Chapter 7: Francis is taken in by an eccentric bookshop proprietor.
VII.
Petrovan
[London May 2018]
The sun warm on his back, his shoes still soggy from the midday rain, Francis steps into a bookshop for break from the elements and also a break from his own thoughts. He's been trapped in his own head for days while wandering around London, seeking out food and a safe place to sleep. For the most part things are alright, plenty of dumpsters to choose from and the warm weather means he won't freeze while sleeping rough. Last night was a close call though, and he almost wound up in the back of a police car on his way to some horrible wayward children's home. Good thing he's a faster runner than most of these pudgy muggle police officers.
The bookshop is an ancient place with books piled up in the windows so high they almost completely block all the light coming in from the street. This is exactly the kind of place Francis feels the most comfortable and he's optimistic that the proprietor will be sympathetic and maybe, if he plays his cards right, offer him a job. It takes a few hours of searching through the teetering piles on the floor and jam-packed shelves before he encounters another living being in the place. An old-ish man with scraggly long hair and a tye-dye shirt is smoking something sweet and kind of skunky in a secluded corner in the back next to the window, a record player sputtering out some kind of strange sharp noise, clashing and chaotic.
"Hey man. You're here too?" He regards Francis as though he's somehow just stepped into his dream.
"What is that?" Francis points to the record player.
"A music machine." He stares at the record as it spins, light glinting off the shiny black plastic. "Plays sound captured from air and imprinted on discs."
"That sound..."
"Rock'n'Roll!" He jumps up and starts mimicking that he's playing some kind of instrument. He sticks his tongue out for effect.
"Ok." Francis was hoping for some old senile bookworm, not...whatever this guy is. "I have a question."
"I have an answer." He sets his fake air-instrument gently on the ground and turns to face Francis, hands on his hips.
"Will you hire me?" Francis just throws it out there. "I can do anything. Cleaning. Repairs. Bookkeeping. Working the till. I'll do whatever you need. I just need a place to sleep."
"Sure sure there's plenty to do. Plenty to do." He nods, sits back down and takes a drag on his pipe. "I feel you man. We all just need a place to sleep. Ah! Wait!" He yelps, almost falling off his chair. "Dig it! That riff! Oh it's so sweet I can taste it." He's pointing at the record player.
"Sweet." Francis echos, nodding. This is not going to be easy, but it beats sleeping under a bridge.
"I'll show you your digs." He rises to his feet and shuffles to a nearby door. The steps groan under his sandaled feet as he descends into the cellar. It's cool and dark, and with the tug of a string the room is illuminated from a bare lightbulb on the ceiling. In addition to boxes of books and other random items is a sagging old couch, which he assumes will be his new bed, and a gorgeous, albeit significantly tarnished, gold-gilded harp. Francis drifts over to the harp as the old hippie mutters about the mess, and starts plucking the strings. They're terribly out of tune.
"Do you play?" The old hippie's enthusiasm is unbridled.
"Yeah. I used to. It's been a while." Francis used to hang around a church that gave chamber music concerts and the woman who played the harp there started giving him lessons back in 1954.
"You know how to tune one of these things?"
"No but I bet Hyacinth knows someone. I'll ask her. We'll get it fixed up for you. I'll get you some blankets too. I have some blankets somewhere." He becomes lost in his thoughts for a moment. "You need clothes?"
"I'll find some." Francis appreciates the offer but he isn't keen on looking like…whatever this guy looks like.
"There's a charity shop on the high street. Give them some of these in exchange. Tell them Petrovan sent you." He gestures to some books spilling out of a partially ripped box. Suddenly it occurs to him that he's never properly introduced himself. "I'm Petrovan, of course." He holds out his hand for Francis to shake, which he does. "My girl's name is Hyacinth. She'll be around."
"Francis Crowley. Thank you for your help."
"Crowley?" The name strikes a chord. "I think I know a Crowley. Odd fellow. A little like you... But with red hair, real red not fake red." He makes a strange motion with his hands as he explains the man's hair, fingers wiggling like flames coming from his own head. It strikes Petrovan that his Crowley must be Francis' father (from whom he assumes Francis has run away), and adds, conspiratorially, "Don't worry. I've already forgotten." He taps his head three times and cracks a goofy smile before trundling back upstairs.