Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I don’t know that one. Is it a blues number?’ Maxine enquired, and looked surprised when the others roared with laughter.

  Chapter 6

  With hardly a breeze to disturb it, Rotton Park Reservoir mirrored the yellowing flare of the western evening sky and its wrack of orange cloud in its cool stillness. The air was gentle and mild and the trees, casting long, springtime shadows, wore their fresh green coats vividly in the low, brassy sunshine, hardly waving. At the water’s edge three schoolboys dipped their fishing nets and one whooped with glee as he scooped out a stickleback. Stephen took Maxine’s hand, which she accepted without enthusiasm, as they set off clockwise around the reservoir for a stroll.

  ‘You been all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been fine.’

  ‘Rehearsals going okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Of course, he meant the CBO. ‘We’re rehearsing with the choir again on Thursday evening. Beethoven’s Mass in D. It’ll be the last practice before we perform it.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up after. You’ll need a lift with your cello.’

  ‘No, it’s okay, Stephen. I’ll get a lift.’

  ‘Oh? Off who?’

  ‘Off Brent Shackleton.’

  ‘Brent Shackleton? Why him? No, I’ll meet you. I’ll bring you home.’

  She was tired of this. She stopped abruptly, breaking the idyll. She slipped her hand out of his and turned to face him, her eyes ablaze with the fire of the sky. ‘Stephen, there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want you to collect me, because after rehearsal I’m going somewhere with Brent.’

  ‘You’re what?’ he taunted. ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Listen, I’ve been asked to join a jazz band as pianist and I’ve accepted.’

  ‘A jazz band? As if you hadn’t got enough to occupy you.’

  ‘Yes, a jazz band, Stephen. And we’re practising like mad to get everything right. Thursday night, after CBO rehearsals, Brent and I are going to the jazz club to practise. He’s the trombonist in the band as well, see?’

  ‘No, I don’t see, Maxine. Why couldn’t you have told me about it sooner? I reckon there’s something going on between you and that Brent Shackleton.’

  ‘There’s nothing going on, Stephen.’ Worse luck, she felt like adding.

  ‘I won’t let you do it, Maxine. It’s not fair. I won’t let you.’

  ‘Stephen, it’s all fixed,’ she rasped, hot with indignation. ‘You won’t stop me, either. If you try and stop me I’ll stop seeing you anyway. You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. What a damn cheek!’

  ‘I don’t like it, Maxine,’ Stephen said sullenly. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘Then you know what to do. Give me up, for God’s sake. Forget me. It’s not going to work anyway with you following me everywhere like a lapdog. I need to be free, Stephen. I need freedom to pursue my own life. You don’t seem to appreciate that. You’ve never appreciated it.’

  He sighed. She was right. Their romance had no chance of succeeding while she was only half-hearted about it. But what could he do? He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. Always. But what was the point of banging your head against a brick wall?

  They ambled on, unsettled, their business unfinished. A hundred yards behind them, the three little boys had lost interest in their fishing and hooted with laughter as now they skimmed stones across the lake to see who could achieve most bounces. Before them, the trees and houses on the opposite side took on a dark grey hue, silhouetted against the deepening evening glow.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Brent Shackleton?’ Stephen asked at length.

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘You give me your word?’

  ‘God!’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘On my honour!’

  ‘So where do I fit in with this jazz band? It seems as if I’m superfluous to requirements.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose you’ll be lurking somewhere. Anyway, I want Pansy to join the band as well.’

  ‘Oh, well, I bet Pansy would jump at the chance,’ he said brightly.

  Maxine smiled to herself at his sudden change of mood and imagined him asking Pansy to be his spy. Not that it would do him any good; Pansy would only tell him what she wanted him to know. But it could work against her; if he delivered Pansy to gigs he would still be around when she really wanted to see less of him.

  ‘Will you ask her to meet me on Friday night at that jazz club in Gas Street when she’s finished at the Hippodrome?’ Maxine requested. ‘We’re playing then and I’d like her to meet the others.’ She thrust her hand into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Will you give her this letter?…It explains everything. We really do need a good clarinettist. Hearing us play might just whet her appetite.’

  ‘All right, leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see she comes along. I’ll bring her myself.’

  By half past ten on Friday night the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club was heaving with people. Cigarette smoke drifted in fat blue clouds into the high, timber ceiling, swirling lethargically around the nicotine stained light bulbs that lent the requisite amount of sleaze. Men drank pints of warm beer, as did some of the women, though most girls were sipping drinks considered more elegant. They were smart, chic in fashionable summer dresses, laughing, openly enjoying themselves.

  Brent Shackleton had brought Eleanor along and she sipped gin and Italian with a practised finesse. She was beautifully dressed in a long, black, backless, figure-hugging evening dress that left little to the imagination. Yet she wore it with such dignity and elegance that Stephen, who was mesmerised at the sight of her, felt as if he was prying if he let his eyes linger. However, that did not stop him. With a girl like Eleanor around it was apparent that, where Maxine was concerned, he had nothing to fear from Brent Shackleton. It was obvious where Brent’s attentions would naturally be focused. The first thing Maxine sought on Eleanor was a wedding ring; and she found one. Confirmation, if any were needed, that Brent was indeed married to her.

  ‘Brent tells me you’ve made a difference to the band already, Maxine,’ Eleanor said when they’d been introduced.

  ‘Thank you for saying so,’ Maxine replied graciously. ‘But I’m so nervous about playing tonight.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to hearing you. Brent says I’ll be pleasantly surprised. I don’t come out to hear him and his jazz very often. Actually, you’re the only reason I’ve come tonight. He said how…how appealing you are – to look at – that people will come to hear the band just to get a peek at you.’ Maxine perceived that Eleanor spoke grudgingly. ‘I was curious to see for myself.’

  Maxine smiled, gratified none-the-less to learn that Brent found her looks interesting.

  ‘He really wants to succeed in jazz, Maxine,’ she continued. ‘I hope that, with your help, he will.’

  ‘I suppose we all want to succeed, Eleanor – at whatever we do,’ Maxine said, slighted at the implication that she should be merely a tool by which Brent’s aspirations should turn to reality. ‘Everything I do, I put my heart and soul into. Trouble is, we’ve not had much time to practise together yet, so I hope you’ll make allowances. In a few months, though, we’ll be really slick, so judge us then and not now.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Eleanor…If you’ll excuse me. They’re getting up on stage now, look.’

  Maxine joined the lads on stage and took her seat at the piano. With no introductions they went straight into a King Oliver number – ‘Rhythm Club Stomp’. It did not take long for the audience to realise there was something different about the Second City Hot Six. Almost at once they had everyone’s attention and a spontaneous round of applause at the end of the first number. Without waiting for the applause to die down Brent counted them in for ‘Royal Garden Blues’, Bix Beiderbecke style, followed at once by ‘Tiger Rag’. It was then that Brent introduced Maxine to the audience as the band’s new pianist, at which she smiled coquettishly and waved, to a roar of appr
oval and a barrage of wolf whistles.

  Maxine kept looking to see whether Howard Quaintance had turned up. But there was no sign of him. Doubtless, without Randolf, his piano playing organist pal, he had no reason to be there. Pity. From time to time, she tried to catch Pansy’s expressions to gauge whether she was enjoying the music and approving of it all. Pansy was sitting listening intently on one side of Stephen. Eleanor was on Stephen’s other side, listening intently to him.

  Just before the break Arthur split the reed of his clarinet. Evidently, he hadn’t got a spare, so he sat out what remained of the session. This was exactly the chance Maxine had hoped for. During the break she grabbed Pansy and they both followed Brent to the bar, waiting patiently while he got served and took the compliments of one or two club members.

  ‘Brent, can I introduce you to Pansy Hemming?’ she said, giving him no chance to move further.

  He was carrying three pints of beer and inevitably spilling some. ‘Hello, Pansy. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’

  ‘Pansy’s a clarinettist,’ Maxine said. ‘I think I’ve mentioned her before.’

  ‘A clarinettist? Hey, that would be convenient,’ Brent said, flashing her a knowing look. ‘So what are you suggesting, Maxine?’

  ‘That maybe you could let Arthur go home to his dear wife and let Pansy fill in for a few numbers,’ she said. ‘Fancy not having a spare reed, Brent. I can’t believe it. His lack of any professionalism at all makes him a liability. Not to mention his awful playing.’

  Brent chuckled. ‘Oh, I know what he’s like…But could you do it, Pansy? Could you fill in at such short notice?’

  ‘Course,’ she replied as if such an activity were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can play jazz – this sort of stuff. My clarinet’s in Stephen’s car. It wouldn’t take a minute to get it.’

  ‘Go on, then, get it, Pansy. I’ll just take these pints over and have a chat to Arthur. I’ll have to tell him what we’re doing. I don’t suppose he’ll be that bothered, though. Then we’ll have a chat as to what you can do.’ As Pansy went in search of Stephen and her clarinet Brent flashed Maxine a perceptive look. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d say you’d got this planned, Maxine.’

  ‘Planned? Me? Listen, I know a good clarinettist when I hear one.’ Maxine tagged close to Brent as he delivered the glasses of beer, talking to him all the time. ‘She’s brilliant, Brent. Wait till you hear her. She’s stacks better than that Arthur.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult. But she’ll have had no rehearsal. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky letting her loose with no rehearsal?’

  ‘Not half as risky as having Arthur in the band. She can improvise like nobody else I’ve ever heard. She can make that thing talk.’

  He put the beer on the table where the other band members were in conversation. ‘Lads, we’ve got a new clarinettist coming to have a blow with us next half.’ He shrugged, as if to suggest he’d been railroaded into accepting it.

  ‘Who?’ Kenny Wheeler asked after supping the froth from his beer.

  ‘Another girl, can you believe? A friend of Maxine’s called Pansy. She’s just gone to get her clarinet…Look, I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Christ, we’ll be an all-tarts band at this rate,’ Toots commented, and nudged Ginger Tolley. ‘Me an’ you am the wrong sex for this outfit, Ginger.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Toots. I think I’d look quite nice in a frock.’

  ‘Not as nice as that Pansy,’ Kenny assured him. ‘She’s a beaut. Beautiful shock of red hair, nice legs, nice arse, nice tits. Bags I have first go.’

  ‘Sod off, Kenny, you’re married.’

  Within a minute or two Brent returned and took the vacant seat next to Eleanor. ‘Maxine reckons this Pansy’s good,’ he said, ‘and I trust her judgement.’ He took out his cigarettes and offered one to Eleanor.

  ‘Pansy’s not just a good clarinettist,’ Maxine plugged, ‘she’s good on the piano and she sings as well. Don’t you see? It means we could double up on things – make things more interesting to watch. It means we’d also have two girl singers in the band, as well as Toots and yourself, Brent.’

  ‘Useful,’ Toots agreed.

  ‘It also means we’ll have to change the name to the Second City Hot Seven,’ Ginger said.

  ‘Er…I’ve been thinking about the name,’ Maxine said, looking at Brent apprehensively. ‘I think we should change it to something more stylish. I mean, are we going to want to play this New Orleans stuff forever? Everything’s changing…going to Swing. Maybe we should consider doing some Swing. It’s more sophisticated, more modern.’

  ‘But that’s big band stuff, Maxine,’ Kenny said.

  ‘Not necessarily. We could play it with our line-up. Jazz is evolving. All I’m saying is that we should evolve with it.’

  ‘It’s something we should think about,’ Brent concurred. ‘Look, Pansy’s back…’

  When the introductions were over they compared repertoires and it seemed Pansy was familiar with most of the pieces the band was to play.

  ‘And if I don’t know it well, I’ll improvise,’ she said.

  As they sat talking companionably, all drinking, some smoking, it was evident that each member of the band was fired with enthusiasm for the promise of what was to come. The rapid changes would be for the better. They were at a watershed, and Maxine, a classically trained musician, had a clear vision of what was needed to make their jazz outfit really succeed. She had shown them, in the very short time she had been involved, that she had an unerring musical ear, a talent that was undeniable. Maybe she also possessed the enviable gift of being able to predict musical trends. Certainly, she had a knack of getting her own way since Brent Shackleton, their undisputed leader, allowed her to manipulate him. Maybe he recognised that Maxine had something he himself needed to be successful in jazz. Anyway, something fresh was stirring in the wind. Everything was going to be different. Everything was going to be better.

  And when Pansy played it was different. The difference that Maxine alone had made was significant. Now that difference was doubled. Pansy played with a confidence and ability that none of the other musicians had ever seen. It surprised them totally, because this assured, creative thread of clarinet playing was coming from a girl; and she was no more than twenty-one years of age.

  It manifested itself in the first number after the break – ‘Royal Garden Blues’, and Pansy handled the clarinet solo with such astonishing flair that her flamboyance and joy elicited an uplift of effort and poise from each of the others. People stopped dancing just to stand and watch. The mood of the band now was infectious; their newfound competence made them smile and project themselves to their audience with even greater panache. They were great to dance to, brilliant to listen to, but even better to watch. They had presence.

  Next came a bouncy version of ‘Dippermouth Blues’, a King Oliver number, which was a bit of a risk because it had an extended clarinet solo. But Pansy handled it magnificently, and even the band applauded her after it.

  Brent was enjoying himself more than he could ever remember. When Maxine turned to get her timing from him he winked at her and she felt a warm glow when she saw the gleam of contentment in his eyes. She had done the right thing in introducing Pansy. It was a feather in her cap. After a few weeks of dedicated rehearsals, who knows what great sounds they might be producing, what great songs they could be performing?

  ‘So how much money can we expect to make each week from playing in the Second City Hot Six, Maxine?’ Pansy asked from the rear seat of Stephen’s Austin Ten as he drove towards Daisy Road. ‘I’d love to give up playing in that pit orchestra.’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea, Pansy,’ Maxine replied, turning her head to see into Pansy’s sparkling eyes. ‘Not a great amount yet, I don’t suppose. But the way we played tonight…and that without a practice. If we play like that all the time we’ll be getting bookings all over the place. I’m really excited.’


  ‘And would you give up playing your cello in the CBO, Maxine, if this jazz thing really took off?’

  Maxine shrugged. She loved her cello; she loved the classical music she played on it. ‘I don’t know, Pansy. This jazz is…well, it’s fun but…I suppose there’s more money to be made playing jazz than there is playing classical music, but I don’t know.’

  ‘More than playing in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. What do you think, Stephen?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all for it, Pansy. I think you’ll do well – very well. Eleanor was mightily impressed, and she’s heard a few jazz bands.’

  ‘What did you think of Eleanor, Stephen?’ Maxine asked with genuine curiosity. ‘I thought she seemed a bit snotty.’

  ‘Snotty? Maxine you do say some things. She wasn’t snotty at all. I found her very nice…very easy to talk to.’

  ‘Easy to look at, too, eh?’ Pansy teased. ‘She should have been arrested wearing that dress. It looked as if it had been painted on – like her red nail varnish.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Pansy,’ Stephen said, irritated by his sister’s criticism. ‘I agree it was…well, revealing, but she wore it with such style.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t wear anything like it. Would you, Maxine?’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, you couldn’t carry it off - either of you,’ Stephen responded curtly, without giving Maxine her chance to reply.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Stephen. Maxine’s figure is equally as good as Eleanor’s. So’s mine for that matter. It’s just that we’re not interested in flaunting ourselves like she is.’

  ‘Because you couldn’t carry it off. Eleanor can. There’s a subtle difference.’

  ‘She’s got no inhibitions if you ask me,’ Pansy persisted. ‘That’s why. I don’t see that as something to be proud of, our Stephen.’

  Stephen smiled smugly to himself as he stopped the car outside the end terrace that was, for the time being, still the home of Henzey and Will and Maxine. He kissed Maxine cursorily on the lips as he bid her goodnight.

  ‘Goodnight, Stephen. Goodnight, Pansy.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand in appreciation. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Pansy. Absolutely brilliant.’