Page 6 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘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.’

Jason looked at me out of one eye. ‘So, guess you don’t care if he’s, like, some mass-murderer or something. You want me to come looking if you’re not back by teatime, or are you gonna find that whole loony-tune thing attractive? Eh, Jem, is that what turns you on, that why you’ve not been with anyone? You waiting for some guy that nails bunnies to the wall to get your jollies with?’

I looked at Jason, who was wearing a Railway World T shirt under a set of grubby and frayed overalls, huge leather boots and enormous gauntlets. ‘Any man that can out-weird you, Jase, is probably gibbering in a locked ward.’ I seized the pram handle. ‘And I don’t want jollies, thanks very much. Just business.’

His snorting laugh followed me right the way across the rough patch of paddock that we liked to call lawn.

* * *

Harry and I, Harry’s pram, changing bag, bottles, fluffy toy and spare nappies, got onto the bus to town. It took a while, with me holding everyone up while I tried to get the pram to fit into the space provided and find the brake pedal to prevent Harry suddenly vanishing down the aisle. Today Harry was resplendent in a crimson fleecy jacket like ‘Little Red Riding Hood, The Early Years’. He sat in state, propped up by pillows, his chubby cheeks wobbling as the bus passed over the speed humps on its way into the town centre.

When we got off the bus next to the art gallery, Harry and I looked at one another.

‘Right.’ I tilted the pram so that I could fix him with a steely glare. ‘Please keep your bodily fluids to yourself young man. I’ve got business to discuss.’

And I wanted a proper look at the skinny bloke. Yesterday’s exploding baby incident, combined with the stress of needing to sell my stuff, had meant that I’d been left with the impression of a skeleton wearing hair and a pair of desperate eyes.

This time I wasn’t quite as accurate getting Harry down the alleyway and sparks flew as we scraped our way along the brickwork into the yard. Once there the traffic sounds were muted by the buildings. A couple of hanging baskets trailed the smell of rose and honey through the dusty sunshine and a small ginger cat poked its head out from behind a dustbin. It was like a postcard of somewhere in Greece, with the white-painted buildings and the glossy flowers, the black railings with a bike tethered to it and the bench seat. Even the two small shops had a continental look, low roofed with eaves that sloped down to hide the doors in shadow. Having Harry sitting in the middle of it, slightly stained in his scratched pram, definitely lowered the tone.

Until Ben Davies walked out of his shop doorway, that is.

He was coming backwards at me down the step, shouting to someone inside. ‘And I’m telling you, I will not sign!’ today wearing a pale grey shirt and faded old jeans. He stuttered onto the cobbles of the yard and swivelled on his heel, which brought him face-to-face with me, at which point he closed his eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Just when I thought I was getting the hang of today.’

‘Well, sorry.’ I wasn’t at all and I think my lack of regret might have bled into my expression. ‘I thought I’d better bring the rest of my stuff over. Since you sold the buckle.’

Ben opened his eyes slowly. ‘Ah, yes, of course. I sold the buckle so you’ve immediately assumed that I’d be able to stock the rest of your collection, which you no doubt have somewhere about your person.’ A quick look at Harry. ‘Or his. What do you do, make him sit on everything like a drug smuggler? Nappy stuffed with crystal, is it?’

In the doorway to the shop a man appeared. He waved a hand in Ben’s direction.

‘I think your friendly neighbourhood lawyer wants another word,’ I said.

‘What?’ Ben blinked rapidly at me.

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