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Mildred had seen the mysterious Mr Fell a few times from her pitch on Whickber Street market. She suspected he’d have stood-out in any crowd, even when there were still plenty of other men about, so these days his appearance was like a blazing beacon on the streets of Soho; all blonde hair that shone like a halo, a glowing smile and a bounce in his step. That morning, she’d seen him emerge from his shop, which sat on the opposite side to her pavement stall. He didn’t dawdle as he walked along the market. Mr Fell rarely did more than wave at her and the other market traders. He didn’t seem to talk to anyone at all, and that was fine, she reasoned.
Not like they would have much in common if he did stop to chat, she thought. Besides, he’d likely served in the Great War; the few men that returned had often come back a bit more guarded. Of course, it was different for everyone. Some were louder than before, like they were trying to live enough of their life to make up for the one all their friends had been denied. Others came back scarred and scared, whispering nightmares of mustard gas clouds, or remained silent, like they’d left a piece of themselves in the trenches and it was still there.
As she reached to tuck a stray strand of brown hair back from her face, her eye was caught by the glint of gold on her ring-finger. She had to press her lips together to stop the familiar trembling that threatened to pull her into despair whenever she thought of Jack; and she thought of him often.
Some of them were still there, after all.
Little Mabel hadn’t met her dad before conscription had called him up and claimed him, but she was the spitting image of Jack: mischievous blue eyes, blonde curls and a smile constantly covered in whatever treat their indulgent neighbour, Mrs Albert, had managed to sneak to her while she looked after the tiny terror. Not so small now, Mildred thought.
She sighed, sorting through the wares she needed to set out. She’d rather be at home with Mabel, but needs must. She’d had the pitch a few months now and had done decent business selling off whatever she’d been able to find at house clearances. However, a friend of a friend had told her about the growing trade in gramophone records and she’d managed to find a supplier. Over the last week, she’d collected them and organised the discs, checking each one for imperfections before getting them ready for sale today. The problem was she’d become too fond of the blasted things. Mildred had always loved music, the way it made you remember things… Or people. Too many nights of late she’d fallen asleep to melodies she and Jack had never listened to together and yet reminded her of him so deeply, the music weaving through her memories and scoring their life in sweeping rhythms.
But Mildred was a practical woman and she had a young child to feed. She adjusted the hefty gramophone upon the table, a beast of brass and wood, and filed the records in boxes next to it, selecting one to play. She settled on Schubert’s String Quartet No. 14 in D minor - the informal title of Death and the Maiden was maybe a bit maudlin, but it would be a good mixture of calming yet invigorating tempos to catch people’s attention and hopefully bring the punters in.
Mildred began winding the crank, drawing a few intrigued looks from her market neighbours at this novelty, and she smiled brightly at them. Once it couldn’t turn any further, she carefully slipped the record from its paper sleeve and placed it on the turntable, delicately arranging the tonearm and lowering it until the needle touched down upon the spinning record. A muffled crackle announced that the music was about to begin. This was Mildred’s favourite part, the anticipation before those notes echoed out and let her soul quietly soar.
She’d gone for a classical music piece to ease things in. She wasn’t sure how her stall neighbours felt about more recent music but they might warm up to it. The notes floated through the air, and that certainly brought in some interest. Pedestrians who’d otherwise been in a hurry to get to wherever they were going seemed to slow and detour, coming over to inspect the wares on sale.
Much to her surprise, she spotted a burst of dandelion hair behind the growing crowd. Mr Fell seemed content to hover there at the back for a moment, but then she saw him gradually make his way forward, waving shyly to gain her attention.
“Um, hello,” he murmured warmly, his eyes filled with kindness but also something else Mildred couldn’t quite place.
“Mr Fell,” she nodded, clasping her hands in front of her. “Oh, I hope the music isn’t too loud, is it?”
Smiling, Mr Fell shook his head. “Not at all,” he replied, but his voice took on a slightly soft, pondering tone as he added, “I am simply fascinated by the device you have there.”
“They are terribly popular these days,” Mildred informed him, a little surprised a well-to-do gentleman such as Mr Fell wasn’t already in possession of one. “Gramophones. They play music that’s been inscribed onto these discs, called records.” She pointed to the stacks of them behind her.
“What a marvellous invention! I do believe I ought to obtain one myself but, ah, perhaps in next month’s… allocation.” For some reason, Mr Fell nervously glanced up at the sky, but he quickly barrelled on, “And - and what a wonderful choice of music!” Mr Fell’s eyes drifted over to the gramophone, his eyes seeming to grow misty.
Mildred grinned to herself. Of course someone like Mr Fell would know of this composition - he had the air of someone who attended concerts all the time. She could almost picture him sitting in a box, his face enraptured at the performance, fingers perhaps swaying in time. “You’ve heard this piece before then, Mr Fell?”
He blinked, as if he hadn’t been present there for a moment, and Mildred sympathised. How often during the last week had she faded into a memory thanks to the soothing notes flowing over her?
“Ah, yes,” he mumbled, a smile on his mouth but not quite in his voice, his gaze still fixed upon the gramophone. “It has been a while, however. I went to see it performed for the first time oh, goodness, far too many years ago. With a very dear friend, actually.” The way he said ‘dear friend’, the way his smile grew, the way he looked fondly into the distance; it all cemented some of Mildred’s speculations about Mr Fell’s proclivities, but that was neither here nor there to her. People’s business was their own, and life was already cruel enough without finding reasons to make one another miserable.
Mr Fell, ignorant of Mildred’s thoughts, chuckled to himself. “My friend, he was rather fond of the Third Movement, the so-called ‘dance of the demon fiddler’.” Mr Fell’s face shifted, his expression tinged with hesitation as he stammered, “B-but that was, well, all just before the -.” He paused and a flurry of feelings flew across his face. It ended with a veneer of pleasantness, but she had managed to catch sight of one emotion in particular before he’d banished it away, one with which she was intimately familiar: grief.
Mildred nodded, needing no further explanation - everyone had lost someone in the war, after all.
A potential customer was trying to attract her attention, but she waved at him to indicate she’d be there soon. She turned back to Mr Fell and saw he was worrying at the hem of his waistcoat. “Um, would you prefer me not to play this piece again? I don’t mind -”
“Oh, my dear, no!” Mr Fell exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. He sheepishly stared at the ground for a moment then added, “I - it’s rather lovely and it reminds me of - of better times.” His smile was pained but genuine, his eyes open in their honesty.
“As you like, Mr Fell,” Mildred answered, her heart aching in sympathy. She knew the look of loss, had seen it in the faces of too many others or reflected back at her in the mirror. She wanted to reach out and wrap him in comfort; at least she had Mabel to embrace when things seemed their darkest. But Mr Fell spoke to no one, took no visitors, and word on the street was that no family seemed to visit either. Who did he have?
Yet as much as she wished to, it wasn’t proper to offer him her commiseration, and Mildred was a practical woman; there were customers to attend to. “I must talk to this gentleman, Mr Fell,” she explained, tilting her head towards the increasingly agitated-looking customer. Mr Fell nodded in understanding and was about to depart when Mildred felt a stab of affinity once more. Before he turned back to his bookshop, she called out, “I can play it again, if you enjoy hearing it. Until you decide if you want to get your own gramophone.”
Gratitude swept across Mr Fell’s face and she could have sworn for a moment that the air around him shimmered with light. “Oh, that would be - thank you, Mildred,” Mr Fell smiled, his eyes bright and glistening. He gave her another small wave, then disappeared into his bookshop, the door sign remaining on Very Closed. She shook her head, quietly amused, before going to deal with the impatient customer; if he carried on operating his business like that, he’d never be able to afford a gramophone.
Over the next two weeks, Mildred’s stall did a fine trade. Her market neighbours didn’t complain about the music, she found, especially after they realised how it attracted custom to their tables too. Every morning, she started by playing Schubert’s String Quartet No. 14. And every morning, Mr Fell would appear at his window, holding aloft his cup and saucer of tea, nodding at her with a gentle smile before bringing out a cup of her own. They would sometimes chat, discussing the latest vagaries of the Whickber Street Traders Association and their rather abysmal attempts at organising festive decorations, or their latest decision to raise pitch rents. Mr Fell listened graciously whenever Mildred complained, offering a sympathetic ear and encouraging her to buck up.
Every day after he wandered off back to his shop, she hoped that no one asked to buy the Schubert record; it was getting harder to say no. Other items were selling, of course, but it was still lost earnings and there wasn’t much margin for error, not with the increasing cost of the pitch to factor in. So yes, Mildred was a practical woman, yet for some reason she really couldn’t find it in her heart to deny Mr Fell this piece of joy - because whenever they talked she could not shake the feeling that he was, beneath all his outward happiness, a lonely man.
The next month rolled around and Mildred was setting up like any other morning when she felt a burst of warmth next to her. She twirled around to see Mr Fell standing there, his hands behind his back and practically beaming at her.
“Good morning, Mildred!” he announced, rocking on his heels. “I wanted you to know I have now procured a gramophone device and would very much like to browse the catalogue you have here.”
Mildred grinned back at him, gesturing for him to inspect what she’d already laid out. “Please take a look, Mr Fell. You’ll find the classical music at the front there.” She walked over to the gramophone and searched for the now familiar paper sleeve of the record she intended to play. However, she paused and held it in her hands, twisting around once more to her only customer.
“Um, would you be interested in this one?” she asked, extending the record out to Mr Fell, who blinked at her over the ridiculously tiny reading glasses perched atop his nose. “It’s the Schubert - though maybe you’re a bit tired of it by now!” she admitted apologetically.
He glanced down at the record in her hands, a fond smile spreading across his face like he was greeting an old friend. “Oh, of course! Just what I was looking for. I must admit, I am surprised no one else snapped it up before I did!”
“Well, people offered,” Mildred shrugged, glancing away, “but, ah, it didn’t feel right to sell it to them. Not when you, y’know, loved it.” Deep down, Mildred felt the sensible part of her bemoaning her sentimentalism, but she told that part to shush. She knew the comfort music could bring, the places it could take you - who was she to deny Mr Fell that?
Mr Fell’s eyebrows raised and he seemed a little overwhelmed, his mouth opening and closing several times before he said, “Thank you, my dear. I - I do believe that’s one of the kindest things a human being has ever done for me.”
She smirked at Mr Fell’s way of speaking, like he wasn’t even part of the same species. She wondered suddenly if that’s how he felt, given how distanced he seemed from everyone, how she’d not seen him engage in any kind of meaningful conversation with anyone else the entire time she’d been getting to know him; a deep sense of sadness ran through her that perhaps he did see himself as separate, without a true friend in the world except for the one he’d lost.
She had the entire world waiting for her back at home; who did Mr Fell have?
“It’s free!” she blurted out, shoving the record into his hands, which thankfully Mr Fell managed to grasp deftly.
“Oh, no, Mildred,” he began, blinking at her rapidly, “I can assure you I can pay for it -”
“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously, “s’not right. Feels - I dunno, feels wrong. Just - you can pay me back with teas or something,” she groused, blowing an errant strand of hair away from her face as she did.
Mr Fell’s face softened, as if he were seeing something familiar, but he only nodded, holding the record tight in his hand while removing his reading glasses and tucking them into his waistcoat pocket. “Alright,” he murmured, a small smile forming on his mouth. “That’s very nice of you, thank you.”
Mildred was about to shake off his gratitude when he interrupted her. “I have actually been thinking about something else, Mildred. Your stall is doing well, but I understand the market rents have increased significantly.” He paused, tilting his head as he said, “I have a business proposition, should you be interested. Perhaps we could discuss when you have a moment?”
Curious, Mildred nodded. “I can visit during my break, get one of the other stall owners to keep an eye on my table.”
“Wonderful!” Mr Fell replied, even doing a little wiggle in delight which Mildred couldn’t help but grin at. “I’ll clear out a space at the back and - well, I’ll give you all the details later. Suffice to say, I have A Plan.”
Mildred almost laughed at the way he seemed to capitalise the words in his sentence and she watched him as he waved her goodbye, heading back into his bookshop. For some reason, it made her smile even more when Mr Fell miraculously remembered to turn the door sign to Open.