Short story

There beside a pile of slightly chipped plates and a cruet set was Bill Haley. It was the first in a deep pile of old LPs stacked vertically in a cardboard box at the edge of the car boot sale table...

Bill Haley and the French Clock

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There beside a pile of slightly chipped plates and a cruet set was Bill Haley. It was the first in a deep pile of old LPs stacked vertically in a cardboard box at the edge of the car boot sale table. The last time I’d set eyes on his baby face topped with that irritating quiff was when Pete and Sylvia were doing deals ten years ago over the contents of Dad’s house. The day was as difficult as I thought it might be. He’d been buried hardly an hour before his two eldest started squabbling over the detritus of his life. Sylvia found me in my bedroom.

 

‘So, Jenny, all that slaving was worthwhile then,’ she said. ‘Nice of him to allow me Gran’s jewellery.’

‘I didn’t do it because...’

‘No, of course you didn’t,’ interrupted Sylvia and walked away.

 

They were both in their teens by the time I was born so it was me who got to spend the hours doing Dad’s laundry, wheeling him to the shops, even bathing him occasionally. Mum and Dad got divorced when I was twelve. She went to live on a ranch in Texas and I became a sort of surrogate homemaker. There was nothing sexual about it. I just happened not to rebel too much against the need to keep the place clean and tidy. So when he got ill, it just seemed natural that I would do what was necessary. We got on like real friends. Pete and Sylvia had done nothing for him for years, ignored him for much of their adult life. That’s why Dad left me the house.

 

The day of his funeral still holds fresh memories. I could see vaguely related guests gathering to form small cliques, eyes shifting in my direction then quickly away. Views and opinions crept round the house behind raised teacups and wine glasses. Either I deserved what I’d got after years of supporting Dad or I was a money grabbing minx who’d engineered the whole thing to get rich. I’m not one to be swayed by other people’s opinion of me but I admit to being stressed. Though they had done next to nothing to help Dad through his illness, it did seem harsh to leave Pete and Sylvia almost entirely out of his will.

 

‘Listen,’ I said to them when I saw them again huddled together staring out of the window and talking in whispers, ‘I’m sorry this has happened, I didn’t plan it. But the contents of the house are yours if you want to share it out.’

‘I’ve no interest in being patronised by you,’ said Pete.

 

Dad had left him his car, an old Ford that wreaked of suburban respectability. No doubt Pete considered it an insult. He’d just bought himself a BMW series five or some such number. I wondered momentarily if I could get a fire going and burn the lot. Then they’d have had nothing to be small minded about.

‘Let’s not argue,’ I said, ‘I’m just saying that if there’s anything here you want you’re very welcome to take it.’

 

They didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later I found them walking round the house, Pete with a pen and paper, arguing over the furniture and picking up bits and pieces from tables and cabinets.

 

‘I’m taking the old record collection,’ said Pete. ‘I assume you don’t mind.’

‘I told you. You can have what you like.’

‘Quite a chunk of musical history here,’ he said as he crouched down and thumbed through the pile. ‘Look, Bill Haley, Lonny Donegan, Marty Wilde.’

 

I left them to it and don’t recall even saying goodbye. After that I saw them just once, at the wedding of Sylvia’s daughter six years ago.

 

This car boot stall display had resurrected the whole rancorous afternoon. I had no interest in the LPs but found myself being drawn to them as though needing to exorcise the pain of that day. Perhaps by flicking through them I could see how irrelevant they, and what they represented, were.

 

It was so odd. The records seemed familiar. I saw other names that reminded me of Dad, Little Richard, Buddy Holly and Tommy Steele. They’d all been in his collection. The covers that had been nearly pristine were, here, just as well kept. An Elvis that had got badly torn was equally in poor condition in this collection. I picked up a Cliff Richard, my heart pumping, and turned it over. There in faded ink was a telephone number that Dad had written down because he couldn’t find any paper.  As I looked around for the stallholder my eye caught other things that seemed equally familiar but I was wary that my mind could be playing tricks, inventing clues that didn’t exist. But before I could catch her attention I saw the clock. It had been in Sylvia’s lounge. It was an eighteenth century French thing and might have been quite valuable but for the scratch on the side and a broken foot. I’d dropped it as a child and Dad had attempted an unsuccessful repair. I got one of his rare slaps for that. The stallholder could see my interest and got ready for a sales pitch.

 

‘Quite a rare piece that,’ she said. ‘The mechanism is in beautiful condition.’

‘I’d be interested to know how you came by it,’ I said. ‘And the record collection.’

The woman stiffened. ‘I can assure you it’s all legit.’

‘I’m sure it is. I wasn’t implying anything. It’s just that I recognise them. I can’t believe they’re here. In front of me.’

 

She gave a glance over the contents of the table. ‘I think most of the stuff was from an auction in Winchester. House contents going under the hammer. That sort of thing.’ Her face softened visibly. ‘Usually it’s because…’ She trailed off leaving the implication hanging in the air. ‘Would you like to buy them back?’

 

‘No I don’t want them. I’m just surprised that’s all.’ I started to walk away then stopped. If someone had died surely I would have been told. And what was the record collection and the clock doing together anyway?

 

‘How much is it, the clock?’

‘Eighty pounds.’

 

I shook my head and turned away.

 

‘Look,’ said the woman, ‘If it’s something personal I’ll give you a special price. Fifty pounds. That’s hardly more than I paid for it.’

 

Sylvia lived down the A31 and Pete on the Dorset borders. The stuff may well have been auctioned in Winchester and now I found myself driving to Sylvia’s house, uninvited and not knowing she’d even be there, to find out why. I’d thought of phoning her but I couldn’t think of what to say. Face to face might be tougher but at least you can detect meaning in the eyes and the silences. The house looked untidier, more down at heel, than I recalled it the last time. And so was Sylvia.

 

‘God! Jenny. What are you doing here?’

‘I need to see you for a few minutes, Sylvia. Can I come in?’

 

She shrugged and walked away into the house. I followed and closed the door. The place was nearly empty. Our echoes bounced off the walls, suppressed only by a couple of chairs and the curtains still hanging limply against the windows.

 

‘What’s happened, Sylvia. Where’s Jack?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone? You mean…?’

‘No, he’s not dead. I wish he was. We’re getting divorced.’

‘Oh, Sylvia. What happened?’

‘He’s gone off with Lynne, would you believe.’

‘Lynne? You don’t mean Pete’s Lynne?’

‘That’s the one. Neat isn’t it? Pete’s had to sell up and I’ve got rid of all the things that reminded me of the bastard I’ve been living with all these years. It’s been going on for ages you know. Maybe as far back as Dad’s funeral.’

 

I found a chair and sat down. Neither of us said anything for a while.

‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here,’ said Sylvia. ‘This can’t be a coincidence.’

 

I opened a large shopping bag and pulled out the clock.

 

‘How the hell did you get that?’ she asked.    

‘A market stall. They were selling things that both you and Pete owned.’

‘Well now you know why.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked. ‘We’re sisters for God’s sake. You need support at times like this.’

 

Sylvia was quiet for a while. Then she said, ‘I suppose I couldn’t stand the thought of you gloating.’

 

‘Gloating? Why would I gloat? Is that what you think of me?’

‘You’ve always been the lucky one,’ she said. ‘Dad’s favourite and all. You even had the luck never to get married.’

 

‘You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I sacrificed a hell of a lot to look after Dad. You can’t really imagine I never wanted to share my life. How many men do you think showed some interest and then, once they’d seen Dad in a wheelchair, disappeared in a cloud of dust?’

 

Sylvia looked startled. Perhaps the thought that I may have wanted a different life had never occurred to her. Her face was gaunt, her eyes looked plain and lifeless and her hair looked as though it needed washing. My anger dissipated as I realised my sister had spent much of her life being wrong.

 

‘Dad’s been gone ten years,’ she said.

‘But by then all the good ones had been taken. I was afraid I’d settle on someone for all the wrong reasons. You know, desperation and all that.’

‘Desperation comes later, believe me,’ said Sylvia. Then she bowed her head.

‘Listen, why don’t we go out for a meal somewhere,’ I suggested. ‘Cheer ourselves up. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

 

Sylvia looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

 

I don’t remember the last time Sylvia smiled at me like that.