Of course, the musicians didn’t know me from any other kid hanging around the street. They had no idea I was under the steps outside the stage door each day, jamming along with them, so no matter how good I got, I knew I’d never have the opportunity to do an actual solo, and that started to matter to me. Sometimes, at home on my own, I’d have the whole jam session going on in my head and when I came to a part where a solo would fit, I’d pick up my harmonica and invent one just for fun, imagining all the other musicians stopping to listen, smiling and nodding their heads, tapping their feet, then joining in again after my solo ended with a bluesy ‘Whap-whap-whap-woo-whaaaa!’ It was an impossible dream but that didn’t stop me dreaming it.
During the two months of the summer vacation I practised for hours on end, and my lips became so accustomed to the blow and suck of the harmonica that I could play for longer and longer periods. One day I worked out all the hours I’d ever practised jazz, and it came to almost a thousand.
Once Mac said, ‘Jack, I’d love you to perform in front of the brothers and sisters, just to see their faces.’
I hated to disappoint him, but I was scared that someone in the group might know my dad, and if it got back to him, I’d be in real trouble. As soon as I explained, he understood. Mac was good like that.
And then on a Wednesday evening in the last week of the summer vacation, when the jam session was just wrapping up, the music suddenly grew just a fraction louder for a few moments then returned to normal. I did my own ‘Whap-whap-whap-woo-whaaaa!’ and we ended perfectly in sync. Almost immediately, the steps above me creaked and shook slightly. I glanced up to see someone descending, although I could make out only the soles of their shoes. I sat very still, my heart pounding, hoping whoever it was didn’t notice me and would keep on walking once he reached the bottom. But then two long legs came to a halt on my side of the steps and I saw that the shoes were black and white two-tone patent leather, and the pants were shiny and light blue with a black stripe down the side.
Then a deep voice spoke. ‘For the past few months I reckoned I bin dreamin’. I heard a harmonica somewhere way back but still comin’ through in the jam. “Joe,” I says to myself, “You’re gettin’ old and you is hearin’ things. There ain’t no harmonica player in the band.” Then I’m backstage one day, lookin’ for some sheet music, and I hear it clear, this fine jazz harmonica coming through the floorboards. Whoever you are, I’d be much obliged if we could meet, sir. That a real nice sound you got yourself there.’
The legs stepped backwards about four feet, and with my heart still pounding and my face burning with embarrassment and fear at having been found out, I crawled out from under the steps and looked up, then rose to my feet, still holding my harmonica. Standing in front of me was the old Negro musician with the frizzy grey hair and the limp. I’ll never forget the look of amazement on his face. ‘Oh my!’ he said, ‘Ain’t I just got me a big surprise!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, looking down at my feet. Above the blue pants he wore a starched white shirt, matching blue suspenders and a blue bow tie.
‘Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about, nothin’ whatsoever, young man. You got a gift from the Lord above and that a matter of joy and jubilation. What’s your name, Jazzboy?’
I looked directly up at him like you are supposed to when you talk to adults. ‘Jack . . .’ I hesitated because kids usually give only their first name, but then added my surname, ‘Spayd.’
‘Spade?’ His eyes widened and his head jerked back. ‘Now that ain’t a nice word, son.’
I looked at him, puzzled. ‘What word, sir?’
‘Spade! S-P-A-D-E! It a bad word to call a Negro person.’
‘It’s my surname, sir.’ Then, following his example, I spelled it, ‘S-P-A-Y-D.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘I thought you said Jack was your name and then you called me Spade. I apologise, son. Hey, now a white jazz musician wid a name like that maybe ain’t all that bad. Black musicians, they sure going to remember you, Jack Spayd.’
‘I didn’t know “spade” was a bad word for Negro people. I’ve never heard that before, sir.’
‘Now you learned a derogatory word you didn’t need to know. You know what derogatory mean?’
‘Yes, sir, it means rude.’
‘Hey, smart boy, Jack Spayd. Now it’s my turn to introduce myself.’ He extended his hand. ‘Name is Joe Hockey. I play piano.’ We shook hands. His fingers were long and bony, and I decided they must have become that way from playing the piano. ‘Now we introduced ourselves, Jack, I’d sure like you to meet someone who’ll want to know you. Can you spare a few minutes so we can step inside?’
‘Kids can’t go into a nightclub, sir. It’s against the law.’ It was something Mac had told me.
‘Well now, that is correct. But only through the front door after it’s showtime.’ He indicated the red door. ‘We can go through the backstage door, though.’
Mac hadn’t made it to the jam session so I would have to walk home alone that night. ‘Sir . . . I don’t think I can,’ I apologised. ‘I promised my mom I’d be home by half-past seven and it’s a half-hour walk if I start right off.’
‘Now, Jack, my name is Joe. No need to call me sir.’
‘Sorry, s— Joe,’ I said, blushing all over again because it still felt strange to call a grown-up by their first name.
‘Where do you live, son?’
‘Cabbagetown . . . er, Joe.’
‘Cabbagetown? Why, that’s five, ten minutes the most by streetcar.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s only about five-past seven.’
I didn’t want to tell him I didn’t have streetcar money, so I said, ‘I like to walk, Joe.’
He paused a moment. ‘Oh, I see. Most careless of me.’ He dug into his blue pants and produced a small leather change purse, removed a quarter and handed it to me. ‘Take the streetcar home tonight, Jack.’
I looked at the coin. ‘The fare is only ten cents, Joe.’
He smiled. ‘Well, now you got two trips, tonight and tomorrow and five cents over to buy candy, Jazzboy Jack.’
I handed him back the quarter. He didn’t look like a pervert but I wasn’t taking any chances going in alone with him through the red door. I didn’t like the sound of backstage, either. ‘Joe, I can’t go in with you tonight. I promised my mom. But I could do it tomorrow afternoon, anytime before the jam session starts.’
He accepted the coin. ‘You got pride, Jack. That’s good in a jazz musician. Pride don’t let you lose sight of the true black music, so you don’t end up playing hokey music to please the patrons in some downtown cocktail lounge, or like Joe Hockey in a two-piano nightclub act. Okay, what say half-past four tomorrow? Come to the front and ask for me. Oh, and bring your harmonica, Jazzboy Jack!’
I agreed and we shook hands again, and I hurried away with my head full of questions going round and round. The biggest one of all was what was going to happen now I’d been discovered under the steps. The next question was easy, but made me feel scared. I was pretty sure Joe wasn’t a pervert but I reckoned he was going to haul me up before his boss, Miss Frostbite, and maybe she’d be angry and stop me from hitting the steps. And what if she saw what we’d done to the burlap on the hot-water pipe? I’d have to lie and say I’d done it so as not to get Mac into trouble. The third question was why had Joe told me to bring my harmonica. At school the teachers confiscated things if you were caught playing in class. Could they confiscate my harmonica?
This time I knew I had to tell my mom, so when she got home that night I made her a cup of tea and as I handed it to her, I said, ‘Mom, something’s happened.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Nothing bad, I hope. Don’t tell me “her upstairs” has found out about you and Mac.’
‘No, nothing like that. I got discovered at the Jazz Warehouse . . . under the steps, by this old man, Joe Hockey.’ I then proceeded to tell her the whole story, including my speculation that I
was going to meet Miss Frostbite, but I didn’t mention the pervert part.
‘Half-past four, did you say?’
‘Yes, and I’m pretty scared . . .’
‘I’m coming with you, Jack,’ she announced firmly.
‘Could you, Mom?’ I asked, relieved. Then, suddenly concerned, I added, ‘What about your work?’
‘I can go from there. I don’t suppose this Miss Frostbite business will take very long, and I can be a bit late. I haven’t been late for work in two years.’ She laughed. ‘Anyhow, I’m the head cleaner now, so there’s nobody except me to sack me and if I’m an hour late, the girls know what to do. We’ll have a big lunch and I’ll make you sandwiches for tomorrow night.’
Boy, oh boy, was I ever relieved! My mom wasn’t the fierce Dolly McClymont type, but she could stand her ground if she had to. Mac had said Miss Frostbite was hard as nails, so having my mom with me was good; a kid can’t stand up to an adult who’s hard as nails. My experience with Mrs Hodgson at the library had taught me that you couldn’t always talk your way out of trouble.
I polished Mom’s best black shoes, the ones she wore on special occasions that she’d had since before the Depression. They had mildew on them from the damp and I had to wipe it off first. She kept them in a shoebox that was almost worn out and was held shut with a red rubber band. She wore her best dress that smelled of mothballs, and packed her work clothes and shoes in a white cotton bag to take with her. I polished my boots and, even though it was only Wednesday, I wore my good weekend shirt and pants.
We took the streetcar and Joe Hockey was right – it took less than ten minutes to get to the Jazz Warehouse, so we were a bit early. We went around the back, and I showed my mom the steps and pointed to the missing burlap on the pipe, warning her that the topic might come up with Miss Frostbite and that I’d take the blame for doing it.
She nodded. ‘Jack, it’s wicked to tell lies, but in this instance I’m sure God will forgive you.’
At exactly half-past four we were at the front door. We rang the bell and soon we heard footsteps, and Joe Hockey opened the door himself. ‘Ah, Jack, welcome,’ he said, then looked at my mom. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am.’
I was about to say, ‘I brought my mother,’ and then introduce her, when she smiled and extended her hand and said, ‘Gertrude Spayd, Mr Hockey, I’m Jack’s mother.’ She didn’t sound a bit nervous.
‘Nice to meet you, you are most welcome, Mrs Spayd.’ They shook hands and Joe stepped aside. ‘Would you both kindly come in.’ He was wearing a brown business suit and grey-striped white shirt with no collar attached instead of his blue outfit, which must have been for performing.
In the large foyer I noticed three of Mac’s purple velvet couches and the famous sign he’d told me about:
Warning!
When you enter
the Jazz Warehouse
you become colour blind!
There were also five signed and framed black-and-white photographs on the walls, which I took to be of musicians who must have come up from the States because most of the people in them were black. Two, the horn and saxophone players, were pretending to play their instruments. Then there was one big hand-tinted photo of a very pretty young woman dressed in a long pearl-coloured satin dress. I took this to be Miss Frostbite when she was young. You could see it hadn’t been taken recently because of the fashion she wore, and her short hair and the dark curl sort of pasted down in the centre of her forehead like a kewpie doll’s. She had bow lips and dark stuff around her eyes, and she was holding a long cigarette holder with an unlit cigarette in it, like I’d seen in pictures from when women were called ‘flappers’.
Joe Hockey indicated a purple couch. ‘Please wait here, ma’am. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch Miss Byatt.’
Miss Byatt? Not Miss Frostbite? Then again, maybe it was. Maybe ‘Byatt’ was her real surname. Joe Hockey had never used the name Miss Frostbite.
Several minutes later he came back with a lady wearing a posh-looking black lace dress and black high heels, with pearls around her neck. I could smell her perfume and it was nice. She smiled and you could see she was the person in the coloured picture, only older. She was still very pretty but now her hair was longer. I jumped up and clasped my hands behind my back as she came up to us and smilingly held out her hand to my mother. ‘Mrs Spayd, how very nice to meet you, I’m Floss . . . Floss Byatt.’
‘Gertrude . . . Gertrude Spayd,’ my mom answered, taking her hand but not shaking it like a man, just quickly gripping it. I noticed that Miss Byatt had painted nails.
‘Welcome to the Jazz Warehouse, Gertrude,’ Miss Byatt said, smiling again. ‘May I call you Gertrude?’
‘Thank you, you may, Floss,’ my mom replied, calm as anything and really dignified. I was very impressed and glad she’d come with me.
I’d read about puns and got it right off: Floss Byatt equals Frostbite. I had trouble not laughing out loud. Miss Frostbite turned to me. ‘And this is the young man Joe has been talking about! Jack, isn’t it?’
‘How do you do, Miss Byatt,’ I replied, giving a sort of bow, the way Miss Mony said you did when you first met a lady.
‘Well now, how long have we got?’ Miss Frostbite asked. ‘I was hoping you’d play for us, Jack. Did you bring your harmonica?’
‘Yes, Miss Byatt.’
‘I have to leave by five,’ my mother answered.
‘Perfect, that gives us just on half an hour,’ Miss Frostbite replied.
We were led into a big room with lots of small tables, with an ashtray on each one and comfy chairs around them. Six of Mac’s purple couches were at the far end of the room in front of the stage, arranged sort of casually so they didn’t look all lined up in a row. There were lots of knee-high tables where I guessed people put their drink glasses, with more ashtrays scattered about on them.
On the stage were what I later learned were baby grand pianos, one on each side. One was the same blue as Joe’s pants, and one was white. The space in between them I took to be where the jazz band sat because it had chairs and, at the back of them, a set of drums.
Joe Hockey indicated a couch facing the centre of the stage. ‘Gertrude, would you oblige by sitting right here, ma’am?’ he said. ‘Jack, you go on up, stand in the centre of the stage.’
I hesitated, not sure what he meant.
‘Come, Jazzboy Jack, up on the stage, my man,’ Joe repeated. My mom laughed at the ‘Jazzboy Jack’ nickname, but I could see she liked it.
I hoisted myself up onto the stage and went to stand in the middle between the two pianos, suddenly scared. My knees began to knock, like the time my dad gave me the thrashing, only then I knew what was going to happen and now I didn’t. I tried to think of something else so they’d stop and I looked about the stage. On the wall to the left was a clock that made no sound but told the time. It was the first electric clock I’d ever seen and must have been there for the musicians.
Then both Joe and Miss Frostbite climbed the steps at the side of the stage and each took their seat at a piano, Joe at the blue one. ‘Take it easy, Jazzboy Jack, ain’t nothin’ to be scared about,’ he called. ‘Miss Floss and myself, we are goin’ to play a few chords and cadences just to see how you follow them. Okay?’
I nodded, still scared as anything, but I reached into my pocket for my harmonica. I didn’t dare look at my mom.
‘We’ll do them one followin’ the other right off and we want you to listen, right?’ Joe instructed.
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice all squeaky.
‘Then we’ll play them separately. After each separate piece, we’ll stop, and we want you to try to repeat it on the harmonica.’ Joe paused. ‘You okay wid that arrangement?’
I nodded. The roof of my mouth had gone dry, so I was glad I didn’t have to play right off.
‘Good.’ He looked over at Miss Frostbite. ‘Let’s go, Floss,’ he called.
They started to play, changing every bit of the music as the
y went, the beat, the tune . . . I didn’t have the words to describe what they were doing, but I could hear it and I knew I could remember it. Then they stopped and before Joe could speak, I played it right through and then ended with my signature ‘Whap-whap-whap-woo-whaaaa!’ I glanced at my mother, who was trying hard not to laugh, her hand covering her mouth.
‘Hey, whoa! Jes you wait a cotton pickin’ minute!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘What you doin’, Jazzboy Jack? Why, that was grand, man!’ Laughing, he looked over to Miss Frostbite.
‘Remarkable. He has a great ear,’ Miss Frostbite said, then turning to me she added, ‘Jack, that was very good indeed.’
To my surprise, my mom piped in. ‘Jack can also sing.’ She was leaning forward on her purple couch.
‘Oh? Will you sing for us, Jack?’ Miss Frostbite asked. But it wasn’t like a real ask, more like a command. I nodded, a bit dumbstruck. ‘What will you sing? Perhaps I can accompany you?’
‘A Bicycle Built for Two’ was all I could think of because of the second verse when Daisy replies.
Miss Frostbite laughed then hummed the tune for a few moments. ‘I think I can manage that,’ she said. ‘What key?’
‘Pardon, Miss?’
‘What note do you want to start on?’
I sang the note I usually started on and she played it on the piano. She and Joe exchanged a look. ‘I think this child has perfect pitch,’ she said, and then she played the first few bars and nodded for me to come in. I sang it, trying my best, and when it was over she said, ‘Let’s play it again, Jack. This time I’ll only accompany you on the first verse and then I want you to sing the second verse solo . . . that is, on your own.’
Jack of Diamonds Page 7