by Nancy Carson
‘Me a star?’ she answered dismissively. ‘That’ll be the day.’
‘John Fielding evidently thinks so as well. Otherwise, he wouldn’t bother with you.’
‘Star or not, I’ve still got to sing for my supper tonight.’
‘Come into my cabin,’ he suggested softly, pressing himself to her as she leaned against the door. ‘I’ll send for something to drink.’
‘I’d better not have anything else to drink, Brent, thanks. I’m tired already. I could use forty winks before we play tonight.’
‘Come and have forty winks with me.’
She felt herself blush and lowered her lids. ‘I’d best have forty winks on my own.’
‘I’m so proud of you, you know.’
She smiled self-consciously. ‘Thank you.’
‘And you’re so beautiful.’
‘You won’t get me into bed by buttering me up.’
It was his turn to smile. ‘Oh, yes I will,’ he said confidently. ‘So don’t say you haven’t been warned.’
He put his arms around her and they kissed; a long, delicious kiss that sent the blood coursing through her body.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he breathed when they broke off.
She nodded and let go of him, but not without a little hesitancy .
While her parents were in London, Dulcie Fielding was going to stay on board ship in her Cabin Class accommodation. She would return to New York with the band but was then booked to cruise back to Southampton on the next sailing. Her parents would rejoin the ship two weeks from now for their return home. This arrangement allowed Dulcie to be with Kenny, who seemed to have won her heart; she could enjoy him and The Owls and the Pussycats as her travelling companions. She stuck close to Kenny during the stopover in Southampton and seemed to enjoy the banter while they visited a cinema on the Monday night.
Maxine, having received no letter from Howard on her return to Southampton this time, accepted the lack of any correspondence philosophically. It was evident by now that he was no longer interested in her. It had been a month since last she’d had any contact with him and she was inclined to regard him now as history. In Southampton, the realities of life sprung somehow to the fore again in her mind and Howard’s seeming lack of care saddened her. She tried to shake off the fetters of disappointment and not let them show, especially to Brent. Brent, conversely, was becoming more and more attentive. He was somebody she felt she could rely on. In truth, the hurt was nowhere near as painful as it had been a fortnight ago. She had grown used to the idea of being without Howard, and the soporific effect of the sea and sailing, together with Brent’s considerate and flattering attentions, helped divert her from the heartache. Rather, she was finally admitting to herself that she was being inexorably drawn to Brent. His manifest affection, his kindness and protectiveness made her feel closer to him than she had ever felt before; and she did not dislike the feeling.
On the Tuesday evening in Southampton, Maxine received a telephone call aboard ship from John Fielding. He confirmed that he had cabled his associates and arranged their showcase concert at the Onyx Club for next Monday when they returned to New York. He was happy to act as their agent in America and Seth Cohen would promote them in Britain and the rest of Europe. A new contract would be drawn up to cover all promotion in America, which was being despatched by special messenger for immediate signing, and would arrive that night. Meanwhile, John said, it was not possible to arrange work permits till they returned to the USA so they could only appear at the Onyx as long as they were not paid. This situation should apply to one appearance only. Despite this, the band members were excited and speculated on the outcome.
Thus, the band’s third entry into New York on 9th December turned out to be something of a landmark in the lives of its members. Maxine and Brent discussed at length their repertoire for the evening, how they were to present themselves. For a start, they would drink no alcohol before, between or during their performances; alcohol led to sloppiness. They discussed what dresses the girls would wear for maximum visual effect. Uncertainties about musical arrangements they sorted out during the voyage, and were content they had done all they could to ensure a smooth and impressive performance.
Snow was carpeting the streets of New York that night and it was bitterly cold. The Owls and the Pussycats, accompanied by Dulcie and their instruments – all except Kenny’s drums, for he would use the resident drummer’s kit – took two cavernous taxi-cabs to the Onyx Club and arrived shortly after ten o’ clock. The drivers pulled up alongside a line of parked motor cars and deposited them cheerlessly on Fifty-second Street. Maxine looked up with pleasure at the bright neon signs that vied with each other to attract customers to the Open Door Club, The Onyx or the Hickory House, and she beamed brilliantly at Brent. He caught the spirit of her smile, took her hand and squeezed it before he grabbed his trombone from the taxi and paid the driver.
The Onyx Club had started life as a speakeasy during the days of Prohibition and reopened in 1935 after a devastating fire. Dulcie confirmed it was a real cool place to be nowadays and added that it usually posted a ‘house full’ sign well before midnight, especially at weekends.
The biggest draw there in years had been a trombonist called Mike Riley and a trumpeter called Eddie Farley. In 1935, they recorded the novelty number ‘The Music Goes ’Round and Around’, the very song The Owls and the Pussycats had taken pains to learn during the summer. To meet them was a treat none of them had anticipated, to watch them perform was an eye-opener, for the two musicians and their Onyx Club Band had developed a wonderful knockabout comedy routine that had everybody in stitches.
As the night progressed, Maxine suspected other elite musicians were dropping by, but frustratingly she didn’t know who. Word spread that Art Tatum, the renowned jazz pianist was in the room but she wouldn’t have recognised him if he had fallen on top of her. A little later, it was said that Jack Teagarden had dropped by and that Fats Waller was in town again and he was ever likely to show up. The people who mattered to The Owls and the Pussycats, however, were anonymous at that time and the band was totally unaware of them.
At midnight, The Owls and the Pussycats were introduced as a new swing band from England who were currently wowing the rich and famous on the Queen Mary, and were the guest band, for tonight only, at the Onyx Club. They stepped into the glare of spotlights and the polite applause of the jazz-orientated audience who did not know what to expect. Nervously, but proficiently, they played their first few numbers. The club was starting to get busy and would get even busier, even on a Monday night. Their nervousness put them on their mettle so they played well. Additionally, their tribute to Mike Riley and Eddie Farley of ‘The Music goes ’Round and Around’ drew tremendous applause, led by the resident musicians, for the original interplay between Toots on trumpet and Pansy on clarinet. It was well appreciated.
Whoever announced a number spoke informally, intimately to the audience, as if they were all old friends, and everybody warmed to this. English accents sounded distinctly unusual, especially in the context of jazz, and seemed to elicit greater respect than an indigenous accent might. Maxine’s piano playing and vocal technique drew plenty of admiring applause too, but two rather lovely girls with extraordinary talent fronting the band, rendered them all the more fascinating. Those who were well-versed in jazz appreciated hearing it played well. The Owls and the Pussycats were a welcome contrast to the resident musicians who, though competent enough, had come to rely more on comedy and less on music. It was also a revelation to most that an unheard of white band from England could come along and show them how swing should be played. Maybe some even resented it.
After the first set they returned to their dressing room, applause still ringing in their ears.
‘I’m glad that’s over,’ Maxine said to Pansy with relief, and fanned her face with a few sheets of manuscript to cool herself down. ‘I think we went down quite well.’
‘But what a place,�
� Pansy enthused. ‘It’ll be a bit of a let down if we have to go back and play at the Gas Street Basin Club in dear old Brum.’
‘Gosh! Brum!…I’d forgotten all about Brum.’ Maxine shrugged and finished the last of the cola she’d left there before they started. ‘Brum seems like another lifetime ago – another life. I mean, just compare New York with Brum. There are clubs like this on almost every street here – theatres, cinemas, restaurants everywhere. And the shops…And everywhere’s so new and modern and nice. I really love it.’
‘D’you think you’ll come back then – when the Queen Mary thing is over?’
‘I hope so, don’t you? With the band, I mean. I’m certain Dulcie’s dad will do everything he says. Don’t you think so? I mean there’s so much more opportunity here for the likes of us, especially with him helping us.’
‘It would be good, wouldn’t it?’ Pansy agreed.
‘Well, let’s see what comes of tonight, eh? Come on, let’s find the others, I’m parched after all that singing. And I’ve finished my drink.’
An intermission pianist was playing, as proficient a player as Maxine had ever heard. She stood listening for a few minutes, admiring his dexterity, at the same time receiving with gratitude and her usual warm smile the compliments of men that came up to say how much they’d enjoyed her performance. The atmosphere was lively by this time and the haze of smoke embraced the incessant symphony of laughter and a hundred conversations. Maxine looked around, trying to locate the other band members. Pansy had gone to find Toots so she was on her own and at the mercy of so many enthusiastic New Yorkers who wanted to stop and talk.
Eventually, she made her way to the bar. Kenny and Dulcie were standing together, arms about each other. A pretty girl of about nineteen with bleached hair and a striking figure was leaning provocatively against Brent and laughing at something he’d said. Brent, sitting on a high bar stool, had an arm around her and Maxine felt a sudden surge of jealousy.
‘Have you seen Pansy?’ she said, having made a beeline for him in high dudgeon.
At once Brent unhanded the girl and smiled at Maxine with a hint of guilt in his eyes. ‘Hi, sweetheart. This is Blanche; Blanche, Maxine. What would you like to drink, Maxine?’
She glanced scornfully at the girl. They’d mentioned a Blanche from the dime-a-dance saloon; the girl with no knickers; the girl who had disappeared after her dances with Kenny. Yes –the girl Brent had spent the night with.
‘Nothing, thank you,’ she answered in her most peeved voice. ‘I’m looking for Pansy.’
She had put about about five yards between herself and Brent when she sensed he was following her.
‘What’s up with you?’ he asked, taking her arm to pull her back.
‘Nothing in particular,’ Maxine snarled, shrugging him off.
‘Come off it, I can see you’re nettled.’ He said scornfully. ‘Is it Blanche?’
‘Leave me alone! I’ve no intention of staying where I’m not wanted. If you’d rather sit with your arms around her, then carry on. Don’t mind me. Spend the night with her again. Why should I care?’
A man came up to them. ‘Say! Just the guys. Great show tonight. Just great.’
‘Thanks,’ said Brent with a boyish grin, glad of the respite from Maxine’s pique. ‘Glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Sure did.’ The man held out his hand to Brent and they shook. ‘Teddy Kaufman. Producer of Saturday Dance…’ Brent looked sufficiently puzzled for the man to add: ‘You ain’t heard of it?’
Brent shook his head.
‘Sure, sure…’ He nodded his understanding and put his hand to his head animatedly. ‘Pardon me for being such a dumb-ass. Course you ain’t heard of it, you’re a Limey.’
‘Isn’t it a radio show?’ Maxine offered.
‘How d’ya like that?’ Teddy roared and a broad, toothy grin spread across his face. ‘The lady knows about Saturday Dance…Say, Honey, I love your voice. I mean I really love your voice. Boy, can you sing a song!’
‘Thank you,’ Maxine said, and quite forgot her pique over Brent and his new friend.
‘I had a cable from John Fielding of AMP,’ Teddy Kaufman continued. ‘Say, can we go talk some place quiet for a minute?’
‘Sure,’ Brent said, realising he was using the response in the American way. ‘We can go to the dressing-room…Are you coming, Maxine?’
Maxine tagged along and, in the dressing-room the conversation continued.
‘Like I say,’ Teddy Kaufman continued, ‘I had a cable from John Fielding who’s in London right now. He suggested I get down here tonight to hear you guys. When somebody from AMP makes a suggestion like that something special is about to break.’
‘So tell us about your radio show, Mr Kaufman,’ Brent said. ‘I’m sorry I hadn’t heard of it but in England we don’t get to know what shows you have over here.’
‘The show goes out every Saturday night, coast to coast. Three whole hours of jazz and swing. I promise, it’s a very popular show. We feature the biggest and best bands in the US. Naturally, such exposure can make a band well known and real popular. I’d like you guys to appear for a few weeks.’
‘On the wireless?’ Maxine said. ‘Blimey!’
‘You say it goes out across the whole of America, Mr Kaufman?’ Brent queried.
‘Yep. Coast to coast. From right here in the Big Apple…Say, can you guys write some more songs? I dig that one you played that the little lady here wrote – Destiny something. The show is a platform for songs just as much as for artists.’
‘We’d love to do the show,’ Brent said. ‘We have another three weeks before we finish our contract on the Queen Mary, though. Then another week to get back here. That’s a month.’
‘No sweat. That gives us time to schedule you in. So you’re agreed?’
‘Just arrange it with John Fielding,’ Brent answered with one of his boyish grins.
‘Sure will! You won’t be disappointed. I’ll discuss it with John Fielding when he returns. He’ll be the one to haggle over your fee, I guess.’ Teddy Kaufman offered his hand again to Brent.
‘Thank you, Mr Kaufman,’ Brent said. ‘We’ll look forward to it.’
‘Sure thing.’ Teddy Kaufman then shook Maxine’s hand. ‘You’re really gonna knock ’em dead, little lady. My, oh my! Shame they can’t see you on radio. Darned shame.’
Mr Kaufman handed Brent a business card and made his excuses. Brent looked at Maxine in disbelief. Then, in sheer joy, they fell into each other’s arms.
‘Oh, Brent. Is this really happening?’ she said. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening.’
Brent picked her up and swung her round, whooping with triumphant laughter. ‘Oh, it’s happening all right. I knew it would. As soon as I got that letter from Seth Cohen telling us we were booked to play on the Queen Mary, I knew. We’re going to be famous, Maxine, I know it. We’re going to be rich!’
Maxine straightened up Brent’s bow-tie, picked a blonde hair from the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and gave him a sideways look that told him she was over her pique. ‘Come on. You’ve dumped knickerless Blanche and her bleached hair now, haven’t you?’
‘I was only saying hello, Maxine.’
‘Okay.’ She smiled forgivingly. ‘Let’s go and celebrate. I’m parched.’
‘When we’ve finished playing. Then we’ll open a couple of bottles of champagne…If we can scrape up enough money between us. Wait till the others know what’s happening.’
Maxine grabbed Brent’s hand and led him out of the dressing-room, bubbling with vitality. They manoeuvred their way towards the bar again, pushing through the crowd. The intermission pianist was still at it, his endeavours almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
‘Listen to that guy,’ Maxine said to Brent, unaware of the Americanism she had used. ‘You’d think people would take the trouble to listen to talent like that.’
Before Brent had chance to reply, another man greeted them and gave his name,
although it remained unintelligible in the hubbub.
‘I’m from the Waldorf,’ he yelled. ‘Say, you’re a swell band. How’d you like to play a season for us at the Waldorf?’
‘Brilliant,’ Brent said, looking at Maxine with further incredulity. ‘When were you thinking of?’
‘Whenever. Are you familiar with the Waldorf?’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘Great! Xavier Cugat has been performing there.’
‘Xavier Cugat!’ Brent repeated and gave out a whistle of approval.
‘Sure. We hire top bands. You’d be great. The folks in the Waldorf would love you.’
‘Thanks. Maybe you’d best talk to John Fielding at AMP. He’s handling all enquiries.’
It felt wonderful to be able to say such a thing. Maxine looked up at Brent and beamed and could tell that he was thinking the same. The man from the Waldorf shook their hands again and another man, who Maxine had noticed hovering, waiting his turn to speak, approached them.
‘Hi there! I’m from the Roosevelt Hotel on Forty-fifth and Madison…Would you be available next March to play a short season for us?’
‘It’s possible,’ Brent replied politely. ‘But opportunities seem to be coming thick and fast right now and I can’t give you a definite answer. Could you discuss it with John Fielding of AMP? He’s looking after things. He returns to New York in a couple of weeks.’
‘Sure thing. I know John. I’ll be in touch with him. Great show, by the way. The folks at the Grill at the Roosevelt would be knocked out by The Owls and the Pussycats.’
‘Thank you.’ Brent shook his hand before yet another man accosted them.
‘I had a phone call from the Chicago Congress asking me to come and hear you guys.’
‘Great,’ said Brent with another of his charming smiles and Maxine hoped he would never ration them. ‘I hope you aren’t disappointed.’
‘Hell, no! You’re a great outfit. For such a small band you play that big band stuff like it was written for you. Keep it up. I’ll put a word in for you at Down Beat too. Although, they’ve probably already heard of you there.’