A Kind of Loving by Stan Barstow Page A

and pants, and the tig ash. Mr Van smokes a lot, only he doesn't really smoke at all, if you see what I mean. He lights fags all day long and then lets them hang out of his mouth till the ash drops on to his books when he brushes it away kind of absent-minded like. Yes, he looks a real gent, and a touch I really go for is this white handkerchief that hangs half out of his top pocket. It's real casual, artistic like, as if he's saying, 'Oh, yes, I know this is the way to dress, but I can't be bothered with it really, you know.'
    So he considers, and then he says, 'I think you might check over that new consignment of records, if you don't mind. I've no doubt some of them will be asked for before the day's out and we should know where to put our hands on them.'
    'Right you are.'
    'If you don't mind,' though. He's the boss, isn't he, so who am I to mind? But that's Mr Van all over, considerate, treats you like a person, and makes it a real pleasure to do things for him.
    So I begin to go through these records stacked in boxes behind the counter. There's all the latest pop stuff here for the fans: Frankie Vaughan, Tommy Steele, and Elvis. And they'll be swarming all over the place this afternoon, buying loads of stuff and taking it home to play with the repeat on till both them and the neighbours are sick to death of it. Then they'll come back next week for some more. Every week-end they're here, buying records by big names who've been going years and blokes you won't be able to remember eighteen months from now. I don't take a lot of notice of Henry's moaning but I sometimes wonder myself if it can last. In the meantime Mr Van Huyten must be doing very nicely thank you. He's a Beethoven man himself, you know. I once heard him tell a customer he was very fond of the 'later quartets', whatever they might be. But he doesn't mind keeping the business running on the profits from the other stuff. Me, I like all kinds of things, stuff with a tune you can whistle. Let's face it, there's a hell of a lot of crap passes over the counter.
    When I've checked the consignment over I pass the invoices over to Mr Van for spiking. I pick out the records that are on order and sort the rest out ready for riling in their boxes. The box system's my idea; before this Mr Van had his stock filed according to catalogue numbers.
    'Look, Mr Van Huyten,' I said to him one Saturday morning; 'I've been thinking about the way you've got your stock filed.' And he stops what he's doing to listen to me.
    'Now when somebody comes in for a record we look the number up in the catalogue and if we have it we make a single sale. Right?'
    He nods, very patient like. 'Right.'
    'And if we haven't got it we offer to order it. But they don't always want to wait and so they might go somewhere else.'
    'That's right,' Mr Van says. 'We can't stock everything.'
    'No, we can't. But supposing we put the records in boxes and label 'em according to the artist - or the composers for the classical stuff. Then when a bloke comes in for a Perry Como, say, we get Perry Como's box down and look for it there; and we let the customer look as well. That way he actually sees the records we've got instead of just names in a catalogue, which we might not have anyway. Ten to one he'll spot something he's forgotten or didn't know about. That way we could sell mebbe three or four records for every one we sell now.'
    He's looking at me over his glasses. 'You mean to let them browse, as they do in bookshops?'
    'That's it. You'd never make a bookshop pay if you only let the customer see the one book he wants. Many a time they don't know what they want, and this way we could have people coming in just to look through a box of the sort of records they fancy. Course, we'd have to keep an eye on them, see they don't do any damage... You see what I mean, Mr Van Huyten?'
    He nods. 'I see what you mean, Victor. I'll think about it and let you know.' He goes back to his books but I know he will think about it