by Rachel Joyce
‘Actually it’s a violin,’ says Kit.
‘I don’t give a flying fuck what it is. Play the thing.’
Maud marches to one of the few remaining free tables, piled high with abandoned food wrappings, napkins and paper cups. She clears a space while Kit fetches a roll of blue paper towel and something squirty, in order to rub at the sticky patches. He presents Ilse with a chair. Tugging his Lycra jacket over his head so that his hair stands up in a wild halo of static, he then folds it into a careful square and makes a cushion of it. Father Anthony approaches with the violin case. He places it on the newly cleaned table and solemnly undoes the zipper. Ilse’s heart jumps like a piston.
‘This is not going to work,’ she says. ‘Look at my hands.’ They are trembling with a life of their own.
‘You’re our only chance,’ says Father Anthony. He takes her fingers, presses them inside his, warming them up. She steals one last look at the security guards. Kit holds out the old violin.
At this point – and to her eternal surprise – her instinct takes over. Despite her terror, her body knows what to do, without requiring the aid of the rest of her. Her back straightens, her neck lifts, her stance widens. Her arms welcome the violin, her left hand opens around the scroll, resting the broad end on her left collarbone. Her head lowers until it reaches the chin rest and angles itself a little to the left so that the chin rest now tucks beneath her jaw and ends at her chin. There is a direct line from her nose to the struts at the neck of the violin.
Britney Spears sings ‘Toxic’. Ilse’s right arm shakes so hard she can barely bring up the raggedy bow.
She remembers, The cure is in the disease.
She positions her left hand at the neck, supporting it between her thumb and forefinger, with her other fingers curled around the struts. Her thumb locks and she almost drops the thing. Kit gasps.
She lifts the bow in her right hand, resting her right forefinger on top of the bow’s pad and her pinky finger on the screw. Her hands are stiff and the effort sends a shooting pain up from her wrists. Father Anthony reaches out and steadies her arm.
She manages the most basic introduction to the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’. A child could do better. It is not strictly in tune and her notes are a scratch, a squeak. At her side, Kit hums the tune to keep her steady, and so does Father Anthony. But it is Maud who drops her mouth wide and sings loudest.
Nobody looks up. People continue to eat and drink. The little girl strapped in her pushchair is still crying. The three businessmen eat their pizzas, the old ladies continue with that slice of chocolate cake. Frank doesn’t even notice.
Then – ‘Hallelujah!’ The girl with the baseball cap leaps to her feet.
She is holding her sandwich but her voice is clear. She tips her chin upwards so that she seems to be singing not to anyone in particular, but more towards the sky, or at least the yellowy glass roof.
One or two people turn to look. Most continue to eat. The couple right next to her stare, as if they have no idea what’s come over her. They shuffle their chairs away, trying to create a distance. Ilse’s hand can barely keep hold of the bow.
‘Hallelujah!’ The young man who was asleep springs to life and leaps on his chair. ‘Hallelujah,’ he sings loud.
The businessmen put down their pizzas and unlock their briefcases. A few waitresses laugh.
‘Hallelujah!’ A young couple waiting at USA Chicken throw their arms wide.
And now three attendants make a dash from the lavatories, wearing overalls. ‘Hallelujah!’ they sing, as if to spread the marvellous news.
Ilse’s left fingers move on the struts. They’re too slow. She steals a glance in the direction of the security guards. They don’t seem to have heard anything up there.
But everyone else has begun to notice. They don’t know who is going to sing next. They glance around, waiting, uneasy, as if this thing might be contagious. The two old ladies sharing cake, the girl waiting for the man in the jogging suit, a waitress at Happy Wok; one by one they rise to their feet and sing. A minute in, and at least twenty people have joined in.
‘For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
‘Hallelujah!
‘Hallelujah!’
Will the security guards notice?
Will Frank?
‘For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.’
The three businessmen snap open their briefcases and produce a recorder, a triangle and a shaker. Springing to their feet, they begin to play. This is not – by any stretch of the imagination – the purest version of the Messiah, it has a few alterations and mistakes and a lot of extra—
‘Hallelujah. Hallelujah!’
Nevertheless people smile, entranced. Some pull phones and cameras from their bags and start to film. The woman whose son was banging her mobile now lifts him on to his chair for a better view. People exchange brief looks with strangers, checking this is for real. Even those who don’t know the words are singing something like ‘Hallelujah!’ Thirty people now.
No, forty.
No, forty-five.
The person in the yellow cagoule shucks it off and reveals herself as the Singing Teapot owner. She climbs right on top of her table, throws her arms wide enough to embrace a mountain, and yells: ‘Hallelujah!’
Fifty people.
The lift opens and two choristers dash out. ‘Hallelujah!’
Sixty voices, all of them sent upwards. ‘Hallelujah!’
Some people sing as if they have at last found the thing they were supposed to do – joyful, exuberant, dental work for all to see – while for others it is a tentative, private experience, more of a murmur than a song. The music is big enough to contain anything anyone could ever feel. The emergency exit doors swing open and a care-worker appears from the home, pushing an old man in a wheelchair.
And ‘He shall reign for ever and ever!’ The refrain resounds from Happy Wok, from Sweet-you-like, from among the blue-squirrel bins and the giant plastic leaves.
‘King of Kings. For ever! For ever! Hallelujah. Hallelujah.’
One hundred people sing in a shopping mall. Outside, the air will stink of cheese and onion, people are being mugged, others are starving, the sky is grey, but for one brief and irrational gap in time, there is this beautiful human madness. The world is not terrible after all.
Then – just as the piece should begin to climb towards its crescendo – the security guards glance down and notice.
‘Shit. Now we’re for it,’ shouts Kit.
But it’s too late. Too many people are involved. There is no stopping this thing.
The security guards go straight from static to full running. They don’t even do the walky bit that generally goes in the middle. They march down the escalators, leaping the bottom step, and, yes—
‘Hallelujah!’
In his joy Kit runs forward to throw out button badges and people scramble to pick them up. I love vinyl! Hallelujah! The sleepy man dashes out to join Kit and they embrace, jumping as they laugh.
The chorus builds. Everyone is on their feet. Everyone is singing. In truth this ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ has taken a jazzy improvised turn of its own. It owes very little to Handel, and it has far outstretched its conventional running time of four minutes. But then – just as people reach the climax – something else happens.
They raise their hands.
‘Hallelujah. Hallelujah.’
Kit has not planned any of this. The idea seems to be there in the shopping mall; it’s just a question of going with it, and not messing it up by thinking too hard. Everyone – young, old, musical, non-musical – all these people stand with their arms raised, like three hundred trees. And what are they holding?
Record sleeves.
Albums, 45s, 12-inch singles, picture discs, coloured discs, bootlegs, collector’s items, original pressings. Some people are even holding up their vinyl. They push it high for Frank to see.
‘Hallelujah. Hallelujah.’
And now placards too.
You gave me Bach.
Hello from Stockport.
You gave me Aretha.
We love you, Frank, from Cardiff!
Remember us, Frank? The crazy couple from Düsseldorf!
And here it is. That last chorus. The one that made Peg bawl.
‘Hallelujah! Hallelujah!’
Three hundred people PAUSE. You could hear a pin drop.
Then: ‘HALL-LE-LOOOOOO-JAHHHH.’
In the silence that follows, one man sits. Eyes down. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t drink. He doesn’t even move.
‘What happened?’ asks a child, very loud. ‘Didn’t he hear?’
Of course he heard. But he remains as before, the old bastard, refusing to wake.
It’s too much. Kit flops into the arms of the young man he danced with. Maud gropes for Father Anthony’s hand and he in turn removes his coat and slips it over her shoulders.
Ilse weaves through the crowd. People stand, still holding up their records, and they part like water, allowing her to pass. She pushes through until she is right in front of Frank’s white plastic table. If she reached out, she could touch his hair. He remains looking down.
‘Frank.’ Her voice wobbles. ‘I have come back for you. All these people have shown up. They have sung. I have played. They brought their vinyl. Look at us. Look! But we can’t do the whole thing on our own. The last bit is up to you.’ She can feel the heat in her cheeks. Two blazing circles. ‘You think you can just sit there? You bloody, bloody man. Wake up!’
Her pulse beats so hard she feels it in her neck and ribs. She can see nothing but the crown of his bowed head. The only movement is a slight tremble from his fingers.
It’s too much. She turns. Pushes her way back through the fringe of the crowd towards Maud, Kit and Father Anthony. She feels their eyes on her like lead weights, pressing all the energy from inside her. Tears blur her path. She will get a flight home. She will sell her mother’s apartment. Move on. She should never have come back—
She’s a few feet into the crowd when something tugs at her skirt. A hand. She pushes it off – No, go away – but it comes back.
‘Lady!’ a voice calls. ‘Miss!’ It is the boy who banged his mother’s mobile phone. ‘Come back. Look.’
She turns. People dip their heads this way and that, trying to get a better view. There he is. Frank. Burger. Fizzy drink. Something is definitely happening. His shoulders lift and fall. His hands span the edge of the table and grip hard.
He slowly eases himself to his full height. His mouth drops. Amid the crowd, amid a hundred plastic cups and iced doughnuts and Great British Potatoes and Happy Wok meals, across a sea of I love vinyl! and Thank you, Frank! he finds Ilse Brauchmann and their eyes lock.
Silence falls over the entire shopping mall.
He gazes at her.
She gazes at him.
His mouth does something funny that says, Is that really you?
Her mouth curves to say, I guess it is.
Tears come, but he does not shake them away. His breath goes in, it goes out, and through it all, his tears. For a moment she is terrified it is too much for him, that he will fall, but no, he keeps his beautiful eyes locked on hers. Then with one movement, he lifts the plastic table and clears it to one side. So now there is nothing between them but several feet’s worth of infinite love.
He gives a little shake of his head. Not a No. It is a gesture of wonder. Followed by a look that is more of a question. Are you going to stay?
She laughs.
He lifts his arms. Clears the distance between them in one small step.
He draws her close.
HIDDEN TRACK
THERE IS A music shop.
From the outside it still looks like any shop, in any backstreet, in any city. The name is painted in big letters above the door and there is a colourful display in the window, along with an illuminated sign. WE LOVE VINYL! WELCOME!
Inside, the shop is packed with stock. To the left, to the right, and running along the centre, polished wooden units are crammed with records and there are separate racks for shining towers of CDs. Each one of them has been labelled with individual notes, describing the album and suggesting listening tips; things to notice, music that is similar, and why you might like to try it. Scented candles line the counter, along with a vase of flowers.
Behind it sits a tall man, wearing a bottle-green sweatshirt with the shop logo. His hair is a shamble of white. His wife sits beside him, a small woman, wearing a sweatshirt just like his with the same logo, Frank’s Records. She has silvery hair – some pinned up, some dangling – and extraordinarily large eyes. A giant and his lady.
On the wall behind them hangs a framed photograph of a very old man with a lopsided laugh. It must have been taken a few years ago because the man and woman at the counter are in the photograph too, and they look younger. In the photo, she is wearing a diddy hat with a veil. He has a big leaf in his lapel. Their wedding? Whatever the occasion, everyone in the photo is very happy, with the possible exception of a scowling short woman with geometric hair. RIP, dear Father Anthony!!! someone has written beneath it in bouncy metallic pen. Jazzin’ it up there with Miles!!
You ease a record from its cover. It’s years since you’ve held one but you do this without thinking. Slide your fingers inside the sleeve, careful not to touch the vinyl. Draw it out. Hear the rustle of paper. Balance it in the span of your palm, the outer rim on your thumb, the label on the tip of your middle finger. As it brushes your wrist, feel the soft static kiss of it. Smooth as liquorice and twice as shiny. Light spills over it like water. Breathe in the new smell.
‘Can we help?’ asks the woman behind the counter. Her accent has a little edge to it.
So you say you are looking for music, you don’t really know what. Actually you threw out all your vinyl years ago. You don’t even have a CD player any more. Mostly you shop online and if you want music you stream it on your mobile phone. But it shocks you, now you say it, how quickly the world dispensed with things like records and shops. Even your local bank has closed.
‘Well, lots of us did,’ agrees the woman, as if people think – and say – this all the time. ‘Lots of people threw away their records. In 1988 all we wanted were CDs.’ Two red circles ping into her cheeks. The man at her side takes her hand, lifts it to his mouth and kisses it. It is a gesture of infinite tenderness. ‘Now how can we help?’ she asks.
‘I’m not sure,’ you say.
The man turns his gaze on you. His eyes crinkle at the corners.
‘What do you think?’ she asks him. ‘What do you think our new customer should listen to?’
He continues to gaze. He continues to smile. It is as if he has seen you before, somewhere in another part of your life. But it is not the strength of his gaze that stuns you, or even its steadiness; it is the kindness. He knows what you have been through, the losses and disappointments, he feels them too. It’s like being charged with a whizz of light.
You begin to blush. Pull at your coat. Mutter about something you heard on Spotify.
But: ‘Aretha!’ he booms.
‘Aretha?’ repeats his wife.
‘Oh yes.’ They seem to think that’s an inspired idea. Oh yes, they agree. You are going to love Aretha.
She says, ‘Why don’t you stay and listen? Our new Saturday boy will take care of you.’
She points to the back of the shop. And that’s when you notice a whole gang of customers, sitting in easy chairs with headphones. People alone, couples, teenagers. Families even. How could they all know about this place when you didn’t? They drink coffee. Some look up. A few nod as if to say hello. One or two are asleep. A teenage boy covered in badges darts forward. Cappuccino, he asks? Biscuit? In his eagerness to take your coat, he narrowly misses flooring a scented candle.
You glance back at the outside world. A lot of the streets are dangerous these days. A lot are run-down. People rush past the sho
p window in the dirt-grey city light.
‘You know, you can stay here as long as you like,’ says the woman at the counter. ‘Isn’t that right, Frank?’
He nods with solemn authority and smiles.
‘You can come any time,’ she says. ‘We’re always here.’
PERSONAL NOTE
IN ORDER TO write about music and healing, I did a lot of research, and even though little of it appears in the book now, I wouldn’t have been able to write very much without it. So as well as reading many books, articles, blogs, online references and record sleeves, I relied on the wisdom, passion and kindness of many people – music-shop owners, record collectors, healers, music lovers, and most of all my husband, Paul Venables. I relied on him all the time.
In particular I would like to thank Graham Jones; Simon Vincent at Trading Post Records, Stroud; Robert Nichols; Gabrielle Drake; Michael Odell; the assistant with the polo-neck sweater in the jazz section of Soundscapes, Toronto; Larus Johanneson and everyone at 12 Tonar, Reykjavik; Tim Winter and the staff of Harold Moores Records; Johnnie Walker; Cathy Thompson; Jumbo Records, Leeds; Sophie Wilson; Peter Macdonald; Lucy Brett; Vinyl Vault; the bewildered and extremely young assistant who explained to me about master bags at Phonica Records, London; Susanna Wadeson and Lizzy Goudsmit; Alison Barrow; Clare Conville; Susan Kamil; Kiara Kent; Susanne Halbleib; Steve Gibbs; Chris Rowe; Myra Joyce; Amy Proto; and Emily Joyce.
Any mistakes in this book are entirely Frank’s or Peg’s.
About the Author
Rachel Joyce is the author of the Sunday Times and international bestsellers The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Perfect, The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy and a collection of interlinked short stories, A Snow Garden & Other Stories. Her work has been translated into thirty-six languages.
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Book Prize and longlisted for the Man Booker Prize. Rachel was awarded the Specsavers National Book Awards ‘New Writer of the Year’ in December 2012 and shortlisted for the ‘UK Author of the Year’ 2014.
