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A Novel
by Rachel Joyce
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"I wish you'd think about selling the new CDs," said Father Anthony.
"Are you joking?" Kit laughed. "He'd rather die than sell CDs."
Then the door opened and ding-dong: a new customer. Frank felt a ping of excitement.
A tidy, middle-aged man followed the Persian runner that led all the way to the turntable. Everything about this man seemed ordinary—his coat, his hair, even his ears—as if he had been deliberately assembled so that no one would look at him twice. Head bowed, he crept past the counter to his right, where Maud stood with Father Anthony and Kit, and behind them all the records stored in cardboard master bags. He passed the old wooden shelving to his left, the door that led up to Frank's flat, the central table, and all the plastic crates piled with surplus stock. Not even a sideways glance at the patchwork of album sleeves and homemade posters thumbtacked by Kit all over the walls. At the turntable, he stopped and pulled out a handkerchief. His eyes were red dots.
"Are you all right?" Frank asked, in his boom of a voice. "How can I help you today?"
"The thing is, you see, I only like Chopin."
Frank remembered now. This man had come in a few months ago. He had been looking for something to calm his nerves before his wedding.
"You bought the nocturnes," he said.
The man wriggled his mouth. He didn't seem used to the idea that anyone would remember him. "I've got myself in another spot of difficulty. I wondered if you might—find something else for me?" He had missed a patch on his chin when he was shaving. There was something lonesome about it, that scratchy patch of stubble, all on its own.
So Frank smiled because he always smiled when a customer asked for help. He asked the same questions he always asked. Did the man know what he was looking for? (Yes. Chopin.) Had he heard anything else that he liked? (Yes. Chopin.) Could he hum it? (No. He didn't think he could.)
The man shot a look over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, but they weren't. Over the years, they'd seen everything in the music shop. There were the regular customers, of course, who came to find new records, but often people wanted something more. Frank had helped them through illness, grief, loss of confidence, and loss of jobs, as well as the more daily things like football results and the weather. Not that he knew about all those things, but really it was a matter of listening, and he had endless patience. As a boy, he could stand for hours with a piece of bread in his hand, hoping for a bird.
But the man was gazing at Frank. He was waiting.
"You just want me to find you the right record? You don't know what, but so long as it's Chopin, you'll be OK?"
"Yes, yes," said the man. That was it exactly.
So what did he need? Frank pushed away his fringe—it flopped straight back, but there it was, the thing had a life of its own—he cupped his chin in his hands and he listened as if he were trying to find a radio signal in the ether. Something beautiful? Something slow? He barely moved, he just listened.
But when it came, it was such a blast, it took Frank's breath away. Of course. What this man needed wasn't Chopin. It wasn't even a nocturne. What he needed was—
"Wait!" Frank was already on his feet.
He lumbered around the shop, tugging out album sleeves, skirting past Kit and ducking his head to dodge a light fitting. He needed to find the right match for the music he had heard from the man who only liked Chopin. Piano, yes. He could hear piano. But the man needed something else as well. Something that was both tender and huge. Where would Frank find that? Beethoven? No, that would be too much. Beethoven might just floor a man like this one. What he needed was a good friend.
Excerpted from The Music Shop by Rachel Joyce. Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Joyce. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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