by Nancy Carson
Chapter 27
If she hadn’t known that the vast expanse of water she could see through the carriage window was Lake Michigan, Maxine Shackleton would have believed it a sea. Normally you expect to see land on the other side of a lake, but not so any of the Great Lakes. The only give-away was that it was so calm. The sea is seldom as calm. On this hot and sunny day, as The Owls and the Pussycats hurtled towards Chicago by train, skirting the edge of the lake and its sand dunes, they could have been forgiven for thinking they were entering an area of marine rurality instead of a vast industrial city, for through the window on the opposite side were pine trees and brush.
But it was an illusion that was short-lived. They hit the suburb of Gary, actually in Indiana and twenty-six miles from the centre of Chicago. The view of Lake Michigan was cut off by enormous steel rolling mills that produced armour plate, steel tubes and tin plate. They produced girders, from the colossal examples that supported the innumerable skyscrapers of this and other cities to relatively small sections for railway track and angle-iron. All were manufactured in this miasma of putrid haze that was created by blast furnaces that bombarded the clear blue sky with dense smoke. Chicago was a sprawling, industrial mass, all the more amazing since it had been all swamp and prairie a mere ninety years earlier. It was testament to the endeavours and ingenuity of man, if not his regard for wilderness.
‘Do you think we’ll be troubled by gangsters?’ Pansy asked idly as the train passed a huge stockyard with thousands of head of cattle on one side and a canning factory on the other.
‘Gangsters?’ Maxine repeated. ‘Lord, I hope not. My mother warned me to keep clear of gangsters.’
‘You should have avoided Brent, then,’ Kenny quipped, and the others laughed.
‘I doubt if they’ll be interested in us,’ Ginger remarked seriously. ‘From what I know of gangsters they’re only interested in making money from brothels and gambling. I shouldn’t worry, Pansy. I don’t think they trouble normal, decent citizens.’
‘They might trouble Brent then,’ Kenny wisecracked, and Maxine wondered how much of his joking was serious.
Eventually they arrived in Chicago and took a couple of cabs to the Congress Hotel on Michigan Avenue. It had been a long journey and they were tired. Their priority was to get some sleep so, as soon as they checked in, Maxine unpacked quickly and briefly admired the view from their suite. Grant Park and Buckingham Fountain, which overlooked Lake Michigan, were impressive. Then she lay down and fell asleep. She could sleep for the rest of that day and night if Brent would let her, since their performances weren’t scheduled to start till the following night.
Brent woke her up shortly after nine o’ clock that evening. He had dressed, put on a fresh shirt and was fastening his tie.
‘I’m going out to get something to eat,’ he said. ‘Are you coming?’
She yawned and stretched, indifferent to him. ‘Can’t I just stay here and sleep, Brent? I’m so tired.’
‘It’s up to you, but I’m hungry,’ he said grumpily.
‘So why not ask room service to bring you something?’
‘Because I want to go out. I want to have a look at Chicago and its skyscrapers…I don’t want to be cooped up in here with you asleep. I’ll ask Kenny or one of the others to come.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she replied heedlessly, and fell back to sleep.
Kenny was of the same mind as Brent. Dulcie too was tired after the journey and he left her sleeping while he spruced himself up to hit the town. In the hotel lobby Brent handed the bellboy a dollar and asked him to hail a taxi-cab.
‘Take us to a club,’ Brent instructed the driver. ‘A decent club where we can get some good food and hear some decent jazz.’
The driver deposited them on Chicago’s South Side outside a place called Artwork.
‘Looks promising,’ Kenny said. ‘Nice place.’
Inside this shrine to bold American Art Deco design, a show was underway. Six black musicians were playing some of the neatest jazz they had ever heard. Brent handed five dollars to a steward and asked for a table near the stage so they could better see. They ordered beers and listened to the band, enjoying the sounds they were making before asking to see a menu. Soon, four more musicians augmented the band and a bevy of scantily-clad chorus girls high-kicked onto the stage from the wings on both sides. Later, a black girl in a sparkly evening dress stepped out of the shadows and approached the microphone. She had a voice like cream velvet and brilliant phrasing. A waiter brought their food and they ate while watching the show.
Kenny fancied one of the chorus girls and had caught her eye. She started smiling coyly back at him in response. The black girl sang ‘Crying my Heart out for You’ and followed it with ‘I Got the Spring Fever Blues’. Then, to Brent’s surprise and delight, she sang ‘Destiny Jests with Me’, written by Maxine Kite. He listened intently as she delivered a creditable performance, different to Maxine’s own interpretation. For the first time, it became clear to him the impact The Owls and the Pussycats were having on the American jazz scene. It was a moment to be proud of.
The interval came. Brent sent an invitation for the band to join him at their table. Several did and they chatted matily, swapping compliments. The band was the Chicago Lakesiders, the singer was Evelyn Bright. The chorus girl Kenny fancied was Vanda Lee and one of the band fetched her so that she could be introduced to Kenny Wheeler of The Owls and the Pussycats.
‘The Owls and the Pussycats?’ she shrieked incredulously. ‘Gee! Take me to him fast.’ She turned to one of the other chorus girls called Gloria who was her closest friend. ‘Gloria, come with me, honey. There are two guys out front from The Owls and the Pussycats – you know, that English band?’
‘Sure, I know who The Owls and the Pussycats are,’ Gloria replied with a bright grin that revealed a set of even teeth. ‘I sure didn’t know they were in town.’
At the table occupied by Brent Shackleton and Kenny Wheeler, a party atmosphere prevailed. They were introduced to two more men; well-known night owls on the Chicago club circuit apparently; in town again from Hollywood, they said.
Movie men. Important.
‘Let’s have champagne,’ Brent suggested and called for a jeroboam of Bollinger.
‘Sorry, the largest we keep in stock is a magnum.’
‘So bring two magnums.’
Corks popped and everybody was happy. Brent was especially matey to the movie producer who suggested, with a wink and a tap of his nose, that they join him and his colleague at a friend’s place to watch some very interesting movies when the show was over. The girls should come, too – gee, all eight of the chorus girls should come if they wanted. They would be more than welcome. They would all have a real good time.
‘Here, try one of these cigarettes, Brent – Kenny…You’ll enjoy them.’
Brent and Kenny each took a cigarette and the Hollywood producer, whose name was James, gave them a light. It tasted no different to any other American cigarette at first, until they both began to feel light headed, as if they were drifting.
‘Hey, these are good,’ said Brent, and asked what brand they were.
The second Hollywood guy, who said his name was Hank, winked knowingly. ‘Reefers. You can’t buy them in the shops. You never tried one before?’
‘Never.’
From then on, they had no concept of time. Before they knew it the show was over and the Hollywood guys were saying it was time to go.
‘Wait for the girls,’ Kenny said.
Of course they would wait for the girls. They needed the girls.
Six of them decided to come, plus two of the black musicians Brent had befriended from the band. Some piled into James’s very elegant Packard and the rest into a taxi-cab that was cruising outside plying for trade. They drove further south, to another club that, from the outside, was no more than an anonymous doorway set in a wall. Inside, it was dingy. Seedy-looking men and their overblown tarts danced and drank and smoked
God knows what as blues wailed from a jukebox.
‘Through here,’ their host, who had met them at the door, invited. He ushered them down a darkened passage into another room.
This room was large and elaborately furnished with comfortable settees and divans set around three sides and small tables to accommodate drinks. A thick pile carpet covered the floor and a small bar stood at one end.
‘Help yourselves to drinks.’
Kenny and Brent poured drinks for the chorus girls before Kenny eagerly led Vanda Lee by the hand to one of the divans.
Brent escorted Gloria to another divan, sat down and put his arm around her.
‘Got any more of those cigarettes?’ Brent asked James.
‘Sure.’ He tossed a silver cigarette case to Brent.
He lit two, one of which he gave to Gloria before tossing the case to Kenny.
‘Ever snorted coke?’ James asked.
‘No, tell me about it,’ Brent answered with a grin.
James tossed a small packet over to him. ‘Like this, Brent…’ Brent watched carefully. ‘Gee…Makes you feel good…’
Brent copied what James did. He inhaled deeply and coughed, then passed the remnants of the package to Gloria.
‘Now we’re gonna watch a swell movie,’ James announced and signalled the host to start the projector that was hidden in a small room behind them.
The lights went out. In a haze of alcohol, marijuana and cocaine, Brent watched spellbound as a strikingly pretty blonde girl of about eighteen appeared on the screen in front of them. At the side of a swimming pool in some vast sunlit garden overlooking the sea, she peeled off her clothes provocatively. Brent could smell her sweet skin. He could hear the sounds of summer, birds calling to each other, the rustle of leaves, the humming of bees, the distant roar of the sea. Splash! The girl dived into the pool naked, swam a length and climbed out elegantly, giving a spectacular view of everything she had. A young man, also stripped for action, built like an Adonis and magnificently aroused, then entered the frame.
Brent drew on his reefer…
One morning, early in their residency at the Congress, Maxine, Pansy and Dulcie decided to soak up the sunshine in the formal symmetry of Grant Park that lay between the skyscrapers and Lake Michigan. The idea of wriggling their toes in yellow sand and paddling in the lake at a beach later held tremendous appeal also on this beautiful summer morning.
As they sat on one of the benches placed around Buckingham Fountain, big and spectacularly beautiful, they raised their dresses above their knees to expose their legs to the glorious sun. Lake Michigan, as if to conspire with their well-being, provided a luxuriously gentle breeze that kept them cool. Sitting with their dresses above their knees was, for none of them, an issue. Although two were already famous amongst folk who were versed in commercial music, their faces remained relatively unknown to most people, and they took their anonymity for granted. Rightly, for to passers-by they were just three pretty girls quietly relaxing in the park.
Conversation changed rapidly as they exhausted one subject and embarked on another.
‘Fancy Dorothy Round winning the ladies’ Wimbledon title,’ Pansy said, shifting a strand of her red hair that had found its way to the corner of her mouth in the breeze. ‘Stephen said in his letter that everybody was thrilled.’
‘Oh, I read about that,’ Dulcie said.
‘She comes from Dudley,’ Maxine proclaimed proudly. ‘My home town.’
‘’Well no wonder the folk back home were thrilled.’
‘Oh, I imagine they’ll be dancing in the streets. How is Stephen, anyway?’ Maxine asked. ‘And Eleanor.’
‘He mentioned about getting married a week or two ago. But didn’t say anything in this last letter.’
‘Married to Eleanor, you mean?’
‘Who else?’ Pansy replied scornfully, reflecting her disdain.
‘Is there no sign of you and Toots getting married, Pansy?’ Dulcie asked.
‘What do we need to get married for, Dulcie? We do everything together as it is, including sleeping together. God! If my mother knew she’d have a set of jugs.’
‘But don’t you ever want children?’ Maxine asked. ‘I mean when this lot’s over…’
‘You mean when The Owls and the Pussycats thing is over?’
Maxine inclined her face to the sun, shutting her eyes. ‘Well, it won’t last forever.’
‘I suppose not. When it is all over I’d like to have kids. That’s when I’ll consider getting married. In the meantime I’ll keep hoping the Dutch cap don’t slip.’
Maxine tittered.
‘Dutch caps…’ Dulcie mused. ‘Where would us poor ladies be without them, huh?’
‘Up the stick, as they say in Brum, Dulcie. Well and truly.’ Pansy adjusted the length of her skirt to expose more of her legs to the sun. ‘How about you, Maxine? Do you want kids?’
‘You don’t get pregnant if you don’t have sex, Pansy. In any case, Brent doesn’t want children. Me? I’d have a house full.’
Pansy’s eyes met Dulcie’s.
‘You mean you don’t have sex, Maxine?’ Dulcie asked incredulously.
‘Not lately.’
‘Crikey, doesn’t that bother you?’ Pansy said.
‘It might have done…once…Not right now.’
Pansy turned to look at her best friend. Maxine seemed to speak with more than a hint of regret. Or had she imagined it? ‘What makes you say that, Maxine?’
Maxine took a moment to answer, first looking at Pansy, then at Dulcie. ‘I don’t think I want to go through life married but never having a child. It’s what marriage is for, after all. Normal peoples’ marriages, at any rate. I just don’t feel like a normal person these days. But I hope at some time I might…When this lot’s over.’
‘But you’re bracing yourself already,’ Dulcie suggested.
‘Maybe. Maybe not…Perhaps it depends who you’re married to…Did I ever tell you that Eleanor was pregnant once?’
‘No.’
‘By Brent, you mean?’ Pansy queried.
‘Oh, yes, by Brent.’ Maxine assured her. ‘He told me when we were in the CBO. He didn’t want the child. She lost it, he said. Deliberately. I’ve often wondered whether he made her get rid of it…’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Geesh!’ Dulcie exclaimed. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to wonder about your husband.’
‘I know. Don’t breathe a word of this, either of you…but now I know him better, I reckon he is capable of doing such a thing. Do you think he’s capable of it?’
‘How should I know?’ Pansy responded diplomatically. ‘Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. You know him better than we do. All the same, it’s a funny thing for somebody who hasn’t been married a month yet to wonder.’
Maxine laughed now; an empty laugh, lacking in humour but flush with irony. ‘I’m no fool, Pansy,’ she said seriously. ‘But sometimes I find it an advantage to let him think I am. That way he thinks he needn’t keep up his guard.’
‘What about money?’ Dulcie asked. ‘You don’t let him think you’re a fool where money’s concerned, do you, for Christ’s sake?’
‘No. He knows I’ve got my head screwed on where money’s concerned.’
Pansy said: ‘Blimey, Maxine, am I hearing you right? Do you regret getting married?’
‘Well, I’m beginning to wonder if it was the right thing to do…so soon after the upset with Howard at any rate. But please don’t say anything.’
There remained silence between them for a couple of minutes. The air was filled with the noises of motor cars; so many motor cars, on Michigan Avenue, Columbus and Lake Shore Drive.
‘I don’t think you’re over Howard, are you, Maxine?’ Dulcie said, eventually.
Maxine bit her lip to stop it trembling. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him. At first – when we were in New York – I thought I was over him. I didn’t think about him that much with everything that was going on and Brent making su
ch a fuss of me. I guess I was in love with Brent for a while – or I thought I was, which amounts to the same thing. But now I can’t get Howard off my mind…’
‘Hey, don’t upset yourself, Maxine.’ Pansy said, concerned for her friend. ‘Things’ll work out one way or the other. For all you know, he might be married himself by now. You just don’t know.’
‘Oh, please don’t say that, Pansy. I couldn’t bear the thought of him married to somebody else.’
‘But you’re married to Brent now,’ Dulcie reasoned. ‘Short of divorce, there’s little or nothing you can do about that.’
‘Even if I got divorced and went back home and found Howard, he couldn’t marry me. The Church doesn’t allow marriage to a divorcee. I couldn’t muck up his life any more.’
‘So what’s gone wrong?’ Dulcie persisted. ‘You seemed so happy a short while ago.’
‘I don’t know…Things are just not the same. It hasn’t helped living in hotels for the last six months. I miss a home. I want a home. Oh, I love all this…’ she waved her hands about expansively. ‘…America…I love the band, the success and the money, of course, but I miss a home. I miss somewhere I can flop down after a hard day’s work and just relax and be myself. Somewhere I could grab my cello and just sit and play it quietly – just for relaxation. You know I haven’t played a cello since I left England. Hell, I haven’t even seen a cello…I miss my cello…’
‘Then buy one. Buy a house too. Heck, you can afford it.’
‘I’ve suggested a house. We’ve both suggested a house.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, Brent doesn’t want to buy one house, he wants two. He wants a mansion in New York and another in Martha’s Vineyard. With my money we can afford it, he says. My money. But it’s always my money. Never his. Even before we got married. I’m beginning to think that’s all he married me for.’