One morning Jenny was in the shop, shaking her head and smiling. She had just seen the General go by, without his trousers on, accompanied by a policeman. The General was talking animatedly about going to buy a cricket ball, and the policeman was humouring him as he guided him by the arm. He was such a sweet old man, but he was losing his marbles. She reminded herself to take him a pot of marmalade.
Shortly afterwards a woman in her thirties came in with a clarinet for sale. It was a nice one, a Buffet RC, and it was in good condition. Jenny laid it out on the desk and checked that everything was working. She squinted at the pads, looked at the mouthpiece with its little tooth marks, and then put it back into its case.
‘I can’t really offer you a price,’ she said, ‘because I don’t own the shop. Can you leave it with us? Give me your phone number, and we can arrange for you to come in.’
The woman seemed flustered. ‘Oh, I was really hoping to sell it today. I do need the money, you see. It’s quite urgent.’
Jenny nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m not the buyer. I wouldn’t be allowed. I’ll ring you as soon as I know, I promise.’
As soon as the woman had gone, Jenny picked up the telephone and dialled directory enquiries. Stamped on the clarinet she had found the words ‘Property of the Inner London Education Authority’.
Three hours later, and by now seething with rage, Jenny had still not managed to locate anybody in the Inner London Education Authority who knew anything at all about how they acquired or disposed of musical instruments. She had been passed from one person to another, rung dozens of different numbers, and been told, ‘Oh, that’s not our department. Why don’t you try so-and-so? Hang on, I’ll see if I can find the number.’ Then she’d hear her interlocutor calling out to the other members of the office, ‘Anyone know so-and-so’s number? Anyone know who does musical instruments?’
Jenny gave up, and listened to a young fellow with huge sideburns and curly long hair fumbling his way through ‘Für Elise’ on one of the Spanish guitars. He was the one who always broke his D string and had to come in for another one. Last time she’d persuaded him to buy two. More often than not he appeared with a large, patient golden retriever that lay down and sighed until his young master had tried out all the guitars that he couldn’t afford. When he had finished the little bit of Beethoven, she said, ‘You don’t know what a relief that is. If I hear “Stairway to Heaven” one more time, I’ll scream.’
The young man smiled. ‘Lucky you warned me. I was going to play that next.’
Just then the policeman, having disposed of the General, strolled past the window of the shop, and Jenny ran out and buttonholed him. He came in and looked at the clarinet, with its stamp.
‘It’s a good one, is it?’ he asked. ‘Expensive?’
‘Yes,’ said Jenny, ‘these are worth a lot. They’re very sought after.’
‘Well, madam, you should ring this customer up, and tell her that you can’t buy it without a receipt, and she’ll have to come in and fetch it away if she hasn’t got one. You let me know when she’s coming, and I’ll be here to ask a few questions, or one of my colleagues will.’
Jenny took his name and number, and duly rang the vendor, who seemed quite distressed. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh no. I don’t think I’ve still got the receipt. I got it last year, and then I never played it. I’ve no idea where the receipt is.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, madam, you’ll have to come in and get it. We can’t buy instruments without one. Have you any idea when you can come by?’
‘Well, I have an appointment for the optician’s tomorrow at twelve, so I can come at about half past. Is that all right?’
‘That’ll be absolutely fine,’ said Jenny. She put down the phone and then picked it up again, leaving a message for the policeman at the station. The young man played the first bar of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, and Jenny put her fingers in her ears. ‘Only joking,’ he said, putting the guitar back on the wall.
‘I suppose you want a D string,’ said Jenny.
‘A whole set this time,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling rich.’
The following morning the policeman was in the shop, and the clarinet was on the counter when the woman came in. She looked at the policeman, and then at Jenny. The policeman said, ‘Is this the lady concerned?’ and Jenny nodded and said, ‘Yes.’
The policeman addressed her. ‘Madam, I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of stolen property, namely this here clarinet, and that you may be committing an offence by trying to sell it.’
The woman’s reaction was surprising. She began to laugh.
‘Madam, this is serious,’ said the policeman. ‘This is no laughing matter.’
‘It is! It is!’ said the woman, sitting down abruptly on the stool normally occupied by guitarists. She snorted with laughter, and began to fumble in her handbag.
‘Madam, you must stop laughing,’ said the policeman.
The woman said, ‘You think it’s me? Me selling stolen property? Me? Me? Oh that’s rich! Oh dearie me, how funny.’ She sat and giggled, fumbling in her bag until she brought out a note. ‘I found the receipt,’ she said, handing it over.
Jenny took it and handed it to the policeman. Together they looked at it. It read: ‘One Buffet RC clarinet, sold at auction.’ At the top of the notepaper was stamped ‘Guildford Police Auction’.
‘Oh Christ on a bicycle,’ said the policeman.
After the policeman had gone, Jenny apologised to the woman, and they laughed about the incident together.
‘The look on his face!’ said Jenny. ‘It was priceless! His ears went red!’
‘Does this mean I can sell the clarinet?’ asked the woman. ‘Only, I bought it last year, thinking I was going to make the effort, but I never got round to it, and now this wonderfully good flute has come up. I need the money. I couldn’t bear it if someone else got the flute. It was designed by Marcel Moyse. It’s got funny little platforms all over it, to rest your fingers on.’
‘You’re a flautist?’ asked Jenny. ‘Are you local? Are you mad, and do you play out of tune and breathe in the wrong places? Do you have much spare time? Do you play with anyone? Have you got children? I’m Jenny, by the way. I’m an oboist.’
‘An oboist? And you’re asking me if I’m mad?’
‘Look, it’s lunchtime. I’m off in a minute. Why don’t we go and have a baked potato at Fleur’s?’
‘Just steer me away from Record Corner,’ said the woman.
‘Oh, me too,’ said Jenny, ‘don’t let me go near it,’ and they hid their faces in their hands as they passed the Lloyds Bank at the corner of Pound Lane.
SILLY BUGGER (1)
IT IS SPRING, when the Surrey countryside is burgeoning extravagantly with new life. There had seemed to be almost no wood pigeons during the winter, but now, unaccountably, there are entire flocks of them in the fruit trees and on the lawn. The tumescent grass grows up behind the mower even as it mows. The cat brings in two baby rabbits a day, and crunches them down like carrots, head first. By the end of the day only two cotton tails and two green bags are left, but the cat is still demanding its usual ration of Felix and biscuits. The pheasants that have survived the last season’s holocaust strut ridiculously in the orchard, the males engaging in combat, while the females wait to be covered. The voice of the turtle is heard again in the land, but for the last time, because the turtle doves will not come again in subsequent years. They are exterminated pointlessly but systematically by the Maltese while en route from Africa.