by Magnus Mills
Now he’d made his point, Barry seemed content to let matters lie (at least for the moment). The same applied to everyone else. They sat at the table in their various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and continued applying themselves to the art of listening. By the time we reached the final round we’d heard an infinite variety of recordings from countless sources. Keith presented ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’ and the rest of us followed with our respective selections. The society, I decided, was functioning as well as might be expected considering all the different views people held. Any perceived faults could be adjusted organically in due course. My only misgiving was the incident over Keith’s confession. I earnestly hoped it hadn’t soured relations between me and James.
As the evening drew to a close, Alice moved from behind the bar and began collecting empty glasses. She was wearing platform shoes, and I was vaguely pondering how on earth she managed to walk in them when suddenly a more urgent thought occurred to me. I reflected on the protracted records we’d heard, and the interruptions we’d suffered, and I realised that it must be very late indeed. Any second I expected George to come barging through the door and threaten us with eviction. Oddly enough, though, nobody else looked the slightest bit bothered, and when at last we emerged from the meeting I discovered it was only twenty to eleven.
‘Plenty of time yet,’ observed George in a genial manner.
‘Your clock’s correct then, is it?’ I asked.
‘Never been wrong,’ he replied. ‘Oh, by the way, the chap in the long, leather coat was here making enquiries again. He wanted to know how many members you had.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘Of course,’ said George. ‘It’s not a secret, is it?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Bit of a cheek all the same.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I gave him the information he wanted and then he only bought a glass of soda water.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ I said. ‘Cheek.’
The prospect of financial profit reminded George about the other bar.
‘I’ll have to catch Alice when she comes through,’ he remarked. ‘I need to start cashing up.’
There was no sign of her at present, and it turned out that she and James were still tidying the back room. I glanced around to see what everybody else was doing. Over at the corner table Barry, Chris, Rupert and Keith were deep in conversation about some matter of seemingly great importance. Meanwhile, Mike had taken Dave aside to discuss a separate issue.
‘No, no,’ Dave was saying, ‘the guy didn’t suggest it was perfect: he said it was probably the best record I would ever hear.’
‘How long is it?’ Mike asked.
‘Don’t know,’ said Dave. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well,’ said Mike, ‘the benchmark for perfection is three minutes precisely.’
‘Then I’d say it was pretty close,’ Dave replied.
‘What about “The Tracks of my Tears”?’
‘That’s quite a different subject.’
I left the pair of them comparing notes and went to join the group in the corner. They all ceased talking as I sat down, and for a moment I thought I was possibly unwelcome. Perhaps the earlier incident was still fresh in their memories. Next instant, however, I realised the true cause of their abrupt lapse into silence. Alice had just come out of the back room followed by James, who was carrying the red portable. She held the door open for him as he descended the stairs to the cellar, then went and assisted George behind the bar.
‘Blimey,’ said Keith. ‘How on earth does she manage to walk in those shoes?’
It was a question none of us could answer.
When James came back upstairs he looked rather distracted. He sat down with us but said so little he might as well have been on another planet, and I guessed he was still contemplating the various problems that had arisen during the meeting. Paramount, of course, was the unexplained riddle of the clock. When originally we formed the society our stated intention had been to play records under controlled conditions according to a strict timetable. For various reasons this plan had quickly gone by the board, so that meetings never finished quite when we expected them to. Personally I found the experience left me feeling slightly disorientated, and I presumed James was similarly affected.
Eventually, though, he pulled himself together.
‘Right,’ he snapped, rising to his feet. ‘See you all at eight o’clock next week.’
He gathered up his records and left without another word. A short while later George rang the bell.
‘Can I just check?’ said Keith. ‘LPs are prohibited, aren’t they?’
‘Correct,’ I replied.
‘Also comments and judgements,’ added Barry.
‘Right.’
‘Come on you lot!’ barked George. ‘Out!’
There was no excuse to remain any longer, so at last we started leaving. From my point of view it was an inauspicious departure. Alice was still helping clear up behind the bar, and as we filed past she wished everyone goodnight except me. Outside it was cold and rainy, but I set off walking undeterred. I finally reached home having made up my mind not to be troubled too much by Alice’s repeated snubs. Instead I switched my attention to an idea that had occurred to me during the evening. It entailed an extensive period of research which was to keep me occupied until the small hours. Even so it would be well worth the effort. Somewhere in my collection was an item that promised to be of particular interest to a certain member of the Forensic Records Society. When eventually I found what I was seeking I set it carefully aside.
It was now very late indeed, but I had one more task to perform. Before going to bed I went over to my turntable and played ‘Who Knows Where the Time Goes?’ After several successive listens I concluded that this was yet another question none of us could answer.
When I arrived at the Half Moon the following Monday I knew at once that something was amiss. Barry, Dave, Chris, Mike and Rupert were assembled around the usual corner table while James and Keith sat some distance away, apparently engaged in profound conversation. The clock said ten to eight, so I bought a pint and hovered near the bar, waiting to see how matters unfolded. Both James and Keith looked extremely pensive, and for a minute I wondered whether Keith was making a further ‘confession’. If so, it would be an additional burden for James to carry on his shoulders. Hadn’t he got enough to cope with already? It was imperative that somebody else should offer to share the load, but after the previous episode I felt reluctant to get involved again. For this reason I decided to stay just where I was and mind my own business.
As soon as he spotted me, however, James spoke quietly to Keith, then beckoned me over to join them.
‘Glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘Keith has suffered an unfortunate turn of events.’
‘Really?’
‘It happened when I was out last night,’ Keith explained. ‘A man came round to the house and told my mother he was from the Confessional Records Society.’
‘Was he recruiting?’ I enquired.
‘No,’ replied Keith. ‘He claimed he’d met me before and asked my mother if he could have a look through my records.’
‘What!’ I said with disbelief. ‘It’s private!’
‘I know.’
‘Don’t tell me she said yes.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Keith. ‘Oh, I’m not blaming her. She’s as much a victim as I am.’
‘Are there any records missing?’ I asked.
‘Not as far as I can tell.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Nevertheless I feel as if I’ve been violated.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
The visitor, it transpired, had examined Keith’s collection for almost an hour. At one point his mother even offered to make him a cup of tea, but he declined. Poor Keith was quite distraught and it was clearly going to take him some time to recover. Understandably I was furio
us on his behalf. Who did the Confessional Records Society think they were, exactly, subjecting him to such torment? More importantly, what measures could we take to ensure such an intrusion was never repeated?
James glanced at the clock, then spoke to me.
‘Could you do me a favour?’ he said. ‘Can you go into the back room and see if Alice has everything ready?’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I can if you like, but wouldn’t it be better if you went?’
James gave me the same sharp look he’d given me the previous week when he thought I’d betrayed him.
‘I can’t leave Keith in this state!’ he announced. ‘He needs help!’
As if to confirm the fact, Keith peered at me with desolation in his eyes.
‘Er … oh … yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll go at once.’
‘You’ll probably have to start the meeting without me,’ James added.
I really had no option but to do as he asked, despite the frosty reception I was bound to receive from Alice. I quickly decided that the best way to disarm her was to adopt a casual manner and simply breeze into the back room as if relations between us were perfectly normal. Regrettably it didn’t work.
Alice was just closing the lid of the red portable as I swung open the door and entered.
‘Hello!’ I said (breezily).
Instead of answering immediately, she busied herself straightening out a couple of chairs before moving away and slipping behind the corner bar. Finally she turned and faced me.
‘I don’t know what you’re doing here,’ she said. ‘You don’t even like music.’
Alice uttered the words with such certainty that for a moment I was completely thrown off balance. An accusation as harsh as this had never previously been levelled at me and I was at a loss how to respond. Needless to say the charge was absurd and could not be substantiated. Yet neither could it be disproved, which meant I was more or less obliged to mount some kind of defence.
‘Of course I like music.’
‘No you don’t,’ said Alice.
‘Yes I do.’
‘No you don’t.’
‘But I listen to it all the time!’
‘Makes no difference.’
‘You mean you don’t like my choices?’
‘That isn’t what I said.’
‘Well if I don’t like music,’ I demanded, ‘how come the others have never pointed it out?’
Alice stood regarding me in silence from behind the corner bar. Her face was expressionless, but when eventually she spoke her reply was crushing:
‘Because they haven’t seen through you.’
Once again I was thrown off balance, and as I searched for a suitable riposte the door opened and Mike walked into the room, followed closely by Rupert, Chris, Dave and Barry.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Mike, ‘but it’s almost eight o’clock.’
Some of them wanted to buy drinks, so I readily made space for them at the bar. It was a welcome respite from the onslaught. I was hardly eager to continue my conversation with Alice, seeing I’d fared so badly, but at the same time I knew the matter wasn’t settled. I’d been seriously shaken by the exchange and for a few seconds I stood apart from the others feeling awkward and isolated. My attempt at being ‘casual’ was revealed to be an outright failure. For reasons of her own Alice had declared war against me, and her opening shot had knocked me to the floor. I actually wished I could disappear into thin air, but circumstances made escape impossible. There was no sign of James (or Keith) which meant it was my duty to take over the society’s reins temporarily. Thankful for at least having something to do, I went and sat down in the chair nearest the red portable. I allowed myself a moment or two to regain my composure, then carefully raised the lid. To my mild surprise there was a record already lying on the turntable. It had a plain white label, completely blank except for the figures 4/25 handwritten in ink. This suggested I was looking at an extremely limited pressing (possibly a demo). I was just about to lift it up and examine the other side when someone reached across and whisked the record away in a single movement. I glanced up in astonishment and saw Alice standing over me.
‘I’ll take that, thank you very much,’ she said, sliding the record into a cardboard sleeve.
I had no idea how she’d moved so rapidly from behind the corner bar, but as she stalked back to her station I noticed Chris and the rest of them staring at her in awe. They’d all fallen noticeably silent, but they started talking again when Alice resumed serving drinks. I then endeavoured to get the meeting underway.
‘Alright,’ I said, ‘who wants to get us started?’
The decision about who went first was usually taken by James, and in consequence my question brought no immediate reply. It was enough, however, to propel everyone to their places around the table. Once they were all seated I asked them again.
‘I don’t mind starting,’ said Barry, ‘if nobody objects.’
Nobody did, so he handed over a copy of ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’ and I put it on the deck. While the record was playing I pondered how anyone could judge whether somebody else liked music or not. The answer, of course, was that it was impossible. The allegation was preposterous, and especially so when the accused person was a confirmed member of a dedicated forensic records society! I determined, therefore, to put the whole thing out of my head.
Nonetheless I was aware of a wave of apprehension creeping over me as the session continued and my turn drew nearer. Working clockwise around the table it was Dave next, then Rupert and then me. I felt increasingly self-conscious about my submissions for the evening, knowing full well that Alice was observing proceedings from behind the bar. Indeed, I was in such a state I couldn’t even remember what they were! I peered down at my small stack of records and was reassured by the sight of ‘She Bangs the Drums’ lying on top. A surreptitious peek revealed ‘She Comes in the Fall’ underneath, and instantly my doubts subsided. In both cases I knew I was on safe ground.
Dave had chosen ‘Dandelion’, and while we were listening I was pleased to see James ushering Keith into the room. He looked a little better and we quickly found him a seat at the table. Alice then came over to ask him what he’d like to drink, informing him it was ‘on the house’. Privately I imagined George taking a very dim view of such generosity, but I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. A nod from James told me to carry on in my role as temporary chairman, and after that the meeting coasted along quite nicely.
Mike had brought his usual batch of concise recordings. These included ‘Banking on Simon’ (two minutes thirteen seconds) and ‘A New England’ (two minutes seven). Seeing them reminded me of the extensive research I’d conducted a few nights earlier, and I felt a surge of triumph when my final turn arrived.
‘Here you are, Mike,’ I said. ‘This should be of interest.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘“Another Girl, Another Planet”,’ I replied. ‘Three minutes precisely.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Your search for perfection is over.’
Mike seemed highly impressed by my words, but they earned a swift rebuke from James.
‘Comments aren’t allowed,’ he announced. ‘You really should know better.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Can I see that?’
‘Certainly.’
I handed him the record and for several seconds he gazed intently at the label. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but when he passed it back he wore the same distracted expression I’d seen on his face the week before. During the next three minutes we sat around the table in our various attitudes (serene, solemn, mesmerised and so forth) and afterwards there were no comments or judgements. The remainder of the session was uneventful and we emerged at eleven o’clock, just as George rang the bell.
I half-expected James to stay behind and help Alice with the tidying up, so I was slightly surprised when he appeared at my side.
‘Can you drop by and see me tomorrow morning?’ he asked quietly. ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you.’
‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘It’s hard to tell just yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m just going to pop back and help Alice tidy up.’
‘OK.’
I didn’t see any more of James on Monday evening, despite waiting well beyond closing time, and I spent the last few minutes in Mike’s company. He had a question for me.
‘What was the title of that record again?’
‘“Another Girl, Another Planet”.’
‘“Another Girl, Another Planet”,’ he intoned. ‘Do you mind if I borrow it till next week?’
‘Course not.’
‘Three minutes precisely?’
‘Yep.’
‘Unbelievable.’
At ten o’clock the following morning I went to see James. There was a fairly long delay before he opened the door.
‘Ah,’ he said, when he saw me.
‘You asked me to drop by.’
‘Yes.’
Instead of inviting me into the kitchen for a cup of tea, as was usual mid-morning, he directed me straight to his music room. He led me inside and told me to sit anywhere.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’
‘Er … yes, please,’ I said. ‘Are we having it in here?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
He left me alone in the room and closed the door behind him. The house was a haven of stillness. I chose a chair by the window and gazed around at the familiar rows of Schweppes boxes and laden shelves, before glancing at the forty-watt amplifier and deck. I noticed there was a record on the turntable with a plain white label, completely blank except for some figures handwritten in ink. Sheer curiosity urged me to go over and examine it more closely, but for a short while I resisted the temptation. James and I had an unwritten agreement which forbade us from looking through each other’s records without being invited. When I thought about it properly, however, I decided that this case was different because the record was already on display. I rose from my chair, crossed the room and read the figures 4/25 on the label. At the same moment the door opened, so I stepped quickly to the window and peered out.