The Break-Up Crate Incident at Wrong Turn Records

New records are silent.

When Imogen touches them she can’t hear a thing. She’s tried removing the shrink wrap, holding them up to her ear, and softly nibbling the cardboard ends like hot slices of pizza. She’s given up and asked Geoff, her boss, to excuse her on new release day. 

“I’ll work any other day but Monday. I can’t work amongst all this SILENCE.”

“Midgey.” The last time she asked him, he played a Lana Del Rey record on the shop’s turntable. “Listen, will you?” He put a hand behind his ear. “There she is! Warbling on about love as always. I can hear her just fine.”

That isn’t what Imogen hears. If it’s a new LP she hears nothing. If it’s secondhand, the record shares the drum of rain outside the original owner’s windows and the squeak of their shoes on worn wooden slats. If the owners had a row with their wives while the record played she hears that. If they made love she hears it while blushing. She hears their days passing for the thirty-one minutes of side A and the twenty-seven minutes of side B. If they played the record more than once she gets a collage. If it was one of their favorites she gets the whole of their lives. 

But most people keep their favorites and sell the rest. The poorly reviewed follow-ups to dazzling debuts, the three-for-five-quid specials from secondhand shops. Cool jazz, gospel, and the soundtrack to the movie The Big Chill. 

Wednesday is buying day at Wrong Turn Records. She knows at least one bloke will sell a break-up crate and she’ll have to hear whines, gaslighting and make-up sex. There’s always some Coldplay mixed in with the rest which they explain–through sheepish grins–was hers, not theirs. There’s a sad stack of A Rush of Blood to the Head under the letter C in pop/rock. Every one of them holds a confrontation about texts from another girl. 

Imogen spends the whole week preparing for Wednesday. On weekends she jogs up Castle Rock or does yoga in Highfields Park, snuffing out snide comments from last Wednesday’s break-up crate to make way for the next. On Mondays she lingers in the silence of new release day, running her fingers over the smooth plastic of unopened LPs like she’s holding a newborn baby. On Tuesdays she stays home from the shop and paints. Her paintings resemble Rothko’s crossed with graffiti, if Rothko had a penchant for neon pink. She has her MFA from the University of Nottingham but doesn’t have much to show for it outside a piece hanging at the Bodington and an excuse to keep her fringe short and her hair purple. 

The last of her preparations happens Wednesday morning. She walks from her flat in Mapperley to a dusty old tearoom named Caxon’s at the end of her street. It’s jammed with Edwardian ephemera and tall, mismatched bookcases. Most of the customers at Caxon’s get regular tea, but Pidgeon, the proprietress, makes a special tincture for Imogen that tastes foul and steadies her nerves. 

Pidgeon winks at her as she leaves. “Have a good and perfectly normal day, duckie.”

A few other customers receive tinctures instead of tea, which keeps Imogen humble. She often wonders what they need the tincture for. Perhaps they can catch strands of hair and see that person’s favorite day, or press their hands up against an old church and cast back to it being built.

Imogen’s tincture tastes especially bitter the Wednesday Freddy brings his crate. 

Freddy’s a regular. He visits every Thursday to see what’s been sold to the shop the day before. He’s a bit taller than her, with red hair that never cooperates and six freckles on each cheek. He wears woolen jumpers and corduroy trousers. 

Imogen found Freddy terribly boring until the Wednesday he sold her a Nick Drake record. When she touched it she heard the blocky clacks of a keyboard and the purr of an old cat. Freddy wrote a play he was quite proud of while he listened to Nick Drake. She heard him say, “Fuckin’ hell, that’s pretty good. What do you think, Queen Mab?”

“Who swaps Five Leaves Left?” she asked him while she processed the sale.

“Oh it’s brilliant. I love it. But I want someone else to hear it and get a bit of my luck.”

Imogen is–unfortunately–powerless against a man who likes Nick Drake and names their cat Queen Mab, but he’s always spoken of his girlfriend Lydia. And she knows very well that a ginger in woolen jumpers doesn’t break up with his girlfriend. He cracks on forever. 

Or so she thinks until the Wednesday he arrives with a break-up crate.

Imogen swears. Some of the tincture she’s drinking from a flimsy takeaway cup dribbles down her chin. She wants nothing to do with the crate. It’ll either give her too much to use or ruin Freddy for her. She bought the copy he sold of Five Leaves Left and plays it often. If she closes her eyes while she plays it, she can see his whole afternoon. Mab’s on his lap, he’s in novelty pajamas instead of trousers, and there are three tepid cups of tea on his cluttered desk. She can even read some of the play. It’s not as good as he thinks it is, but it will be after some reworking.

Freddy’s gray-blue eyes look watery. He heaves the crate onto the trade counter and jams his freckled hands into his trouser pockets. 

“Geoff,” she hisses. Geoff looks up from the till wearing the latest in a series of flatcaps. 

“Oy, Midge, what?”

“Can you process this one?”

He looks at her with tired eyes. “How many responsibilities have I given you? Can you list them out for me please?”

“Dusting.”

“And?”

She counts the rest with her fingers. The nails are painted with bright green varnish. “Counting the till at the end of the night, and…buying.”

“There we have it, ladies and gentlemen.” Geoff claps his hands. “Three tasks outside of talking up Durutti Column to someone who wants to impress his girlfriend.”

She walks behind the trade counter and twists the hem of her shirt up in her hands. 

“Hello there. How may I help you?”

Freddy’s hair is more akimbo than usual. Pieces of it are fluffed right above his ears like tiny red wings. “I’d like to swap out these records please. Credit, not cash.”

Imogen taps her green fingernails against the countertop. “Why?”

He gives a short laugh. “What do you mean why?”

She squints at the crate. “These are all good–they’re good records.” 

If Geoff hears, she’ll be sacked. He’s not even asking for cash. 

Freddy sighs. “Some of these were Liddy’s. I’ve been waiting a month for her to come get them, but I think she’s given them up. I just–I don’t want to look through them. It’ll make me sad.”

Imogen decides to do this the old fashioned way. She makes her eyes empathetic and pushes some of her purple hair behind her ear. “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”

He mutters something about another bloke. 

“Liam” he says with an eyeroll. “He plays football.”

“Wanker,” she offers in return. She’s had an idea. “You shouldn’t let him win though. Why should Liam be the reason you get rid of all of these? You should keep them for a bit longer. Sleep on it. If you still feel the same next week, you can come back ‘round.”

This seems to work. He rifles through and takes one out. “Alright. Just this one then.”

It’s The Sundays. Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. 

“Oh, but this one’s a classic!” She’s too nervous to touch it. If it’s Lydia’s she might hear them shagging. Does one shag to The Sundays?

Freddy shrugs. “It was my mum’s. I’ve never heard it.”

“Oh, in that case.” 

She takes the record from him and drops it immediately. It lands on the counter with a thwack. She steps back and holds her stomach.

Freddy asks if she’s alright. 

She’s alright but someone else isn’t. When she touched the record she heard a scream, then a sound like two pieces of raw steak clapped together. A male voice, deeper than Freddy’s, said, “I told you not to play this drivel while I’m watching telly, Patricia!” 

There wasn’t much else. 

Freddy’s eyes are no longer watery. His hands are out of his pockets and he’s reaching out to her. “I said are you alright?”

Imogen nods. When she speaks her voice is shaky. “I um–let me give you a voucher.”

She writes out a voucher for six pounds of store credit with trembling fingers. 

Freddy takes it with his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “What was your name again?”

She’s too frightened to give her full name. She stammers out, “Midge,” which is what her parents called her between tickles. Midge, Midgey. Midgeon Pot Pie.

“Alright, Midge.” He holds up the voucher. “Thanks for this. I’ll be back tomorrow to cash it in. Hope your stomach’s settled by then.”

Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic sits on the counter for the rest of the day. Imogen doesn’t dare touch it, not even to price it. She finds herself staring at the swirl pattern on the cover at different points in the afternoon. It brings to mind three stone snails hunched together for warmth. She’s always loved this record. She’s listened to it on Spotify while she paints. It starts with jangly guitar and the lyrics “You know…”

She does know. For the first time in her life, she understands that she knows too much.

When Geoff and Imogen count the till and turn out the lights, Geoff glares at the record pointedly. 

“I’ll price it tomorrow,” she tells him, reminding herself to bring tongs and gloves. Tonight she needs to talk to Pidgeon. 

She walks back to Mapperley through the Arboretum, wondering why so many people are horrible to each other. It isn’t just the sound she heard today, it’s all the little things adding up. Whining and lying and throwing the word fat around. As if being soft in the middle is a moral failing rather than something charming. 

Caxon’s is busy tonight. Every round wooden table and mismatched chair is occupied by a bookish woman, nebbish old man, or a couple who speaks in Dickens and Shakespeare. There’s a striking girl dressed all in black arguing crossly with a man in a blazer. She’s calling his photographs derivative. He’s stirring his tea with a spoon too small for his fingers. 

Pidgeon is behind the counter grinding something in a mortar and pestle. She doesn’t look like her name. She’s pointy all over rather than round and jolly. Her nose is delicate and her elbows jut. Even her silver hair is pyramidal. 

There’s a lone stool pushed up against the counter. Imogen takes it and admits the lot: how each record gives her bits and slivers of what they heard when they played. How it extends to the length of the record if she keeps her fingers on it. How she can play them back with her eyes closed so the hearing turns to sight. How if it’s a favorite she can move through listens like the rooms of a house. She sees the time they listened on the floor with large headphones or the time they danced to it in their kitchen. 

“I thought it was a bit of fun.”

Pidgeon has stopped grinding. She scratches her cheek. “Some of these are silly, these gifts of seeing. There’s a man who touches water–” she makes her fingers a waterfall, “and sees the source of it. Lakes and rivers–that sort of thing. It’s quite calming. He doesn’t need a tincture. He takes his Yorkshire Gold with a drop of cream.”

She narrows her eyes at Imogen. “But I wonder if you’ve chosen the right place to work. It’s curious, this ‘fun.’ It requires a week of decompression and my nastiest drink." 

“So?”

Pidgeon starts grinding again. “So what?”

“So what should I do?”

“I haven't the foggiest.”

The next morning, Imogen prices Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic wearing thick leather gloves. When she presses the sticker down she hears half a scream. She moves it to Pop/Rock under the letter S, holding it out from her with a pair of tongs. She paces a circular scuff onto the linoleum floor as she waits for Freddy. By the time he arrives she’s lost the power of speech. He holds out his voucher and grins a lovely grin.

“I hope you’re feeling better today—I am,” he says. “I finally met Liam last night. I believe he’s got only two brain cells to his name. Poor Liddy.” He rubs his nose. “You were right, by the way, Midge. It is Midge, yeah? She finally came ‘round to pick up her records. I’m glad she got them back.”

“How. Nice.” Imogen’s words are hiccups. She stands to one side with her combat boots turned in like a child’s.

Freddy cashes in his voucher with Nick Drake’s Pink Moon. It’s a reissue, so there’s silence as she bags it. She points to the screen next to the till showing the total, collects his voucher and the difference in pounds, and hands him the record in a plastic bag. 

He gives a small wave and leaves. He’s halfway down the street when Imogen finds her voice again.

“Oh hell,” she says. She turns to Geoff and lies. “I’ll be right back. He forgot his wallet.”

Wrong Turn Records sits between a cafe selling flat whites and a boutique peddling fringed leather jackets for £500 each. Despite the name, no one enters by accident. They’ve all come to Hockley to do Hockley things. They’ll buy kimonos and eat mushroom toast, and on their way back to halls they’ll pop in to buy an overpriced reissue of Back to Black. The narrow street between shops is always busy, even on weekdays. But Freddy’s jumper is as green as a cocktail olive. She spots him between two Uni students in studded denim jackets.

“Freddy!”

He turns around. She catches up to him and puts her hands on the ripped knees of her jeans while she recovers her breath. 

“Yes?”

 “Umm.” Bollocks. She has no idea what to say. “Well, I want to admit something.”

Freddy scratches his head. His hair is so mussed now it’s going in six different directions. “...OK?”

“I know that…that you write plays,” she stammers. “Rather good ones–though they might need an edit or two. I know you have a cat named Mab and…” she squints in shame. “I know you wear pajamas with Paddington stamped all over them and never finish your tea.”

He’s done fussing with his hair. His arms are rigid against his body and his eyes dart nervously. “How—how do you know that?”

Imogen bites her thumbnail. “I can’t tell you how I know. But I will say I came upon the knowledge unfairly. And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

Freddy picks at the hem of his olive jumper. He says the next thing slowly.

 “Is there anything else you know?”

She nods and closes her eyes. “Just one other thing. It might be about your mum, but I’m not sure. Patricia?”

Freddy winces. “Patty. Yes, that’s my mum.”

“I don’t know much–just that she may not have had an easy time of it.”

He’s quiet for what feels like a minute. Then he says, “She didn’t. No.”

“I’m sorry for that too.”

His mouth is a thin, straight line. He shakes his head and walks a few steps before stopping. He stops for a while. She can tell he’s working something out from the arch of his shoulders. He turns back to her. 

“I think–I think I’d rather have mine.”

“Yours?”

“Five Leaves Left, right? That’s how you knew. And my mum’s record.” 

Imogen’s eyes widen. She nods.

Freddy glides his free hand over invisible paper. “If I touch the words of a play I see the first performance in my mind’s eye. That’s it. Just the first performance.”

“You…what?!” She’s never met anyone else besides Pidgeon. She’s guessed at the tincture drinkers but never introduced herself. 

“It’s quite fun, really.” He breathes out. His shoulders drop like he’s wiggling out of a knapsack. “I was going to give it a go just now–there’s a bookshop down the road.” He points behind him. “Do you want me to show you? Twelfth Night is my favorite. The first performance of that was a riot.” 

“Oh, err–” Imogen’s heart is loud. It’s making louder thumps than anything she’s heard on a record. “Will you wait a moment, please? I need to go get sacked.”

“Sacked!?” He laughs. “Whatever for?” 

“I’ve been committing a sort of petty theft.” The minute she says it aloud she knows it’s true. Not pence or pounds but bits of lives she wasn’t meant to have. 

“I’m going to tell him what I’ve done.” 

Geoff makes a face like he doesn’t believe her when she admits she’s been stealing. He says, “Be off with you then,” in a quiet voice but doesn’t call the police or ask for repayment. 

When she gets back to Freddy, he’s taken off his jumper to reveal a long sleeve t-shirt. He’s piled the record on top of the jumper and holds both in his arms. 

“I’m a bit nervous,” he says. “You’re the first other one I’ve met.”

Imogen sighs. She feels ten stone lighter. “You know, Freddy, I’m quite relieved.”

“Oh?”

“I get to drink regular tea, for one.” She smiles. “And I’ll drink mine warm, thank you. But first things first. You must tell me where you got those fetching pajamas.”

The last thing she hears as they walk into the bookshop is Freddy’s marvelous laugh.