Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  When they finished the piece a smattering of applause flecked the background murmur and Arthur announced their next number, ‘Fidgety Feet’. Maxine was familiar with that one as well. A tall young man, smart, wearing a Fair Isle pullover the like of which she had seen on photos of the Prince of Wales, asked her to dance and she felt guilty at having to refuse him. She preferred to listen to the band.

  This jazz was so informal, so improvised that it allowed for some ineptitude, she pondered, as she watched the pianist’s fingers stumble over the keys. The odd wrong note wasn’t that noticeable and mostly didn’t matter. The music was full of discords anyway, intermingling of instruments that at times sounded chaotic even though a firm underlying matrix was always present. So why did this pianist stand out as being so ill fitted to his job? The tempo changed slightly and Maxine recognised a tune called ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Arthur, clutching his clarinet casually at his side, sang a couple of triplets – incongruously, since the lyrics were meant to be sung by a woman – then proceeded to give another less than sparkling clarinet solo.

  Then it struck her. The pianist. He wasn’t using syncopation. He knew what notes to play, but it seemed that he had not fathomed out how to stress the weak beat, the offbeat. The very elements of jazz, she thought, pitch, texture, melodic and harmonic organisation, all those bent notes, are woven around provocative rhythms. The way this man played he might just as well have been pounding out a hymn in a Methodist mission hut. Maxine felt pleased that she had diagnosed this ailment in what was otherwise a reasonable, tight sound.

  Having sorted out the piano player, Maxine regarded Brent. His expression was earnest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow as he slid his trombone through intricate passages in ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. This was evidently his preferred world, his preferred music.

  At this point she asked herself what she was doing here; what she hoped to gain in this seedy, musty old warehouse that was hazy with cigarette smoke. Had she accepted Brent’s invitation because she wanted to listen to the music? Or was it because she fancied her chances with him? Accepting his invitation was a way of being with him, wasn’t it? But she wasn’t actually with him. He was on the stage sweating buckets over the one thing that possibly mattered more to him than anything else, while she was standing eight feet from the bar, watching, listening, being asked to dance by strange men in whom she had no interest, sipping beer she did not enjoy. She was not actually talking to Brent; she was not getting to know him any better. Neither was she discovering about Eleanor and the depth of his involvement with her.

  Maybe she was wasting her time. Why would Brent Shackleton bother with Maxine Kite? In any case, he was inconsiderate. Look how he’d hurried off without her, leaving her to her own devices to gain admittance to the club. Totally, irritatingly inattentive. The absolute opposite of Stephen’s irritatingly superfluous gallantry. Both were as bad as each other. As soon as Brent came off stage she would make her excuses and go home. Besides, it was getting late. Henzey and Will would think she’d been abducted.

  Yet, he must be interested in her. He’d asked her to this club, hadn’t he?

  As she stood watching, thinking, listening, wavering between one emotion and another, she was aware that a man was standing at her side, but she avoided looking at him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said half apologetically, ‘would you mind very much if I talk to you?’

  At least his approach was straightforward, even if he was a bit shy.

  ‘Why me?’ she asked, curious. ‘The place is full of girls.’ But her smile broadened in direct proportion to her appreciation of his handsome face and the kindly look in his soft eyes that were framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Because you look like the sort of girl who might have something to say,’ he answered with a warm but tentative smile. ‘The others? I doubt it. I’m also intrigued as to why a girl so attractive should be standing by herself.’

  She chuckled amiably. ‘Oh, spare me the flattery. Attractive? Dressed like this?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been watching you for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to come over and speak to you.’ He was about twenty-eight, she judged, clean and well groomed, but with an unruly mop of dark hair that gave him an appealing schoolboy look. ‘Howard Quaintance.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ They were having to speak in raised voices to be heard over the sound of the jazz.

  He smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m Howard Quaintance…Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.’

  ‘Sorry. Maxine Kite…How do you do?’ She felt that, for the sake of good manners, him being so polite, she ought to offer to shake his hand.

  He stood there holding a glass, his other hand in his pocket, casual, unassuming. ‘Delighted to meet you…er…Miss?…Kite.’

  ‘Miss, yes,’ she affirmed strenuously, amused by his unsubtle way of checking her marital status. ‘Call me Maxine. I’m quite happy to dispense with formality.’

  He took a swig of beer. ‘Well, Maxine, what is such an attractive girl doing, standing all on her own in a den of inequity like this?’

  ‘Actually, I’m with one of the band.’

  ‘You don’t say? Might I ask which one?’

  ‘The trombonist.’

  ‘You don’t say…’ Maxine thought he sounded inordinately surprised. ‘A good musician. Not bad band, either, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she concurred unconvincingly. ‘Between you and me, though, I’m not so sure about the pianist.’

  ‘Interesting you should say that,’ he remarked, focusing on the piano player.

  ‘I’ve been watching him and listening. If only he would syncopate they would really swing.’

  ‘Mmm…Interesting you should say that.’ He took a thoughtful slurp from his pint. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though. I’m certainly no musician, but what you say doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re not a musician, are you, by any chance?’

  ‘I am a pianist,’ she confessed, to justify her comments. ‘But I play cello in the CBO.’

  ‘The CBO? Hey! You’re a classical musician. That explains your being hauled here by Brent.’

  ‘You know Brent?’

  ‘Nodding terms only, I’m afraid. Friend of a friend. Look, can I get you a drink?’

  She looked at the barely touched glass of beer with distaste. ‘Would you mind?’ she replied. ‘This beer is too awful. I’d love a glass of lemonade…If it’s no trouble?’

  ‘Absolutely no trouble at all.’ He quaffed what remained of his pint and turned for the bar.

  Great! She had a friend to talk to while Brent was busy. And he was easy to talk to. He seemed nice. She smiled cheerfully, uplifted now. It was pleasant to make new friends. What had he said his name was?…Howard? Yes. Howard Quaintance. Difficult to forget a name like that. In no time he returned and handed her the glass of lemonade. She took a mouthful eagerly to destroy the lingering, bitter taste of the beer.

  ‘So, how come you and Brent are on nodding terms?’ she asked.

  ‘Through one of the other members of the band, actually.’

  Maxine felt herself go hot. Of course, this Howard was going to tell her it was the piano player, she could feel it coming with the certainty of an express train hurtling down a track to which she was tied and unable to escape. She put her hand over her eyes, and cringed.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s the pianist, Howard. Please don’t tell me it’s the pianist!’

  He guffawed aloud, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles with unconcealed delight at Maxine’s gaff. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ She wanted the ground at her feet to open up and consume her. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

  Still howling with laughter, he touched her forearm and she felt his hand, warm, reassuring as he squeezed it.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself, Maxine,’ he said gently. ‘Old Randolf would be the first to admit he’s no jazz musician. Actually, he’s a church organist, you know
. Jolly good he is too, as choirmaster, at playing Wesley and Stainer. Does an intoxicating “All things bright and beautiful”. Took this on as a challenge. For a hoot. A tad out of his depth I think.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve gone all hot.’ Then she chuckled at her faux pas. ‘Maybe I’m too honest.’

  ‘Never ever say that, Maxine. Make thine honesty a vice…Shakespeare…Othello, you know.’

  She shrieked with laughter. ‘Really? Shouldn’t I make it a virtue?’

  He laughed with her at his own gaff.

  ‘So what do you do for a living, Howard, that makes you quote Shakespeare out of context? Are you an English teacher, by any chance?’

  He chortled again and took a mouthful of beer, all the time looking straight into her eyes. She held the glance and recognised an untainted, well-brought-up look.

  ‘I’d rather not say. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Maxine, but I rather like you and if I tell you what I do for a living you might not wish to be as affable as you are.’

  ‘Affable, am I?’

  ‘Definitely. I find you easy to talk to and hugely amusing. I also find you very direct. I like that. It’s refreshing in a girl…’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, we may never meet again, so there’d be no harm in telling you anyway. But, I won’t.’

  She laughed at his indecision or his teasing; she wasn’t sure which it was. ‘God! You’re infuriating. Why won’t you tell me what you do?’

  ‘It’s of no consequence – really…But hey, I am thirsty.’ He took a long quaff from his beer, finishing it off.

  ‘Well, you’re drinking that rather quickly,’ she commented.

  ‘Good God! You’re not in the Band of Hope, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not. More like the band of no hope, me.’ Her tone, she was aware, must have sounded melancholy.

  ‘How can you possibly say that?’ he asked. ‘With all the musical talent you must possess?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about musical talent particularly.’

  ‘Oh? What, then?’

  It was her turn to shrug, unsure as to how much she should tell him. ‘Oh…Men. I find men are a pain in the neck…Oh, I don’t mean you, Howard – I don’t know you – but some at any rate. I mean it’s either all or nothing with them. At least that’s my experience – which is a bit limited, I hasten to add – just in case I’ve given you the wrong impression.’

  ‘Is that an engagement ring you’re wearing, Maxine? You must have captured somebody’s heart. But that’s hardly surprising.’

  She brought her hand up so he could inspect the ring in the dimness. He took off his glasses to better see close to and slipped them into the top pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Very impressive,’ he remarked.

  ‘But it’s not an engagement ring, Howard.’

  ‘No? Well that’s a blessing.’

  She explained in some detail about her relationship with Stephen. How he wanted more than she was prepared to give, how she did not enjoy his caresses, even though she liked him as a person; how he’d tried to trap her into saying she would marry him. She was surprised at the consummate ease with which she was pouring out her doubts and fears to Howard, as if they’d been bosom pals always.

  ‘But everyone will think it’s an engagement ring, Maxine, and your Stephen knows that,’ Howard advised her. ‘Don’t you see? I thought it was an engagement ring, actually. Why don’t you wear it on your right hand, if you’re still keen on wearing it? Then there can be no misunderstanding. It tends to put off potential suitors, you know.’

  Maxine looked at him with wide-eyed admiration. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? That’s brilliant, Howard! That’s absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘Here. Let me do it. I’ve never removed a ring from a finger before.’

  She gave him her hand, thinking it a strange thing for him to say. He put his glass down on a nearby table and touched her slender fingers. Deftly, he slid off the ring.

  ‘Now, give me your right hand.’ He put the ring on the third finger. ‘Does it fit?’

  She nodded coyly, aware that her heart was beating fast with the unanticipated intimacy of the moment. To her surprise, being touched by someone who was not Stephen was surprisingly pleasant and, for the first time in her life, Maxine felt that maybe she was not destined to be unresponsive forever. It had to be Stephen. She felt new hope. Physical contact might be pleasurable after all, and she wondered what her reaction would be if Brent touched her.

  ‘There. That’s all there is to it. Problem solved.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt herself blush; though in this dim light it barely mattered.

  ‘Is that why you’re here tonight with Brent Shackleton?’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘I mean, are you trying to seek some reason to justify discarding this Stephen?’

  He had a point.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t really know. I hadn’t analysed my motives particularly. Brent’s a fellow musician. A colleague. To tell you the truth I was ready to go home before you came talking to me.’ But suddenly she saw her chance to find out more about Brent. She must sound as casual as she could. ‘Anyway, I don’t really know Brent that well. What can you tell me about him? I’ve seen him with a girl after CBO concerts. A really beautiful girl. Is he married or anything?’

  Howard looked bitterly disappointed. ‘Why don’t you ask him, Maxine?’

  Outside it had started to rain. Maxine had not anticipated rain tonight. She pulled her cardigan over her shoulders and ran behind Brent as they headed for his car. He threw his trombone onto the back seat. Once inside he unlocked the passenger door for her.

  ‘Bloody weather,’ he murmured. ‘Which way?’

  ‘To the top of Broad Street, then turn right into Ladywood Road.’ She shuffled her bottom on the seat to get comfortable, Howard’s presence still with her.

  He turned the car around and drove off. ‘Well? Have you enjoyed tonight?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, thank you. The band’s good. I’m impressed. Have you got a name for yourselves?’

  ‘The Second City Hot Six.’

  ‘The Second City Hot Six?…But there are seven of you.’

  ‘Arthur doesn’t always play. His wife won’t let him out all the time.’

  ‘Lord, I can scarcely believe that!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not that brilliant anyway, is he?’

  ‘Not really. But most of the time we haven’t got him. When we have, he’s a bonus.’

  ‘A liability, more like. He plays that clarinet as if it were a piece of lead piping. The pianist too – he’s the same – worse, possibly.’

  He chuckled at her directness. ‘This stuff’s not serious, Maxine. It’s for fun. It doesn’t really matter how good or bad we are, so long as we enjoy playing together. It pays reasonably well, anyway. That’s a bonus.’

  ‘I suppose so. But I tend to be a perfectionist, Brent. I couldn’t stand to play jazz – or anything else for that matter – unless I was doing it as well as it was possible to do it.’

  ‘Does that apply to everything you do?’ he asked provocatively.

  ‘Of course it does.’ His innuendo was lost on her, however.

  ‘I see you were talking to Randolf’s chum.’

  ‘You mean Howard? He was nice. Easy to talk to. I liked him.’ The same glow she’d felt when he held her hand lit her up again as she recalled the moment. After a pause, she said: ‘I asked him about you.’

  He snorted with laughter. ‘I bet that impressed him.’

  ‘I asked him if he knew whether you were married.’

  ‘Oh? And what did he say?’

  ‘He said to ask you …I think I upset him. So I’m asking. Are you married, Brent?’

  He hesitated, and she knew he was debating with himself whether to tell her a lie. ‘Why? Is it important?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t ask before you accepted
my offer to take you out.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it had occurred to me.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you accepted my invitation.’

  She felt her colour rise. ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘Which suggests it isn’t relevant.’

  ‘It would be relevant if I had designs on you,’ she said, trying to make it sound as if she hadn’t.

  He grinned to himself in the darkness. ‘And do you have designs on me?’

  ‘Certainly not. Especially if you’re married. So? Are you married?’

  ‘I might be,’ he teased. ‘And then again, I might not.’

  ‘Sorry, Brent. Turn left here, please.’

  ‘Left? Hold tight.’ He braked hard and turned the car into the corner.

  ‘Now right.’

  ‘Okay…Now where?’

  ‘Just here will do…Thank you, Brent. Thanks for taking me to listen to the Second City Hot Seven.’

  ‘Hot Six.’

  She smiled enigmatically as she clambered out of the car. ‘See you at rehearsal in the morning.’

  Chapter 5

  Orchestra rehearsals for Beethoven’s Mass in D went well. By five minutes past ten everyone had tuned up and was playing. Leslie Heward was not content with some of the passages in the final movement, prompting various discussions and one or two individuals practising certain phrases privately and spontaneously before going over it again together. They broke for lunch at one o’ clock.