St. Mallory's Forever!

18. HELEN: Only Kidding.

Hee hee, so I have to admit that yesterday's post was designed to intrigue you and get you to come back. I've been looking at my stats, and I've got a decent number of readers now. But most of them just pop in occasionally and don't stick around, so I'm employing a few little tactics to get you to come back, and that was one of them. Sorry.

Anyway, we got inside the music shop and it was all twisty and wobbly with some dodgy sloping floor, worse than a house we lived in a few years back (except without the peeling wallpaper and all-pervading smell of damp). The guy at the desk looked a little surprised: I guess we were the biggest group of customers he'd had in a long time.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for some music," I said.

"Sorry. No Spice Girls here, luv," came the retort.

I glared at him. "For your information, the Spice Girls went out of fashion before I was born."

He smiled. "Only joking, luv. I didn't expect a St. Mallory's girl to want anything like that. What can I get you?"

I did a double-take and glanced around at rest of the group. None of us were in uniform. The man must have been reading my mind.

"I don't get many teenagers here at the best of times," he said, "so when a group of teen girls suddenly appear in my doorway and there's a St. Mallory's coach parked just up the road..."

I breathed a sigh of relief. If he'd said I looked or sounded like a St. Mall's girl I'd have been suicidal.

"Classical sheet music?" I asked.

"Who by?"

"I don't actually know." I like playing this game with people, but the reaction you get does vary.

"So what's it called?"

"I don't know that either."

"Hmm. So how do you propose I find it?"

"I'm not looking for anything in particular," I explained with a sweet smile. "I just want a piece of sheet music that my mum hasn't got already."

I half expected the shop owner to go off on one, asking how in God's name he was supposed to know what my mum had or had not got, but instead the guy brought out this massive box of music from behind the counter.

"Will this do? All sorts of junk in here. Some copies, some originals. In came up with a job lot. No idea what's there, but it's all two quid a piece. Take your pick, miss. If you find a missing masterpiece, remember me in your will."

I forced a laugh at that. At least he was trying"

Abby got bored for some reason while I was sorting through everything in the box. Poor girl. When I see a piece of sheet music my eyes light up. Abby's just glaze over.

Anyway, I had pulled everything out and was sorting through gleefully, rejecting a few Bach duets in favour of a Stravinsky score I'd been looking for since January, and then I found the oboe arrangement of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Mum would be pleased with that; she wanted to teach it to a girl in Sixth Form who apparently was a pretty good all-round reed player.

"You nearly done?" Abby was asking in a tone that suggested only an affirmative answer would be satisfactory

Ah well. That would have to do. But I'd be back, probably with Mum. With great reluctance I began to return everything to the box, when suddenly I found something I hadn't expected to see.

"Nils," said Abby, reading it over my shoulder. "David Nils."

"He's French," I corrected, and gave her the correct French pronunciation, which earned me a glare. But hey, ya gotta drum some kultcha and edjamackation into these posh girls!

Though to be fair to Abby, if she didn't know who Tchaikovsky was, she sure wouldn't have heard of Nils. Mum, on the other hand would be well pleased. This little find was worth several brownie points.

"I'll take these, please."

The guy looked it over. "Good choice with the ballet selection, young lady, but never heard of this piece by Nils. Can you hum it?"

I attempted to sight-sing the first couple of bars, and trailed off as soon as it got too high. "I know the composer, but I don't know the piece," I admitted, hoping that would explain my abysmal performance. "I thought we had all of his music — Mum's made me play it often enough. So this'll be the perfect gift."

After handing over my only ten pound note and grabbing the change all in pound coins (Whatever happened to good ol' fivers? They seemed to be an endangered species nowadays) I was almost dragged out of the shop by Abby. Right past Xuan, who was looking at a display of flutes. I just had to join her. But Abby had other plans.

"No more music stuff," Abby declared. "You've got your weird composers and their Martian scrawl. Can we get out of here now? Christie and the Don want to go to some real shops."

Suddenly, I remembered my hatred of shopping.