, Martin had suggested on the phone earlier; he could be over from Curetons by six. Quick ones after work with him were rarely that. But I didn’t care. He was a good mate and great company; and I had no other plans.
“So,” I said. “Did you score today?”
“I did indeed. A Kemble upright and a Yamaha grand – C3. You?”
“Well done. Yes, a Yamaha too – upright.”
“U1?”
“Larger – U3.”
“I bet that put Brown-nose’s hooter out of joint.”
“Just slightly. He belted across the showroom to try and beat me to the customer. Tripped over a piano stool and fell on his arse.”
Martin guffawed. He too had worked at Harrods – in fact he got me the job there – and he knew first-hand what Brownlow was like.
“Still a tosser then.”
“Bigger than ever.”
“He was the reason I left. Plopped in as a showroom manager over my head with no relevant experience other than being a failed concert pianist and a Class A knob. The job should have been mine. And to have your line manager in direct competition with his own salesmen – on commission. Outrageous!”
“Yep, sometimes it’s a hard cross to bear. He gets to see the post first, sits by the phone and takes the calls. All the incoming leads go to him. He gets all the good leads.”
“It’s tough being a salesman.”
“If only I could get the good leads.”
“It’s not like that at Curetons. They’re a good company to work for.”
“Perhaps I should jump ship like you did.”
Martin gave me a quizzical look. “Would you be interested?”
“Are they looking to recruit?”
“Not at the moment, but they may be at some stage in the future. If you’re serious I might be able to put a word in for you.”
“I’d appreciate it.” I smiled. “Funny, you got me this job – now you’re hinting at getting me another.”
“It would be good to work with you again.” He took another sip and another drag. “You know, you could have a good career in piano retail, or in the piano manufacturing business. There are still some fine British companies around – Knight, Danemann, Broadwood, Kemble.”
“I’d definitely be interested in moving on, Martin. I’m maybe not the most ambitious man in the world, but I want to progress.”
He leaned forward and glanced to either side to make sure we weren’t being overhead. When he was sure, he spoke in a hushed tone, as if imparting a secret of enormous worth. “I may be able to help you – more than you think. You see, there’s something that all the main men in the piano industry have in common. If you’re prepared to embrace it then you’re halfway there, and pretty much ensured a career for life.”
“And that is?”
“They’re all Masons.”
“Oh!”
“You sound surprised.”
“I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t know much about it.”
“It’s like a big private club. There are local groups, called lodges, and we meet up once a week. Mostly social, but the members are all useful to know and I’ve made some really good contacts.”
“Have you been in it long?”
“A couple of years.”
“Was that how you made the move to Curetons?”
“It helped.”
“Is there a joining fee?”
“No, but there are certain… there’s an induction process, shall we say. To be honest, James, a lot of members join purely to get on in the world – to make contacts in their business. That’s how I got involved. I was approached by someone who told me pretty much what I’ve just told you, so I asked if I could become a member.”
I thought about this but said nothing. The notion of a secret club didn’t appeal; in fact it sounded rather childish. My somewhat embryonic political views veered towards left rather than right and this had a whiff of privilege and elitism about it that left me cold. Years later, I realised that that was the moment when I should have shown more interest, more enthusiasm, asked to join even. I didn’t. I sat there expecting Martin to take the initiative. He didn’t. So the moment passed. Martin never mentioned it again. Nor did I.
“Still, being honest,” Martin continued, “I don’t go to every meeting. About one in three. Chrissie thinks I do but it’s a good opportunity to see Imogen.
Chrissie was his wife, Imogen was his bit on the side. I knew the whole saga. He lived with Chrissie in a flat in Acton, and he’d been seeing Imogen for a couple of years. They’d met during his Harrods days; she was a buyer in Perfumery. At that time, in my early twenties, single and eager to find someone to love and cherish and devote myself to for the rest of my life, I found it all rather sordid. I never said so, but that’s how I felt at the time.
We moved on to talk about other things. The next round was mine and I went to the bar; a Guinness for Martin, a pint of Directors for me. I fumbled picking up the change and stuffed it into my jacket pocket to sort out back at the table. As I did, my notebook fell out and landed open at the back page.
“What’s this?” said Martin, picking it up and reading my scribble. “Bechstein L. Sold 1971, Salesman, Thomas Morgan – good heavens I know Tom, he’s in our lodge. Miss Jane V. Walker, Much Wenlock. What’s that all about?”
“Oh, it’s a piano in storage over at Trevor Square. I noticed it and looked it up out of curiosity. It’s still there, awaiting delivery.”
“After ten years? You’re joking!” I nodded. Martin was staring at the details. “Just under five grand. They’ve gone up since then.”
“Doubled. And yes, it’s still there.”
“Ten years. She’s either forgotten about it or died, this Miss Walker.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Does Aiden know anything about it?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It was before his time.”
“Before everyone’s time.”
“Except Harry. How long has he worked there?”
“A lifetime. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been there since he was demobbed. You should ask him about the piano.”
“I think I will.”
Martin ran his finger across the purchaser’s name. “I wonder what the V stands for.”
“Yes, I was wondering that too.”
* * *
Wilfred Huxley was a charming man. He’d been a professional tap dancer in his younger days and his claim to fame was to have performed with a very well-known American singer when she came to London in the early sixties; the one who sang of a land over the rainbow… somewhere. There were just two dancers on stage, one on either side of her, and their prime role, according to Mr Huxley, was not to dance so much as to keep her upright. She liked a drink. So did he. When he retired from dancing he’d come to work in Harrods and had been there ever since, mainly in the linen department. He adored the place. The opportunity to become a buyer had come after more than twenty years of service; it meant a move into Pianos which he had made reluctantly. He played a little and was a good organiser but he knew nothing of the piano industry and had to le
arn it from scratch. I can’t be sure but I don’t think he was a Freemason.
I was making myself busy lifting up piano lids and dusting before the store opened, feeling fuzzy headed, as you often were after a quick drink with Martin Allwright. Wilfred appeared from the direction of the buyer’s office and came and stood next to me. His eyes were bloodshot. So were mine.
“Good morning, James,” he said in his gentle, soporific voice.
“Morning, Mr Huxley.”
“James, Clarence tells me that you were impolite towards him yesterday. You mouthed a rude word at him across the showroom when you were with a customer.”
“Did I?” I said, sounding mystified.
“Yes you did. A word beginning with w that rhymes with anchor.”
“Oh that. He must have misread my lips, Mr Huxley. I said rancour.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mouthed the word rancour. It means bitterness or resentfulness. It must look very similar to wanker when mouthed. He was staring at me as if I had stolen his customer. He was full of rancour, so I wanted him to appreciate that I was aware of it.”
Mr Huxley pulled a face of absolute disbelief. “I know what rancour means.” He pondered for a moment, then grinned. “You’re a bad boy, young Holloway, I don’t believe you for a moment. All I ask is that you don’t do it again. He is a w that rhymes with anchor, we all know that, but please, don’t express your opinion across the shop floor.”
“I promise.”
He began to walk away, then turned. “And for Christ’s sake don’t ever mouth that he’s a runt.”
* * *
I had wanted to escape the shop floor early to nip over to the workshop before we became too busy. Harry Smith was based there and I needed to pick his brains. But I was hindered by some excitement which could not be ignored. Lady Diana Spencer chose that morning to pop in and do a bit of shopping.
She came in early and word spread amongst the staff like wildfire. Before I knew it, she appeared in our department, flanked by a couple of burly bodyguards and with a divisional manager leading the way. Apart from the entourage she appeared very non-descript, wearing blue jeans, a white blouse and pink cardigan. But if you caught a glimpse of her face, she really was stunningly beautiful, even at the tender age of nineteen. Clarence Brownlow, at his obsequious worst, verily flung himself across the room to the piano closest to them and sat down ready to play. Lady Diana, however, had no interest whatsoever in purchasing a piano; she hugged the edge of the department and disappeared into Records.
There then followed a surreal fifteen minutes. The windows into Records from Pianos were one-way. From Pianos you could see into Records but from inside Records all you saw was your own reflection; a mirror effectively. The store detectives often stood outside looking in, trying to catch record thieves red-handed. (I used to annoy them by sitting down at the nearest piano and playing the theme from Dixon of Dock Green.) Today, they would have had to queue up; staff appeared in droves from all directions to take a peep at the princess in waiting, as she browsed obliviously. Brownlow tried to move them on but was ignored. Eventually, red-cheeked, he gave up, went back to his desk and pretended to make a phone call.
I took my turn at the window and saw her pick up an Elton John LP, then put it down again, as I would have done. A discerning lady of taste, I thought. Then she picked it up again and handed it to one of her bodyguards to add to her other purchases. I instantly changed my mind about her. Moments later she appeared at the entrance and, with bodyguards and divisional manager in tow, headed off in the direction of Garden Furniture. Miraculously the crowd of gawpers had evaporated.
As Lady Diana Spencer exited, she all but barrelled into Raymond who had been standing in the middle of the department in a daze. She passed within feet of him and smiled her beautiful smile as they made eye contact.
When she had disappeared, he looked towards me. “Who was that?”
“Shirley Bassey,” I replied.
“Oh,” he said. “I thought she’d be older than that.”
* * *
Fortunately for me, Harry came over to the department that afternoon.
Harry Smith was a French polisher who had learned his trade as an apprentice just before the war. A Dunkirk veteran with a limp as a permanent reminder, he spoke with a strong Cockney accent and suffered from chronic wind. On Christmas department outings he curiously adopted a posh voice not unlike the actor Edward Fox, though devoid of his usual profanities and peppered with ‘old chaps’ in the manner of Joe Gargery talking to Pip; it was strange, eccentric, downright weird even. The glory days of French polishing were over by then and Harry had had to adapt and learn the skills of repairing lacquer and polyester. Inevitably in a department containing nigh on a hundred pianos, accidents happened. Porters bashed trollies into them, customers knocked bags against them, or they collided with each other during rearrangements of the display. Harry was good at his job; a craftsman. When he’d finished a repair job you could barely see where the damage had been done.
The down side about Harry was that if he collared you and there was no way out, he would bore the tits off you on his given subject.
“Generally there’s two types of finishes on pyanners nowadays – lacquer and polyester. Polyester’s usually the mirror finish on grands and uprights. Though lacquer can achieve the sheen, polyester resin is better to obtain that look due on account of its intrinsic properties. While lacquer is somewhat hard, it’s also thin and brittle. Poly, as we say in the business, is thick and durable. I usually tell people that it’s got similar properties to glass – looks beautiful for a very long while. Chip it and you’re fucked. It don’t repair well. Lacquer on the other hand can be easily touched up but don’t have the same long term durability, more’s the pity. I’ve seen twenty and thirty-year-old poly pyanners looking in showroom condition but I can’t honestly say that about lacquer.”
Harry could talk for England but fortunately had a weak bladder and there was mutual relief at hand whenever he started to jog around a bit and uttered those magical words: “Scuse me, sir, I need a drain off.”
On this occasion, however, I was the one doing the collaring. Harry was repairing a dent on the corner of an upright.
“Harry…” I began.
“Wish they’d be more careful with them fuckin’ trolleys.”
“Me too. Harry…”
“Look at this. I’ll do me best but it’ll never be the same again.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’m sure you’ll make it look like new. Umm, Harry…”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a piano in storage over in the workshop. I wondered if you knew anything about it.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“I haven’t told you which one yet.”
“I just repair and polish ‘em. Don’t know nothin’ about storage.”
“I just wondered as it’s been over there for a long time. Ten years.”
“You’d best ask the guvnor… ask Mr Aiden.”
“I did and he doesn’t know anything either. It’s been there since before he came to Harrods. I just wondered if you know anything as you’re the only person who was here then.”
“What make?”
“A Bechstein grand. L model.”
“Black? The one on the very end?”
“That’s it.”
“I know the one you mean but I don’t know nothin’ about it. I never worked on it coz it’s never been out of its covers. What’s it still there for? Waste of fuckin’ money, buying somethin’ like that then leavin’ it. Some people got more money than brains. Who’s the customer?”
“A lady from Shropshire. Miss Jane V. Walker.”
“Maybe she snuffed it.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I wonder what the V
stands for.”
“Me too, Harry, me too. Vertiginous would be my first guess.”
“Do what?”
* * *
I mentioned that Martin got me the job in Harrods. We were in a band together; he played guitar and sang, I played electronic piano. We were called Melody and Harmony and performed in social clubs and at functions around and about South West London, where the band was based. I lived in East Sheen in those days, renting a room in a house owned by a barrister. He sowed the seeds in my mind that later grew into a career change.
Rehearsals were on a Thursday evening. We were sitting in a pub in Tolworth having a pre-rehearsal drink one evening when Martin asked if anyone knew anyone who wanted a job selling pianos in Harrods. One of his colleagues was leaving, or rather had been invited to leave; late for work too often, or not turning up at all, due to a preference for whisky rather than milk on his Corn Flakes. I was working in a mundane office at the time – first job out of college – and told Martin I’d be very interested. He mentioned me to Mr Huxley who called me in for an interview which consisted of a friendly chat. He had a thing about Deanna Durbin, the Canadian singer and film star. I got the job because not only had I heard of her but I could name one of her films and hum one of her songs. An honours degree in music and years of piano lessons counted for nothing.
Sitting again in that same pub enjoying another pre-rehearsal drink, Martin said to me in a low voice so that no one else could hear: “Did you ask Harry about that piano… you know, the Bechstein grand that’s been in storage forever?”
“I did. He’s aware of it but wasn’t able to tell me anything I didn’t know already.”
“So it’s just sitting there, unclaimed by the woman who bought it ten years ago, off everyone’s radar at Harrods, and basically forgotten about.”
“That’s about the sum of it. Such a waste. I wouldn’t mind a Bechstein grand to play of an evening. I wonder if they’d let me borrow it.”