by Rachel Joyce
‘Is that it?’ asked the girl.
‘I haven’t done this kind of thing for a while. I’m a bit out of practice.’
It took the couple a moment to get up. The boy insisted on helping the girl but she was heavier than he expected and he almost lost his balance. The girl blushed and made a business of arranging the tassels on her scarf and then thanked Father Anthony.
He stood watching as they walked hand in hand down Unity Street. He was filled with an old warm feeling that was like growing twelve feet tall. He thought of the woman he had loved all those years ago; her head on his shoulder for the last time. It’s right this way. It’s right if I go. Real love was a journey with many pitfalls and complications, and sometimes the place you ended up was not the one you hoped for. But there. Better to have held her hand on a summer’s day than nothing at all.
He looked up at the city sky, more orange than black and certainly without stars, and he began to laugh. ‘Thank you for that one. Thank you.’
Ripping up the letter from Fort Development, he switched off the lights, put on his hat and climbed the stairs.
27
Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now
‘IT’S ME.’
Thursday morning, first thing. Ilse Brauchmann stood at the door of the music shop.
‘I was just passing—’ She gripped tight to her handbag with both hands, as if it were a small float and she was on the verge of hurling herself into deep water.
Frank and Kit stared.
‘I thought I might take a look at your shrink-wrap machine.’
Frank and Kit stared some more.
‘I have a couple of hours. Then I have to get back to my—’
What?
Hairdresser? Swimming coach? FIANCÉ?
‘Work.’
Frank couldn’t move. How could a man be this many adjectives, within the space of one small moment? He was so delighted, confused, excited, terrified, happy, sad, totally sure, totally uncertain, he merely stood behind his turntable like an actor who had forgotten not only his lines, or his part, but also which production he was in.
Fortunately Kit remembered all those things. ‘Come in! Come in!’ he sang, weaving past all the boxes of new stock to welcome her. He asked if he could help her find a record, or make her a coffee, but Ilse Brauchmann repeated she had little time, she just wondered if she could be of any help with the shrink-wrap machine. As Kit led her to the back of the shop, Frank waited for her to notice him and smile or wave or do whatever else two people who loved talking music should do, but she remained with her eyes glued downwards. Never had anyone shown such an interest in the faded weave of the Persian runner, and the putty-filled gaps between the floorboards. She didn’t even glance up to say hello.
As Kit had predicted, she had a knack with the shrink-wrap machine. She took control of the situation in a way no one had done in the shop in years.
First, she stood looking at the thing in complete silence. She walked around it several times, then she stooped to peer inside, before studying the roll of cellophane. She passed Kit her handbag and practised stretching a length of film over an album sleeve. She examined the mouth of the machine where you slotted the record, as well as the bucket at the other end where the newly wrapped album was supposed to land. She still said nothing.
Frank merely watched from his turntable, overwhelmed. He couldn’t believe she had come back so soon. What had she made of Pérotin and James Brown? He was impatient to be alone with her and find out.
‘Ach so,’ Ilse Brauchmann murmured. ‘Hm-mm. Aha. Ich verstehe.’ She unbuttoned her coat and passed it to Kit. She was wearing a simple black dress. Next she opened her handbag and pulled out an apron. Looping the strap over her head, she tied it at the waist. She fetched two kirby grips out of her pocket to pin up some more of her hair.
‘Shall I take your GLOVES?’ asked Kit, doing his best to sound nonchalant, but sounding ominous instead.
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks, Kit. I’m fine.’
‘Are you SURE?’
‘Ja, I’m sure.’
She switched on the machine and stood with her arms folded, waiting. She didn’t do anything for a really long time.
Kit stopped worrying about her hands and worried about something else instead.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘You’re not going to faint or anything?’
‘No. I’m just thinking.’
She stretched her arms above her head. Lowering them, she slowly pulled her fingers, one by one. She wiggled one hand, then the other. Rotated her wrists. Kit went back to worrying about her hands now and openly stared, transfixed, as if it was a piece of wonder she had anything on the end of her arms at all.
She picked up one record and wrapped it in cellophane, carefully smoothing it over the edges, but not too tight. She fitted it in the slot of the machine and pressed the green button. She stood waiting with her hands clasped together as the machine whizzed and thwapped. A minute later it emerged at the other end perfectly sealed. There was no mangled cellophane, no smell of burning, you couldn’t even see the join. The album looked so shiny and perfect, Frank had to sit on the impulse to kiss it. How had she done that? When Kit led himself in a spontaneous round of applause, she shrugged with an embarrassed smile.
‘It really isn’t very complicated.’
Now was Frank’s moment. He moved from behind his turntable and lingered close, not exactly in her way, but clearing his throat several times like a man with a cough who requires attention.
Kit passed her a new record for the machine. Frank listened to him explaining that the shop was going to have new units, and he listened to Ilse Brauchmann, agreeing how exciting this all was. Frank couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Kit told her that each record would have its own special handmade label with listening tips, devised by Frank, and she said what a brilliant idea that was too, though she still didn’t acknowledge the large man standing several feet to her right. In fact she seemed intent on looking everywhere but at him.
There was an ease between Kit and Ilse that made Frank feel oversized and superfluous. When he suggested Kit might like to go to Woolworths to buy labels for the records, Kit said he would go later. Ilse smoothed a length of cellophane over a record, checking the fit.
‘But you love going to Woolworths, Kit. You love buying stationery.’
‘Yes, Frank, but right now I am extremely busy helping Ilse Brauchmann. Aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ she said, nipping the smallest glance at Frank’s plimsolls. She didn’t even have the grace to take in the whole shoe; only the end part, where his big toe made a bulge in the canvas. And neither did she mention the records Frank had found for her, or whether she had bothered to listen. Her manner towards him was so formal and cold, you’d think their two lessons in the Singing Teapot had never happened. Frank picked up some singles and made a neat pile of them. He had no idea where to put himself.
‘Kit, I need those labels right now. I need to start writing up my listening tips.’
‘Then why don’t you go to Woolworths?’ said Kit. Plain as day.
‘Because I am busy.’ Frank tucked his T-shirt into the waistband of his trousers. In the circumstances, he couldn’t think of anything busier.
‘We can manage without you. Can’t we, Ilse Brauchmann?’
She didn’t even have the decency to reply. She simply hummed. And not a proper hum. More like the closing of a door.
So what did Frank do? In a crazy, misjudged attempt to provoke her into – what? Feeling sorry for not appearing to notice him? Missing him? – he found himself declaring that he was off to buy labels. She merely shrugged, as if she didn’t give a damn either way, and pressed the green button on the shrink-wrap machine. Frank walked slowly and deliberately to the front of the shop. He said again, without moving, that he was just off to BUY LABELS. In case ANYONE wanted to accompany him—
‘Could you get some Pick ’n’ Mix as well?’ asked Kit.
&
nbsp; Ilse Brauchmann passed a record into the slot and said nothing at all.
Frank had never walked so fast. There was a long queue for the till, so he abandoned the labels – the last place he wanted to be right now was Woolworths – but then he bumped into Mrs Roussos on the corner of Unity Street, who was having difficulty with her new microwave. By the time Frank had plugged it in, and then stopped to reassure the Williams brothers because they were worrying about another letter from Fort Development, forty minutes had passed. He flung open the door to his shop.
Empty. Just a pile of beautifully wrapped records beside his turntable, and Kit making a poster at the counter.
‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Mother Teresa.’
‘Mother Teresa was in our shop? When?’ Kit looked all screwed up with confusion.
‘No. Of course she wasn’t. I mean Ilse—’ He couldn’t even manage her full name. ‘The German woman.’
‘Oh. She had to go.’
‘Did she say when she’d be back?’
‘Hm.’ Kit thought very hard. He sucked his pen, he scratched his hair, and then he balanced on one leg. ‘No.’
A steady flow of builders called by to quote for the refurbishment of the shop. They sucked their teeth and took sharp intakes of breath, as if the changes Frank was proposing were not only costly but also life-threatening. All he wanted, he kept repeating, were some essential repairs to the external masonry, and some new units.
The work was certainly going to be more complicated than Frank had assumed. It would require scaffolding, not to mention the hire of a skip and the removal of all the old plaster, in order to make a proper working surface for the new stuff. It had seemed so much simpler when he had done the work himself with only the help of a book from the library and a few passers-by. But this, it turned out, was part of the difficulty. The shop was really a botch job. ‘An accident waiting to happen,’ one of them said. Even though the quotes were more than he had budgeted for, Frank made a down-payment and booked a builder and electrician to start as soon as they were available. If they worked part-time, there would be no need for the shop to close.
For the rest of the week, he tried his best not to wait for Ilse Brauchmann. He ordered more vinyl. He listened to his customers and found the records they needed. He mangled several in the shrink-wrap machine, and also burnt his hand. But every time the shop door opened, his heart soared, only to fall flat. Had he offended her? Had she not liked the records he’d found? Maybe her fiancé had suggested someone else to give her music lessons. Someone with proper qualifications. He pictured another man telling her about Bach – without waving his arms, or referring to orgasms – and the thought made him wretched. If only he could replay their last scene. Why wasn’t there an official manual about this kind of stuff, telling you what to do?
Word began to spread about Frank’s new collection of vinyl. Even though it was not yet labelled, or indeed shrink-wrapped, a few collectors turned up, eager to rummage through his extensive stock before anyone else got there. They left with bags of records. One returned with a van. A journalist came to write a piece for the local paper and took Frank’s photograph. (INDIE SHOOPKEEPER MAKES CRAZY BID TO SAVE VINYL. Beneath the heading, a photo of Frank with his eyes closed – he hadn’t realized about the flash – and Kit, proud in his blue uniform.) A DJ was so delighted with Frank’s selection of funk and 12-inch singles, he gave the shop several plugs on his late-night radio show. When Frank went down to unlock the door on Saturday morning, he was met by a queue of ten or more music fans and collectors. He saw a tweed coat, a bomber jacket, several anoraks and a knitted cardigan.
But a green coat?
Not a peep.
Tuesday the twenty-third of February. Half past five. The Singing Teapot café:
‘I thought I had offended you.’
‘I thought I had offended you. I came to help, Frank, and you didn’t even say hello.’
‘You didn’t say hello to me.’
‘But you’re the shopkeeper. It’s your job to say hello.’
It was only their third lesson. Sitting opposite one another at their regular table, they remained in their coats, as if they might leave at any moment. So here was Frank. Here was Ilse. And instead of ordering drinks and talking music, they were arguing about which of them had been the most unpleasant.
‘You didn’t even look at me, Frank.’
‘You didn’t look at me. You didn’t even look at my plimsolls.’
‘Did you want me to look at your plimsolls?’
‘Excuse me.’ The Singing Teapot waitress adjusted her teensy cap and placed two laminated place mats like a bridge between Ilse and Frank. She fetched two menus, two sets of cutlery, and napkins folded into fan shapes. Would they like their regular order? She had taken the liberty of getting in some lemon squash.
‘I know the cook has gone home,’ said Ilse Brauchmann, opening the menu. ‘But the thought of all this food makes me so hungry.’
‘I could do eggs?’ suggested the waitress, scratching her ear and looking apprehensive.
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Frank.
Ilse Brauchmann flashed him a look. ‘This nice girl is offering you an egg. The least you can do is eat it.’
‘Thank you. I will have an egg.’
‘Fried? Or boiled?’
‘What?’
‘You really don’t need to sound so remarkably snappy,’ said Ilse Brauchmann, sounding remarkably snappy.
Frank asked for a fried egg. Ilse ordered boiled. ‘Bon appétit,’ said the waitress, so frazzled she forgot she had not yet cooked anything.
As soon as they were alone again, they were back to arguing. Ilse said she couldn’t believe he would just march out of the shop when she had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to leave work and help him. But if she cared to remember, he pointed out, she was the one who had not said hello, or mentioned records, or even a thank you—
‘I pay for my lessons. And it’s good money too.’
‘Do you think I need your money?’
She merely shrugged as if they both knew the answer to that one and she wasn’t going to stoop so low as to voice it.
‘And what about your fiancé?’
‘What about him?’ At last. A reaction. A mottled stab of red appeared in the skin just above Ilse Brauchmann’s top button.
‘What does he think about our music lessons?’
Ilse repositioned the ashtray, which was not, by any stretch of the imagination, out of place. She said nothing.
‘Does he mind?’
‘Why would he mind?’
‘Does he even know?’
She gave an angry shake of her head. Her nostrils flared. ‘Can you stop going on about Richard? Do you think the man cares whether or not I have music lessons?’
So he had a name. He was real. Frank didn’t know why that hurt so much, but it did; only, it was a safe, familiar hurt. He could sit beside it, like a very old friend.
Here at last was the Singing Teapot waitress, smashing her way through the saloon doors with her rear quarters and bearing a tray. ‘Excuse me.’
She arranged a pot of tea on the table, followed by extra hot water, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes, tongs, slices of lemon, packets of sweetener and one large glass of lemon squash, finished off with a foil umbrella, a straw and a plenitude of ice.
‘Bon appétit.’ She remained watching them and frowning, the way a child stares at a tower of toy blocks, willing it not to fall over. Then she hoofed it through her saloon doors.
Frank pretended to read the menu. He very much wanted to say something civil to Ilse Brauchmann but they seemed to have got themselves in a corner where only uncivil ones came out. And now they had started, there was – strangely – a kind of pleasure, or at least a relief, in saying the spiky things you shouldn’t. ‘So?’ he asked of the Breakfasts page. ‘Did you listen to the records?’
Ilse also picked up
her menu. ‘Yes,’ she said, addressing High Tea.
‘Did you lie down?’
‘Natürlich.’
‘Close your eyes?’
‘Jawohl. Have you worked out how to use your shrink-wrap machine?’
In reply Frank made an airy noise that was not exactly negative, but not so big as a yes.
They continued to read their very interesting menus. Beans on toast … scone with jam … ham sandwich with side portion of coleslaw. Well, they could waste the whole hour if she wanted. It would still cost her fifteen quid.
Then, ‘What music will we talk about today?’ Her voice sounded childlike.
He lowered his menu. She lowered hers.
‘Do you still want to?’
‘Do you?’
Her eyes were coated with tears. There was something so brave and naked about the way she kept them fixed on his. It gave him a strange, unsettling feeling that it was in his power to really hurt her. He swallowed hard.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’
‘Me too, Frank. I’m sorry I was angry.’
‘It’s me who should apologize.’
‘And I like your plimsolls.’
‘I like your shoes.’
‘Well at least that’s sorted. At least we know we have nice footwear.’
She reached for his hand. Strictly speaking, it was more a handshake than a handhold; not romantic, more in line with a business agreement. Nevertheless as his fingers caught the tips of her soft kid gloves, he allowed himself to imagine the delicate hands beneath. The slender fingers, the shells of her nails, her engagement ring—
‘Eggs.’
Beside them, the waitress beamed proudly, as if she had not only cooked those eggs but also laid them. ‘One fried. One boiled. Bon appétit.’
28
A Dress for Berlioz
‘WE ARE WILD creatures,’ said Peg, ‘struggling to be civilized. Take Berlioz, for example. What do you know about him, Deborah?’
Deborah went the colour of her pink knitted jumper.
‘Not very much, Peg.’
‘How much?’
‘Nothing actually.’
