Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  ‘Thanks, Maxine. Goodnight…Hey, Maxine! Do you know whether Toots, the trumpet player, is married or anything?’

  ‘Toots?’ Maxine grinned. ‘I haven’t a clue. I barely know him. Fancy him, do you?’

  Pansy shrugged, and the darkness hid her blushes. ‘He seems nice.’

  Chapter 7

  Stephen Hemming stopped his car behind Brent Shackleton’s outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club and bid cheerio to his sister Pansy and to Maxine as they left him for another evening of band practice. ‘See you about eleven,’ he called as the two girls turned to wave before they entered the club.

  ‘Thank God for this new business he’s started,’ Maxine commented. ‘At least it’s keeping him out of my hair.’

  ‘I can see you don’t mind.’ Pansy said.

  ‘Mind? I’m glad. He was driving me mad a while ago. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. At least it’s taken his mind off me. Gives me a chance to get on with my own life for a change.’

  Pansy opened the inner door to the club. The others were there, tuning up, fooling around. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you put up with him, Maxine - how you’ve put up with him for so long. I wouldn’t fancy him for a boyfriend. He’s too self-centred.’

  ‘Well, while the cat’s away…’ She winked at Pansy devilishly. ‘I think he’s losing interest anyway. I won’t let him have what he wants.’

  ‘I don’t blame you, either. I can think of much nicer men to play hanky-panky with.’ Pansy smiled at Maxine, reflecting her contentment as she fell into the welcoming arms of Toots Randle. ‘Hello, sugar-lips,’ she greeted, kissing him briefly. ‘Sorry we’re late. Stephen was late collecting us.’

  She placed her clarinet case on a chair and went back to Toots’s arms. In the month since Pansy had joined the band, a vibrant romance had blossomed between them; a romance that did not hide itself but which was open and honest, for all to see. Both had been unattached, neither seeking romance, but suddenly it had hit them and they were enjoying it. It was reflected in their playing too. A musical rapport was blossoming between them that manifested itself in some clever and often seemingly spontaneous interplay between trumpet and clarinet.

  But spontaneous it was not – at least, not always. The band had been practising intensely and the musicians, especially Pansy and Toots, had got to know each other’s play better than ever. Each probed the abilities of the others and they pushed themselves and each other to the limit of their capabilities. This required many practice runs at the same piece, and a new riff that was improvised one moment, when considered worthy by the others, would become standard play in that number. But even to an experienced musician who might be listening, it seemed spontaneous.

  ‘What’s on the agenda for tonight?’ Maxine asked Brent.

  ‘Something a bit different. For a change. A friend of mine just came back from the United States. He picked up a record in New York that he reckons is a big hit there. He thought we’d be interested in playing it before anybody else cottoned on. I brought it along to listen to.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A swing number – a bit of a novelty really. Called “The Music goes ’Round and Around”. It’s ideal for a seven-piece band.’

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  Brent called everybody to order and placed the record on the turntable. He wound up the gramophone, placed the needle in the groove and they all sat in silence while they listened, Pansy on Toots’s lap, her arm round his neck.

  ‘So?’ he asked, when it had finished.

  ‘Let’s hear it again,’ said Kenny.

  Brent played it again.

  ‘I like it,’ Pansy said. ‘It’s got some lovely riffs.’

  ‘But who’s going to sing it?’

  ‘Well. It describes the course of a note travelling through a trumpet, so maybe Toots should sing it,’ Brent reasoned.

  ‘Better if Pansy sang it,’ Maxine suggested logically, ‘then Toots could be blowing his note while she’s singing about it.’

  ‘I don’t like this new stuff,’ Ginger complained. ‘It’s not proper jazz, is it? And we are supposed to be a jazz band after all.’

  ‘It’s swing,’ Brent said.

  ‘Like I say, it’s not jazz.’

  ‘Swing is what jazz is evolving into, Ginger. Why should we be stuck in the style of New Orleans? This new music is more varied – you get novelty songs like this for instance – beautiful love songs as well, but you still need skill to play them. It’s no less taxing on your ability.’

  ‘It’ll be taxing on Ginger’s,’ Kenny remarked pointedly, adjusting the height of his high hat. ‘There’s no banjo in it. It’s all guitar – amplified at that.’

  ‘I can play guitar as well,’ Ginger protested. ‘Amplified or not.’

  ‘Huh! Says you. How come we’ve never seen your guitar?’

  ‘’Cause we play jazz. Jazz requires a banjo.’

  ‘Well from now on it’s gonna require a guitar as well if we’re to progress,’ Brent advised. ‘So I suggest you brush up on your guitar and bring it next time.’

  ‘D’you think Django Reinhardt will have anything to fear?’ Kenny wisecracked.

  ‘Have we got the sheet music to this, by any chance?’ Charlie asked, tuning his double bass.

  ‘Sorry. Just this record. Let’s listen to it again, eh?’

  They listened once more, and took the first faltering steps in trying to play the number by ear. It was to take many hearings before each became familiar with his or her own part, but by the end of the evening they had it more or less right. Brent was happy, and Maxine was happy. The more they performed it the more comfortable they would be with it and the better it would get, meanwhile acquiring the characteristics of their own developing style.

  So, at the end of the evening, they were content that their hard work had achieved something worthwhile. They talked together about this and that while they packed their instruments away and made ready to leave, a time for banter.

  ‘Anybody want a piece of chewing gum?’ Kenny asked, tossing a chicklet into his mouth nonchalantly. Pansy accepted and so did Toots. Then Kenny reached into one of the cases of his drum kit and splashed toilet water over his face.

  ‘Off out now then, Kenny?’ Toots enquired.

  Kenny grinned. ‘I gotta smell nice. I’m seeing a bit o’ stuff. Picked her up here a couple o’ Sundays ago. A right little goer. Hotter than cayenne pepper.’

  ‘Well let’s hope your missus never finds out.’

  Pansy rolled her eyes at them and turned to Maxine. ‘Toots is taking me home, Maxine. Do you want us to wait with you till Stephen comes?’

  Maxine looked at her wristwatch. It said ten past eleven. ‘No, he’ll be here in a minute. You go.’

  ‘I’ll wait with you, Maxine,’ Brent offered. ‘We can wait in my car.’

  Maxine thanked him and followed him outside, and they all wished each other goodnight. Brent got into his car and unlocked the passenger door.

  ‘I thought that number went well, considering,’ he said, lighting a cigarette when Maxine was sitting at his side.

  ‘So did I. I’m all for trying these newer styles of jazz. I think it’s got more appeal than straight, traditional jazz.’

  ‘There’s no doubt, Maxine…And I’ve been thinking…I want the band to have more visual appeal as well. We’ve proved the sound is better – that we’re an accomplished band already. Now, you and Pansy are really good-looking girls. I think we should exploit that to the limit. I think you should both wear really slinky dresses that show up your every curve – something to get the men’s pulses racing a bit. This swing stuff is more sophisticated, more in line with that image. Would it bother you…doing that?’

  ‘Wearing a slinky dress?’ She hooted at the thought. ‘It’s not really me, but no, I don’t mind – on stage. Maybe I could borrow Eleanor’s.’

  He chortled impishly at her irreverence. ‘It wouldn’t fit. She’s bigger than y
ou.’

  ‘I wasn’t serious, Brent. I’d buy my own.’

  ‘Great. You’ll do it then?’

  ‘If you think it’s for the good of the band…Talking of which, what are we going to do about the name? The Second City Hot Seven isn’t exactly inspiring.’

  ‘Not in keeping with what we’re trying to achieve, I agree, Maxine.’

  ‘As I see it, Brent, the name has to reflect what we’re trying to achieve. It has to do with the concept we’re trying to put over.’

  ‘Well, you two in your slinky, revealing frocks could give us a clue. How about Wayward something or other?’ He looked at her admiringly and, in the half-light, she discerned a gleam in his eye. ‘I wish you were a bit wayward, Maxine.’

  ‘You could have fooled me,’ she replied coolly. ‘Anyway, I think we should try and project sophistication…Something adult. Our music is getting more sophisticated, so why shouldn’t we aim at a sophisticated audience? Adults, who know their own mind, who live life as they want to live it – even in sin, if that’s what they want.’

  ‘Sophisticated Sinners?’

  ‘Too much of a mouthful.’

  ‘Syncopating Sinners?’

  ‘No. I like the Sinners bit, though.’

  ‘Swinging Sinners.’

  ‘No, too ordinary…How about Sinful Swingers?’

  ‘God, no. That’s terrible.’

  ‘Sinful Syncopators?’

  Just then, Stephen’s car pulled up alongside them. Maxine opened the door to let herself out. She turned to Brent. ‘Wayward Swingers.’

  He sniggered out loud. ‘What? Sounds rude to me.’

  She smiled patiently. ‘Goodnight, Brent. Thanks for waiting with me.’

  ‘Hey, Maxine. I’ve got it. The perfect name. The Rhythm Seekers.’

  ‘Yes, that’s good,’ she replied. ‘That’s very good.’

  ‘No, Maxine. On second thoughts, what has seekers got to do with jazz?’

  She closed the door again and sat back. This brainstorming of ideas should not be rushed. ‘Honey Seekers. That’s got a nice ring to it. And it’s jazzy. Remember “Whose Honey Are You” and “Honeysuckle Rose”?’

  ‘How about Honey and Plenty of Money?’

  She tittered irreverently. ‘Wrapped up in a five-pound note, you mean? Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not? It’s from “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat”. At least it has a familiar sound. “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note”…’

  Outside, Stephen hooted the horn of his car with impatience.

  ‘The Owls and the Pussycats,’ they said in unison, almost as if it had been rehearsed, and burst out laughing.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Maxine exclaimed.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Brent agreed. ‘The men are the owls, you girls are the pussycats – of course. It couldn’t be better.’

  ‘I’d better go, Brent. Old Face-Ache outside will be upset if I keep him waiting any longer. See you tomorrow. Thanks for waiting with me.’

  ‘My pleasure, Maxine…really.’

  Brent was becoming ever more aware that Maxine was no ordinary band member. She was a woman and he was warming to her inexorably. He’d always considered her beautiful in a demure way. And that virginal demureness attracted him, especially now she was going to buy a slinky, revealing dress for their stage shows. He was really looking forward to it; to seeing her dressed to kill. The transformation from demureness to out and out glamour promised to be stimulating, and he was reminded of how it had been with Eleanor; a blossoming, innocent schoolgirl suddenly transformed into a bewitching young woman. If Maxine’s complexion was anything to go by, her skin beneath her clothes would be sensational.

  At each rehearsal nowadays, whether it was with the band or the CBO, Brent found his eyes always seeking hers, fishing for her warm smile. Undoubtedly she was attracted to him too, but she was evidently uncertain about him, because of Eleanor. Maxine was so talented, too; so talented that she could do wonders for his own career, and for his bank balance, which was permanently in a precarious state these days.

  It was not good sense to park his car directly outside the house of the woman with whom he had commenced an affair, so he pulled up in a side street about fifty yards away. It was not normally good sense to conduct such extra-curricular activities in her marital home either, but he knew that tonight it was safe enough so long as they left no trace. As he walked furtively from his motor car, his heart was pounding at the prospect of what he knew was to come. This adventure had given him a new lease of life, had put the world in a much brighter light. His hard-tolerated celibacy was at an end, for the foreseeable future at any rate. This woman was so strikingly beautiful and so anxious to let him partake of it, that even thinking about her aroused him beyond his wildest fantasies.

  He tapped on the door. Almost immediately she opened it and his heart leapt with joy at the sight he beheld. The hall was in darkness, to avoid light spilling onto him outside, which neighbours might see. Yet, sufficient light enabled him to see she wore merely a glistening, diaphanous, white nightdress that buttoned down the front. She closed the door quietly behind him.

  At once they were in each other’s arms, seeking eagerly each other’s lips before any words passed between them. As he held her, his hands roamed over the thin film of silky material that was between him and her smooth skin. He detected no underwear beneath. Urgently, he undid the buttons at the front and treated himself to a handful of breast, firm, warm and luxurious. As he kneaded one, her nipple hardened and he was excited even more by this response. She, in turn, unfastened his belt and the buttons of his fly with expertise and he felt his trousers fall and lie around his ankles.

  He opened the flimsy nightdress fully, dived inside and cupped her firm small buttocks in his hands as he pressed her hard against the newel post. While their mouths were hungry for each other, tasting, tongues exploring, she thrust her hands inside his underpants and he sighed with pleasure as she withdrew him and held him as if she were fondling a priceless treasure. Then, without further ado, she parted her legs and gasped with delight as he slid easily into her.

  She threw her head back, sighing, savouring the wonderful sensations, while his mouth explored her, his teeth scratching the tight, smooth skin of her neck. They slumped onto the stairs in their passion and found only minor comfort, she in the support the hard staircase afforded, he in the purchase it provided. They rocked erratically, frequently lying still to try and prolong the ecstasy. But all too soon he had to withdraw, unable to contain himself any longer, and he pumped his semen over her belly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. ‘I’m a bit out of practice.’

  She hugged him, but with bitter disappointment. ‘It’s hardly surprising, I suppose.’

  ‘Give me half an hour.’

  ‘What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Read?’

  It troubled him that she sounded impatient. ‘I’ll do better next time…but not here. Can’t we go to your bed?’

  She shook her head slowly, deliberately. ‘The sitting room. The sofa’s fine.’

  He rolled off her and tried to stand but his trousers, still around his ankles, ensured that he lost his balance when he moved, so he stumbled, falling back onto the stairs.

  ‘Oh, Stephen,’ she chuckled. ‘You are funny. Why didn’t you take them off first?’

  He laughed with her, acknowledging how silly he must seem, and sat beside her on the stairs. ‘I forgot I still had them on,’ he muttered, untying his shoelaces. ‘I’m not used to all these shenanigans.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that I am?’

  ‘No, Eleanor, certainly not.’ He kicked off his shoes and reached down to remove his trousers from around his ankles. ‘It’s just that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this before. Not in a hallway as soon as I walk in.’

  ‘Then maybe you’ll have to get used to the i
dea,’ she said with a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, let’s go into the sitting room. I’ve opened a bottle of whisky.’

  She stood up and held her hand out to him. He gathered his trousers and his shoes in one hand and took her hand with the other, allowing himself to be led into the sitting room. It was not particularly tidy and the furniture, he knew from previous visits, was past its best and shabby, though comfortable enough. The only light was from a small table lamp standing on a whatnot in the curtained bay window that lent an ambience of intimacy. Eleanor poured him a measure of whisky and leaned over to hand it to him. As she did so, her nightdress fell open, exposing herself.

  ‘Thanks, Eleanor,’ Stephen mumbled, his eyes first catching a tantalising glimpse of the dark triangle of hair between her legs, then her long smooth flanks. He gulped with disbelief. God above, was this real? Was he really so privileged as to be bedding this beautiful girl so soon after they’d been introduced; this girl who had fascinated him from the first moment he saw her? Was he really to be so privileged after all this time of celibacy trying to wheedle the knickers off Maxine Kite? The effort of all that, compared to the lack of effort required to achieve the same result with Eleanor, was unbelievable. That two girls should be so different, should take such different attitudes to sexual contact, was thoroughly confusing. But thank God for it.

  Eleanor sat beside him, leaned against him and he put his arm around her. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of your clothes off and kiss me?’ she suggested.

  He felt like a god. It could never get better than this, surely?

  ‘All right,’ he breathed and nonchalantly took a sip of whisky before removing his jacket, tie, and shirt.

  ‘Don’t forget your underpants,’ she said. ‘And your socks…By the way, I hope you brought some French letters with you this time.’

  He fished an unopened packet from his jacket pocket and showed her proudly, amused that she had given him no chance to use one when he first arrived, that she found him so utterly irresistible that she couldn’t keep her hands off him. As he divested himself of what remained of his clothes, she shifted so that she was lying down on the sofa, then squashed up to its backrest to make room for him. He lay beside her, opened her nightdress and entertained himself with her breasts while he kissed her.