The Music Shop

by Rachel Joyce

  ‘You’re using your flat as a guarantee?’ said Father Anthony. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Frank reassured him it was just a formality. He signed his name and sealed the envelope.

  There was also a letter from Fort Development, expressing further interest in purchasing the shop. Frank shoved it in the drawer, along with the invoices and household bills he hadn’t yet dealt with.

  There was much excitement. Kit could talk of little else. He stopped asking questions about Ilse Brauchmann’s hands and carried all his enthusiasm to the refurbishment. It was going to be like a whole new shop, he kept repeating to customers. Meanwhile Frank scoured the pages of Exchange & Mart, searching for a suitable shrink-wrap machine because he would save money if he bought it second-hand. Kit watched in tense silence as he made the call. When he repeated the price – eight hundred pounds – Kit gave a gulp like the draining of a plug. After that, Frank found a glazier in Yellow Pages and several builders to quote for the refit, and then the fun began. It was time to order new stock.

  ‘You only want vinyl?’ a member of the sales team would repeat, when he rang the record companies, one after another, to make his orders. Yes, Frank would repeat. He was interested in coloured vinyl, picture discs, singles, 12-inch and double albums. Yes, he would also take foreign imports, one-off pressings, acetates and limited editions. No, he did not want CDs. Not even freebies. He did not want cassette tapes either. But what about the exciting new titles, they asked, that were only available as CDs? Or what about the fact you could now get tracks on CD that were not available on vinyl? In March there would be the new Morrissey, Pixies, Talking Heads, a special Beatles compilation, not to mention Now That’s What I Call Music (11)—

  ‘Did you not hear me? I want records. Only records.’

  ‘At full price?’

  ‘Yes. At full price.’

  Several people reminded him that the returns policies for vinyl were changing. There could be no swapping stock in and out any more. Charges would be made for the return of unsold records and some companies would not provide any credit whatsoever. It was not a lucrative way to run a business, they warned. But Frank was barely listening. No, he repeated, he would not under any circumstances stock CDs. He would buy his vinyl at top price and accept the risks. After all, he had the money in his account. He could buy whatever he liked.

  Boxes of vinyl began to arrive the next morning. Rare original pressings, bootleg copies, white-label promotional labels, as well as entire box-set collections. Seven- and 12-inch singles in the shapes of hearts, birds and hats; limited-edition releases on coloured discs in blue, red, orange, yellow, white and even multicoloured splatter. Soundtrack records, popular favourites. World music, second-hand classics, demos. Rare mono recordings, limited-edition audiophile pressings. Independent companies, mainstream companies. Plain sleeves, picture sleeves. Albums with posters, fold-out flaps and signed covers.

  Frank thought of Ilse Brauchmann all the time. Even when he tried not to, PING; there she was. He saw the way she had listened without even seeming to blink as he told her what he felt about music. He thought of sitting opposite her in that tiny boat in the middle of the water, and how the rest of the world had felt both full of miracle and not there at all. He wanted to talk about her, speak her extraordinary name, he wanted to let it out, this great feeling that seemed to swell inside him, and yet by the same token he wanted to hide in the booth and sleep for a hundred years. He made lists, he jotted down album titles, he paced the shop, muttering about music as if she were right beside him. He had no idea how he would come up with a second lesson.

  Saturday was the day before Valentine’s. It rained non-stop. A shower of hailstones came in the afternoon, so loud it was like sitting inside a percussion instrument. Kit made a big tissue-paper heart to go in the broken window, along with a new poster – LOTS OF NEW VINYL IN STOCK! COME IN! – while Frank sat at his turntable, playing love songs and requests. (Kit wanted The Carpenters, ‘Please Mr Postman’; old Mrs Roussos and her chihuahua asked for Edith Piaf. The man who only liked Chopin dropped by to say he had met a nice woman through the dating agency. He wondered if there was some Aretha he could buy for her? ‘Oh, I think you’re ready for Marvin Gaye now,’ said Frank.) The shop was full all day. They made their biggest sales in months.

  Flushed with his success on the creative side, Kit remained at the counter with his colouring pens and drew designs for the refurbishment of the new shop. He stopped anyone who would listen – and quite a few who wouldn’t – to explain the exciting new layout. There would be a high-tech modern counter to replace the old one, and special new display units. No more boxes, no more crates. The Persian runner would go straight in a skip; it was probably a fire hazard anyway. No need for the shelves behind the counter where Frank kept his vinyl stored in master bags; from now on, records would be individually labelled and sealed in cellophane within their sleeves. The new shrink-wrap machine would stand at the back of the shop. No one but Frank would be allowed to use it.

  ‘It could do a lot of damage,’ Kit told old Mrs Roussos. ‘There have been some nasty accidents with shrink-wrap machines.’

  ‘Goodness.’ Mrs Roussos clutched tight to her little white dog, as if he was in danger of being heat-sealed as well. ‘Is Frank sure this is a good idea?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Kit. ‘No one else has one. Not even Woolworths. These days you have to stand up if you want to be counted.’

  Frank was about to close late on Saturday when Maud showed up. She had dyed her Mohican a new shade (green?) and appeared both cross and bored. She paced the floor in her fun-fur coat until she stopped in front of him with her hand on her heart and said in a rush, ‘I’ve got tickets for a film I just wondered if you wanted to come I mean I don’t care if you don’t I was just wondering I don’t give a shit really.’

  ‘You’re asking if I want to see a film?’

  ‘She’s Having a Baby.’

  ‘Who is?’

  Maud smacked her head. ‘It starts in half an hour.’

  They missed the beginning and the film was not entirely Frank’s cup of tea, though he quite liked the soundtrack. They sat in the back row, smoking and eating wine gums, surrounded by couples. Twice Maud prodded the two in front who were so busy necking they were an obstruction to her view. Afterwards Frank and Maud walked back along Castlegate and she made disparaging remarks about the big chain stores. ‘Who would buy this crap?’ she asked, time after time; if things went on like this, every city centre would morph into the same thing, and so would the people who shopped there. They passed a group of girls in pink sashes, vomiting into the gutter. ‘Hen night,’ said Maud. ‘Shoot me if I get married.’

  Frank laughed. Aside from himself, Maud was the most single person he knew.

  Unity Street was so still and quiet, it was like arriving in a different land. Someone had smashed the bulb on a street lamp and it stood sombre in the dark. The rain had stopped but you could still hear it in the air, a dripping and creaking of water. A man walked a big dog on its lead, trying to get it to pee. Even England’s Glory looked empty. Pausing outside her salon, Maud came out with another sentence that seemed to involve a hot drink, along with the fact she didn’t give a shit but she was putting the kettle on.

  ‘If you’re inviting me in for a coffee,’ said Frank, ‘then yes, please.’

  Maud’s tattoo parlour was the opposite of the music shop; it was neat and sparsely furnished, verging on cold. She unlocked a door at the back of the shop, leading out to a small yard. Frank’s eyes widened.

  In the fourteen years he had known her, she had never so much as mentioned a garden. The yard was nothing like the one behind Frank’s shop; more of a bin than a space. This was thick with hundreds of small evergreen leaves. Maud returned inside to flick a switch and a host of tiny white lights zipped to life. There were two plastic chairs either side of a table, along with a striped sunshade hung with wind chimes. She brought a bottle of whisky
and glasses, and chucked him a blanket.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a gardener, Maud.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Frank.’

  They stayed in her surprise garden, surrounded by leaves and lights, beneath a net of stars, drinking whisky. He talked about records, while Maud moved from one plant to another, easing dead foliage from her plastic containers and checking the wooden stakes that supported the smaller plants. She tied up the stems that had grown loose and added sand to a few pots that had got too wet.

  ‘How long are you going to do this music lesson thing?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It depends on her, I guess.’

  ‘When’s she getting married?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does she do exactly?’

  At the mere thought of Ilse Brauchmann, Frank’s knees were jigging. ‘I don’t know that either.’

  Maud said, ‘Hmm.’

  The lights were already off in Father Anthony’s flat, and the Williams brothers’. She began to yawn.

  Frank stood. ‘I should head off.’

  ‘You could always—’ Maud shrugged as if she couldn’t be bothered to say the rest. ‘I don’t care either way. I’m just saying, you know. I mean. We might as well.’

  She stood in front of him, awkward and embarrassed, sucking her mouth, waiting for him to give her the cold shoulder. In any other circumstances Frank would have turned and fled, but this was Maud, and it occurred to him how much he cared for her. So he put out both arms and awkwardly drew her close until she tucked, somewhat angular, against his chest, the tip of her Mohican about level with his chin. They stayed a long time like that, Frank breathing softly, Maud with her neck stiff and her hands in fists. He thought of the tenderness with which this small warlike woman had moved from one plant pot to another, pulling out dead leaves and checking the soil. Normal people just want something to love and look after, he thought; that’s all they want.

  ‘You don’t want to get involved with me,’ he said. ‘We’re good like this, Maud.’

  Breaking away, she snatched up their empty glasses. ‘You’re a tosser, Frank. Go home.’

  The shrink-wrap machine arrived on Monday. (Only one day until Tuesday. Was this the reason Frank was so agitated? He couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t even eat.) The machine was silver and about the size of a freezer. Had he not checked the measurements? asked Father Anthony. Not only was the machine too big for the space, it was also so heavy four people were required to carry it into the shop. Five, if you included Kit, though he slammed the van door on his fingers and spent the rest of the morning with his hand wrapped in toilet paper. Since the refurbishment was not yet finished – actually, of course, it hadn’t even begun – they parked the shrink-wrap machine just opposite the door to Frank’s flat. It had a large blue hood and chassis to optimize airflow and heating performance. Since it was second-hand, the seller had also thrown in a free roll of cellophane and a first-aid kit.

  Frank and his customers gathered around. Someone tried to lift the hood. Mrs Roussos held out her chihuahua so that he could get a proper look. (‘Don’t!’ yelped Kit.) How did it work? Where, for instance, was the instruction manual?

  ‘It doesn’t have one,’ said Frank vaguely. ‘But I’m sure it must be very straightforward.’

  He pressed the ‘on’ switch. The machine did a number of things that seemed remarkably complicated. First it made a buzz and gave out a smell of burning; then something deep inside began to flash and another thing began to whir. Frank peeled off a length of cellophane and wrapped it loosely around a record. ‘It probably goes like this,’ he said. He dropped it quickly into the main unit via a narrowish slot – a bit like posting it.

  The trouble was that no one could see inside the machine. Once a record was in it, it was in it; there was nothing anyone could do but hang around and wait. The machine made another whirring noise and became hot. Kit leapt backwards and stubbed his (good) hand on a booth, causing Mrs Roussos to shriek. Then the machine gave a clunk and fell silent.

  ‘What is it doing now, Frank?’ whispered one of the Williams brothers.

  Just as Frank was about to lift the hood and check, the machine gave off another clunk and a series of thwapping noises. Ten seconds later everything stopped, and then a record plopped into the bucket on the other side. They rushed to look. Peered down.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Kit.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Mrs Roussos.

  ‘This might take a bit of getting used to, Frank,’ said Father Anthony.

  The album was sealed. Definitely. Never had an album been more sealed. You couldn’t argue with that. It had been sealed more times on one side than the other but this was early days, you couldn’t expect to get it right first time. No, the only real drawback was that the record was no longer flat. It rose at the edges.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ asked Father Anthony.

  ‘It’s warped,’ said Maud. ‘It’s melted.’

  ‘Will the record work, Frank?’ asked Mrs Roussos.

  When he tried to pick it out of the bucket, it was so hot it burnt his fingers. ‘Only as a fruit bowl.’

  Kit fell to much scratching of his hair. ‘I can think of one person who could help,’ he said.

  24

  Beata Viscera

  ‘THE WAY TO heaven is not through the clouds. It’s in the joy with which you look at the world, despite your pain and your sorrow.’

  Peg stood at the French windows, surveying the sea and the sky.

  ‘And of course to sing,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s very fine indeed.’

  Frank slid the new record from the sleeve, just as Peg had once taught him. He wiped it with her terylene towel, following the groove, and then he checked the stylus for dust. ‘Beata viscera’ by Pérotin.

  Peg told him all she knew. Pérotin was living in France around the end of the twelfth century. In those days music was mostly plainsong. It was a bit – how could she put this? Fucking plain. One voice. One tune. Sung by a monk. In a church. ‘You get the picture?’ Then came Notre Dame and music had to do something new. ‘It had to grow some balls because one monk singing one little song wasn’t going to get anyone excited in a cathedral that size. So what Pérotin did was he took two voices and he gave them two tunes. And then he took three voices. Four. Pérotin kind of started the whole harmony thing. If it wasn’t for Pérotin, there wouldn’t be—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘I get it. You don’t need to go on.’ Frank was sixteen now and he towered over Peg; he had shot upwards and sprouted a load more hair. He also had musical tastes of his own and he got tired of her stories, just as he got tired of the different men who showed up. Dregs, some of them. Beneath her sunglasses he once spotted a black eye. He had suggested she needed a new hobby. Golf or something. (‘Are you serious? I have slept with half the golf club,’ she said.)

  Despite Peg’s warning about keeping away from love – or even in an effort to redress it – Frank was going steady with a girl at school. Deborah. She wore home-knitted sweaters with kittens on them, and her nipples – he had touched them twice – were like cherries. The thing Frank really liked about Deborah was that she was normal. She had two parents, for starters, and they lived in a semi-detached house with proper central heating. Her mother cooked meals every evening, which they ate at the dining-room table. Frank watched her sometimes, chopping onions, browning meat, and he felt warm to his toes. And they were nice people. Kind.

  He thought again of Deborah’s red nipples; inside his trousers he grew so tight he had to gasp for breath. He tried to think of ice cubes.

  ‘Are you going to play that record?’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Peg.’

  He edged towards the Dansette, keeping his back to her and avoiding all sudden movement.

  Tick, tick. Tick, tick.

  Out of the silence that was bigger and emptier than silence, something came floating. A voice: slim and delicat
e, it moved on miraculous muscles as though time didn’t exist. It swept him up like a bird. He could actually see it. A whole world at his feet. The white house, the sea, in the distance the town – oh God, here came that hot swelling in his groin.

  Peg remained at the window. ‘Yes. You’re a man now, Frank. Ready to fly.’

  25

  Ain’t It Funky Now

  HE HARDLY DARED believe that she was here.

  Ilse Brauchmann sat opposite him at their round table in the Singing Teapot. She was talking so fast her hair kept dropping out of its stacked-up curls. They hung like black ribbons, and none of them were quite the same length either.

  ‘Oh my God, Frank!’ and ‘That bit where …’ and ‘You know?’

  He had thought he was over the worst of his nerves but his insides were leaping. He had spent the whole night utterly miserable; convinced she would let him down. Now he couldn’t even steal a glance at her without a happy grin suctioning itself to his face. He decided to focus on the button on her white blouse, third one down. It was a perfectly ordinary little button. Nothing could go amiss if he looked there.

  The waitress had fetched tea and squash, and also provided a round of toast. ‘Bon appétit.’ She perched on a stool at the back of the café, her lace cap on her head. There were no other customers.

  Fortunately Ilse Brauchmann had plenty to say. Gulping down her orange squash, biting her way through toast, she recounted all the things she had noticed as she listened to the ‘Moonlight’ Sonata. ‘Oh God.’ (Got.) ‘That bit where Beethoven’s sitting next to her on the piano stool and he’s trying to say he loves her, and she’s listening and maybe she’s saying she likes him too. I couldn’t keep still. I was practically shouting!’

  Yes, she had found the things he had told her to listen for. She could SEE them; not just hear them. She LOVED Pet Sounds. She heard the barking dogs, bicycles, sleigh bells, bongos, tin cans, trains and cowbells. (Cowbells? Hang on, what cowbells? He had never found cowbells.) And ‘Caroline No’; oh my God, that was sad! She was waving her arms so much, the safe little button on her blouse was in danger of becoming not safe at all. ‘Was he in love with Caroline, Frank? What is the story?’