I was beginning to realise that most of the musicians were older men, the younger ones having gone off to war. Because I was over six foot and shaved every other day I probably looked a little older than seventeen. In fact, I was pointedly asked by two of the four bandleaders, both short, paunchy and somewhat recalcitrant, why I wasn’t in uniform.
At six o’clock sharp I reported to Peter Cornhill at the Brunswick Hotel who put one of his bellboys in charge of the front door and took me in to see Mr Kerr, whose office adjoined the main foyer. The interior of the hotel smelled of beeswax and floor polish. The assistant manager was busy writing at a small desk when Peter knocked on the half-open door, and before the doorman could open his mouth to introduce me, without looking up he said, ‘Thank you, Peter, that will be all. Please sit down, Mr . . . ?’
‘Spayd, sir, Jack Spayd.’
‘Won’t be a moment, Mr Spayd,’ he said, still not glancing up from his writing. Peter Cornhill touched me lightly on the shoulder, smiled reassuringly and left while I lowered myself into the only chair.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ The assistant manager looked up at last. ‘Oh,’ he said, obviously surprised, ‘You’re young.’ Then, recovering quickly, added, ‘Mr Spayd, you said? What is it?’
‘Well, I play the piano and I was hoping . . .’
‘What? What do you play?’ he interrupted.
I smiled, attempting to ignore his sharp manner. He obviously saw me as some over-ambitious jumped-up kid. ‘Rachmaninoff to ragtime and most everything in between.’ It was a line I’d rehearsed in bed that morning and I rather liked the sound of it – neat, concise, competent but not overly boastful. But now it sounded pretentious.
The assistant manager of the Brunswick Hotel frowned. ‘I see, a piano hack.’
I smiled, trying to conceal my surprise. ‘No, sir, I’ve had a classical training but I prefer jazz, the blues in particular.’ It wasn’t what I’d intended to say. Jazz still wasn’t all the go in Canada, and way out here on the prairies it may have been even less popular.
‘Jazz? It so happens I know a bit about jazz.’ It was said in a smug, slightly amused manner as if I had trapped myself and he was about to find me out. He gave me a supercilious smile. ‘Care to play for me, Jack?’
‘Be delighted, sir.’
He rose. ‘Follow me. We have a piano in the ballroom. It’s not new but it’s a Steinway and recently tuned.’ He was warning me not to blame the piano. ‘Dinner doesn’t begin until 6.30 p.m., plenty of time to hear you out before Mr Blunt, our regular pianist, arrives for work.’
The clipped manner in which he pronounced the word ‘out’ left me in no further doubt that he wasn’t expecting much and that the word was intended to convey more than the obvious meaning. We reached the ballroom, a big echoing room with pale blue walls, a high white ceiling, and polished wooden floors for dancing, now covered with tables set for a big dinner with white damask tablecloths and napkins, silver and good china. There were wine glasses on the tables too, something you didn’t see very often. The Steinway sat on a bandstand some distance from the tables, as if the music was not meant to intrude on the conversation of the two hundred or so diners the room seemed set up to accommodate.
‘Just jazz?’ I asked.
‘No, give me . . . what did you say? Rachmaninoff to ragtime and everything in between,’ he said, amused, and with his arms clasped about his chest, he chuckled. ‘I want your full repertoire, Mr Spayd.’
‘Range or repertoire, sir?’ I queried, hoping to gain a little respect.
‘Range,’ he snapped, clearly annoyed at me for picking him up on his misuse of a word.
He still hadn’t called me Jack, which wasn’t a good sign. I sat down and started with the main theme from the second movement of Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto in C Minor. So as to continue the mood I did a couple of Chopin Preludes, then moved effortlessly into the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I looked up and smiled to indicate my confidence (ha ha) before moving into ‘Tenderly’, a slow jazz piece in the Art Tatum manner, though, of course, with nothing remotely like the master’s effortless finesse, switching from style to style. Part of Art Tatum’s genius was his marriage of classical and jazz and it was this I was now trying to emulate. From here I eased into ‘St James Infirmary Blues’ and then bridged this with Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’ from Porgy and Bess, his recent musical. After this soft, tender and beautiful melody, I opened up and thumped my way merrily through ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, grinning and stomping. Finally, so as not to exclude the Thursday ladies’ tea party, I ended with ‘Roses of Picardy’, actually singing the lyrics, my voice having long since turned from boy soprano to baritone.
Closing the piano I waited for the assistant manager’s reaction. To my mind I’d played reasonably well but wasn’t sure what he expected or wanted, if anything at all. Maybe he was simply humouring me.
‘Jesus! What are you doing applying for a hotel job, Jack?’ Cameron Kerr cried. ‘You’re concert material!’ His expression indicated that he was more than mildly impressed.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Not quite, sir,’ I grinned. ‘Jazz is a difficult medium and I’m still too young to fully grasp its nuances,’ I said pretentiously.
‘Well, I can tell you you’re the best we’ve heard around these parts for a while. What brings you to Moose Jaw?’
‘Learning to grow up some before joining the army, sir.’
He grinned and came towards me with his hand extended. ‘What can I say? You’ve got the job.’
‘Thank you, sir . . . thank you very much,’ I said, stretching out my hand to shake his. Then, stupidly, in spite of Joe’s warnings, I said, ‘But what about Mr Blunt?’ I could hear Joe Hockey’s words clearly in my head. ‘Jazzboy, you on yo own in the wide wide worl’. Don’t do no softhearted non-sense, you hear? No free, no one-week trial wid no pay. Do that you soon gonna starve yo’self to death. Scuffin’ means every man fo’ hisself, tramping over and stomping on ever-body to get yo sweet ass on that there pee-ano stool.’
‘What about Reggie Blunt?’ Cam Kerr asked.
‘Well, ah, the doorman, Peter, told me he, Mr Blunt, was the resident pianist and an elderly man. Be hard for him to get another job . . .’
Cam Kerr laughed. ‘Jack, he’s been threatening to quit for years. Wants to go live with his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren in Winnipeg. He’s not broke and he only plays piano for his stake so he can play and lose at poker every week. He keeps the local gamblers in pocket money. Don’t worry, he’ll be secretly pleased. He can never make up his mind, not about cards, not about anything. Now it’s done for him, he can go and see his grandchildren.
‘Can you play here tonight? This Saturday’s a big night for us, it’s the annual Rotary shindig. The police chief will be attending, as well as some of the big wigs from Regina. We have a band coming – couldn’t get the one we wanted, this one’s second-rate – but I’ll put them in the fine dining room. I want you to play as you’ve just done for me, Rachmaninoff to ragtime, and everything in between. You’ll knock their socks off, Jack.’ Cam Kerr had transformed from cynic to enthusiast.
‘Sure, be a pleasure, sir.’
‘It’s Cam. Call me Cam. Musicians aren’t formal. Always wanted to be a musician,’ he chuckled. ‘Never got past “Tea for two”!’
‘Pretty sophisticated if you’re Art Tatum; it’s practically his signature tune,’ I replied.
‘Not with two fingers,’ he laughed again.
I swallowed. ‘Cam, ah . . . what about . . . you know?’
‘Oh, yes, almost forgot. Your salary? How does eleven dollars a week sound, dinner thrown in?’
This time I took Joe’s advice. ‘Fifteen. I’ll bring in new customers. Younger crowd. Give me a few weeks and I’ll be on your billboard.’
‘Fourteen! With lunch thrown in as well as dinner? Days off, Sunday, Monday.’
‘It’s a deal, but w
ith a salary review in three months?’ (Joe Hockey once again.)
‘Done!’ he said, reaching out and clasping my hand in both his own. ‘Welcome to the Brunswick, Jack.’
Effectively I was a dollar fifty a week better off not having my dinner at Mrs H.’s and I’d be saving on lunch money, too. I had my first scuffing job and it was a damn good one – I couldn’t have asked for better. I ended up playing the foyer and the cocktail lounge of the Brunswick Hotel from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. with half an hour for dinner, then the main fine dining room or ballroom if they had a gala event. Tuesdays to Saturday, 6.45 p.m. until 9 p.m. (10.30 p.m. for ballroom events) or back to the cocktail lounge until 10.30 p.m. for a normal night. Of course, I did the Thursday ladies’ tea party, 3 p.m. to 5.30 p.m.
After paying my board I had more than ten dollars left over a week. I wouldn’t have to touch the money for my mother’s nose job and felt I was positively rolling in cash. I handed Peter Cornhill two bucks for the introduction. ‘Thanks, young Jack; more than generous. Welcome to the Brunswick.’
I’d pressed a white shirt and my only pair of dark blue flannels for any interviews I might have obtained, but I certainly wasn’t dressed for playing piano to a celebrity audience in a ballroom. My Mrs Sopworth suit was back at the boarding house but it was still squashed into the bottom of my rucksack along with the starched collars and shirts.
‘What time would you want me here, Cam?’ I asked.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Now, in ten minutes,’ he replied.
‘What about Mr Blunt?’ I asked, Joe’s advice once again ignored.
‘Oh, I’ll tell Peter to explain and I’ll pay him off tomorrow.’ I was beginning to understand the cutthroat world of the entertainment business. Poor old bastard, I hoped he really did want to get to Winnipeg and wasn’t broke.
I glanced down at my clothes. ‘But I won’t have time to get home and change.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean. Wait on, we’ll find you a bow tie. The manager’s a big guy and always has a spare suit in his office. We’ll borrow his jacket. Nobody will notice your pants, just remember not to get up to take a bow.’ I could see he saw me as a feather in his cap.
That was my first Saturday night, in fact, my first night scuffing. When I finished playing just after 11 p.m., half an hour beyond my official time, the maitre d’ congratulated me and added that a number of his Rotary diners had commented favourably on the music. After most of the guests had left, I earned two dollars in tips playing for the stragglers, old friends chatting on and enjoying a last drink. Finally, at 11.45 p.m., my first night’s scuffing came to an end. Altogether it had been a good night’s work and I felt rather pleased with myself. I could now truly call myself a professional musician and it felt good. The big wide world wasn’t as frightening as Joe had said. All that remained was the prospect of attending the Sunday revival meeting the following day with Mrs Henderson, and coming clean about earning my living doing the devil’s work.
I spent the next hour canvassing River Street to check out the other sinners before finally heading to my half of the bedroom. It had stopped snowing and the white neon cross was pumping out the true light, testifying for Jesus to the heathen horde still Saturday-nighting along River Street. The bright candy-pink lettering below it flicked on and off – APOSTOLIC CHURCH OF THE PENTECOST – and under it in blood-red neon ran the words I hadn’t noticed when the neon had been switched off: The wages of sin is death!
I’d mentally backhanded myself several times for being so weak and now I did so once again. I should have told the white-faced old dragon to go jump in the lake, or in this particular case, Thunder Creek. I’d only just obtained a paid job in the devil’s playground and now, in a few hours, I was going to attend a revival meeting where I would be asked to give my life to Jesus.
I unlocked the door to my bedroom close to midnight. My roommate Jim Greer’s snoring practically battered down the door before I’d even opened it. Should I switch on the bedroom light or leave the light on in the hall and hope I could see enough? I decided to risk waking him up by turning on the bedroom light; it was half my room after all.
Jim Greer lay on his back with his mouth open, his false teeth, fixed in a Machiavellian grin, in a large glass of water on the small bedside table beside his gilt-edged Bible. His big belly and chest were covered with three heavy blankets and a brown quilted eiderdown with the words Asleep in the arms of Jesus appliquéd in white down the middle. At breakfast he’d made it sound as if he led a neat, ordered and fulfilled life; he’d certainly earned his sleep.
His snoring didn’t bode well for future weekend sleep, but I told myself I’d cut my teeth on my dad’s drunken snoring and then Dolly’s far from dulcet tones fret-sawing their way through the ceiling, but Jim Greer’s nocturnal snorts and barks were really something. Inhaling grain dust must have permanently affected his sinuses.
I grabbed my wash bag and repaired to the bathroom, then returned to the bedroom, changed and switched off the light and lay in bed listening to the cadences of his breathing, broken occasionally by a long pause and then an alarming snort. It had been a good day and I was on my way to making a living as a musician. The last thought I remember was that if I averaged two dollars a day in tips, this added an extra ten bucks per week to my income. I was already earning more than Mac had made on any week I’d known him over the past ten years.
Gospel hymns blaring into the street over powerful speakers at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning could be described as a rude awakening. A blast of music and singing practically lifted the covers off my bed. I was to learn that they played gospel gramophone records for an hour on Sunday mornings, followed by silence for an hour until the church meeting began at nine, whereupon the sermon, the witnessing and the attendant vocal pyrotechnics took over, all of it broadcast live onto River Street.
Jim Greer was already up when I awoke with a decided shock and parted the curtains to look out. The neon blazed in the December dark, with the blood-red threat to sinners punching out a warning to stragglers and the last of Saturday night’s lost souls that they were being closely watched.
It was difficult to comprehend how this dawn chorus or the fervent religious carry-on that followed would ever switch the Saturday-night and Sunday-morning ne’er-do-wells to God’s way of thinking. With all the noise and a sore head to boot, you’d have to have been a pretty desperate sinner to come running in from outside to be born again. The Apostolic Church of the Pentecost owned River Street on a Sunday morning and the whores and their hungover clients were most certainly getting their comeuppances.
It was just after eight o’clock when I arrived in the dining room. Thankfully, neither Jim Greer nor Mrs Henderson was present. The singing had ceased and the street outside was now blessedly silent. No doubt my room-mate and hostess had departed early for the church service, even though it was only a hop, skip and a jump across the street. Jim Greer would later tell me they always attended a Sunday morning pre-service Bible reading and prayer meeting when they all ‘drew unto themselves’ and prayed silently for their personal sanctification.
‘It’s completely silent? No speaking in tongues or shouting out?’ I’d asked.
‘The Holy Spirit isn’t required for the eight o’clock meeting, Jack.’
‘Isn’t required or isn’t invited?’ I asked somewhat cheekily.
He looked at me as if I were a child in need of a patient explanation. ‘The Holy Spirit descends as a dove, a white dove among us. Sometimes it turns into a flame. It is always welcome and sometimes arrives quite unexpectedly when a blessed brother or sister bursts spontaneously into tongues. But the Lord Jesus also allows us silence to contemplate His word. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.’
‘This dove descending, can you actually see it? I mean with your own eyes?’ I asked, more than a little sceptical.
‘Of course! That is once you’ve been washed in the blood of the
Lamb and have accepted Jesus into your heart as a born-again Christian.’
There was no point arguing. I was to learn that born-again Christians witnessed and experienced phenomena not seen by or given to those who are not embraced within the arms of Jesus.
The cook, Mrs Mary Spragg, handed me a note from Mrs Henderson saying she’d hop over the road to fetch me at 8.45 and to wear a clean shirt and necktie if I possessed one – if not, Mr Greer had left one of his own on his bed for me – and not to forget to polish my boots. Mrs Spragg seemed to be everything Mrs Henderson wasn’t, thin as a rake and a chirpy, cheerful soul who took one look at me and declared, ‘Ah, a four-egg young man, I do declare! How do you like them, Jack, over easy or sunny side up? Call me Mary.’
After breakfast, I spent ages trying to press my crumpled suit, using a sheet of brown paper to avoid making the material shiny, as my mom had taught me to do with my school blazer and grey flannels. I then ironed a shirt, pressed a blue tie from the back and polished my boots.
Mrs Henderson, arriving to escort me over the road, appeared somewhat taken aback by my appearance. ‘My goodness, Jack, you do look splendid!’ she exclaimed. I told myself once again that I was only going to church for the sake of the music, although the 7 a.m. blast of sound, presumably from a recognised and recorded gospel choir, undermined my argument.
Though everyone seemed to be having a good time at the revival meeting, to me it felt and sounded chaotic. My mom and I hadn’t been to church all that often in my childhood, but when we had it had been the Presbyterian church, mainly out of gratitude for their help in clothing us throughout the Depression. They were a pretty staid lot, almost as far removed from this lot across the street as the dreaded Catholics themselves. Joe might have said of the Apostolics, ‘Them cats they really jumpin’! They got the devil by his tail and they be swingin’, man!’ What ensued in the next two hours of the revival meeting was, to my mind at least, complete chaos, but joyous chaos, people letting their hair down in a manner I’d never before witnessed.
Jack of Diamonds Page 25