Page 11 of Something Borrowed

To my right at the back of the shop are three big old velvet sofas—one red, one purple, and one tartan. They belong to what my family called my uncle’s Big Country phase, and I think the sofas’ springs date back to the nineties, but everyone gathers on them, regardless, to talk and look at their purchases.

I hear the Old Gang break into one of their many arguments as if on cue. They’re a group of older men who knew my uncle from the early days. They meet every Saturday to sit and chat. They’re lively, overly opinionated, funny, and a link I treasure to my uncle.

“What are you arguing about now?” I call.

“The grunge era,” someone says. I think it’s Ira who owns the florists on the next street.

“What about it?”

“They’re up in arms because I dared to say the Foo Fighters aren’t that great.”

“Isn’t that heresy?” I say lightly. “Won’t you be burnt on a stack of old buttoned-up cardigans and flannel shirts for saying that?”

“I said what I said,” Might Be Ira says staunchly. “The Foo Fighters are one step up and a better mullet haircut from Nickelback.”

“You have no taste,” another member of the Old Gang cries.

I tut. “Isn’t Dave Grohl the nicest man in rock? When you take his name in vain, I'm sure he turns up and barbecues for you.”

“So? Edwin, who owns the bike shop, is nice. That doesn’t mean I want to listen to him sing.”

“Oh well, when you put it like that.”

They laugh and fall back to arguing over Nirvana’s best album. I can answer that. It’sIn Utero, which sounds more like a Pixies album than any of the ones the Pixies made for themselves. Not to mention the fact that the band set their trousers on fire to celebrate finishing the album. That sort of cheerful anarchy reminds me of my uncle.

Footsteps sound, and I inhale the scent of Kem’s cologne. He’s my shop manager and one of my closest friends. We’ve known each other since we were eighteen and worked in the shop at the weekends for my uncle. Pat was a quirky employer, more inclined to sit around and discuss music rather than teach us how to work the till. Luckily, when he’d sent Kem home with a joint in his pay packet, Kem’s parents had taken it as a joke and handed it back very quickly.

“What’s up?” I ask. “I thought you were updating the website.”

“It’s done. When you gave me the job title of website developer, I thought it would be really glamorous and would require me to wear pastel-coloured suits, espadrilles, and a ponytail. In reality, I seem to spend most of my day removing smart-arse comments and advertisements for penis extensions.” His voice is one of my favourites—rich and warm with the lilt from his early years in Trinidad. “Anyway, I moved on to trying to get hold of Mrs Hannall’s request list.”

Kem also manages the website section that sells our stock and sources rare vinyl. We started it up during the pandemic when we couldn’t open the shop, and to our astonishment, it grew in leaps and bounds so that it now forms more than half our income.

“Did you source Massive Attack’s100th Windowalbum?”

“Only in Germany.”

“Oh god, how much?” Germany is the source of a lot of rare vinyl, but since Brexit, we seem to pay more in taxes than a rock star’s drug bills.

“One hundred and eighty quid,” he announces as if expecting a drum roll.

“Fuck me. It’d be less expensive to pop over there, buy it ourselves, and then smuggle it back through customs.”

“Sometimes it’s very obvious that you’re related to Pat.” I chuckle, and Kem continues, “I called Mrs Hannall anyway. She’s going to pay. It’s the only one she hasn’t got.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t mind getting a copy for the shop.”

“News of great joy, Stan. More stock to vanish into the black hole of your flat, otherwise known as the land of I’ll Just Take it Home for a Listen and Then We Can Sell It.”

The bell gives its familiar chime as the door opens, and I hear rushed light footsteps.

“Uncle Stan, it’s me Wolfie and Mummy.”

“Hey, mate,” I say, turning and stooping for Wolfie’s usual hug. I feel his little arms come around my neck. He smells of baby shampoo and Play-Doh and gives me one of his special hugs. They used to be gentle, but now that he’s six, it’s more akin to being crushed by a small boa constrictor.

“Can’t breathe,” I gasp, and he chuckles before finally releasing me.

I take in a much-needed gasp of air as my sister says, “Sit down, Wolfie, before you break bones.”

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