How to Steal a Piano Read online

  How to Steal a Piano

  and other stories

  John Hughes

  Copyright © 2017 John Hughes

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 9781788039765

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For my sister Wendy

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Sebastian Wormell, Harrods Archivist, for allowing me to see again the piano sales ledgers, including my own entries as a salesman, after thirty-five years.

  Thanks to Vera Peiffer for advice on correct and incorrect use of the German language.

  Thanks to Brighton and Hove Stuff for permission to reproduce the photograph at the end of Rude Words.

  Thanks to Nicola Holt of the Metropolitan Police Dog Training Establishment for information about the naming of police dogs.

  Author’s Note

  Although some of these stories are written in the first person, it should not automatically be assumed that I am the narrator. On the other hand, nor should it necessarily be assumed I am not – with the obvious exception of Woof Justiss.

  Contents

  1.How To Steal a Piano

  2.Grasshopper

  3.Road Rage

  4.Bench

  5.Halitosis Henry

  6.Vicar’s Wife

  7.Rude Words

  8.Matlock Meg and the Riber Hoard

  9.Woof Justiss

  10.Dotty

  11.Runner

  12.My Canterbury Tale

  13.Unlucky for Some

  How To Steal a Piano

  I sat on the toilet with my trousers and underpants round my ankles and for the next quarter of an hour let nature gradually take its strained, painful course. It took me even longer sometimes, constipation having been a lifelong companion. My first wife was a nurse and one of the abiding legacies from our twenty-year marriage was a familiarity with the Bristol Stool Form Scale. She gave me a little laminated summary sheet, the size of a credit card, with all seven types of stool illustrated on one side, and concise, imaginative descriptions of each on the reverse… or backside might be more appropriate. I have it in my wallet to this day. Typically, mine will be Type 1 (separate hard lumps, like nuts – hard to pass) or at best Type 2 (sausage-shaped but lumpy). The perfect Type 4 (like a sausage or snake – smooth and soft) has generally eluded me over the years.

  As I struggled with my scatological ordeal, I mulled over the morning’s events in court, wondering at the strangeness and irony of the situation. I was fairly certain the defendant had no idea who I was; he certainly gave no hint of recognition of any kind. We hadn’t seen each other for thirty-five years and I’d aged and changed in appearance as you would expect. I was sixty now with barely any hair, and what I did have was pure white. I wore glasses and my skin was wrinkled. Of course he too had changed, yet curiously I recognised him instantly. He was older than me by almost a decade and looked frail and wizened. Yet the distinctive voice was the same, so too were a few giveaway mannerisms. He was using a different name, but there was no doubt in my mind. The man in the dock was Martin Allwright.

  Thirty-five years, two marriages, a divorce and two children had passed since then. Nevertheless, a steady and successful career had underpinning it all for me. And the irony was that it may never have happened were it not for Martin and the rewards of an adventure we’d shared as young men.

  When I had eventually finished on the toilet, I had lunch alone in my chambers and deliberated over how to deal with this man. As I did so, rightly or wrongly, I allowed memories to flood back into my consciousness in a fine detail that had been suppressed for a long time, and for good reason.

  It happened in the summer of 1981, during the weeks building up to the royal wedding.

  * * *

  I can’t remember why I was over in the piano workshop that morning. In the three years I worked at Harrods I probably only ever went there a handful of times. I spent almost all of my working day on the shop floor trying to sell the things. There must have been a query of some sort.

  It was a large, light and airy space on the third floor of the building, tucked away in Trevor Square on the other side of the Brompton Road from the store itself. This was where deliveries were made and departments had stock rooms; I seem to remember that turkeys were plucked there in December. It was connected to the store by a tunnel under the Brompton Road.

  The workshop manager was an Irishman called Aiden; he was pleasant enough, quietly spoken, easy-going and seemed to keep the schedule of repair and restoration jobs flowing nicely. It was something of an open secret that he brought pianos of his own in to do private work from time to time; no one seemed to mind, and no harm done so long as the Harrods work took priority. It surprised many people to learn that Harrods sold second-hand as well as new pianos; the store often purchased back instruments originally sold there as new, usually in part-exchange. But the heyday was over, and by the time my story takes place the second-hand trade was on the decline; once a thriving business, now merely a tag on to the sale of new instruments.

  Even so, the workshop was crammed with pianos of all shapes, sizes and makes. On the floor were the instruments being worked on in varying states of repair or restoration. Along one wall was a storage unit where grand pianos, devoid of legs and wearing padded covers, were parked in a long line. Along another wall were all the legs. Some instruments were waiting to be repaired, others had been restored and were awaiting delivery. I wandered along them, reading the labels.

  At the very end was a piano that seemed slightly different from the rest but I couldn’t immediately discern why. I could tell from the size that it wasn’t a full concert grand – a medium I guessed, under six feet in length. Then I realised. The cover looked older and had a neglected air about it. It was thick with dust. I looked at the once bright, now faded yellow label:

  SOLD Jane V. Walker – Shropshire. H71529.

  All Harrods pianos had a unique identifier – an H followed by a series of numbers. They were logged in a set of ledgers dating back to the very first instrument sold when Harrods opened their piano department in 1895. The ledgers were stored in a rack in the buyer’s office in the corner of the department.

  “What’s this one, Aiden?” I asked.

  Aiden came over and took a look. “Haven’t a clue,” he said. “It was here when I came and that’s four years next month. I keep meaning to look it up when I’m over in the boss’s office but I never remember. You don’t fancy checking do you, James?”

  “That’s a job for Brown-nose.” I mimicked the accent of a supercilious upper-class twit. “I am the department manag
er, you know.”

  Aiden smiled. “He’s a useless piece of gobshite, that one. You do it or it won’t get done properly.”

  “I will.” From my jacket pocket I took out my scoring notebook in which I marked down each contact and circled it if it was a sale – to work out my contact to sale ratio – and scribbled down the H number on the last page.

  I promptly forgot about it.

  * * *

  A week or so later, having made a sale and feeling rather smug, I was flicking through my notebook to update my ratio. In truth, I had nothing to be smug about; my sales volume was abysmal and it was my first success in ages. I’d picked up the notebook idea from a friend – Martin Allwright no less. It was motivating to see your conversion rate improve, though disheartening when it slipped in the other direction. Martin worked at a piano showroom in New Oxford Street called Curetons, long since gone. They were doing well in those days, conveniently situated just around the corner from Denmark Street, London’s answer to Tin Pan Alley, with its plethora of music shops and recording studios.

  I noticed the H number on the back page, and puzzled over it for a moment. Ah yes, the dust-covered grand at the end of the storage rack in the piano workshop. I’d promised Aiden I’d look it up for him. The department was quiet. Raymond, the other piano salesman, was sitting at a Knight upright playing some Chopin, oblivious to everything around him, unaware of his surroundings; he rarely sold anything. The department manager, Clarence Brownlow, was sitting at his desk talking quietly on the phone – probably to his weird girlfriend Debra. So I wandered over to the buyer’s office. The door was ajar. The buyer’s desk was empty but our clerk, Laura, was at her desk, reading a magazine and sucking her thumb.

  “Is Mr Huxley around?” I asked.

  “At lunch. Probably in the pub. Why?”

  “Oh nothing, just a query about a piano.” I looked across to the row of leather-bound tomes that filled a whole shelf along the office wall. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Do anything you like. I’m easy.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Shove off!”

  “How’s that limp boyfriend of yours?”

  “None of your business!”

  “Why do you suck your thumb, Laura?”

  “Piss off!”

  “Fancy a bit of nookie?”

  Laura hesitated, then in a matter-of-fact tone said: “Yes I do.” She turned and stared at me, a look of withering disdain. “But not with you.”

  Rejected yet again by our insanely gorgeous, busty, leggy, blonde clerk, I had no answer to that so I checked the H number again and pulled out the ledgers until I found the one containing H71529. I lugged it over to Mr Huxley’s desk and sat down in his chair.

  “You’ll be for it if he catches you sitting there,” said Laura.

  “I’ll take that chance.” I flicked through the heavy-duty, almost cardboard-like pages of the ledger. Pianos were entered in numerical order by H number as they were purchased by the store. The numbers were printed in a column towards the middle of each row, and the rows spread across each double-page spread of the ledger. All other entries were made by hand in ink. Pianos were added into stock in one hand, details of sales in another – a division of labour between buyer and clerk.

  It took no time at all to find the piano in question. The entry read as follows:

  Date of

  Purchase:

  26th March 1971

  Name of Piano:

  Bechstein

  From Whom

  Purchased:

  New

  Description:

  Model L (“Lilliput”) 5’ 6” Maker’s No. 16205

  Stock Number:

  71529

  Date Sold:

  4th June 71

  Cost:

  £2,495

  Selling:

  £4,495

  Price Sold:

  £4,495

  Customer’s Name:

  Miss Jane V. Walker

  Address:

  Rose Cottage, Plough Lane, Much Wenlock, Shropshire.

  Salesman:

  08049 (Thomas Morgan)

  Terms:

  Cheque

  Delivery:

  Store until delivery instructions received. Customer abroad for summer season.

  I wrote it all down in my notebook. Sold ten years ago, almost to the day. Must have been sitting in storage ever since. No wonder it was covered in dust.“What are you doing anyway?” asked Laura between thumb sucks.

  “Checking a query.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “I just offered and you turned me down.”

  “Piss off!”

  “Tell me, Laura, how can someone who looks as gorgeous as you be so potty-mouthed?”

  “Same way you’re good on the piano. Lots of practice.”

  “You’re only nineteen.”

  “I started young.”

  The office door opened and our beloved department manager, Clarence Brownlow, popped his head in. “Mr Huxley about?”

  “At lunch,” replied Laura, “as you very well know because I heard him telling you as he went.”

  “Ah yes, many thanks.” He looked across at me sitting at the buyer’s desk with the sales ledger open in front of me. “What are you up to, umm…?” The tone was disapproving.

  “My name is James.”

  “I know. You ought to be out on the floor. What are you up to?”

  “About 1971.”

  “I’m sorry?” Blank expression from Brown-nose whose sense of humour was non-existent. “If you have any queries they ought to come to me… I am the department manager, you know.”

  I supressed a snigger. “Just a bit of personal research.”

  “Yes, well get back onto the shop floor as soon as you can, would you?” The door closed.

  I caught Laura’s eye. “Such a knob.” I placed the ledger back on the shelf. So, I ruminated, that was one hell of a long summer season. Ten years! Why did she never make contact to arrange delivery? What happened? Did she die? Did she forget? She was a Miss. Perhaps she met someone on holiday and got married and her husband hated music. Perhaps she was very old and died. She must have been worth a few bob to let nearly five thousand quid slip by without a second thought. I closed the sales ledger deep in thought. I glanced through my notes. Out loud I said: “Miss Jane V. Walker… I wonder what the V stands for.”

  “I’ve got a suggestion,” said Laura, helpfully.

  “I bet you have.”

  “I was going to say Virginia.”

  “Hmm, in terms of your vulgar vocabulary that’s neither one thing nor the other.”

  “Anyway, who’s Miss Jane V. Walker when she’s at home?”

  “Just a customer.”

  “Has she made a complaint about you?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “You’d better get back on the floor then, otherwise tosser will be back any minute.”

  As if on cue, Clarence Brownlow appeared and opened his mouth to speak. I beat him to it.

  “I know… you’re the department manager.”

  I barged past him onto the floor. It was still a large department in those days and a sea of pianos stretched out in front of me. There were few people about, but my eagle eye
quickly honed in on an elderly gentleman towards the far end looking at an upright Yamaha. He was giving out strong buying signals; gently playing a chord, touching the sides, inspecting the edges checking for scuffs and scrapes. Clarence Brownlow, who was extremely competitive and hated losing a sale to anyone else, had followed me out of the office and seen him too. I sensed rather than saw him flitting between pianos at speed to try and reach the man first. Suddenly there was a loud crash and he disappeared behind a Bösendorfer concert grand. He’d collided with a piano stool.

  I strolled nonchalantly up to the man. “I wouldn’t recommend this one, sir. Cheap Japanese rubbish.”

  He made eye contact, a puzzled, almost anxious look on his face. Then he saw I was smiling, and smiled back. “I know that’s not true, young man. Yamaha is a good make.”

  “It is indeed. Would you care to try it?”

  “Well, I’m not sure.” He glanced around shyly.

  “Or would you like me to play it while you listen… so you can hear the tone?”

  “Would you mind?”

  “I’d be delighted. Are you thinking about a piano for yourself?”

  “My wife actually. A surprise anniversary gift. We’ve had an old upright for years but it’s past its best.”

  “Very thoughtful. What music does she like?”

  He thought for a moment. “Ooh all sorts. Well now, let’s think… the good old tunes I suppose. We met during the war and she’s fond of the songs from that era.”

  I played The White Cliffs of Dover. Ten minutes later he was sitting next to me at my desk writing out a cheque.

  Clarence Brownlow looked on from the middle distance, rubbing his knee. His face was puce and his entire being seethed with frustration at having missed out on a sale. I smiled across at him and mouthed a single word that reflected my feelings towards him.