Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I wonder what Maxine would say if she could see you now?’ she remarked, trying to stir some life again into his nether regions with delicate fondling.

  ‘I wonder what Brent would say if he could see his dearly beloved spread-eagled almost naked across his own sofa?’

  ‘It’s not his sofa,’ Eleanor replied. ‘It’s mine. Such as it is…’

  Stephen had a mental picture of Eleanor in the stunning dress she wore the first time he’d noticed her at the jazz club. Who would believe she had such a fine dress while her furniture was so threadbare? Such incongruity. Brent’s fabulous Mercedes Benz, too, belied the impoverished state of their home.

  ‘Surely you don’t have to put up with it,’ he suggested. ‘Buy some new stuff.’

  ‘What with? Brent doesn’t earn enough to keep us in fine furniture.’

  ‘But look at that car he’s got. It must have cost a fortune. And those beautiful dresses you wear.’

  ‘We had money once…and you have to keep up appearances…That’s why I hope he’ll do well with this rejuvenated jazz outfit and make some more money at last. At least we’ll have your prissy Miss Maxine to thank for that.’

  He kissed her on the lips briefly and ran his hand over her buttocks as she lay on her side. ‘I hope so as well. At least while they’re out playing and practising we can get on with the serious business of making love.’

  ‘If you ever get this thing hard enough again,’ she said cruelly, and felt between his legs again to check on its current state.

  ‘Oh, it’ll soon be there,’ Stephen promised self-consciously. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Brent, Eleanor?’

  ‘Why, will that do the trick, d’you think?’

  He chuckled at her sarcasm. ‘Hardly. I just wonder about him…about you. I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘Why do you want to know about Brent? He’s not very interesting.’

  ‘Do you think he’s interested in Maxine?’

  ‘Romantically?’

  ‘Well…yes.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she said, dismissing the notion. ‘He’s only interested in her because of what she can do for the band and consequently his bank balance.’

  ‘Ah! So you think he’s using her?’

  ‘He says she knows what she’s talking about when it comes to music. She’ll improve the band, he believes. So in that sense, yes, I suppose he’s using her.’

  ‘Where do you come from, Eleanor? You’re not Brummies, are you?’

  ‘God! Do we sound like Brummies? We come from the Cotswolds.’

  ‘The Cotswolds? Fancy. Did you live there when you were first married?’

  She sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, Stephen, do shut up and kiss me.’

  He was about to ask Eleanor why they had moved to Birmingham, but, slightly miffed, he did as she bid and kissed her. She responded eagerly, parting her legs to accommodate his thigh as he pressed it against her. While his hands explored her body once more he felt the stirring in his loins that had seemed to be eluding him, and yet which was actually recurring after a commendably short time. He reached for his jacket, acquired the packet of French letters, but knocked over the glass of whisky.

  ‘Damn!’ he cursed, unable to believe his ill luck and stood with the intention of mopping it up with something.

  ‘Oh, never mind that,’ Eleanor said impatiently, and held her arms open for him. ‘Sod the whisky. Put the damned thing on before he goes limp again.’

  He looked down at her, at her naked body so smooth, firm and inviting, at her outstretched arms entreating him to enjoy her. He knelt at the side of the sofa and commenced by briefly kissing her toes. Then, he licked his way up her long legs with tantalising slowness, lingering deliciously at her dark triangle of hair. Her navel he left wet with kisses, and her breasts he bit gently before teasing a nipple with his tongue; and she let out a little cry of pleasure as he entered her again at last, like a salmon wriggling up a stream.

  From the moment Stephen collected her from the jazz club that warm Friday night Maxine could tell something was amiss. Strangely, his indifference seemed greater than before he delivered her there. She’d never known such a cold arrogance about him before, and she did not like it.

  ‘You’re quiet, Stephen,’ she said, half chastising, but trying to strike up a conversation; they were already nearing Daisy Road. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ he responded off-handedly.

  ‘Have you had a busy night then?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Obviously too busy to stay and listen to us,’ she said.

  He sighed impatiently, looking directly at the road ahead. ‘But not too busy to come and fetch you to take you home. I made time for that, didn’t I?’

  ‘Well, please don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But you needn’t have bothered if you had something that needed doing. Brent will always give me a lift. He won’t let me wait on my own for long.’

  ‘Oh, Brent, Brent, Brent! Brent will always do this, Brent will always do that.’

  ‘He’s already offered. It would save you the trouble. I think it’s decent of him.’

  ‘You would. What d’you think he’s after?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so childish, Stephen. I was thinking about how busy you are. So was he, if only you could bring yourself to acknowledge it. Far be it from me to interrupt your work by you having to come and fetch me. Don’t think I can’t imagine what it’s like setting up a new business.’

  They pulled up outside the house, but unusually Stephen left the engine running. ‘Maxine, I…I, er…I don’t really know how to say this…’

  ‘Say what?’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘Just say it – whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s just that…I don’t think I’m going to see you anymore. I think it’s for the best. I don’t see any point in us carrying on, frankly. So, I’ve decided to…to stop seeing you.’ He shrugged for lack of more appropriate words.

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded genuinely disappointed.

  ‘Actually, I thought you might be pleased,’ he said, self-deprecatingly.

  ‘Pleased? Why should I be pleased, Stephen?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Well, you never show me any great affection. There’s never any passion between us. In fact, you’ve never yet let me near you.’

  ‘That sort of thing doesn’t interest me, Stephen. You know that. We’ve talked about it often enough.’

  ‘Well it interests me, Maxine. It interests me a great deal. Frankly…if you want to know the truth…you’re too much of a cold fish for me.’

  ‘So you want to be free to find someone who isn’t. Is that it?’

  He shrugged again, avoiding her eyes. ‘If I meet somebody, all well and good. As you say – you’re not interested.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, Stephen…If I’m such a cold fish…If it’s that important to you I can’t do much about it, can I?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’

  ‘If you meet somebody you like better than me, fine. I don’t mind awfully, I suppose…So, thank you for telling me. I wish you the best of luck.’

  ‘Thank you. So you’re not upset?’

  ‘I’m surprised, Stephen. And maybe a bit disappointed, yes. But I’ll get over it.’

  ‘Well…there you are then. I must say I’ve enjoyed our…our times together. It has been nice. It’s been very nice.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a hypocrite, Stephen. And don’t patronise me.’ She sighed for want of something else to say. She felt sad that it was over. It was the end of an era, an important part of her life. ‘I’d better go,’ she said flatly. ‘We’re moving house tomorrow, remember, and there’s still stacks to do.’ She had her hand on the door handle ready to leave him, but she hesitated. ‘Er…Do you want the ring back…to give to your next lady friend? You can have it back if you want it.’

  ‘No, Maxine, it’s yours,’ he said impatiently. ‘It was meant for you. I want you to keep it.
’

  ‘I think you should have it back. I really do.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, Stephen, you must have it back. I can’t keep it now. The more I think about it…’ Especially since I’m such a cold fish. She wrenched it off her finger, leaned over and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Goodnight, Stephen. Thank you for the lift. Thank you for everything.’ She felt a tear tremble on her eyelash then trickle down her cheek. So that he shouldn’t see she turned away and opened the car door.

  ‘I hope we can still be friends, Maxine,’ he said.

  Her automatic reaction was to turn to him. ‘Were we ever not friends?’

  ‘We were always good friends. I hope we always shall be. I’d like that.’

  The glow from the street light glimmered off her tears, and when he saw he knew that she was hurt.

  ‘Maxine! . . I…’

  ‘Oh, I won’t hold it against you, Stephen, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ she said and stepped out of the car. ‘I’ll always be your friend.’ She closed the door and walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, not looking back.

  She was sad, but not filled with sorrow. Another side of her emotions told her she was greatly relieved but, truly, she had never expected this. If anybody was going to finish the relationship, it should have been her. She was the one in control of it, not Stephen. What a nerve! What had come over him?

  She opened the front door and went in. Henzey and Will were still packing tea chests ready for the move as they had been most of the day. Will was methodically writing down the contents of each one as they filled it.

  ‘You’re up late,’ Maxine commented. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘Ooh, please,’ Henzey answered. ‘I’m parched.’.

  Having put the kettle to boil Maxine returned to the sitting room, the hub of the action. She sat down, still in a state of shock.

  ‘You’ll never guess what.’

  ‘You’ve decided to marry Stephen.’

  ‘Henzey! He’s given me up. He doesn’t want to see me again. I can’t get over it.’

  Henzey stopped what she was doing and looked open-mouthed at her sister. ‘But he doesn’t mean it, Maxine,’ she said consolingly, believing her to be upset. ‘I bet he doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He just told me he doesn’t want to see me anymore. He wants to be free to chase other women. Women who’ll let him have his wicked way…He says I’m a cold fish.’

  ‘Sounds to me like he’s already found another woman, Maxine,’ Will said, looking up from his labours. ‘Sorry to sound so cynical, but I bet it’s true. Otherwise there’d be no point in giving you up, would there? Not till he’d actually found somebody…Just you think about it.’

  ‘Gosh, Will. Do you think so?’

  ‘It stands to reason.’

  ‘The rotter! And he reckons he’s been working hard trying to get his new business off the ground. I bet all the time he’s been off with somebody else.’

  ‘The crafty monkey,’ Henzey said.

  ‘The dirty devil,’ Maxine concurred.

  ‘He’s a dark horse, our Maxine. I always had him marked down as a dark horse. Are you very upset?’

  ‘I’m surprised more than anything. And disappointed. I’m not upset particularly.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a terrible thing, infidelity,’ Will remarked. ‘Emotional incontinence, that’s what it is. Anybody who embarks on the ship of infidelity deserves to go down with it.’

  Henzey looked up at Will. ‘That’s a bit profound,’ she remarked.

  ‘It’s true, though, Henzey,’ Maxine said. ‘A sign of moral weakness, isn’t it, Will? I could never do that to anybody. I might think about it, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. I know I couldn’t.’

  ‘I’ve seen so many people come to grief over their infidelity,’ Will said. ‘At least you’re not married, Maxine. At least you don’t have the prospect of a ruined marriage ahead of you…Children…Divorce. Thank your lucky stars for that.’

  ‘But only a few weeks ago he was asking me – begging me to marry him.’

  ‘Fickle,’ Will said, with great scorn. ‘I’ve got no time for fickle folk. Good job you found out about him now and not later.’

  ‘I bet the kettle’s boiling,’ Henzey said, getting up from the sofa where she had been wrapping oddments. ‘I’ll go and make the tea. Then I’m off to bed. We have to be up early in the morning.’

  ‘What are the arrangements for tomorrow, Henzey?’ Maxine enquired. ‘Do you want me to come with you first thing, to help you put the curtains up and that?’

  ‘No, no,’ Henzey replied. ‘I can cope. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Aldo while Will takes me to the new house first. I can hang the new curtains and do a last clear up before you and the removal van arrive.’

  Chapter 8

  Maxine listened in awe to Boris Szewinska, the solo violinist who was appearing with the CBO, and his impassioned interpretation of Brahms’s Violin Concerto. In parts she and her cello were unoccupied, and in these quieter moments she marvelled at the soloist’s dexterity. Some of those passages seemed impossible, yet he not only played them with apparent ease, but also eked out emotions that sent shivers up and down her spine. Such fervent emotion. Such staccato fire. And yet, such poignant tenderness. If only she could play like that. If only she could summon passion profound enough to enable her to play like that.

  Maxine had been mulling over Stephen’s ditching her a fortnight ago in favour, obviously, of another girl. Why had she been unable to show him any affection? Was she really so frigid that she could feel none of the emotions that other, normal girls, evidently feel? Would ardent love, true desire, elude her forever? Indeed, would she ever recognise it if it stared her in the face?

  And then, for no accountable reason, she remembered Howard Quaintance. It was during a quiet passage when the solo violin was soulfully singing a song of lost love, piercing in its plaintiveness, agonising in its intensity. Maybe she could feel these things for Howard Quaintance if she ever met him again, if she was ever blessed with the opportunity – if, indeed, he could even remember her. But she remembered him all right; how she felt when he touched her hands to swap over her ring from one hand to the other. She remembered his closeness, his unassuming geniality, the lovely manly scent of him, and the thrill of it returned bringing a lump to her throat. Maybe she could feel emotion. Maybe she was not such a cold fish after all. Maybe it was just that Stephen had never brought it out in her. Maybe only music could make her feel like this. Maybe she could feel nothing unless potent music was present to urge it on.

  Maybe she never would.

  With a deft swoop of his baton, Leslie Heward, the conductor, collected the whole orchestra into a rich swell of sound and Maxine was right on cue. The soloist, for a few bars, became just another player intermingling with the other instruments till he soared away again on another flight of extraordinary complexity and fervour. Funny, Maxine thought, how even when you are concentrating on your music your mind still considers other things; funny how Howard Quaintance had sprung to mind.

  Before she knew it, Boris Szewinska was taking his bows. He took a beautiful bouquet of summer flowers that somebody handed to him, bowed again, and left the stage, showing no inclination to perform an encore. The applause continued, Boris returned and turned to the orchestra and conductor, happy for them to take a share of the acclaim.

  On the way back to the dressing rooms, Maxine stopped when she saw Brent Shackleton barging his way over to her.

  ‘When you’re ready, Maxine, I’ll give you a lift home,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I only have to change. I’ll be a minute, no more.’

  In the ladies’ dressing room, she doffed the black evening dress she wore for concert nights and put on her normal Sunday attire. It was thoughtful of Brent to alw
ays give her a lift to and from concerts. To lug her cello all the way to Dudley now, alone on the tram, then walk all the way to Oakham Road and the new house, would be no mean feat especially late at night.

  ‘Can you manage that?’ Brent asked gallantly as they left the Town Hall. ‘Let me carry it.’

  ‘I can cope. It’s no weight. Besides, you’d have two instruments to carry.’

  ‘The piccolo player’s got the best job when it comes to transport,’ he quipped. ‘You should have taken up the piccolo.’

  ‘Or the triangle.’

  He laughed generously. ‘I’m only thankful we don’t have to lug a piano about. At least the jazz club’s got its own…Talking of which, do you fancy going there now for an hour?’

  ‘But we’re not playing tonight…Are we?’

  ‘We’re not, but another band is. The Brummagem Hot Stompers. Ever seen them?’

  ‘No. Are they good?’

  ‘Not bad. In any case, it’s always good to evaluate the competition occasionally.’

  That did it. It was reason enough. ‘Okay, let’s go then. You won’t get into trouble with Eleanor, will you? Being late home, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, sod Eleanor,’ he said with feeling. They reached his car, parked on the street outside. He opened the door and took Maxine’s cello. ‘She’s been a bit off lately. It’ll serve her right to be on her own.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem, Brent,’ Maxine suggested as she watched him place her cello on the back seat. ‘Maybe she spends too much time on her own. Maybe you should go home sooner. You should bring her to more concerts.’

  ‘She’s not interested in concerts,’ he said looking at her over the roof of the car. ‘She’s not interested in anything except herself. When I get home she’ll most likely be in bed, fast asleep. She’s probably already in bed now.’ He got in the car and unlocked the passenger door. Maxine got in and made herself comfortable. He lit a cigarette, turned the key, and the big powerful engine burst into life. ‘So let’s go, eh?’