Please Don't Stop The Music Read online

  I jostled the door open with my shoulder and backed the pram in, realising as I did so that there wasn’t room for both Harry and me to fit inside the shop at the same time. In a spirit of compromise (and also because if I’d left him outside Rosie would have found out somehow and killed me), I left the front half of the pram hanging over the step. It lacked a certain dignity for a sales call but I reckoned I’d shot my bolt on the dignity thing, what with the fluffy bunny hanging toy and the Thomas the Tank Engine changing bag.

  As the door opened a broken bell let out a buzzing sound which I could feel in my teeth. Beyond the immediate doorway the shop widened, giving room for the racks of music, the guitars hanging on the walls and the stand displaying posters of the latest bands. Between the Fenders the walls were coated with neon flyers for gigs by a DJ called Zafe. At the back of the shop there was a counter with a cash register, but no-one standing behind it. It was dark and there was a smell of polish and old paper, the kind of librarianish smell that asks you to be quiet and not eat anything which might stain.

  ‘Hello?’

  My voice made Harry step up the whingeing a notch. I hoped he wasn’t hungry or wet. I had to admit to a slight squeamishness about both ends of Harry and their products.

  ‘Anyone in?’

  Harry upped the ante on the grouching stakes and he’d gone a bit pink, too. Maybe he was too hot? Did babies get too hot? I knew they had to be protected against getting chilled, but Rosie hadn’t mentioned the heat. Cautiously I reached over and tweaked the blanket further down his little green body. ‘Are you all right?’ As I drew the blanket lower a tell-tale yeasty smell floated out of the pram and I could see the stains spreading all the way up the back and sides of his sleepsuit. ‘Oh, Harry …’

  Harry, very male all of a sudden, looked rather proud of himself. Great. Food I could do, nappies I could do. A complete change of clothes and pram sheet – nope, bit lacking in the total clean laundry department.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The voice came from the dark recess at the back of the shop. Male. Great.

  ‘I … no, sorry, it’s just, he’s got a bit …’

  ‘Hold on.’ There were footsteps, a slammed door and a pause, during which Harry kicked his legs like a trainee can-can dancer and gave me a full view of just how bad things were. Not to be too graphic, it was even in his hair. Then there was someone in front of me in the doorway, prevented from coming in by Harry and his malodorous transport. ‘Hi. That’s better, now I can see you. Did you come for the guitar?’

  ‘Guitar?’

  ‘That’ll be a no then. Look, why don’t you shove the pram outside, bring the baby in with you and we’ll find out what I can do for you, yes?’ The pram was being tugged from the outside and I had no choice but to follow it into the yard and confront the man who was pulling it.

  To call his appearance weird was to leave myself short of adjectives to describe his clothes, but a few moments with a thesaurus opened to ‘urgh’ would rectify that. He was tall and skinny and wearing a shirt made for a much larger man, or at least one with shoulders. His dark hair straggled at various unkempt lengths outlining how thin his face was, and he had on multicoloured trousers which clung so tightly to his legs that I hoped they were lycra. Otherwise he was doomed to a day standing up. Around his desperately bony hips was wound an enormous belt which probably doubled his bodyweight and ended in a silver buckle with a death’s head motif. Overall he looked like a man who’d been dressed from the rag-bag and then run over by a lawn mower.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the belt buckle. Eventually the man coughed to attract my attention. ‘I don’t usually like to stop women staring at my groin, but … you’re a bit intense, I’m starting to worry.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’d have shoved a pair of socks down if I’d known, to give you something to look at. Now, shall we go inside? This young chap looks as though he could do with some attention.’ The man leaned forward as though to lift Harry out of the pram, but I leaped across to forestall him.

  ‘No!’

  The man jumped back, hands held up. He had a curiously concentrated expression as though my face was the most important thing he’d seen all day. ‘Hey, it’s all right, I’m not going to molest him or anything.’

  ‘No, it’s just that he’s absolutely filthy.’

  ‘Filthy? Why, what’s he been doing, working on a building site?’ He shook flopping locks from big brown eyes and stared down at Harry. ‘You’re a very forward little guy, aren’t you?’

  ‘I meant, like, pooey,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to be listening, staring at the baby again with that concentrated look. The lines on his face and the slight tightness of his mouth which was just visible amid some fairly serious stubble, indicated that this was his customary expression. Then his nose began to twitch.

  ‘Ah. So that’s what’s causing the complaining. Well, I’ve got a kitchenette out the back there, if a bowl of warm water and a towel is any use to you.’

  I did my best. Honest. I could feel Rosie’s presence in that little room as though I was psychic. However, I think I ended up doing pretty well for someone who’s never really been at the sharp end of parenting, and eventually carried Harry back into the shop, wrapped in every clean tea towel I’d been able to find. My unlikely saviour was lounging against the till.

  ‘Good God! He looks like a junior Roman Emperor!’

  ‘I’ll get them washed and back to you.’

  The scruffy, tight-trousered man eyed up the little shrouded figure and gave a small shudder. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not sure I could ever wipe a mug rim again without thinking about, well, you know. Keep them.’

  ‘He is wearing a clean nappy.’ I’d replaced the pram sheet with an extra-large towel bearing the legend ‘Glasgow, City of Culture’ which, doubled over, completely covered the mattress.

  ‘Even so. Now, what can I do for you?’

  I gave him the full sales pitch, a guided tour of my portfolio and then brought out the pièce de résistance, beautifully apt. It was a belt buckle formed of interwoven musical instruments with the central pin in the shape of a microphone. He handled it carefully, running his fingers over the surface without taking his eyes off my face, as I told him about the history of the piece and how I’d made it. I described the heating and twisting of the wire, the careful placement of the crystals, the way each piece felt as though it had a soul and called itself into being, with me acting only as the instrument of creation. He did have nice hands, I had to admit, with very long and slender fingers. But his eyes – there was something hidden deep inside them.

  ‘Ben,’ he said suddenly, as I paused for breath.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name. It’s Benedict. Benedict Arthur Zacchary Davies. I thought you asked.’

  ‘The middle fall out of the baby name book, did it?’ This was a bit rude of me. All very well giving him the sales pitch but I hadn’t even told him my name, so how could he order stuff? Duh. Come on Jemima, stop being such an amateur. ‘Jemima Hutton.’ Rather late in the day I held out a hand to shake, which involved a bit of Harry-juggling.

  ‘Hutton? Like the place on the moors?’

  ‘Er, yeah. I guess.’ Change the subject Jemima. ‘So, would you be interested?’

  His eyes were tracing the contours of my face. ‘Interested?’

  ‘In my stuff.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Your stuff.’

  But now I was wondering about him. About the weird way he seemed to keep watching me. He was odd. Implacable. There was something about Ben Davies that felt like he was layers deep, that there was more to him than the superficially strange. ‘My stuff. Yes.’

  His hands played with the buckle, flipping it between his fingers like a magician doing a disappearing coin trick. His body language was confusing, at odds with his responses, as though he was saying one thing but thinking another and letting a little of that internal struggle seep out i
nto the way he moved. At the moment his eyes were still firmly on my face but he seemed to be wishing me gone. ‘I’m not sure.’

  I had to get him to change his mind. If Saskia thought someone else was interested in me she might decide to keep me exclusive after all. Besides, I was bordering on the seriously broke. Even this weird guy with his tiny business tucked away down a back alley was better than nothing.

  ‘How about if I come back? Say tomorrow? I could bring some of my smaller, less expensive stuff? Look, I’ll leave you that buckle, on trust. To help you think it over?’ Every marketing book said that you should be definite, give them no get-out, and I’d blown it, I could tell from his face.

  ‘I haven’t got the customers. People who come here already know me, they want the guitars, the gear, not jewellery.’

  Frantically I stared around the shop. I had to find us some common point, some mutual interest, something, anything. My eye settled on a bright yellow star-shaped guitar hanging at the back of the shop, almost inside the kitchenette which had saved my (and Harry’s) skin. ‘Nice piece of equipment. My … cousin is into guitars. Do you play?’

  He swallowed and put the buckle down on the counter. Rubbed his hands over his face. ‘No,’ he said indistinctly. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘You gave up? Why?’ He didn’t answer and when I looked at him he was staring at the floor. A muscle trembled in his cheek and his fingers were flexing, twitching, almost as though he was playing out a tune on the strings of a long-gone instrument. I felt suddenly ashamed; there was something naked on his face, something he couldn’t conceal behind warped body-language and flippancy. A longing and a desperation.

  On my shoulder, Harry stopped bumping his head against me and began to whinge. I fussed him into a new position and when I looked up, the man – Ben – was watching me again. ‘Look, tell you what. I’ll keep this,’ and his hand closed over my sample buckle. ‘If I sell it I’ll order some pieces from you. If I can’t, then no go.’

  Hope flared through me. It wasn’t exactly an unqualified yes, but then he hadn’t dismissed me either. ‘Thank you. Ben.’

  A sudden smile lifted his face into the handsome category. ‘Don’t mention it. Jemima.’ He flicked at the business card I’d given him. ‘I’ll e-mail you if there’s any news.’

  ‘Or phone. My mobile number’s on the card.’

  ‘You’d better get that young man home. He looks like he’s working up to another eruption.’ Ben nodded towards Harry, who did indeed have a very thoughtful expression. ‘I’ve got no tea towels left to come to your rescue.’

  As I tucked Harry back into the pram I glanced in through the shop doorway and saw Ben take the blazing star guitar down off the wall. He struck a chord then played a riff, teasing his fingers up and down the frets like a man reacquainting himself with an old lover. He looked so poised, so natural, holding the guitar loosely with the body resting against his thighs, I couldn’t believe that he’d given up playing. Yet, as I began hauling the pram backwards out of the yard, it almost looked as if Ben, with his head bent over the strings, was crying.

  * * *

  21st April

  Weather fine. Sold – two guitar strings, one poster (Iggie Pop, reduced to £2.00). Breakfast – three Weetabix.

  Is this the kind of thing you want me to write, doctor? Is this giving you the insight you thought it would?

  Drank a bottle of wine. For lunch. Back in the day it would have been a couple of grammes of snow and carry on playing, with the world all feather light in my head and feeling like I owned the universe. Now I feel like I’m dragging each day by the neck. So, what do you want me to say? What am I supposed to write? You want the truth, you want to know how I am? I’m scared, that’s how I am, scared and depressed. What’s the point in any of this any more?

  So, today was – a day. Wednesday? Maybe. Who cares? Who fucking cares? Nothing out of the ordinary, just hours passing here inside this box. Oh no, one thing, a girl came in with her baby, wanting me to buy some jewellery, stuff that she makes. Felt kinda sorry for her, she looked a bit out of her depth, bit unpractised, still she’ll get the hang. Come to terms with it, like we all have to do. Wade through the crap until you realise that there’s only more crap on the other side. She was – cute, skinny. Bit scared-looking. Something about the eyes … Told her my name but she didn’t get it, so I guess … hey, there have to be a few, you know? Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but no.

  I don’t need anyone.

  Chapter Three

  When I went over to the workshop the following day, Jason was finishing off stretching a portrait of David Beckham across the front end of a Deltic diesel.

  ‘Kettle’s on.’ He didn’t even look at me, just hung from his ladder and welded another wire through the footballer’s face. Poor Mr Beckham now looked as though he had a case of ferrous acne, and even the engine wasn’t coming out of it well, but this was the sort of thing Jason did. And sold. Made you wonder about art, sometimes.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, and you got an e-mail. Two sugars.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t go through my mails, Jase. They might be private.’

  Jason hooked a leg around a strut for stability and looked thoughtful. ‘Right. So your secret lover is going to communicate by e-mail? Not very romantic.’

  ‘Yes, Jason,’ I said pointedly. ‘And with you being such a romantic, and all, you feel able to comment.’ I made the coffee, but to punish him didn’t put any sugar in.

  Jason gave me his best Johnny Depp look, lowering his head and peeping out from under his eyelashes.

  ‘Aw, come on, babe.’ He slid down the ladder and landed at my feet. ‘It was only the once!’

  ‘Taking a girl to see Hot Fuzz and then dumping her by text because she didn’t laugh? Believe me, Jase, it only needed to be the once.’

  Jason took a huge swig of his coffee then made a series of faces which were an artwork in their own right. ‘Jem, you trying to kill me, babe, or what?’

  ‘By text, Jason,’ I said sternly. ‘It’s never acceptable.’

  ‘You sold something.’

  ‘It’s like being dumped by Post-It. I … what?’

  ‘Some guy mailed to say he’d sold your buckle? Now, presuming that’s not kinda slang for having nailed you last night, which, babe, ain’t happened since I’ve known ya and I’m thinking you’ve fossilised down there …’

  ‘You are such a pain, Jase.’ I elbowed him out of the way and ran through to the office where we kept the computer. Jason liked his appliances like he liked his women so it was slim and sexy. And very, very slow. He didn’t like to be intellectually challenged by his girlfriends, he said, but still managed to swim in an enormous dating pool. Mind you, he normally went out with supermodels, so, there you go. ‘It must be from Ben. The guy I left the big buckle with yesterday? My only hope? I told you last night, remember.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He hovered behind me as I logged on. ‘The guy in the tiny shop, with no customers, who sold guitars. Yeah. Sounds a real possibility.’

  I ignored him and opened my in-box. There amid the offers and deals was one from [email protected].

  Dear Jemima

  I’m glad to say that I sold your belt buckle this morning. So, if you’d like to drop by with some more of your work I would be delighted to stock it.

  Best regards

  Benedict Davies

  Davies Guitars – Bessel Street – York. For all your musical needs

  ‘“Best Regards”! Bloody Nora, Jem! ’E talks like my dad!’

  ‘It is meant to be a business e-mail, not like you’d know. The only e-mails you get hold the world record for the number of times you can mention sex in a subject line.’

  ‘Jemima! Jason!’ It was Rosie calling from the front. ‘Are you in?’

  ‘Hi, Rosie.’ I popped out of the office. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Saskia just rang.’ Rosie was slightly out of breath. She wasn’t going to take up
going to the gym again until her stomach stopped needing its own postcode. ‘She’s doubled my order.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes. But she wants it by next weekend. So I wondered … would you mind Harry for me? Just for today, to let me make a start?’

  And, sure enough, parked in the doorway was the pram. ‘I assume he’s in there.’ Jason eyed up the changing bag and advanced on the pram with the gormless grin he always adopted when Harry was around. Whatever his faults may be, and there were earthquake zones with less faults than Jason, he doted on the baby. ‘You didn’t just bring the transport to, like, ease us in gently.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to do!’ And Rosie suddenly had tears overflowing. ‘I can’t work with him there, I can’t! He cries and I have to hold him, it’s the only thing that stops him! And I can’t do the cards with one hand!’

  Jason was instantly all sympathy. Well, mostly sympathy, some of him was solder and rust. ‘Course we’ll have him, won’t we, Jem? He’s a lovely little lad, no trouble at all.’ And then, as soon as Rosie had gone, ‘Can you take him, Jem? Only I gotta get Mr Beckham good to go.’

  ‘But I need to get to York and drop some more pieces off!’

  ‘You took Harry with you yesterday. Mr Stick-up-his-arse didn’t complain did he?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘I mean, he could stay here but, you know, the glue and everything. Don’t want to turn out the world’s youngest solvent addict.’

  ‘All right. The guy is weird, at least if I take Harry I could use the pram as a weapon.’

  Jason paused, half way back up the ladder. ‘He’s not, like, some kinda psycho, is he?’

  ‘He … what?’

  ‘Or is he that kinda weird that you girls like, that mean and moody thing?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. I’m not interested in him, I just want someone to sell my pieces.’