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Rags to Riches
Nancy Carson
Whisked from the industrial Black Country to the dazzling clubs of New York City…1936 will be Maxine Kite’s year!Plucked from obscurity, young cellist Maxine Kite is thankful for the chance given to her by Birmingham’s esteemed orchestra, but a part of her is still unfulfilled. Music has always been her passion but she has dreams far too big for a girl from a simple family.When the jazz clubs of New York beckon, along with the sultry world of wayward musician Brent Shackleton, Maxine leaves safety and propriety behind.But a girl’s good name can be all she has in the world… and once lost, is almost impossible, to reclaim…



Rags to Riches
NANCY CARSON


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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Previously published as Love Songs by Hodder and Stoughton 2000
Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015
Cover images - woman © Superfly Images 2010
Cover images - background © Everett Historical
Cover design © Debbie Clement 2015
Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008134839
Version: 2018-01-09
Contents
Cover (#u21ce7c31-8716-575a-af44-e617f444f93a)
Title Page (#ud53f7add-89c9-5d97-bd07-ec5adf7e689b)
Copyright (#u02e0e358-1496-527c-9816-eef40661542e)
Chapter 1 (#u2271e1b5-100a-5864-8da5-85dbc43396d7)
Chapter 2 (#u6e1ac641-4d97-52e8-a717-237a637ce2e7)
Chapter 3 (#u596adc37-4cb4-5d95-b846-cca04dc595f3)
Chapter 4 (#u98a891ed-1456-57b4-b8a3-7bd9ceff1401)
Chapter 5 (#u3025786c-b5be-5ebf-9db5-4a3f8129e44e)
Chapter 6 (#ucbac2145-e4aa-5878-b109-84899162d054)
Chapter 7 (#u2761f67d-4c09-5943-bc13-2586b7079716)
Chapter 8 (#u3b58c3ba-7a40-5aeb-ad1d-7116ae4bef25)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Maxine’s Songs (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
‘Living in the same house as Stephen Hemming for two years hasn’t exactly been the most inspiring thing that’s ever happened to me,’ Maxine Kite admitted philosophically to Lizzie, her mother. Maxine had never spoken to her before about her love life but right now, companionable together on this special day in this unfamiliar scullery with its clean whitewashed walls, she felt a compelling need to talk.
‘So what’s wrong with Stephen?’ Lizzie asked, wringing water from a sheet she was rinsing in the deep, stone sink.
‘Oh, I’m not so sure that Stephen’s the problem, Mother. It’s me.’ Maxine stared reflectively at the brass tap that was fixed to the wall, dripping water. ‘I can’t stand his eyes following me at every turn. He makes me feel uncomfortable – as if he’s mentally undressing me.’
‘You poor soul, our Maxine. I sympathise. I can only imagine what it must be like. And yet he seems such a nice, gentle chap.’
‘Oh, he is, Mother. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He thinks the world of me, I know he does…And I like him – as a friend – he’s a good friend. But I’m not in love with him. I know he’d like me to be, but I can’t help the way I feel about him. And I don’t like him looking at me the way he does, either.’
‘But that’s just men,’ Lizzie remarked. ‘You’re a nice-looking girl, our Maxine. You’ve got lovely dark hair, a lovely trim figure. Men like pretty girls, and they’ll always turn to have a good look at those they think are worth looking at. You must expect it. Be thankful for it, our Maxine.’
‘But it’s when he sits down opposite me…I’m sure it’s only so he can look up my skirt…’
‘Men will always try to look up your frock whether or no.’
‘Yes and I daresay some girls like it when they do, if it’s somebody they fancy who’s having a peep – but I bet they wouldn’t be so keen on Stephen doing it. Whenever I go to my room to change, he always seems to be hovering – as if he’s trying to peer at me through the crack in the door. Even when I practise my cello I have to wear a long, flared skirt to hide my legs. It’s laughable really.’
‘It’s because he fancies you, our Maxine. It’s been worrying me, you and him living under the same roof,’ Lizzie declared frankly. ‘So I take it there’s been no hanky-panky.’
‘With Stephen?’ Maxine scoffed. ‘Mother, you cannot be serious. I just don’t fancy him that way. I’m not especially fond of him touching me. And that’s the trouble. In any case, his mother and father are always around. I’m lodging with them, remember. Not him. The fact that he lives there as well is by the by.’
Maxine perceived the relief in her mother’s expression at her blatantly honest response; she knew Lizzie had always worried about her precious daughters; no doubt she always would. After all, a pretty daughter and a hot-blooded man did not always create a favourable combination.
‘You don’t think you’re imagining all this?’ Lizzie queried sceptically, treating the sheets to another immersion in water so cold that it was making her bare hands tingle.
‘No,’ Maxine replied. ‘I’m not imagining it. Pansy’s noticed as well.’
‘You mean he looks up his sister’s frock?’
‘No, Mother.’ Maxine started to giggle at the unthinkable absurdity. ‘Pansy’s noticed he’s like that with me. He doesn’t give her a second glance. She’s his sister, for goodness sake…So…let’s hope I pass this audition with the City of Birmingham Orchestra. It’ll give me the perfect excuse to get away from him.’
‘Have you told him yet as you’re likely to be leaving?’ Lizzie added some hot water from the gas geyser and looked up from the white cotton sheets as she kneaded out the last trace of suds.
‘Well, not yet. I want to be straight with him, Mom, but I haven’t plucked up the courage yet.’
‘Then it’s time you did, our Maxine.’
‘I know…’ Maxine replied guiltily. ‘I’ll tell him tonight.’
‘And what do you think he’ll say?’
Maxine shrugged. ‘It’s not up to him to say anything.’ She felt suddenly irked that Stephen should be considered important enough to even warrant a say in the matter. ‘It’s my decision, not his.’
‘But he’ll have an opinion, Maxine. Allow him that.’ Lizzie said, wringing a sheet now.
‘Course he will. But he doesn’t own me. Okay, I know he wouldn’t want me to give up lodging at his family’s house, but it’ll be a lot more convenient living here if I get that job. Besides, I don’t want to live in the same house as him any longer.’
‘I take it you’re not thinking of getting married then?’
‘Me, married? I’ll never get married, Mom. It’s not something I desire. I’m married to my music. I’d never marry Stephen anyway.’
‘Never say never,’ Lizzie counselled gently. ‘You just might change your mind.’
Maxine shook her head resolutely and folded her arms as she leaned against the cupboard. ‘No. I’ll never change my mind about Stephen.’
Maxine stared forlornly across the shimmering expanse of water known as Rotten Park Reservoir, which kept Birmingham’s canals topped up. A team of ducks, and the more exotically coloured drakes that accompanied them, sailed importantly some distance from the edge. Moorhens shepherded a waddle of tiny black chicks that bobbed in the radiating rings of a fresh-cast fishing line. It was as pleasant a view, through the yellow-flowered curtains that framed the imperfect panes of the scullery window, as you would find from the rear of any terraced house. Soon, it might be her new home.
Of course, she could return to live with her mother in Dudley but, rather, Maxine was inclined to accept her sister’s offer of accommodation here. She had tasted freedom and relished it. Going back to mother’s she would lose that precious independence. In any event, her self-esteem would not allow her to return home.
Maxine was pinning all her hopes on the audition. It would mean regular work, money in her pocket. But most importantly, it would allow her this much-needed breathing space from Stephen. No, she was not in love with him. Trouble was, he was too fond of her, too protective. He was suffocating her. And this house here in Ladywood, the home of her sister and brother-in-law, was far more convenient for the Town Hall and the CBO’s rehearsal rooms than having to lug her cello to and from his folks’ house in Smethwick, especially on those occasions when she had to make the journey by tram. The trouble was, there had been talk of moving from Ladywood back to Dudley; and that meant Smethwick would be more convenient again. Still, she wouldn’t mention that to Stephen yet; he would only try to get her to stay.
‘I should’ve thought the chances of anybody making a living playing a cello in Birmingham would be a bit limited to say the least,’ Lizzie commented and Maxine detected the same sad scepticism she’d heard a hundred times before. ‘It’s not as if they want a celloist on every street corner.’
‘The word is cellist, Mother,’ Maxine corrected, amused that her mother had got the word wrong. ‘But I can play piano as well, remember…and I can sing. If I don’t get this job in the CBO I’d be quite prepared to play piano and sing – in a pub even.’
‘Over my dead body.’ Lizzie wrung the sheet more animatedly and tossed it into a wicker washing basket with the other, ready to peg out. ‘I’m not having you singing in a public house like some wailing old music hall tart. I’ll see you back home first. You’re not twenty-one yet, remember…Struth, it’s been bad enough worrying over our Henzey up there these last few years, not to mention our Alice. Now I worry about you as well.’
‘You needn’t worry about me, Mom. I’ll be okay.’
‘Famous last words…’
The kettle on the gas stove started to bobble and boil and Maxine applied herself at last to making the pot of tea she should have organised a while ago.
‘I’ll go and hang these sheets out,’ Lizzie said. ‘Don’t forget to pour me a cup of tea before you take some upstairs to our Henzey and Will.’
When she climbed the stairs carrying the tea tray, Maxine thought she heard her name mentioned. The door to Henzey’s and Will’s bedroom was ajar. She pushed it open gently with her foot.
‘Tea!’ Will Parish exclaimed chirpily, and held the door open for her. ‘Thank the Lord. We thought you’d got lost,’
Maxine placed the tray on the dressing table. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long. Actually, I forgot.’ She uttered a little laugh of self-mockery. ‘Telling Mother about Stephen. Then I had a lecture off her.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So how are you feeling now, Henzey? Tired, I bet.’
‘Tired, but content.’ Henzey ran her fingers through her dark hair and smiled happily. She looked pale but she was entitled to, having just endured childbirth, even though it had not been protracted. Henzey leaned over towards the crib at the side of the bed where the new baby lay. ‘Isn’t he beautiful? Who do you think he’s like, Maxine? D’you think he’s like Will?’
Maxine peered into the crib where the new baby was sleeping. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured indecisively. ‘He’s got your colouring, our Henzey…’
‘But his features are Will’s, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, he looks like himself, Henzey,’ Will protested, half amused at speculation he considered pointless. ‘How can you say who he’s like yet? He hasn’t been born more than a few hours. With a newborn child, I don’t see how you can possibly tell who he’s like. In a week or two you might be able to say. But more often than not, children tend to look like their grandparents.’
‘In that case,’ Henzey declared, ‘he’s bound to be like my father, his hair’s so dark. He was dark, as well, with blue eyes. And tall. Oh, I wish he were here now to see him.’
‘Yes, he’s a bit like our dad, Henzey, now you mention it,’ Maxine conceded, handing a cup and saucer to Henzey.
‘I wish I’d known your father,’ Will said in all sincerity, accepting his cup of tea from Maxine. ‘Thanks, Chick…A real character by all accounts.’
‘A gentleman,’ Henzey uttered nostalgically. ‘Honest and forthright. He used to love to hear Maxine play the piano…Remember, Maxine?’
‘It seems so long ago…’ At the mention of her father Maxine peered out of the window into the back garden, seeking her mother. ‘Mother’s pegging out your sheets, Henzey. I’d better go and help her. It looks freezing out there for April.’
‘Don’t let her stay too long, Maxine. She’s worked hard all day. I don’t know what we’d have done without her.’
‘We’ll just clear up, Henzey. Then we’ll be off. Can I come and see the baby tomorrow? I’d love to hold him. Oh, I’m dying to hold him, Henzey. He’s so beautiful…’
Henzey smiled contentedly. ‘Course you can. Come as soon as you’re ready.’
Maxine’s audition for the City of Birmingham Orchestra fell on 30
April 1936, a Thursday. The large rehearsal room with its high ceiling, its tall, Gothic windows and its sawdusted, woodblock floor, looked and smelled like a school hall. Musical instruments stood or lay haphazardly, unattended, alongside utilitarian metal music stands and the printed scores of Elgar. Leslie Heward, the conductor, asked Maxine some questions about her musical training and she confirmed that she’d spent the last three and a half years at Bantock’s School of Music studying her instrument.
‘Show me what you can do, Miss Kite,’ he said. His demeanour was kindly, maybe to ease her nerves.
‘May I play The Swan from Carnival of the Animals?’
‘Of course. Let me hear it.’ Leslie Heward smiled generously. The Swan was no surprise.
The long hanging notes of a haunting melody, as poignant as a love song, poured from Maxine’s cello like tears. The rich timbre of the instrument, the emotion in her playing, her instinctive grasp of the composition’s spirit, and the visual grace with which she played, all conspired to work positively for her. She was aware of other musicians, including the principal cello, listening intently from the rear of the rehearsal room.
‘That was excellent, Miss Kite. You seem to have a natural empathy with your instrument. I’m impressed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Heward.’ She smiled demurely.
‘What else do you know?’
Maxine had swotted up Dohnànyi’s Konzertstück for cello and orchestra, but Mr Heward heard her play only a part, evidently satisfied already with her ability. He pulled out a volume of music from a pile beside him and asked her to sight read. It was a section from Elgar’s First Symphony. She performed that with expertise too and Maxine knew she had been successful when Mr Heward turned and smiled to one of the musicians sitting at the rear of the hall, who nodded his approval.
‘Congratulations, Miss Kite,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You’ll be receiving official notice to play in all the orchestra’s concerts this season. We’ll be doing Sibelius’s Seventh Symphony soon. Are you familiar with Sibelius’s work?’
‘Some, yes, Mr. Heward.’
‘Excellent. And we’re doing Beethoven’s Fifth, the ‘New World’, Shostakovich’s First, and Tchaikovsky’s Fourth…and lots of Elgar, of course.’ He smiled steadily. ‘Doesn’t scare you, does it?’
Maxine smiled back; her usual shy smile. ‘No, sir, it doesn’t scare me at all.’
‘Splendid! That’s what I like to hear. Thank you, Miss Kite. Rehearsals will start for you here next Monday at ten. I shall look forward to your contribution to the orchestra.’
‘Thank you, Mr Heward,’ she beamed, her delight evident in her eyes that were the colour of her cello. ‘Thank you so much.’
Mr Heward shook her hand and left Maxine to put her cello away while he sought the company and comments of the principal cellist.
While she smiled to herself, so relieved and so pleased that she had got the job she wanted so much, another man, much younger than the conductor, walked up to her. He was in his late twenties she estimated, tall, confident and oh, so good-looking.
‘I think you surprised our lord and master,’ he said amiably, adjusting his fashionable Paisley tie.
Maxine regarded him with interest. ‘Do you think so? How did I manage that, I wonder?’
‘I think he was expecting to hear somebody of average ability. He wasn’t quite prepared for somebody with such a pretty face to play quite so well.’
Maxine felt herself colour up at the compliment. But she was at a loss for a suitable reply, apart from a sadly inadequate ‘thank you’.
‘I’m Brent Shackleton, trombonist in this aspiring orchestra you’ve just joined.’ He held his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you. I really enjoyed listening to you.’
Maxine shook his hand. It was cool, dry and smooth but his grip was lingering. She smiled readily. ‘I’m Maxine Kite. I’m still in a bit of a daze to tell you the truth. I can’t believe I just got into the CBO.’
‘I shouldn’t worry, Maxine. I daresay you’ll soon get used to the idea. Smoke?’ He proffered a silver cigarette case.
‘I don’t, thank you.’
He took one and lit it. ‘I’ve been with this outfit nearly five years now. It keeps me in these…Just about…’ He tapped the cigarette case nonchalantly and she was not sure that she admired his indifference. ‘Where do you live, Maxine? Are you local?’
‘Ladywood,’ she replied, anticipating her new lodging arrangements. ‘With my sister and her husband.’
‘Ladywood? That’s almost walking distance from here, isn’t it?’ He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.
‘It’s very convenient.’ Her cello was back in its case. She closed the lid and picked it up. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way. Nice to meet you, Mr Shackleton.’
‘Call me Brent. It is all right if I call you Maxine, isn’t it?’
She smiled and lingered a moment. There was something appealing about him after all; the way he looked at her. His dark eyes were focused only on her, piercing, making her feel decidedly self-conscious. But not the way Stephen did. Definitely not the way Stephen did.
‘I’ll see you at rehearsals next week, I imagine,’ she said affably.
‘Shall you come to the concert on Sunday evening?’
‘The concert? I could…I suppose I should really, shouldn’t I?’
‘You should. Come and say hello afterwards. I’ll introduce you to some of the team.’
Stephen Hemming was a quiet, practical, but very determined soul. He was twenty-six, unmarried, living at home with his parents and Pansy, his younger sister. Pansy had introduced him to Maxine Kite when the two girls were attending Bantock’s School of Music together. Stephen fell in love with Maxine on sight. He could not resist her. She seemed so vulnerable and he wanted to protect her, especially since he was predisposed to girls like that. But her apparent vulnerability was not her only attractive feature; she was inordinately lovely with lips that for many sleepless nights he yearned to kiss and creamy curved breasts he longed to caress. And her ears were so delicate, translucent, like finest Dresden china…He was mesmerised that her forearms lacked any of the soft down that every other girl seemed to have. Yet, she was totally unaware of her silky sensuousness. It never ceased to astound him how he managed to keep his hands off her. But she did not allow him such liberties.
Stephen loved art, in its broadest sense, and thus anything artistic and creative. So he saw in Maxine’s musical ability a gift that he wished to see flourish. And she arrived in his life at the right time three years ago when he was languishing over a girl to whom he’d been engaged. Maxine certainly diverted his mind from that trauma.
Stephen designed jewellery in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter and he was good. His talent was being sought by several manufacturers since he understood all the manufacturing processes, the techniques and the skill of the people who made the products; and he took account of all this in his designs. He was seriously considering starting his own design house, specifically aimed at serving the abundance of businesses in the area that produced adornments ranging from cheap buttons to creations on a par with the Crown Jewels. His lack of capital, however, was impeding any such progress.
Yet he had made himself afford a car; a 1935 Austin Ten-Four Lichfield. It was bigger than he needed, but it could accommodate Maxine’s cello across the back seat – and that had been the deciding factor. It had set him back one hundred and fifty-two pounds; money he could have used to set up a business. But since he realised he was not extravagantly handsome, owning a car set him apart from other young men and gave him an advantage; in Maxine’s eyes especially, he hoped. Yet, so far, it had done him no good. So far, all that his gallantry had achieved was delivering her, her cello and the rest of her belongings further away from him, to the home of her sister and brother-in-law.
He drove her into Daisy Road in Ladywood and pulled up outside the end of terrace house that was her new home.
‘You can’t imagine how upset I am that you’re leaving us, Maxine,’ he said, making a final attempt to get her to change her mind. ‘The good times, the laughs we’ve had…’
‘It’s not as if I’ve emigrated to Australia, Stephen,’ she replied pragmatically.
‘But you won’t be there when I get home from work, or when I get up in a morning. I’ll miss you, Maxine. I’ll miss you like hell. Pansy will miss you as well. So will my mother and father.’
‘Pansy understands, Stephen. Knowing what it takes to lug my cello about, she appreciates that living here will be far more convenient. Your mother and father understand, too. It’s not as if I’ve upped and left without discussing it. I wouldn’t. And I shall visit them when I can. They’ve been very kind to me while I’ve been lodging there.’
‘Because they love you – like a daughter,’ Stephen commented, trying desperately to invoke greater feelings of guilt in her. ‘But sometimes I get the impression, Maxine, that it’s me you’re trying to get away from.’
‘Oh, I’m not at all,’ she fibbed, affecting indignation, for she was anxious not to hurt his feelings. ‘How can you think that? But seeing each other less often, we might appreciate each other the more. Anyway, thanks for taking the trouble to bring me here. I really appreciate it.’
‘I’ll help you with your things, shall I?’
‘That’s very nice of you, Stephen.’
‘I’ll expect a kiss for my trouble.’
‘And if you don’t get one?’ she asked, half-serious.
‘Then I’ll leave your things at the side of the road.’
Of course, he did not mean it and she smiled to herself as she alighted from the car. She opened the rear door and attempted to get her cello off the back seat herself, knowing full well that he would gently move her out of the way and do it for her. As he did so, with his predictable chivalry, she leaned towards him, gave him a token peck on the cheek and smiled to let him believe she’d been teasing.
‘Is that it? My kiss?’ he queried, his disappointment obvious. ‘Each day that passes they’re rationed the more…So, shall I see you on Saturday night?’
‘Best not this Saturday, Stephen. I’ll have so much to do. But Sunday, if you like. If you feel like going to the CBO concert with me.’
‘Okay, I’ll take you.’
‘Say seven o’ clock. The concert starts at half past. That’ll give us plenty of time. But come in and have a cup of tea now you’ve come this far, Stephen.’

Chapter 2 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
That Sunday, Stephen arrived promptly at seven and parked his Austin behind Will’s maroon motor car, a Swallow SSI. He walked up the path and knocked at the door.
Will Parish invited him in. ‘I imagine she’ll be ready in a minute or two, Stephen. Come and wait in the sitting room.’
‘Hello, Stephen,’ Henzey greeted affably, fastening a napkin on the baby who was lying on the settee next to where she was sitting. ‘Sorry if it pongs a bit in here. I’ve just had to change him.’
Stephen spotted a soiled napkin on the floor near Henzey’s feet and tried not to breathe in too deeply lest it offend him. ‘One of the joys of having children,’ he commented.
‘One of the drawbacks. Oh, he’s as good as gold…aren’t you, my little cherub?’ she cooed, slipping the baby’s waterproof pants over his napkin. She lifted him, holding him against her bosom. ‘There…that’s better, isn’t it? Now you feel all nice and comfy again.’
‘Have you decided on a name for him yet?’ Stephen asked conversationally.
Henzey looked at Will for permission to reveal it. He nodded his assent with a smile.
‘Aldo,’ Henzey said.
‘Aldo?’ Stephen queried, uncertain as to how he should react.
‘Well…Aldo Benjamin, really. But we shall call him Aldo.’
Maxine appeared at the sitting room door. She wore a simple dark green dress with a flared skirt, belted at the waist, and carried a black leather handbag that matched her shoes.
‘So, now you know the baby’s name, Stephen.’
‘Yes. It’s, er…’
‘Awful?’ Maxine suggested wryly. ‘Is that the word you’re looking for?’
‘It’s lovely,’ Henzey said, clutching Aldo to her. ‘Isn’t it my little pet? It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful little boy.’
‘It’s a frightful name,’ Maxine countered with a gleam in her eye, and Will chuckled again at the minor controversy this choice of name was causing. She carefully took the child and cradled him in her own arms lovingly while Henzey took the soiled napkin to the scullery. ‘Whatever possessed them, eh?’ she said in baby talk. ‘Fancy calling a lovely little boy like you Aldo, you poor thing. Fancy calling you Aldo when they could have called you something decent, like Robert, or Peter…or David…or even Stephen.’
‘Oh, Even Stephen’s a good one,’ Will mocked good-naturedly. ‘Why don’t we call him Even Stephen?’
‘Because we’ve already got one Even Stephen,’ Maxine answered flippantly.
Stephen felt flattered, hopeful even, that by implication he was one of the family…almost.
Once in the car and on their way, Stephen said: ‘Are they serious about calling the poor child Aldo?’
‘I know. Isn’t it just too awful?’
‘How are you settling in, Maxine? D’you think you’ll be happy? You know you’re more than welcome back at —’
‘It’s nice,’ she interrupted. ‘They haven’t even noticed I’m there yet with the baby to occupy them, and that suits me…Anyway, I’m really looking forward to the concert, aren’t you? It seems ages since I’ve been to a CBO concert.’
‘You went to a couple last year. I took you.’
‘But, like I say, it seems ages ago. I should have gone to more.’
‘Seems like you will in future, doesn’t it?’ He turned to look at her as he changed up a gear. ‘I wonder what they’re playing tonight?’
‘Mozart’s ‘Prague’ for one, somebody told me. Sibelius’s Second and…oh, I can’t think of the other.’
In no time they were pulling up into a space outside the Italian Renaissance style Council House in Colmore Row. Birmingham Town Hall and its colossal columns faced them, predominating like the Roman Temple of Castor and Pollux as it overlooked the weathered statue of Queen Victoria and New Street.
Stephen got out of the Austin and, to Maxine’s annoyance, immediately rushed round to the other side to open the door for her. Why did he persist in doing that? She could just as easily open the door herself and save time, too. It seemed he was putting her on a pedestal when she did not want to be on a pedestal. She did not deserve it. She had nothing to give in return.
They found their seats in the auditorium and, as the orchestra tuned up, Maxine grew more excited at the prospect of playing with these musicians. She wanted tonight’s concert to be a triumph.
She turned to Stephen. ‘I’m getting quite nervous, you know.’
‘But you’re not even playing.’
‘I’ve got the jitters for the orchestra. I do hope it goes well.’ Just then, the audience began to applaud and Maxine looked up. ‘Look, that’s Leslie Heward, the conductor,’ she exclaimed in an excited whisper. ‘The man who auditioned me.’
The audience fell quiet and Leslie Heward raised his baton. Suddenly the place was charged with the first explosive chord of Mozart’s Symphony number 38 in D major – the ‘Prague’ Symphony.
No sound is as rich, as full, or as emotive as the sound of a full orchestra playing Mozart, Maxine reflected, moved – except maybe Beethoven. Such an extraordinary, exciting sound. No wonder its appeal had spanned centuries. She wallowed in it, savouring every note, loving every familiar twist and turn in the score, every interweaving of the instruments, every development of every theme.
But, halfway through, it surprised her to discover that she was paying scant attention to the cellists, the bassists, or any of the strings. For some time, her eyes had scarcely moved from the handsome trombonist sitting in the brass section. Brent Shackleton seemed to play with more panache than his colleagues. He was more animated, more of a showman, bursting with confidence. His hair was attractively unruly, inclined to flop to one side as he played, causing him to push it back with his fingers when the score allowed him the opportunity. But then, he was younger than any other member of the brass was. He was certainly worth looking at.
In those rarer moments when she was not concentrating on Brent Shackleton, Maxine also tried to envisage herself playing in this brilliant orchestra. The thought of actually being a part of it thrilled her, especially the notion of being broadcast on the wireless, of being recorded and able to hear the performance on record forever after, knowing she would have contributed.
When it was all over and the applause had died she remained in her seat, while the rest of the audience drifted outside into the chilly May evening.
‘Shall we go?’ Stephen suggested, ‘or are we going to stay here all night?’
‘What time is it?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Ten past ten. I have to be up in the morning.’
‘But I’ve been asked back to meet some of the orchestra. Do you mind?’
‘No, course not. Who invited you? The conductor? You never said.’
‘Oh, just one of the players,’ she answered dismissively.
‘Well let’s make our way to the side of the stage. Some of them are mingling there already, look. You’d best go first – they won’t know me from Adam.’
Maxine got up hesitantly from her seat. ‘D’you reckon they’ll think I’m a bit pushy?’
‘Not if you’ve been asked.’ He felt an urge to hug her. Her reticence was typical.
‘But it was only a casual invitation. Maybe I —’
‘Come on, let’s get it over with. It’ll be good for you to make an acquaintance or two before you actually start working with them. Somebody familiar to talk to when you actually get there.’
She sighed guiltily. ‘Okay.’
Hesitantly, she led the way to the side of the stage. Some of the players were sharing a joke, accepting the plaudits of friends and relatives. A hefty middle-aged man with grey hair saw her and smiled as she approached.
‘Hello, Miss,’ he said, over the shoulder of a colleague. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’
‘Oh, nobody in particular. I’m, er…joining the orchestra next week as cellist. I was invited to meet some of the members after the concert.’
The other man turned around to look at her. ‘Joining the team, eh? Well, we could do with a pretty face among this bunch of sourpusses, that’s for sure. Cellist, did you say?’
She nodded.
‘What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Maxine Kite.’
‘Nice to meet you, Miss Kite.’ They shook hands. ‘Jim Davies, first violins. And this is Bill Roberts. Second violins.’
She shook Bill’s hand too. They seemed a friendly lot so far.
‘I was impressed with the performance tonight,’ Maxine remarked. ‘The ‘Prague’ Symphony was brilliant.’
‘Well, you can thank Mozart for that, m’dear,’ Bill suggested dryly.
She introduced Stephen and, as she did so, spotted Brent Shackleton. As he looked in her direction she involuntarily put up her hand and waved. He acknowledged her and made his way towards her.
‘Good to see you, Maxine,’ he said. ‘You made it, then.’
Unwittingly she turned away from Stephen and the others. ‘Yes, I made it.’ She was aware she sounded breathless.
‘Enjoy the concert?’
‘Yes, it was grand.’
‘We played well,’ Brent said. ‘It’s a fairly safe repertoire for the Sunday concerts.’
‘I suppose that’s what people come to hear…something they’re familiar with…something they know.’
‘I reckon so. Are you looking forward to joining?’
‘I can’t wait. You can’t imagine.’
‘Is that your young man talking to those two fiddle players?’ She resisted the urge to turn around and nodded dumbly, wishing profoundly that she could deny Stephen. ‘I think he’s trying to catch your attention. Is he a musician as well?’
‘Oh, no. He designs jewellery. He’s actually very good.’
‘Jewellery, eh? Did he design that brooch you’re wearing?’
She nodded.
‘Quality piece,’ he commented approvingly. ‘Very elegant…You look very elegant yourself, Maxine, if you don’t mind me saying so. I love your dress.’
‘Oh! Thank you.’
Her delight showed in her eyes, but Brent did not have time to notice it. His attention was suddenly drawn beyond her, beyond Stephen, and Maxine thought she saw him acknowledge someone. It was a woman, possibly in her mid-twenties; statuesque, beautiful, exquisitely dressed, her dark hair sleek in a style straight out of Vogue.
‘Sorry. I have to dash, Maxine.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘See you at rehearsals.’
As Brent walked away she turned and rejoined Stephen who was labouring over his conversation with the two violinists.
‘I see you’ve already met our Brent, then,’ Bill said.
‘Brent, yes. I’d quite forgotten his name. He introduced himself after my audition.’
‘He should’ve introduced you to Gwen. Come with me, young Maxine. Let me introduce you to Gwen. You’ll be playing alongside her. Brilliant cellist, is Gwen…’
‘Maxine, can I ask you something?’ Stephen said, breaking a silence that was disproportionately long for the short drive back to Ladywood.
‘What?’
‘Will you marry me?’
He’d sussed that she’d earlier avoided admitting that Brent Shackleton had been the one to suggest going to meet some of the orchestra after the concert, that he was the one she’d really gone to see. He’d seen her acknowledge Brent too eagerly and turn her back on everybody else. He’d witnessed her sparks of interest for Brent, sparks too bright for her own good, too bright for his own good. He must prevent them flaring into a full scale inferno, and the only way he could think of doing that was by escalating her interest in himself. He had not caught sight of Brent’s beautiful companion, so this was a radical strategy which, in all probability, would not work anyway. But desperate situations required desperate measures. And Stephen was desperate. He was also desperately celibate.
‘Did I hear you right?’ Maxine replied, surprised and disappointed that he should offer marriage.
‘You did. I’m asking you to marry me.’ He flipped the indicator switch on the hub of the steering wheel and they turned right into Reservoir Road.
‘Oh, Stephen…’ She sighed, full of sympathy for him in his foolishness. ‘In God’s name, why? What on earth for?’ She turned to look at him. The meagre light falling from the street lamps as they drove past, momentarily brightened his face so serious, so intense, as if he already knew her answer.
‘Because I love you,’ he answered straightforwardly. ‘Why else?’
Maxine felt sorry for him and his self-inflicted vulnerability, and was silent for a few seconds, stalling as she decided how best to answer him.
‘Oh, Stephen…’ she responded at last, not wishing to sound exasperated, although she imagined she did. She should, after all, be flattered. But whatever words she chose in refusing him they would hurt him. She did not want to hurt him. He was her friend; one of the most reliable friends she’d ever had. ‘I…I’ve just got this new job, Stephen…and…well, I really prefer things the way they are right now.’
‘I love you, Maxine, and it’s driving me mad the way things are.’ He slowed the car and turned left, then right into Daisy Road.
‘How do you mean, driving you mad?’
‘I would have thought it obvious.’ He looked at her but she didn’t answer. He pulled up under the gas lamp outside the house and switched off the engine and the headlights. ‘It drives me mad when I’m alone with you, when I can touch you like this…’ He stroked the silky smooth skin of her forearm under her sleeve. ‘But I’m never allowed to make love to you.’
‘But we sometimes kiss goodnight, Stephen.’
‘Occasionally you allow me a quick goodnight kiss, Maxine, but that’s all. That’s not making love. It’s never passionate, never lingering. I want more. I want to lie with you in bed, naked, and feel your warm, soft skin pressing against mine.’
‘Stephen! What a thing to say!’
‘Well it’s true. I want to kiss you all over your body, I want to caress every inch of you, and…oh, you know what I mean.’
‘Stephen! If you did that with Evelyn, you’re not doing it with me. Lord above!’ She shuffled in her seat, affecting righteous indignation. ‘They say men are only interested in one thing. Is that all you want to marry me for? So you can…so you can do that to me?’
‘No. Of course not. I want to look after you. I want to provide a home for you, give you security. I want us to have children.’
‘I’d want children too, Stephen. But the world’s not fit to bring children into if you ask me. Not the way things are. You only have to look at what’s happening in the world…Unemployment, poverty, the Depression, Hitler, Mussolini and all that. Why, every day in the papers you read about some lunatic thing somebody’s up to. Everybody says there’s going to be war sooner or later. Will reckons there’s going to be a war again.’
‘He’s got a child now,’ Stephen argued logically.
‘That doesn’t mean I should have one yet. I don’t want to bring children into a world riven with war.’
‘All the more reason to let me look after you, Maxine. Anyway, there might not be a war at all. It’s only speculation.’
She shrugged. Of course, she could not be sure. Nobody could be sure.
‘Look, Maxine, I’m going to start my own business soon. I shall do well. I shall do very well. I know I shall.’
‘Well, I hope you do,’ she said sincerely. ‘I’m sure you will. But I don’t want to get married, Stephen. Really, I don’t. I don’t want to be tied down by marriage. Not yet at any rate. I’ve got my career to think about. It’s only just beginning. I want to exploit it. I want to get the most out of it. I’ve just been presented with a once in a lifetime opportunity. You don’t begrudge it me, do you, Stephen?’
‘I don’t begrudge it you at all, sweetheart,’ he replied earnestly. ‘You know I don’t.’
‘It sounds as if you do.’
‘Rubbish. You can still do all that even if we get married. Marriage wouldn’t stop you.’
‘Says you now. What if I found myself having a baby?’
‘You wouldn’t, Maxine…I wouldn’t…I mean, I wouldn’t let you get pregnant if you didn’t want to. I’d be careful. I’d be very careful. It wouldn’t interfere with your career. We’d only think of starting a family when you were ready.’
Maxine sighed. What madness had suddenly seized him to make him think of marriage? Why did he have to spoil everything by wanting to tie her down?
‘Do you want to think about it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Stephen…’ With the utmost sympathy she took his hand and gently stroked it. ‘I don’t deserve such consideration. I’m not ready yet for marriage. I’d be no good for you, my love, because I don’t feel the same way you do. I’ve got so many other things to do in my life I couldn’t give you even half the devotion you deserve. Ask me in another three or four years. Ask me when I’ve got all this out of my system.’
He sighed heavily. ‘Oh, I think I could wait forever if I had to, Maxine. You’re worth waiting for…It’s just that I prefer not to wait, that’s all. In the meantime, we could get engaged,’ he suggested brightly. ‘What do you say to that?’
She sighed again, but with exasperation. ‘What’s the point? If you’re engaged, you’re still promised to be married…You’re still spoken for.’
He shrugged. ‘I know. That’s the idea. But, like I say, we needn’t be married till you’re ready. But at least you would be spoken for.’
‘Stephen, I don’t want to be spoken for. If I ever decide I want to get married, that’s when I’ll get engaged…You can’t be seriously engaged and not name the day, can you? It makes a mockery of engagement. It belittles it. Don’t you see?’
‘No, I don’t agree. I want to be engaged to you, Maxine. I want the world to know how I feel about you…And I had this smashing idea for a ring.’
‘Stephen, the whole world doesn’t need to know by virtue of a ring. It’s a promise between two people – no ring required really. If we’re still friends in a couple of years’ time, ask me again. Who knows, I might feel different then. I’m too young to think of marriage yet.’ She summoned a smile of sympathy. ‘What do you say? Agreed?’
He shrugged, profound disappointment darkening his expression. She had won this round. She had wriggled out of it tonight. But next time she might not wriggle out of it quite so fast.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’m not giving up, Maxine. You’ll be mine one day – one way or the other. You’ll see.’
‘One day, maybe,’ she said, happy to concede that point for now. ‘Are you going to come in for a night cap?’
He peered at his wristwatch by the scant light of the street lamp. ‘Much as I’d like to, I’d better not. I’ve got to be up. When shall I see you?’
She shrugged with indifference. ‘I don’t know. Come round Wednesday night, if you want.’
‘Not till Wednesday? What about before that? What will you be doing tomorrow night…and Tuesday night?’
‘Practising my cello, I expect. I have to practise, Stephen.’
‘I could listen. You know I love to hear you play.’
She shrugged again, irked at his tedious inability to face reality. ‘Come round Tuesday night then.’
‘What about Monday night?’ he persisted.
‘Stephen, I can’t see you every night. And I don’t want to see you Monday night.’
‘Just Tuesday then.’
‘Just Tuesday.’
‘…A kiss?’
She pursed her lips in the least romantic way she could and he pressed them with his own. At once breaking off, she opened the car door, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and, before he had chance to open his and come round to her side, she was gone. As she thrust open the front door of the house she heard him start the car and drive off.
Inside, while she hung up her coat, she heard Henzey and Will talking in the sitting room. Henzey called, and Maxine answered.
‘The kettle’s just boiled if you want a drink,’ Will said. ‘Had a good night?’
Maxine smiled enigmatically. ‘Yes, and no.’
Henzey looked up from folding clean napkins on her lap, instantly curious. ‘Tell us, then.’
‘Well the concert was smashing. The orchestra was brilliant. And I met one or two of them afterwards…’
‘But?’
‘But…’ Maxine sighed dramatically and shook her head. ‘On the way home Stephen asked me to marry him – of all the stupid things.’
‘I take it you don’t want to marry him,’ Will said.
She slumped down on the settee, disconcerted. ‘I’m too young, Will. This new job. I’m not ready for marriage. I don’t want to be tied down. There are too many other things in life I want to do first.’
‘You could do a lot worse, our Maxine,’ Henzey commented. ‘You could do a lot worse than marry Stephen Hemming.’
‘Oh, I know, Henzey. He’s as good as gold. But I’d be no good for him. He’s just a friend. It wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Then let’s hope he doesn’t get tired of waiting.’
‘If he wants to wait that’s up to him, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea for him. Maybe I ought to swim around in it a bit and meet a few more. Just think what I might be missing.’ She got to her feet again. ‘I think I’ll make myself a cup of cocoa. Anybody else?’
‘No thanks,’ Will said.
‘Not for me, either,’ Henzey said. ‘But, hey – I nearly forgot…’
‘What?’ Maxine stood poised at the door, ready to take off into the kitchen.
‘Will came up with the idea of all the family getting together and going along to see your maiden concert, as he called it, then all coming back here afterwards for a celebration. For your twenty-first. What do you think?’
Maxine grinned happily. Her widest grin that night. ‘Oh, that would be smashing. Oh, isn’t that husband of yours kind, Henzey?’ She looked at Will. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Will. Thank you. Thank you ever so much.’
‘And tomorrow,’ Henzey added, ‘I’m going to buy the tickets for the concert.’

Chapter 3 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
It was with some nervousness that Maxine took her place by her beloved cello on the stage at Birmingham Town Hall that second Saturday in May 1936. She looked bewitching in a new black evening dress she’d treated herself to, and her eyes shone with expectation. Along with everybody else she checked her tuning, at the same time peering into the audience, trying to locate family and friends who had come to both support her and celebrate her twenty-first birthday afterwards. Gwen Berry, at her side, nodded her encouragement as she adjusted the music score on the stand in front of them that they were to share.
Before Maxine knew it, they were into the first elegant phrases of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major. John Ball, the soloist, whom she had met briefly, was the orchestra’s own clarinettist. At rehearsal Maxine had been impressed with his ability.
It was a glorious feeling playing with other musicians. The music was like a magic carpet flying them all to exotic places. The tempo was the speed of flight, the melodies the delightful undulations in it, each trill the carpet’s frill rippling in an ethereal breeze. It all seemed unstoppable. Not that she wanted it to stop. It was addictive. Maxine likened it to riding in Stephen’s car; moving was infinitely more agreeable than not moving; stopping was inevitably a disappointment. But all too soon the music was at an end. All too soon the magic carpet had landed.
After the applause they took off again on another ride: a fairly recent piece by Ravel, called Boléro. Leslie Heward controlled the emotion in the music skilfully, building the tension almost imperceptibly. At first it was coquettish, provocative like a frivolous woman tantalising an admirer. Halfway through, their mutual arousal was already obsessive, ascending steadily to an orgy of compelling passion till the last, loud, staccato chords brought it to a shuddering, juddering finish like sated lovers spent of their last drop of energy.
Applause was immense and sustained and Maxine turned to Gwen, smiling with satisfaction, proud to be a part of this orchestra. So profound had been her concentration that, at the interval, she felt drained. Yet still to come was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Backstage she joined the queue at the trestle table that supported a pile of cups and saucers and a huge urn containing enough tea to refresh the orchestra with at least two cups each.
‘How’s it going, Maxine?’
She turned to see Brent Shackleton standing behind her and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, hello.’ She smiled brightly as she would at an old friend and hoped he could not detect her nervous reaction. The opportunity to speak to him had not presented itself since after last Sunday’s concert, even at rehearsals, and she wondered if he had deliberately avoided her. Well, he was not avoiding her now.
‘So? How’s it going?’ he asked again. ‘Are you settling in all right?’
‘Oh, fine, yes, thank you.’
‘Good. I spotted you in Boléro. Kept you busy towards the end, didn’t it?’
She laughed awkwardly. ‘You, too. I saw you had plenty to do as well.’
‘I’m still breathless.’ He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Good, though, wasn’t it?’
‘Great.’ They shuffled towards the head of the queue together.
‘You can hear the jazz influences in Boléro, can’t you? The sliding trombone and all that.’ He offered her a cigarette which she declined, and lit one himself. ‘It’s not so stuffy as some of the music we play.’
‘I suppose not. Still…’ She shrugged, hesitant, not sure in what vein to continue the conversation, anxious not to disagree with him. ‘To tell you the truth, I love it all.’
‘Mind you, some of these so-called modern classics are a bit pretentious. You know…Mahler, Scriabin…stuff like that.’ He deeply inhaled smoke and seemed to hold it in his lungs for ages. ‘In my opinion.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Maxine said inadequately. They had reached the trestle table, so she picked up a cup and saucer and held it under the tap of the urn.
‘Not like jazz,’ he remarked.
She moved away from the table when her cup was full. ‘You like jazz, then?’ she asked when he’d rejoined her.
‘Oh, I love jazz.’
‘I like jazz as well,’ she replied truthfully and sipped her tea. ‘I used to listen to jazz records all the time. The people I used to lodge with – before I went to live with my sister – have a daughter who was a keen jazz fan. She used to get hold of some obscure records from America. She’s a musician as well and we used to play it together, mimicking it – just for a laugh, me on the piano usually, she on clarinet. I don’t get the chance to hear much now. Occasionally I hear a snatch on the wireless. Yes, I quite like jazz.’
‘You play piano as well?’ He sounded surprised.
‘I started out on piano.’
He nodded his approval. ‘Oh, it’s great, jazz. It’s not so contrived as this stuff we play here, is it? You know where it comes from?’
‘America, I suppose.’
‘Africa.’ He drew on his cigarette and paused long enough for this gem of information to register. She saw his probing eyes, steady upon her, awaiting her response.
‘Africa?’
‘Missionaries.’ Now he took a gulp of tea.
‘Missionaries?’
‘Missionaries. Missionaries achieved Africanisation of their own hymnbooks, you know, when they were converting the natives to Christianity.’ He sounded pat, as if he’d held the same discussion many times before.
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Well, African tribes interpreted our Christian hymns their own way, using the influences of their own music. That’s what I mean. You know…their own ritual music – chants, tribal songs – stuff like that.’
‘And that was jazz?’
‘Not yet. It was just the beginnings.’ He was laughing. She had not seen him laugh like this before; he always seemed so serious; a touch preoccupied maybe.
Maxine lifted her cup and sipped her tea again, still drawn to his penetrating eyes like a beautiful moth drawn to a night-light.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘African music developed in a way totally differently to our European music. It was less abstract, less aesthetic – do you know what I mean?’ Maxine nodded her increasing understanding. ‘It was more practical, more of a language – a way of communicating – and they could alter its meaning or emotion just by altering the pitch of a note, or changing the inflection in the voice.’
‘So it was more functional than music for mere art’s sake?’ She was glad that her interest in his explanations was genuine. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, and more rhythmic. Much more rhythmic. They used what they could lay their hands on for percussion instruments. A stick to beat out a rhythm. On a hollowed out tree trunk, for instance.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Maxine had never seriously pondered the roots of jazz before. It was quite intriguing. Brent Shackleton was certainly intriguing.
Brent puffed more smoke into the room, then drained his cup. ‘Then, when those poor Negroes became victims of the slave trade, these songs – these hymns if you like – evolved into work songs with lyrics to suit the situation. The slave owners encouraged them to sing such songs – apparently they improved the work rate. They weren’t daft, you know. When the slaves were freed, the more musically inclined of them that could afford it got hold of proper instruments. Some got to be brilliant and, because of their own Negro influences – you know, using complicated rhythms and altering notes and sounds by pitch and inflection – jazz evolved.’
‘I never realised,’ Maxine said. ‘I thought somebody just invented it.’
‘Well, there you are. You learn something every day…Fancy another cup of tea?’
She leaned over to the trestle table to return her empty cup and saucer. ‘Oh, I’d best not, thank you. Any more and I’ll be plaiting my legs,’ she remarked self-effacingly.
‘And you can’t play the cello with your legs plaited.’ His eyes met hers directly with a candour that prompted her colour to rise at what she imagined he implied though, to her surprise, she did not mind. ‘Anyway, what are you doing afterwards, Maxine?’
‘After the concert?’ Her heart fluttered while she sipped tea again, her eyes down, lids lowered, in an effort to conceal her intensifying blushes.
‘There’s this club I go to…I wondered if you’d like to come.’
She managed to stifle the urge to choke. ‘I can’t,’ she said, surprised at the depth of her disappointment. ‘Sorry. Not tonight at any rate. But thanks for asking.’
‘Some other time, maybe?’
‘Yes…I’d like that.’ She felt guilty for encouraging him, because of Stephen. But what was wrong with a half promise to go out with Brent at some other time? It was a vague agreement anyway. It might never happen…And yet why shouldn’t it? She was not married to Stephen. She was not even engaged. Nor ever likely to be.
‘Is it because of your young man that you can’t come?’
‘No, not just him,’ she said. ‘My whole family is out there. There’s a celebration afterwards. It’s my twenty-first today, you see.’
‘Your twenty-first?’ Brent turned round. ‘George, d’you hear that? It’s Maxine’s twenty-first today.’
It seemed that all the rest of the orchestra heard it, too, and at once Maxine was swamped with congratulations from all directions.
‘Your first concert with the band on your twenty-first birthday, eh?’ somebody said. ‘You’ll never forget that.’
Maxine flashed a polite smile.
‘Does the boss know?’ another person asked.
‘We’ll make sure he does,’ yet another replied.
Maxine looked with amused bewilderment from one to the other, thanking each well-wisher. What had she done to deserve all this attention? She looked at Brent and shrugged.
‘Will you excuse me, Maxine?’ he said.
Someone else stepped up and began talking to her, then another, and another. Before long, she was the centre of an animated group. They spoke as if they had known her all their lives and she felt easy with them. But afterwards she could not remember a word any of them had said; her mind was awhirl with Brent’s offer to take her out and her regret that she’d had to refuse. But she did have Stephen to consider after all. She could hardly dump Stephen on a whim and take off with Brent.
But what about the beautiful girl she’d seen Brent with? Surely she warranted some consideration too? Besides, how could she compete with a girl like that? How could any man want anybody else when he already had a girl as beautiful as that? A girl with those looks could have her pick of men. Why would Brent be interested in dull Maxine Kite? These questions plagued her till she sat down at her cello for the second part of the concert and for some minutes into it; until she made herself pay attention lest she made any embarrassing mistakes.
Her embarrassment, however, came at the end of the performance. Everyone, including Leslie Heward the conductor, had taken their final bows when he held out both hands to Maxine and gestured for her to stand up. Bewildered, she obliged. But she was even more bemused to receive a round of applause and some cheers, not only from the auditorium, but from the orchestra as well. Still reeling from the shock of it all she turned around and saw that Brent Shackleton and George, his fellow trombonist, were holding up a huge poster for all to see, evidently hastily cobbled together, that proclaimed in huge letters, ‘Maxine – 21 today’. To her embarrassed delight, he and George then led the singing of ‘Twenty-one today’.
Almost at once, the audience was good-humouredly joining in and, when that finished, there rose the inevitable strains of ‘Happy Birthday to You’.
At any concert of classical music there are always huge bouquets of flowers ready to be presented to soloists, leading musicians and so on. So it was a surprise to nobody, except to Maxine, to find herself being presented with such a bouquet from Leslie Heward, who shook her hand and stepped forward to afford her a fatherly peck on the cheek. She grinned with delight, said thank you and bobbed a neat curtsy, which had the combined effect of invoking more cheers.
‘I can’t believe all this,’ she said in an aside to Gwen Berry.
‘It’s not every concert when one of our members is twenty-one,’ Gwen replied. ‘Most of them are at least twice that age. Make the most of it, my girl.’
Three motor cars and a motorcycle, conveying family and friends, all jovial and lively, left Birmingham Town Hall after the concert and travelled in convoy to Daisy Road where Mrs Fothergill, the next door neighbour, had been babysitting for Aldo.
‘Glorious concert, young Maxine,’ Jesse Clancey, her stepfather, commented.
‘Oh, it was brilliant, Jesse. I couldn’t believe it when everybody sang “Happy Birthday”.’
After they had discussed the concert a while longer, Henzey said, ‘And this is Stephen’s sister, Pansy, I presume?’
Henzey and Pansy had not met before but they greeted each other like long-lost sisters and Pansy’s green eyes creased into a warm smile. She was about the same height as Maxine, slim and pretty, with a mop of thick, titian hair. There could be no confusing her and Maxine; they were so different.
Meanwhile Will was welcoming others, taking their coats and hats and guiding them to the parlour where mounds of sandwiches and cakes graced the table.
‘You must be proud of your youngest daughter, Lizzie,’ Will said. ‘I thought she did very well tonight. She seemed to fit in well.’
‘Oh, I’m proud of her all right, Will,’ Lizzie answered, taking a dry sherry from him and nodding her thanks. She raised her glass. ‘But Jesse can take some of the credit. He’s encouraged her as much as anybody – paid for her to go through music school. He’s been like a father to her…to them all.’
Jesse joined them, clutching a pint of beer. ‘Can I just say, Will, how grateful we are to you for holding this party here. We’d intended holding one at the dairy house, o’ course, but with Maxine suddenly landing this job and all…’
‘You’re welcome, Jesse. It just seemed more logical now she’s living here.’
‘Behaving herself, is she?’
Will laughed and patted Jesse on the back. ‘What do you think? I’ve got no complaints.’
‘Lizzie tells me you’re moving house, Will. To Dudley. Do you intend Maxine to lodge with you still? I mean she’d be welcome to live at the dairy house.’
‘It’s up to her, Jesse. I’m content for her to live with us if that’s what she wants. Like I say, I’ve got no complaints.’
In the front room, somebody was thumping out tunes on the piano.
‘That’ll be Joe, Lizzie’s brother,’ Jesse chortled. ‘He don’t half love to play the piano at parties. He’ll have we all singing at the tops of we voices in no time. Mark my words.’
‘They’re a lively lot, aren’t they?’ Pansy remarked.
‘You just wait.’ Jesse turned to Will. ‘Anyway, Will, we’ve all brought something for Maxine. Can I count on you to bring everybody to order later, so’s we can present ’em to her?’
Will nodded. ‘Leave it to me, Jesse.’
Before long, after he had already shepherded everybody into the front room, Will was trying to attract their attention, his hands in the air like a politician fending off hecklers. ‘All right, everyone! Would everyone please listen?’ The piano playing, the singing and the talking stopped. ‘Now, we all know why we’re here, and I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves…Well it’s time to wish Maxine, my very talented sister-in-law, a very happy birthday.’
The cheer from the family turned into a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, then more cheers and shouts of ‘Speech!’
‘Twenty-one is a person’s coming of age,’ Will went on after his further request to be heard had been heeded. ‘It’s that time in a young person’s life when she is considered an adult, considered to be of an age, at last, when she can be independent. She can come and go as she pleases – within reason – which is why she is traditionally handed the key of the door…’
‘She’s already got the key to our door,’ Henzey remarked.
‘It is a time when she doesn’t have to seek permission from her parents to get married, if marriage is on the agenda. It is a time when she can sign up to any legal binding contract. In short, it’s a time of freedom from the constraints of parental discipline. However, I have got to know Maxine a little better since she’s been living here with Henzey and me, and I believe she is not one to abuse such freedoms. She’s sensible, level-headed…and, incidentally, far too modest about the exceptional talent she has. So…before we all shower her with gifts and congratulate her, let’s make her sing for her supper…’ Will grinned roguishly. ‘Maxine, I’m well aware that your cello playing has done you proud recently, but some of us here consider your piano playing worth a listen. So would you like to take the stool and play?’
Maxine blushed, giggling with embarrassment while Joe moved clumsily away from the piano. ‘What on earth shall I play?’ she asked as she sat down.
‘How about ‘Clair de Lune?’’ Henzey suggested. ‘That’s one of my favourites.’
‘Okay. There’s this nice romantic passage…’
Debussy’s inspired music flowed easily, melodically through Maxine’s fingers, while everyone listened in attentive silence. She played the section tenderly, demonstrating an accomplishment beyond her years. It never crossed her mind to wonder if anybody knew how difficult it was; the long hours of practice needed to play well; the dedication. Yet, it was clear for all to see that Maxine had a natural gift since she could play two instruments with such apparent finesse.
‘Play something modern,’ Herbert, her brother, cried when the piece was finished. ‘We’ve had enough classical for one night.’
‘You and Pansy play that Fats Waller thing,’ Stephen suggested.
‘Oh, yes. I know,’ Maxine replied, glad of a prompt. ‘ “Whose Honey Are You”. Come on, Pansy. Will you play on this one?’
Pansy took the piano stool and began to play. Immediately, the compulsive rhythm had everybody’s feet tapping. But even more of a surprise than the piano playing of either girl, was Maxine’s singing as she leaned against the piano. Nobody had ever heard her sing before.
‘Do “Stormy Weather”,’ Stephen called. ‘You know – that one by Ethel Waters.’
Pansy played the introduction and Maxine launched into the song, using the same soft vocal technique, mimicking the style of Ethel Waters. This American music was unfamiliar to most of them, since few such records were available and they listened to few on the wireless, but everyone was stunned silent by Maxine’s vocal dexterity.
‘More, Maxine!’ Will called when it was finished. ‘That was great. Do you know any more?’
‘They could go on half the night, I daresay,’ Jesse answered.
‘Isn’t that enough?’ Maxine asked at the end of it, effervescing with her success and enjoying the attention she was getting. ‘Can’t I have my presents now?’
‘One more,’ Herbert called.
‘Yes, one more,’ Will echoed.
‘Then can I have my presents?’
They all agreed she could.
‘Okay. Well here’s one for Jesse. Mom would have asked me to play it, I know…’
Pansy vacated the piano stool when it was obvious that Maxine wanted to accompany herself this time. She launched into a compulsively rhythmic, ‘My Very Good Friend the Milkman’.
‘Oh, very appropriate,’ Jesse the dairyman remarked to Lizzie with a wry grin.
‘Cheeky madam,’ her mother declared, watching and listening with profound pride. ‘She told me she’d get a job playing piano and singing in a pub if she had to,’ she whispered to Jesse, ‘but I never realised she’d be this good. She’s come on a bundle since she left home.’
It was obvious that most of the folk present would have allowed Maxine to play and sing for them all night, but Will brought the impromptu concert to a close.
‘Maxine,’ he said, and raised his glass. ‘God bless you and your wonderful talent. Here’s to your future success and happiness. Congratulations and many happy returns of the day.’ He drank, and everybody followed his example. ‘Now…I understand that one or two of us have gifts for you…’
Henzey stepped forward before anyone else. ‘Congratulations, our Maxine. Many happy returns.’ She took her youngest sister’s hand and kissed her on the cheek before pointing to the large but beautifully wrapped parcel lying on the floor that had puzzled Maxine since their return. ‘That’s from Will and me.’
‘Am I supposed to open it now?’
‘Of course.’
She stooped down and fumbled with the wrapping, to reveal a portable gramophone. She gasped with genuine delight, stood up and kissed Will, thanking him profusely, then Henzey. ‘I never imagined…’
‘Consider yourself lucky,’ Henzey said good-humouredly. ‘I would have bought you a vacuum sweeper so you could help with the housework, but Will thought a gramophone might be more appropriate.’
When she’d unwrapped a gold watch, a leather writing case, a silver-plated photograph frame and an elaborately carved wooden music stand, Stephen stepped forward. Maxine was expecting an item of jewellery he’d designed. He handed her a small thin case that she guessed must contain a necklace of some sort and, when she opened it, saw that it was indeed a string of pearls with matching pearl earrings.
‘Thank you, Stephen,’ she said with obvious delight and kissed him on the cheek. ‘But you shouldn’t have done.’
‘I…er…I have this as well, Maxine,’ he said unsurely, and handed her a small cube, wrapped in fancy gilt paper.
She looked at it apprehensively. It could be a ring but she dearly hoped it was not. He’d already said he’d had an idea for a design. Warily she regarded him, hoping that she was wrong.
She said, ‘Thank you, Stephen. I think I’ll open this one later.’
‘No, you must open it now, Maxine,’ Henzey chided. ‘It would be very ungracious not to open it now.’
She was aware of somebody else saying, ‘Yes, you must,’ and she hesitated.
‘Please open it, Maxine,’ Stephen said softly, earnestness brimming from his eyes.
She looked at him again, a look that was a mix of compassion and admonishment, and fumbled as she tried to locate the join in the wrapping. Perhaps it was only a dress ring – nothing to get worked up about; or just another pair of earrings. She removed the wrapping paper, screwed it into a ball and gingerly opened the ivory coloured box. At once she shut it again, unsmiling. She was disappointed, angry and embarrassed simultaneously and Stephen was watching for her reaction, looking apprehensive.
After her initial silence, some pressed her to tell them what it was.
Stephen obliged them. ‘It’s a ring,’ he announced.
‘An engagement ring?’ somebody queried.
He shrugged, unsure of himself. He had intended it as such.
‘Congratulations, Maxine,’ her brother peeled. ‘You must be thrilled.’
She wanted to say I’m not thrilled at all, but she could not. She wanted to say that Stephen had got a real nerve trying to pull this off in front of all her family; that it was all a big misunderstanding and she was not engaged. But she could not utter a word. She could neither defend herself, nor leave Stephen open to embarrassment by an outright refusal. As her confusion mounted along with her uncertainty as to how she ought really to respond, the congratulations began to flow along with pats on the back, hugs, kisses and best wishes for their future happiness.
But significantly, not from her mother. Nor from Henzey.
And then, overwhelmed by it all, Maxine rushed out of the room trying to hide the tears that all at once were stinging her eyes. Lizzie watched anxiously, then followed Maxine upstairs to the bathroom.
She tapped tentatively on the door. ‘It’s me, Maxine. Let me in.’
But Stephen had also followed Lizzie. ‘Where is she? What’s the matter with her?’
‘Leave her to me, Stephen,’ Lizzie advised gently. ‘She seems a bit overcome. I’ll talk to her.’ So Lizzie tapped the door again. ‘Maxine, open the door.’
‘Is Stephen still there?’ a little voice queried. ‘I just heard him.’
‘He’s gone back downstairs.’
The door opened and Lizzie saw tears running down Maxine’s face. She joined her daughter inside and closed the door behind her. ‘What is it, my flower?’ She handed Maxine a clean handkerchief and put her arms around her.
‘Him. He’s such an idiot.’ Maxine mopped up her tears. ‘I could kill him. I could, really.’
‘Is it an engagement ring?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Yes, the damned fool…’ She sighed with exasperation, tears ebbing now. ‘Only last week he asked me to marry him and I told him I didn’t want to. I told him I wasn’t ready for marriage – that I didn’t love him.’ She dabbed her eyes again, sniffed and blew her nose. ‘I don’t love him, Mom and I haven’t asked for this. I haven’t said I’ve wanted to get engaged. I refused that as well when he mentioned it. I don’t want to be engaged.’
‘Then if you’ve already told him that, he’s very naughty to do this now. It’s as if he’s trying to railroad you into it. But it’s not the end of the world, our Maxine.’ Lizzie gave her a motherly hug. ‘Don’t let it spoil the night for everybody else. Say nothing for now and, if folk congratulate you, just thank them and smile graciously.’
‘I know…I don’t want to embarrass Stephen, Mom. He means well.’
‘Well this way you won’t. But later when you’re by yourselves, or tomorrow if you see him, you can talk it over with him quietly. Leave him in no doubt that you can’t accept it…Quick, though – let’s have a look at it before you give it him back.’
Mother and daughter grinned cannily at each other and Maxine opened again the small cube to show Lizzie the ring.
Lizzie gasped. ‘My God, it’s a great big amethyst…and in a cluster of diamonds. Oh, it’s beautiful, our Maxine. It must have cost him a fortune. Put it on and let’s see what it looks like…’ It fitted perfectly of course. ‘Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful.’
Maxine sighed. ‘What a pity…I can’t keep it, can I?…Should I keep it, do you think, Mom?’ She smiled, seduced by the magnificence of the ring adorning her long, slender finger. ‘I mean, it doesn’t mean I’m going to get married, does it?’
Lizzie gave her a knowing look. ‘You can’t have it both ways, my flower. Engagement is a serious betrothal – a binding promise to marry. If you don’t intend to marry the lad, you mustn’t accept his ring.’
‘But I think I’ll keep it on to show everybody. It is beautiful, isn’t it? He’s such a good designer.’
‘If you show it to everybody, they’ll take it as you’re engaged. Then they’ll want to know if you’ve named the day. You’d best make your mind up if that’s what you really want, our Maxine.’

Chapter 4 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
After the party, Maxine accompanied Stephen when he drove Lizzie and Jesse back home to the dairy house where they lived in Dudley. The ride was distinguished by the stilted conversation. Jesse had already been discreetly advised that Maxine’s ‘engagement’ was not entirely in accordance with her wishes and this inhibited any mention of it; but now, all other topics seemed like laboured small talk. So it was with some relief that Maxine parted company with Lizzie that night, with of course, the customary kiss and mutual instructions to look after themselves.
On the way back to Ladywood, Maxine and Stephen remained unspeaking for some minutes, till Maxine decided this problem should be sorted out, and the sooner the better; and that she should get in the first thrust.
‘Why did you give me this ring, Stephen, when you knew perfectly well I didn’t want to get engaged?’ she began calmly. ‘It was so embarrassing. What did you expect me to do?’
‘It was a calculated risk,’ he answered honestly, avoiding her eyes by fixing his on the glinting tram lines that sometimes made the car veer one way then the other if the narrow tyres became tracked by them. ‘I risked my hand believing you wouldn’t make a fool of me by handing it back – not in full view of everybody, at any rate.’
‘Well you were right about that. But, Stephen, I can’t believe it. We only discussed all this a week ago. I told you then that I didn’t want to get engaged. Do we have to go through it all again? What do I have to say to make you understand?’
‘Oh, I do understand, Maxine,’ he replied, and stroked her knee affectionately with his left hand.
She didn’t like that but she tolerated it, as long as his hand did not presume to wander higher. Why did she not enjoy being touched by Stephen? And he wanted her to marry him and do all those disgusting things he’d mentioned?
‘So why did you do it?’ she pressed.
‘Because I want to make you my own. I thought that if you didn’t refuse it then, then you would have accepted it – full stop – in the eyes of everybody there. I thought you would have committed yourself by not refusing it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’
‘But it can’t work like that, Stephen. I have to agree to it. Don’t you see?’
‘I just thought you would. I just thought that giving you the ring openly, with everybody watching, would sort of…’
‘Coerce me?…I think that’s the word. But coercion won’t work with me, Stephen.’ She took the ring off her finger and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘There. If you’re that keen on getting engaged offer it to somebody else.’
Stephen was angered by that. He stopped the car abruptly and switched off the engine.
‘Maxine,’ he said indignantly, ‘I want you. Nobody else. Now I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you with my offer of marriage, but it was sincere. I can’t help being in love with you. I can’t help the way I feel.’
‘But you seem to have no understanding or appreciation of how I feel, Stephen. Is that why you lost the last girl you were engaged to? By not considering her feelings?’
That struck a chord, Maxine could tell. He’d never offered any explanation as to why his previous entanglement with Evelyn had failed, and she had never pressed him for one. It seemed irrelevant to them.
‘I’m sorry, Maxine,’ he said quietly, and sighed like a football being deflated, as if resigned to the situation at last. Perhaps he saw that if he persisted with this he was going to lose her altogether. ‘No more talk of engagements then, eh?’
She shrugged indifferently. ‘I’m not even sure that I want to carry on seeing you.’
‘Maxine!’ He felt a cold shiver run down his spine in his panic. He couldn’t lose her. He mustn’t lose her. ‘Maxine don’t say that. Please don’t say that.’
‘Well it’s true, Stephen. I’m not in love with you. I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with you.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters.’
‘No,’ he said resolutely. ‘It doesn’t matter at all, because love will come. In time, you will come to love me. Such things happen all the time. I can wait. I’m quite happy to wait.’
‘I think you’ll be waiting for ever.’
‘Don’t say that, Maxine. Look, let’s just go on as we were, eh? I promise I won’t mention marriage or getting engaged again.’
She sighed, a heavy, frustrated sigh; Stephen was not going to be easy to shake off. ‘I don’t know…Do you want to know the truth, Stephen? I feel trapped with you. You don’t give me any space. You don’t allow me any time to myself, or time with any other friends – even with Pansy, your own sister. You want to see me every night of the week when I don’t want to see you. You don’t give me time to practise my cello even, when I need to practise on my own. When I need to stay in and practise you still come round. What do you think I’m going to do when you’re not there? Run off with somebody else? It’s as if you don’t trust me.’
‘Of course I trust you.’
‘You don’t…because you assume I’m like you. You’re judging me by your own standards.’
‘Maxine, I never realised…I never knew you felt that way,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If that’s what you want, that’s all right by me. I won’t see you every night.’
‘So let’s make it just two nights a week.’
‘Three,’ he pressed.
‘Two, or nothing at all…And I choose which two.’ She could not help but smile to herself. She knew he had to agree or lose her. She had no wish to hurt him or belittle him but she needed space; more now than ever before; and if it cost her his friendship, then so be it. ‘Oh…And no more opening the car door for me. Or any other damned door for that matter. I can do that on my own – if you don’t mind.’
‘Agreed…’ He sighed, and hesitated, as if to say something else.
‘Go on…What were you going to say?’
He felt in his pocket and withdrew the ring. ‘This…Give me your left hand.’
‘Stephen! I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’
‘Hear me out, Maxine…Give me your left hand.’
‘No.’
‘Just give me your left hand.’
He was smiling mysteriously, triumphantly. What sort of silly game was he playing? She gave him her hand tentatively.
‘I’ll only take it off again,’ she warned.
‘It’s no longer an engagement ring, Maxine,’ he said seriously and positioned the ring perfectly on her third finger. ‘It’s no longer an engagement ring. It’s just a ring…Any sort of ring. A ring of friendship. A dress ring. Anything you like.’
‘But it’s not an engagement ring?’ she queried, seeking reassurance. Then, more assertively: ‘It’s not an engagement ring.’
‘I just said so. It’s not an engagement ring. I conceived it and designed it just for you…to have, no matter what. I want you to have it, Maxine. Wear it, or don’t wear it, as you fancy.’
‘As long as it’s not an engagement ring.’
‘Not any more. How many times must I tell you?’
Maxine admired it on her finger again. The magnificent amethyst shone, amplifying the paltry light it picked up from the gas street lamps. It really was beautiful. Stephen certainly knew his job.
‘Okay,’ she said, satisfied. ‘Thank you. Now can we go?’
He drove her home, content that whilst she no longer regarded it as an engagement ring, everybody else would.
Rehearsals that week were hard work. Sibelius’s 6
Symphony was scheduled for its Birmingham airing in two weeks, and nobody, even the conductor, was familiar with the score. But they battled through it, and after the third effort, everybody felt more comfortable with it. Roméo et Juliette, from Berlioz, was also on the agenda, universally popular with the players, and Maxine enjoyed its honest melodic drama.
All week Maxine had been puzzled and disappointed that Brent Shackleton had not taken time to come and chat to her, neither during breaks nor at lunch times. Even when they had finished and it was time to go home he had stayed chatting to his fellow brass. His lack of attention intrigued her. Maybe he had noticed from a distance the new ring she was wearing and, perceiving it as an engagement ring, decided discretion might be better exercised. Maybe if she took it off when she was coming to rehearsals…That would be sensible anyway.
But things took a different turn the following Monday. An evening rehearsal had been arranged so that the CBO could team up with the amateurs of the Festival Choral Society, to practise Beethoven’s mammoth Mass in D. It was the first time Maxine had been involved with choral music.
Rehearsal finished shortly after ten o’ clock and a further orchestra-only rehearsal was scheduled for the following morning. Thus, Stephen need not collect her and her cello since she could leave it packed away in the rehearsal room ready for the next day. Whether Brent had sussed this had never crossed her mind, but he ambled over to her, carrying his trombone case.
He was smiling, which negated any notion that he’d been deliberately avoiding her. ‘You’re looking well, Maxine. Pretty as a picture, as usual.’
‘Thank you.’ She blushed instantly and felt her heart start pounding like a kettledrum. She did not understand why she reacted to him in this way. It was such a nuisance. She did not enjoy blushing; she felt such a fool. Suddenly she was aware of the ring on her finger and tried to avoid showing her left hand.
‘If you don’t fancy going straight home, I’d love to take you to that club I know.’
Lord! He wanted to take her out. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for clubs, Brent,’ she said excusing herself but with bitter disappointment. She was wearing a full navy skirt of a length sufficient to afford some modesty when she was playing her cello, and a white blouse that she felt must be grubby after a whole day’s wear.
‘Oh, you’re dressed fine, Maxine. It’s only a jazz club.’
‘A jazz club?’ Her eyes gave away her interest.
‘Yes.’ It amused him that she seemed to repeat everything he said, but phrased as a question.
Of course, she would love to go to a jazz club. It would be a change to hear jazz. ‘I’d love to,’ she admitted. ‘The only problem is, they’ll be expecting me back home soon.’
‘Haven’t you got a key?’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve got a key.’
‘Well then…Why keep making excuses not to come?’
‘But what about your young lady?’
‘What about your young man?’ he countered.
‘Stephen? He’s not coming tonight.’
‘Neither is my young lady, as you call her.’
‘So what should I call her? What’s her name?’
‘Eleanor.’
‘Won’t Eleanor mind? You taking me to a club, I mean?’
‘I shan’t ask her whether she minds or not. I shan’t tell her anyway.’
Her smile of approval confirmed her collusion. ‘Actually, it’s no business of Stephen’s, either…If you’re sure I’m dressed okay? I could go home and change. It’s only up the road.’
‘You’re fine, Maxine. You look ravishing.’
She thrilled at his compliment, sincere or not. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’
‘I might, if they deserve it. Come on, then, let’s go. I don’t want to be late.’
She grabbed her handbag and the navy cardigan that had been draped over the back of her chair and hurtled after him, finding it hard to keep up.
‘How far is it?’ she asked when they were outside in the street.
‘Not far.’
‘Do you have to walk quite so fast?’
He hesitated. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I should have been there fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Why? What’s all the rush?’
‘I’m due on stage. I play in a jazz band.’
‘You play in a jazz band?’
There she went again, repeating his words. ‘Yes. I’m a musician, remember. I have to earn money somehow. The CBO doesn’t pay enough. Here…’ They had arrived at a car; a very smart, curvy looking car; a Mercedes Benz, black, big, flaring with chromium plating. It sported enormous headlights perched on the front wings and a spare wheel nestling in the side sweep. He unlocked the door and threw his trombone and case in the back. ‘Hurry up.’
She let herself in and recognised the rich, dark smell of leather. He fired the engine and they shot off like a hare sprung from a trap. Maxine silently approved of his showing off in this expensive motor car. Yet their journey was short; incredibly short. They had travelled no more than four hundred yards when he pulled into a side street off Broad Street, the main road west out of the city, and stopped outside what looked like an old warehouse. Maxine stepped out of the car and while Brent retrieved his trombone from the rear seat she caught a glimpse of a canal basin harbouring a random fleet of narrowboats tied up for the night.
‘This way,’ he called. ‘Look, do you mind if I go on ahead and see you inside? Silas will let you in. Just tell him you’re with me.’ He dashed off, leaving her to find her own way.
She decided then not to rush. Let him get on with it and indeed, she would see him inside, when she got there. She entered by the door that he had not held open for her and pondered with wide-eyed amusement the very novelty of it. The reek of stale beer, body odour and cigarette smoke was strong, even in the small lobby she found herself in. A man was sitting at a table, and she knew the body odour was wafting from him.
‘One and six to get in,’ he mumbled.
‘How much?’ Now that was inconsiderate of Brent. She fumbled in her handbag.
The man drew asthmatically on a crinkled cigarette that was wet with spittle at one end. ‘Am yarra member?’ he asked, in a thick Birmingham accent.
Maxine could hear the buzz of people laughing and chatting inside, the chink of glasses and the unmistakable plinks of a banjo being tuned.
‘Sorry, no,’ she replied. ‘Do I have to be? I’m with Brent Shackleton, that chap who came in before me with the trombone. He’s in the band.’
‘Wharrim?’ His look suggested both scorn and a suggestion that he did not believe her. ‘You’m a fresh un, in’t ya?’
She shrugged. ‘Fresh as a daisy, me.’
‘Goo on, then, young madam. Gerron in. I’ll believe ya. Thousands wun’t.’
Maxine shoved the door open. She had no preconception of what the inside of this jazz club might be like. It bore no resemblance to the ultra smart jazz clubs in America she’d read about: the Cotton Club in New York, the Sunset Café in Chicago. Bare light bulbs hung dimly from ceiling rafters rendering a sleazy, Spartan atmosphere. Drifting cigarette smoke and the blend of feminine perfumes failed to mask the underlying mustiness that caught the back of her throat like the pungent stink of a damp dog. A few shaky tables furnished the place, acquired from house clearances by the looks of them, and rickety old chairs of similar origin that some people were rash enough to sit on. But most folks remained standing; including the young girls; too young, some of them. The stage, a makeshift affair, was constructed of beer crates supporting sheets of plywood, but Maxine could see several instruments on it, and one or two players getting ready to perform.
Brent located her in the dimness. ‘Oh, there you are. Let me get you a drink.’
‘A glass of lemonade, please.’ She was relieved that he’d taken the trouble to find her. ‘What time do you start playing?’
‘In about five minutes. Arthur’s split the reed on his clarinet. He’s just gone to get another.’
‘Where’s he going to get a reed from at this time of night?’
‘He reckons he’s got a spare one in his car.’
‘In his car?’ she jibed. ‘Not in his instrument case?’ It seemed inconceivable that a clarinettist should not have a spare reed immediately to hand. It was akin to having no spare strings in her cello case. Unthinkable.
Brent turned away from her and addressed the barman. Next thing, she was clutching a half-pint of beer.
‘I asked for lemonade,’ she said, amused that he’d got it wrong.
‘Never mind. You’ll enjoy that. Do you good…Look, Arthur’s back. See you later.’
As he hurried towards the stage, she smiled to herself. Stephen would stifle her with attention if she let him, but Brent was the sort of person who needed space himself, so would never restrict her. She could scarcely believe that two men could be so different. And yet this Eleanor, whom she had seen but not met…Where did she fit in? Was Brent married to her, or was she just a casual girlfriend? Already, Maxine perceived that Brent was not the sort to tie himself down in marriage; she felt they had that in common.
The band struck up, interrupting her thoughts. They were playing a thing called ‘Tiger Rag’. She’d heard it before on a record by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band – a record that Pansy had acquired. Her feet started tapping and a few couples started dancing. Arthur came in with a clarinet solo that Maxine did not consider very enthralling. The trumpet player followed – he was good; he was very good. Then it was Brent’s turn on the trombone and he shone, using a plunger mute and growling his notes with great panache. When it was the turn of the piano player Maxine at once noted his lack of competence, as if his fingers could not work the keyboard fast enough. But the banjo player was brilliant, as were the double bass player, and the drummer. Funny, she thought, how being a capable musician enabled you to pick out the flaws in other musicians’ performances, irrespective of the instrument they played.
When they finished the piece a smattering of applause flecked the background murmur and Arthur announced their next number, ‘Fidgety Feet’. Maxine was familiar with that one as well. A tall young man, smart, wearing a Fair Isle pullover the like of which she had seen on photos of the Prince of Wales, asked her to dance and she felt guilty at having to refuse him. She preferred to listen to the band.
This jazz was so informal, so improvised that it allowed for some ineptitude, she pondered, as she watched the pianist’s fingers stumble over the keys. The odd wrong note wasn’t that noticeable and mostly didn’t matter. The music was full of discords anyway, intermingling of instruments that at times sounded chaotic even though a firm underlying matrix was always present. So why did this pianist stand out as being so ill fitted to his job? The tempo changed slightly and Maxine recognised a tune called ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Arthur, clutching his clarinet casually at his side, sang a couple of triplets – incongruously, since the lyrics were meant to be sung by a woman – then proceeded to give another less than sparkling clarinet solo.
Then it struck her. The pianist. He wasn’t using syncopation. He knew what notes to play, but it seemed that he had not fathomed out how to stress the weak beat, the offbeat. The very elements of jazz, she thought, pitch, texture, melodic and harmonic organisation, all those bent notes, are woven around provocative rhythms. The way this man played he might just as well have been pounding out a hymn in a Methodist mission hut. Maxine felt pleased that she had diagnosed this ailment in what was otherwise a reasonable, tight sound.
Having sorted out the piano player, Maxine regarded Brent. His expression was earnest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow as he slid his trombone through intricate passages in ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. This was evidently his preferred world, his preferred music.
At this point she asked herself what she was doing here; what she hoped to gain in this seedy, musty old warehouse that was hazy with cigarette smoke. Had she accepted Brent’s invitation because she wanted to listen to the music? Or was it because she fancied her chances with him? Accepting his invitation was a way of being with him, wasn’t it? But she wasn’t actually with him. He was on the stage sweating buckets over the one thing that possibly mattered more to him than anything else, while she was standing eight feet from the bar, watching, listening, being asked to dance by strange men in whom she had no interest, sipping beer she did not enjoy. She was not actually talking to Brent; she was not getting to know him any better. Neither was she discovering about Eleanor and the depth of his involvement with her.
Maybe she was wasting her time. Why would Brent Shackleton bother with Maxine Kite? In any case, he was inconsiderate. Look how he’d hurried off without her, leaving her to her own devices to gain admittance to the club. Totally, irritatingly inattentive. The absolute opposite of Stephen’s irritatingly superfluous gallantry. Both were as bad as each other. As soon as Brent came off stage she would make her excuses and go home. Besides, it was getting late. Henzey and Will would think she’d been abducted.
Yet, he must be interested in her. He’d asked her to this club, hadn’t he?
As she stood watching, thinking, listening, wavering between one emotion and another, she was aware that a man was standing at her side, but she avoided looking at him.
‘Excuse me,’ he said half apologetically, ‘would you mind very much if I talk to you?’
At least his approach was straightforward, even if he was a bit shy.
‘Why me?’ she asked, curious. ‘The place is full of girls.’ But her smile broadened in direct proportion to her appreciation of his handsome face and the kindly look in his soft eyes that were framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.
‘Because you look like the sort of girl who might have something to say,’ he answered with a warm but tentative smile. ‘The others? I doubt it. I’m also intrigued as to why a girl so attractive should be standing by herself.’
She chuckled amiably. ‘Oh, spare me the flattery. Attractive? Dressed like this?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been watching you for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to come over and speak to you.’ He was about twenty-eight, she judged, clean and well groomed, but with an unruly mop of dark hair that gave him an appealing schoolboy look. ‘Howard Quaintance.’
‘Excuse me?’ They were having to speak in raised voices to be heard over the sound of the jazz.
He smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m Howard Quaintance…Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.’
‘Sorry. Maxine Kite…How do you do?’ She felt that, for the sake of good manners, him being so polite, she ought to offer to shake his hand.
He stood there holding a glass, his other hand in his pocket, casual, unassuming. ‘Delighted to meet you…er…Miss?…Kite.’
‘Miss, yes,’ she affirmed strenuously, amused by his unsubtle way of checking her marital status. ‘Call me Maxine. I’m quite happy to dispense with formality.’
He took a swig of beer. ‘Well, Maxine, what is such an attractive girl doing, standing all on her own in a den of inequity like this?’
‘Actually, I’m with one of the band.’
‘You don’t say? Might I ask which one?’
‘The trombonist.’
‘You don’t say…’ Maxine thought he sounded inordinately surprised. ‘A good musician. Not bad band, either, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Not bad,’ she concurred unconvincingly. ‘Between you and me, though, I’m not so sure about the pianist.’
‘Interesting you should say that,’ he remarked, focusing on the piano player.
‘I’ve been watching him and listening. If only he would syncopate they would really swing.’
‘Mmm…Interesting you should say that.’ He took a thoughtful slurp from his pint. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though. I’m certainly no musician, but what you say doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re not a musician, are you, by any chance?’
‘I am a pianist,’ she confessed, to justify her comments. ‘But I play cello in the CBO.’
‘The CBO? Hey! You’re a classical musician. That explains your being hauled here by Brent.’
‘You know Brent?’
‘Nodding terms only, I’m afraid. Friend of a friend. Look, can I get you a drink?’
She looked at the barely touched glass of beer with distaste. ‘Would you mind?’ she replied. ‘This beer is too awful. I’d love a glass of lemonade…If it’s no trouble?’
‘Absolutely no trouble at all.’ He quaffed what remained of his pint and turned for the bar.
Great! She had a friend to talk to while Brent was busy. And he was easy to talk to. He seemed nice. She smiled cheerfully, uplifted now. It was pleasant to make new friends. What had he said his name was?…Howard? Yes. Howard Quaintance. Difficult to forget a name like that. In no time he returned and handed her the glass of lemonade. She took a mouthful eagerly to destroy the lingering, bitter taste of the beer.
‘So, how come you and Brent are on nodding terms?’ she asked.
‘Through one of the other members of the band, actually.’
Maxine felt herself go hot. Of course, this Howard was going to tell her it was the piano player, she could feel it coming with the certainty of an express train hurtling down a track to which she was tied and unable to escape. She put her hand over her eyes, and cringed.
‘Don’t tell me it’s the pianist, Howard. Please don’t tell me it’s the pianist!’
He guffawed aloud, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles with unconcealed delight at Maxine’s gaff. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Oh, God!’ She wanted the ground at her feet to open up and consume her. ‘Me and my big mouth.’
Still howling with laughter, he touched her forearm and she felt his hand, warm, reassuring as he squeezed it.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Maxine,’ he said gently. ‘Old Randolf would be the first to admit he’s no jazz musician. Actually, he’s a church organist, you know. Jolly good he is too, as choirmaster, at playing Wesley and Stainer. Does an intoxicating “All things bright and beautiful”. Took this on as a challenge. For a hoot. A tad out of his depth I think.’
She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve gone all hot.’ Then she chuckled at her faux pas. ‘Maybe I’m too honest.’
‘Never ever say that, Maxine. Make thine honesty a vice…Shakespeare…Othello, you know.’
She shrieked with laughter. ‘Really? Shouldn’t I make it a virtue?’
He laughed with her at his own gaff.
‘So what do you do for a living, Howard, that makes you quote Shakespeare out of context? Are you an English teacher, by any chance?’
He chortled again and took a mouthful of beer, all the time looking straight into her eyes. She held the glance and recognised an untainted, well-brought-up look.
‘I’d rather not say. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Maxine, but I rather like you and if I tell you what I do for a living you might not wish to be as affable as you are.’
‘Affable, am I?’
‘Definitely. I find you easy to talk to and hugely amusing. I also find you very direct. I like that. It’s refreshing in a girl…’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, we may never meet again, so there’d be no harm in telling you anyway. But, I won’t.’
She laughed at his indecision or his teasing; she wasn’t sure which it was. ‘God! You’re infuriating. Why won’t you tell me what you do?’
‘It’s of no consequence – really…But hey, I am thirsty.’ He took a long quaff from his beer, finishing it off.
‘Well, you’re drinking that rather quickly,’ she commented.
‘Good God! You’re not in the Band of Hope, are you?’
‘Certainly not. More like the band of no hope, me.’ Her tone, she was aware, must have sounded melancholy.
‘How can you possibly say that?’ he asked. ‘With all the musical talent you must possess?’
‘I wasn’t thinking about musical talent particularly.’
‘Oh? What, then?’
It was her turn to shrug, unsure as to how much she should tell him. ‘Oh…Men. I find men are a pain in the neck…Oh, I don’t mean you, Howard – I don’t know you – but some at any rate. I mean it’s either all or nothing with them. At least that’s my experience – which is a bit limited, I hasten to add – just in case I’ve given you the wrong impression.’
‘Is that an engagement ring you’re wearing, Maxine? You must have captured somebody’s heart. But that’s hardly surprising.’
She brought her hand up so he could inspect the ring in the dimness. He took off his glasses to better see close to and slipped them into the top pocket of his jacket.
‘Very impressive,’ he remarked.
‘But it’s not an engagement ring, Howard.’
‘No? Well that’s a blessing.’
She explained in some detail about her relationship with Stephen. How he wanted more than she was prepared to give, how she did not enjoy his caresses, even though she liked him as a person; how he’d tried to trap her into saying she would marry him. She was surprised at the consummate ease with which she was pouring out her doubts and fears to Howard, as if they’d been bosom pals always.
‘But everyone will think it’s an engagement ring, Maxine, and your Stephen knows that,’ Howard advised her. ‘Don’t you see? I thought it was an engagement ring, actually. Why don’t you wear it on your right hand, if you’re still keen on wearing it? Then there can be no misunderstanding. It tends to put off potential suitors, you know.’
Maxine looked at him with wide-eyed admiration. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? That’s brilliant, Howard! That’s absolutely brilliant.’
‘Here. Let me do it. I’ve never removed a ring from a finger before.’
She gave him her hand, thinking it a strange thing for him to say. He put his glass down on a nearby table and touched her slender fingers. Deftly, he slid off the ring.
‘Now, give me your right hand.’ He put the ring on the third finger. ‘Does it fit?’
She nodded coyly, aware that her heart was beating fast with the unanticipated intimacy of the moment. To her surprise, being touched by someone who was not Stephen was surprisingly pleasant and, for the first time in her life, Maxine felt that maybe she was not destined to be unresponsive forever. It had to be Stephen. She felt new hope. Physical contact might be pleasurable after all, and she wondered what her reaction would be if Brent touched her.
‘There. That’s all there is to it. Problem solved.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt herself blush; though in this dim light it barely mattered.
‘Is that why you’re here tonight with Brent Shackleton?’
‘What do you mean exactly?’
‘I mean, are you trying to seek some reason to justify discarding this Stephen?’
He had a point.
‘Maybe. I don’t really know. I hadn’t analysed my motives particularly. Brent’s a fellow musician. A colleague. To tell you the truth I was ready to go home before you came talking to me.’ But suddenly she saw her chance to find out more about Brent. She must sound as casual as she could. ‘Anyway, I don’t really know Brent that well. What can you tell me about him? I’ve seen him with a girl after CBO concerts. A really beautiful girl. Is he married or anything?’
Howard looked bitterly disappointed. ‘Why don’t you ask him, Maxine?’
Outside it had started to rain. Maxine had not anticipated rain tonight. She pulled her cardigan over her shoulders and ran behind Brent as they headed for his car. He threw his trombone onto the back seat. Once inside he unlocked the passenger door for her.
‘Bloody weather,’ he murmured. ‘Which way?’
‘To the top of Broad Street, then turn right into Ladywood Road.’ She shuffled her bottom on the seat to get comfortable, Howard’s presence still with her.
He turned the car around and drove off. ‘Well? Have you enjoyed tonight?’
‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, thank you. The band’s good. I’m impressed. Have you got a name for yourselves?’
‘The Second City Hot Six.’
‘The Second City Hot Six?…But there are seven of you.’
‘Arthur doesn’t always play. His wife won’t let him out all the time.’
‘Lord, I can scarcely believe that!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not that brilliant anyway, is he?’
‘Not really. But most of the time we haven’t got him. When we have, he’s a bonus.’
‘A liability, more like. He plays that clarinet as if it were a piece of lead piping. The pianist too – he’s the same – worse, possibly.’
He chuckled at her directness. ‘This stuff’s not serious, Maxine. It’s for fun. It doesn’t really matter how good or bad we are, so long as we enjoy playing together. It pays reasonably well, anyway. That’s a bonus.’
‘I suppose so. But I tend to be a perfectionist, Brent. I couldn’t stand to play jazz – or anything else for that matter – unless I was doing it as well as it was possible to do it.’
‘Does that apply to everything you do?’ he asked provocatively.
‘Of course it does.’ His innuendo was lost on her, however.
‘I see you were talking to Randolf’s chum.’
‘You mean Howard? He was nice. Easy to talk to. I liked him.’ The same glow she’d felt when he held her hand lit her up again as she recalled the moment. After a pause, she said: ‘I asked him about you.’
He snorted with laughter. ‘I bet that impressed him.’
‘I asked him if he knew whether you were married.’
‘Oh? And what did he say?’
‘He said to ask you …I think I upset him. So I’m asking. Are you married, Brent?’
He hesitated, and she knew he was debating with himself whether to tell her a lie. ‘Why? Is it important?’
‘It might be.’
‘Yet you didn’t ask before you accepted my offer to take you out.’
‘Nevertheless, it had occurred to me.’
‘Nevertheless, you accepted my invitation.’
She felt her colour rise. ‘I suppose I did.’
‘Which suggests it isn’t relevant.’
‘It would be relevant if I had designs on you,’ she said, trying to make it sound as if she hadn’t.
He grinned to himself in the darkness. ‘And do you have designs on me?’
‘Certainly not. Especially if you’re married. So? Are you married?’
‘I might be,’ he teased. ‘And then again, I might not.’
‘Sorry, Brent. Turn left here, please.’
‘Left? Hold tight.’ He braked hard and turned the car into the corner.
‘Now right.’
‘Okay…Now where?’
‘Just here will do…Thank you, Brent. Thanks for taking me to listen to the Second City Hot Seven.’
‘Hot Six.’
She smiled enigmatically as she clambered out of the car. ‘See you at rehearsal in the morning.’

Chapter 5 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
Orchestra rehearsals for Beethoven’s Mass in Dwent well. By five minutes past ten everyone had tuned up and was playing. Leslie Heward was not content with some of the passages in the final movement, prompting various discussions and one or two individuals practising certain phrases privately and spontaneously before going over it again together. They broke for lunch at one o’ clock.
Maxine, who had avoided looking in the direction of Brent Shackleton, was surprised when he sidled up to her as she spoke to Gwen Berry on a point of interpretation on the cello score.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Gwen. Do you mind if I steal Maxine off you?’ he asked courteously. ‘Have you got a minute, Maxine?’
Maxine excused herself and stood up.
‘Last night, Maxine…’ he began seriously. ‘Look, do you mind coming with me to The White Hart for a drink? There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s probably best done over a drink.’
‘Okay,’ she said, surprised at the prospect of being in his company again so soon. ‘What do you want to discuss with me?’
‘I need some advice. Something you said last night.’
About the question of him being married? ‘Let me grab my bag.’
She trotted alongside him to the exit. ‘Horrible last night, wasn’t it? The weather, I mean.’ She smiled appealingly to confirm she really did mean the weather.
In Chamberlain Square the pigeons were out in force, strutting earnestly in the sunshine, flapping boisterously as crumbs and crusts landed among them. Lunch time was an engrossing time of day for pigeons, for on fine days such as this the providers of all these scraps of bread, the city’s office workers, took to the Square to enjoy sandwiches and flasks of tea among the splendour of some of Birmingham’s grandest Victorian architecture. Office romances budded and blossomed as workers sought relief in the sunshine from the tedium of eye straining paperwork in poorly lit rooms.
Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.
He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.
They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.
‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’
‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’
He grinned. ‘Okay. Lemonade. What about a sandwich? They do decent sandwiches here.’
‘No thanks.’ She had taken her own sandwiches as she did every rehearsal day. They were lying in her basket next to her cello; to be eaten alongside her cello usually. Besides, she could never countenance buying sandwiches when they were so cheap and easy to make at home.
Brent returned with their drinks. ‘There’s nowhere to sit.’
‘Then we’ll have to stand.’ She took the glass from him and sipped it. ‘So what do you want to discuss with me?’
‘The Second City Hot Six.’ He took a long draught through the foam on his beer.
‘Oh? How do you think I can help?’
‘Well, you’re a musician, Maxine. You listen to jazz. You reckon you play it yourself occasionally…’
‘But only for fun. Never seriously. I’ve only ever played it with my friend Pansy. She’s brilliant, mind you. Completely wasted.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke, Brent. You know I don’t smoke.’
‘I forgot. Sorry…Something you said last night, Maxine, made me think. You said there was no point in doing something – playing jazz for instance – if you didn’t do it right. You said you’re a perfectionist.’
‘I suppose I am. I can’t stand music to be played slapdash.’
He lit his cigarette. ‘After I dropped you off I thought about that. And you know, you’re spot on. I want to earn my living playing jazz. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. You made me realise with that comment of yours that if that’s what I want, then I have to do it properly to achieve it. Why shouldn’t I be the best? Why shouldn’t the band be the best? It’s the only way forward.’
‘Quite right,’ Maxine agreed, wafting unwanted smoke away with her hand.
‘I want to take it more seriously, Maxine. You know, there’s good money to be made playing jazz. I could earn a lot more than I do playing in the CBO and, believe me, I could do with it. So I need some guidance from a self-confessed perfectionist. You heard us last night, Maxine. What should we do to get the best out of what we’ve got? How can we improve, do you think?’
‘By hard practice, I should say. By disciplined practice. It’s no good turning up for practice and fooling about. If there’s something to be rehearsed, rehearse it. Rehearse it till it sounds as good as you hear it in your imagination. And then keep on rehearsing it till playing it is second nature – till you don’t have to think about it.’
‘But everybody else in the band has to be of the same mind.’
‘Course they do. A half-hearted musician will stick out like a sore thumb amidst really serious ones – and spoil what they do.’
‘The one bad apple that spoils the whole bag, eh?’
‘Yes. So, it requires hard work and very serious commitment. But, Brent, I tell you straight. You’ll get nowhere with that pianist. I don’t mean to be unkind but he’s next to useless. He’s an organist and choirmaster, for God’s sake, and that’s all he knows how to play. Even Howard said he was no good playing jazz.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot you and Howard are big chums now.’ His comment seemed tinged with cynicism, Maxine thought, but she hoped she was mistaken.
‘You need a decent clarinettist besides. Somebody dedicated. It’s no good having one whose wife won’t let him out at night. That’s just too pathetic. You have to be professional about this if you want to be a professional – all of you. In any case, he hasn’t got the ability either to play jazz. He doesn’t feel the music. I told you…’
‘Yes, you did…So will you help us? Will you come to some of our practices and try to put us right? Will you come and guide us where we’re going wrong? Help us get things right? I’m too close to it to judge properly. It needs a fresh ear. I reckon you could do it. You know what to listen for. Make any comment you reckon is warranted.’
‘I’m flattered that you’ve asked me,’ she replied with a broad smile that revealed her even teeth and put a sparkle in her eyes again. ‘I’d love to help. When do we start?’
‘How about tonight? I’ll pick you up from home at half past seven.’
It had not occurred to Maxine that the jazz club might not be open for business that night. The Second City Hot Six had assembled to practise, and they had the place to themselves except for Nat Colesby, the owner and licensee. He was cleaning beer lines, restocking shelves, cleaning up, and on hand to serve beer to the six or seven musicians as they worked up a thirst. The band practised here most Tuesdays. Although the rest of them had noticed Maxine the previous evening with Brent, he introduced her tonight. He outlined his ideas and aspirations and explained how he thought she could help.
‘So what happens about Arthur?’ Kenny Wheeler, the drummer asked. ‘The chap’s woman-licked. You can’t count on him to be that dedicated.’
‘That I know,’ Brent replied. ‘We’ll have to find another clarinettist.’
‘Ain’t there nobody in the CBO?’ Charlie Holt, the slightly tubby double bass player enquired.
‘Nobody who’d want to join us,’ Brent remarked.
Maxine had already considered that Stephen’s sister Pansy would be an admirable replacement but it was not up to her to suggest it. It might sound too pushy if she did. But if they found nobody quickly, she could perhaps drop a hint. After all, Pansy could do with the work. She was dissatisfied working in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t want a girl in this band.
George Tolley, the banjo player who answered to Ginger, took his instrument out of its case and began plinking, tuning it up. ‘Where’s Randy? He’s late. So do we bugger off home or get cracking on something then without him?’
‘Randolf’s not coming,’ Brent informed them.
‘Bloody typical. So bang goes this new commitment before we even start.’
‘I’ve sacked him, Ginger. He just isn’t good enough. And Maxine agrees. That job’s up for grabs as well. So we’ll have to start without a pianist.’
‘Christ. Who is considered good enough?’ Kenny asked. ‘Are all our jobs shaky in this line-up? I’d like to know in case I need to look elsewhere.’
‘You’re not going to be sacked, Kenny,’ Brent said. ‘Nor anybody else. Those of us here are first-rate musicians, well capable of playing the sort of stuff we’re likely to encounter. Arthur and Randy are not up to it. Deep down we all know that and odds are they’d admit it themselves. I want us to be the best jazz band in the Midlands – in the country – so we need chaps capable of getting us there. As of now, we look for a new clarinettist and a new pianist…I’ll put an advert in the paper in the next day or two…Right. What shall we start with?’
‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ Jimmy Randle suggested with a mischievous smirk. Jimmy was the trumpet player and better known as Toots.
‘Oh, anything but that, Toots,’ Ginger pleaded. ‘I hate it. Let’s do “My Sister Kate”.’
Brent stood up, poised to play his trombone. ‘Right. “I Wish I Could Shimmy like my Sister Kate”…One, two, one two three four…’
And they were away.
Maxine listened intently. Some things that could be improved were evident immediately and she could not imagine why they had not put them right before. Maybe it was because a stranger’s ear can detect weaknesses that those most closely involved are deaf to. Wood for trees. But they were all competent musicians.
‘So, what d’you think, Maxine?’ Brent asked when they had finished running through the number.
‘Well…It seems as if you’re all trying to outplay each other – as if you’re all trying to do a solo at the same time. Try to play for each other. Be more together, as one unit, not six separate ones. It all needs tidying up, too. The stops should be cleaner…Kenny, when you’re supposed to have a rest for a few beats, don’t try and fit in a drumroll to fill the gap. Stay silent till you’re due to come in again and let the melody instruments and the singer have their glory. Those little rests are for emphasis, for effect. It’s what makes Jelly Roll Morton great. It’ll make your music more effective as well. Otherwise it sounds all ragged and undisciplined.’
‘Kenny likes to turn every number into a drum solo,’ Charlie Holt remarked, and Maxine detected his frustration at Kenny’s overly enthusiastic drumming. ‘He thinks he’s Gene Krupa.’
Maxine’s eyes creased into a smile. But she had to be honest. She had to take this seriously. That’s why she was here.
‘Same applies to you, Ginger, really,’ she continued. ‘The banjo is a rhythm instrument as well. Try playing with the drummer, not as if you’re in competition. Generally, when Kenny has a few beats break, you stick to the break as well…Why don’t you try it again doing just that?’
Brent counted them in once more. At the first point where Kenny was supposed to stop, he did so and the effect was significant: it all held together more tightly, more eloquently. The musicians looked at each other and Maxine could see satisfied grins passing from one to another at the immediate improvement. She was relieved, for she was not certain how these hard-nosed males, with vastly more jazz experience, were likely to view advice from a much younger person – even worse, a girl. Doubtless one or two would resent it unless she had something positive to say, something that really worked. Musicians, she had learned already – male ones especially – were a race apart: hard-nosed, uncompromising; usually hard drinking as well, just to add to their volatility.
‘It sounds better already,’ Toots Randle admitted.
‘Just one little point that improves the overall quality,’ Maxine confirmed. ‘It demonstrates much more musical discipline as well.’
‘Let’s try something else,’ Toots suggested.
‘How about “Tiger Rag”?’
Brent counted them in.
The same principles applied, of course, and the band again signalled to each other their approval as their instantly cleaner, more refined music pleased everybody.
‘Something’s still missing,’ Charlie Holt complained. ‘I grant you it all sounds tighter playing it how Maxine suggests, but it’s lacking something…Soul, for want of a better word.’
‘Rhythm?’ Maxine suggested.
‘We’ve got rhythm,’ Kenny said. ‘I provide the rhythm.’
‘Some of it, I agree,’ Maxine countered, afraid that she sounded like a know-all. ‘But you don’t want lifeless, mechanical rhythm like a metronome. Jazz needs more than that. It needs to swing easily. It has an inner rhythm that you either feel or you don’t feel. And if you feel it, you can turn it loose. Try to be more relaxed about your playing – everybody. Loosen up a bit. Each instrument should have its own rhythm.’
‘We’re missing the piano,’ Brent said. ‘That’s what’s lacking.’
‘Yes, that’d help,’ Kenny agreed. ‘Can’t you play piano, Maxine? Just to give a bit more body to the sound. Just to fill it out a bit. It don’t matter if you play a few wrong notes. Just to give us the feel.’
‘I could try.’ She stepped up onto the stage. ‘What key is this in?’
‘B flat.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ she laughed, rolling her eyes. ‘Can’t you play it in C?’
‘I can play it in any key you want,’ said Kenny with a smirk as he ostentatiously twirled his drumsticks in the air.
‘Okay.’ Self-consciously she made herself comfortable on the rickety chair. ‘When you’re ready.’
‘One, two, one two three four…’
Twelve bars into the piece, Brent and Kenny signalled each other with a look that gave complete approval to the difference Maxine’s piano playing made. They all felt and heard something that none of them had felt or heard before in the Second City Hot Six: real syncopation; slick, smooth, well-oiled syncopation that insinuated itself into their own individual performances, improving the quality of the whole out of all proportion.
They were enjoying the difference so much that they didn’t finish the number where they normally finished it. By a tacit understanding that regular musicians acquire, they continued to play, swept along on the rising tide of enthusiasm and joy that playing something well engenders. Brent took a solo, improvising, sliding and growling his notes like he’d never done before, followed by Toots whose trumpet sounds sparkled like the polished brass his instrument was made from. The next verse and chorus they all played together, followed by Kenny’s promised drum solo. At Kenny’s signal they all came in together again for another verse and chorus, then Ginger excelled with a banjo break that Maxine thought must surely end up with his right hand flying off his wrist. And finally, although she’d been dreading it, there came an impromptu piano solo from Maxine. She’d never had to improvise like this before, but clinging tenaciously to the principles of syncopation she worked around the basic structure of the piece – the main chords – and delivered a creditable performance that made her perspire.
Then, suddenly, by a nod and that aforementioned tacit understanding, the others stopped playing. She had not seen any signal from Brent and, for a few bars, she carried on. She turned around as soon as she realised she was playing by herself and saw them all laughing. Her first thought was that they were mocking, so she stopped – embarrassed. But they applauded. They were definitely not mocking.
‘Where did you learn to play like that, Maxine?’ Ginger asked.
‘Yeah. Brent said you played the flippin’ cello.’
‘Was it all right then?’ Maxine shoved a wisp of hair from her face with the back of her hand. ‘Did I do all right?’
‘All right? That was great,’ Toots enthused. ‘Sign her up, Brent. Sign her up.’
Brent placed his trombone on the floor, took out a cigarette and lit it. The others took their cue from him.
‘You played that really well, Maxine,’ he said. ‘It made a world of difference, I have to admit.’
‘A girl as good-looking as Maxine would be a big asset to this band,’ Kenny commented with enthusiasm. ‘She’d be a hell of a novelty. Folk would come and pay to see us just to get a look at her. God, she’s bloody lovely…She can really play as well.’
‘She might not be interested in playing with us.’ Toots suggested. ‘ So why don’t we ask her first?’
She was blushing again, not only at the compliments, but because she was causing so much controversy all of a sudden. ‘I’d be happy to play in the band as long as it didn’t interfere with the CBO. I’d love to play.’
‘Brent? It’s up to you, mate. But I think we’re all for her joining.’
‘I reckon we’d be bloody stupid to turn down the opportunity,’ Charlie said. ‘She’d be a brilliant attraction. We could double our booking fees and get twice as much work.’
‘Without doubt,’ remarked Toots.
That clinched it for Brent. The possibility of commanding more money was too great to resist. At once, he saw the potential in having a lovely looking girl in the band, especially a girl with real talent.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Maxine, welcome to the Second City Hot Six. If you can put up with us, we can certainly put up with you.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’
‘Are there any more at home like you, Maxine?’ Kenny asked.
‘Never mind him, Maxine,’ Toots said. ‘He’s married. Not that it makes any difference. So watch him.’
‘As regards the CBO, it won’t interfere, Maxine,’ Brent assured her. ‘I don’t let it interfere. We don’t make bookings for when the CBO are playing or rehearsing. We couldn’t have them missing a cello and a trombone, could we? Okay, now that’s settled, what shall we have a go at next?’
‘Let’s ask Nat for a beer.’
‘I don’t know that one. Is it a blues number?’ Maxine enquired, and looked surprised when the others roared with laughter.

Chapter 6 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
With hardly a breeze to disturb it, Rotton Park Reservoir mirrored the yellowing flare of the western evening sky and its wrack of orange cloud in its cool stillness. The air was gentle and mild and the trees, casting long, springtime shadows, wore their fresh green coats vividly in the low, brassy sunshine, hardly waving. At the water’s edge three schoolboys dipped their fishing nets and one whooped with glee as he scooped out a stickleback. Stephen took Maxine’s hand, which she accepted without enthusiasm, as they set off clockwise around the reservoir for a stroll.
‘You been all right?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been fine.’
‘Rehearsals going okay?’
‘Fine.’ Of course, he meant the CBO. ‘We’re rehearsing with the choir again on Thursday evening. Beethoven’s Mass in D. It’ll be the last practice before we perform it.’
‘I’ll pick you up after. You’ll need a lift with your cello.’
‘No, it’s okay, Stephen. I’ll get a lift.’
‘Oh? Off who?’
‘Off Brent Shackleton.’
‘Brent Shackleton? Why him? No, I’ll meet you. I’ll bring you home.’
She was tired of this. She stopped abruptly, breaking the idyll. She slipped her hand out of his and turned to face him, her eyes ablaze with the fire of the sky. ‘Stephen, there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want you to collect me, because after rehearsal I’m going somewhere with Brent.’
‘You’re what?’ he taunted. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘Listen, I’ve been asked to join a jazz band as pianist and I’ve accepted.’
‘A jazz band? As if you hadn’t got enough to occupy you.’
‘Yes, a jazz band, Stephen. And we’re practising like mad to get everything right. Thursday night, after CBO rehearsals, Brent and I are going to the jazz club to practise. He’s the trombonist in the band as well, see?’
‘No, I don’t see, Maxine. Why couldn’t you have told me about it sooner? I reckon there’s something going on between you and that Brent Shackleton.’
‘There’s nothing going on, Stephen.’ Worse luck, she felt like adding.
‘I won’t let you do it, Maxine. It’s not fair. I won’t let you.’
‘Stephen, it’s all fixed,’ she rasped, hot with indignation. ‘You won’t stop me, either. If you try and stop me I’ll stop seeing you anyway. You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. What a damn cheek!’
‘I don’t like it, Maxine,’ Stephen said sullenly. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘Then you know what to do. Give me up, for God’s sake. Forget me. It’s not going to work anyway with you following me everywhere like a lapdog. I need to be free, Stephen. I need freedom to pursue my own life. You don’t seem to appreciate that. You’ve never appreciated it.’
He sighed. She was right. Their romance had no chance of succeeding while she was only half-hearted about it. But what could he do? He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. Always. But what was the point of banging your head against a brick wall?
They ambled on, unsettled, their business unfinished. A hundred yards behind them, the three little boys had lost interest in their fishing and hooted with laughter as now they skimmed stones across the lake to see who could achieve most bounces. Before them, the trees and houses on the opposite side took on a dark grey hue, silhouetted against the deepening evening glow.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Brent Shackleton?’ Stephen asked at length.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘You give me your word?’
‘God!’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘On my honour!’
‘So where do I fit in with this jazz band? It seems as if I’m superfluous to requirements.’
‘Oh, I suppose you’ll be lurking somewhere. Anyway, I want Pansy to join the band as well.’
‘Oh, well, I bet Pansy would jump at the chance,’ he said brightly.
Maxine smiled to herself at his sudden change of mood and imagined him asking Pansy to be his spy. Not that it would do him any good; Pansy would only tell him what she wanted him to know. But it could work against her; if he delivered Pansy to gigs he would still be around when she really wanted to see less of him.
‘Will you ask her to meet me on Friday night at that jazz club in Gas Street when she’s finished at the Hippodrome?’ Maxine requested. ‘We’re playing then and I’d like her to meet the others.’ She thrust her hand into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Will you give her this letter?…It explains everything. We really do need a good clarinettist. Hearing us play might just whet her appetite.’
‘All right, leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see she comes along. I’ll bring her myself.’
By half past ten on Friday night the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club was heaving with people. Cigarette smoke drifted in fat blue clouds into the high, timber ceiling, swirling lethargically around the nicotine stained light bulbs that lent the requisite amount of sleaze. Men drank pints of warm beer, as did some of the women, though most girls were sipping drinks considered more elegant. They were smart, chic in fashionable summer dresses, laughing, openly enjoying themselves.
Brent Shackleton had brought Eleanor along and she sipped gin and Italian with a practised finesse. She was beautifully dressed in a long, black, backless, figure-hugging evening dress that left little to the imagination. Yet she wore it with such dignity and elegance that Stephen, who was mesmerised at the sight of her, felt as if he was prying if he let his eyes linger. However, that did not stop him. With a girl like Eleanor around it was apparent that, where Maxine was concerned, he had nothing to fear from Brent Shackleton. It was obvious where Brent’s attentions would naturally be focused. The first thing Maxine sought on Eleanor was a wedding ring; and she found one. Confirmation, if any were needed, that Brent was indeed married to her.
‘Brent tells me you’ve made a difference to the band already, Maxine,’ Eleanor said when they’d been introduced.
‘Thank you for saying so,’ Maxine replied graciously. ‘But I’m so nervous about playing tonight.’
‘I’m looking forward to hearing you. Brent says I’ll be pleasantly surprised. I don’t come out to hear him and his jazz very often. Actually, you’re the only reason I’ve come tonight. He said how…how appealing you are – to look at – that people will come to hear the band just to get a peek at you.’ Maxine perceived that Eleanor spoke grudgingly. ‘I was curious to see for myself.’
Maxine smiled, gratified none-the-less to learn that Brent found her looks interesting.
‘He really wants to succeed in jazz, Maxine,’ she continued. ‘I hope that, with your help, he will.’
‘I suppose we all want to succeed, Eleanor – at whatever we do,’ Maxine said, slighted at the implication that she should be merely a tool by which Brent’s aspirations should turn to reality. ‘Everything I do, I put my heart and soul into. Trouble is, we’ve not had much time to practise together yet, so I hope you’ll make allowances. In a few months, though, we’ll be really slick, so judge us then and not now.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to meet you, Eleanor…If you’ll excuse me. They’re getting up on stage now, look.’
Maxine joined the lads on stage and took her seat at the piano. With no introductions they went straight into a King Oliver number – ‘Rhythm Club Stomp’. It did not take long for the audience to realise there was something different about the Second City Hot Six. Almost at once they had everyone’s attention and a spontaneous round of applause at the end of the first number. Without waiting for the applause to die down Brent counted them in for ‘Royal Garden Blues’, Bix Beiderbecke style, followed at once by ‘Tiger Rag’. It was then that Brent introduced Maxine to the audience as the band’s new pianist, at which she smiled coquettishly and waved, to a roar of approval and a barrage of wolf whistles.
Maxine kept looking to see whether Howard Quaintance had turned up. But there was no sign of him. Doubtless, without Randolf, his piano playing organist pal, he had no reason to be there. Pity. From time to time, she tried to catch Pansy’s expressions to gauge whether she was enjoying the music and approving of it all. Pansy was sitting listening intently on one side of Stephen. Eleanor was on Stephen’s other side, listening intently to him.
Just before the break Arthur split the reed of his clarinet. Evidently, he hadn’t got a spare, so he sat out what remained of the session. This was exactly the chance Maxine had hoped for. During the break she grabbed Pansy and they both followed Brent to the bar, waiting patiently while he got served and took the compliments of one or two club members.
‘Brent, can I introduce you to Pansy Hemming?’ she said, giving him no chance to move further.
He was carrying three pints of beer and inevitably spilling some. ‘Hello, Pansy. Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’
‘Pansy’s a clarinettist,’ Maxine said. ‘I think I’ve mentioned her before.’
‘A clarinettist? Hey, that would be convenient,’ Brent said, flashing her a knowing look. ‘So what are you suggesting, Maxine?’
‘That maybe you could let Arthur go home to his dear wife and let Pansy fill in for a few numbers,’ she said. ‘Fancy not having a spare reed, Brent. I can’t believe it. His lack of any professionalism at all makes him a liability. Not to mention his awful playing.’
Brent chuckled. ‘Oh, I know what he’s like…But could you do it, Pansy? Could you fill in at such short notice?’
‘Course,’ she replied as if such an activity were an everyday occurrence. ‘I can play jazz – this sort of stuff. My clarinet’s in Stephen’s car. It wouldn’t take a minute to get it.’
‘Go on, then, get it, Pansy. I’ll just take these pints over and have a chat to Arthur. I’ll have to tell him what we’re doing. I don’t suppose he’ll be that bothered, though. Then we’ll have a chat as to what you can do.’ As Pansy went in search of Stephen and her clarinet Brent flashed Maxine a perceptive look. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d say you’d got this planned, Maxine.’
‘Planned? Me? Listen, I know a good clarinettist when I hear one.’ Maxine tagged close to Brent as he delivered the glasses of beer, talking to him all the time. ‘She’s brilliant, Brent. Wait till you hear her. She’s stacks better than that Arthur.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult. But she’ll have had no rehearsal. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky letting her loose with no rehearsal?’
‘Not half as risky as having Arthur in the band. She can improvise like nobody else I’ve ever heard. She can make that thing talk.’
He put the beer on the table where the other band members were in conversation. ‘Lads, we’ve got a new clarinettist coming to have a blow with us next half.’ He shrugged, as if to suggest he’d been railroaded into accepting it.
‘Who?’ Kenny Wheeler asked after supping the froth from his beer.
‘Another girl, can you believe? A friend of Maxine’s called Pansy. She’s just gone to get her clarinet…Look, I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Christ, we’ll be an all-tarts band at this rate,’ Toots commented, and nudged Ginger Tolley. ‘Me an’ you am the wrong sex for this outfit, Ginger.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Toots. I think I’d look quite nice in a frock.’
‘Not as nice as that Pansy,’ Kenny assured him. ‘She’s a beaut. Beautiful shock of red hair, nice legs, nice arse, nice tits. Bags I have first go.’
‘Sod off, Kenny, you’re married.’
Within a minute or two Brent returned and took the vacant seat next to Eleanor. ‘Maxine reckons this Pansy’s good,’ he said, ‘and I trust her judgement.’ He took out his cigarettes and offered one to Eleanor.
‘Pansy’s not just a good clarinettist,’ Maxine plugged, ‘she’s good on the piano and she sings as well. Don’t you see? It means we could double up on things – make things more interesting to watch. It means we’d also have two girl singers in the band, as well as Toots and yourself, Brent.’
‘Useful,’ Toots agreed.
‘It also means we’ll have to change the name to the Second City Hot Seven,’ Ginger said.
‘Er…I’ve been thinking about the name,’ Maxine said, looking at Brent apprehensively. ‘I think we should change it to something more stylish. I mean, are we going to want to play this New Orleans stuff forever? Everything’s changing…going to Swing. Maybe we should consider doing some Swing. It’s more sophisticated, more modern.’
‘But that’s big band stuff, Maxine,’ Kenny said.
‘Not necessarily. We could play it with our line-up. Jazz is evolving. All I’m saying is that we should evolve with it.’
‘It’s something we should think about,’ Brent concurred. ‘Look, Pansy’s back…’
When the introductions were over they compared repertoires and it seemed Pansy was familiar with most of the pieces the band was to play.
‘And if I don’t know it well, I’ll improvise,’ she said.
As they sat talking companionably, all drinking, some smoking, it was evident that each member of the band was fired with enthusiasm for the promise of what was to come. The rapid changes would be for the better. They were at a watershed, and Maxine, a classically trained musician, had a clear vision of what was needed to make their jazz outfit really succeed. She had shown them, in the very short time she had been involved, that she had an unerring musical ear, a talent that was undeniable. Maybe she also possessed the enviable gift of being able to predict musical trends. Certainly, she had a knack of getting her own way since Brent Shackleton, their undisputed leader, allowed her to manipulate him. Maybe he recognised that Maxine had something he himself needed to be successful in jazz. Anyway, something fresh was stirring in the wind. Everything was going to be different. Everything was going to be better.
And when Pansy played it was different. The difference that Maxine alone had made was significant. Now that difference was doubled. Pansy played with a confidence and ability that none of the other musicians had ever seen. It surprised them totally, because this assured, creative thread of clarinet playing was coming from a girl; and she was no more than twenty-one years of age.
It manifested itself in the first number after the break – ‘Royal Garden Blues’, and Pansy handled the clarinet solo with such astonishing flair that her flamboyance and joy elicited an uplift of effort and poise from each of the others. People stopped dancing just to stand and watch. The mood of the band now was infectious; their newfound competence made them smile and project themselves to their audience with even greater panache. They were great to dance to, brilliant to listen to, but even better to watch. They had presence.
Next came a bouncy version of ‘Dippermouth Blues’, a King Oliver number, which was a bit of a risk because it had an extended clarinet solo. But Pansy handled it magnificently, and even the band applauded her after it.
Brent was enjoying himself more than he could ever remember. When Maxine turned to get her timing from him he winked at her and she felt a warm glow when she saw the gleam of contentment in his eyes. She had done the right thing in introducing Pansy. It was a feather in her cap. After a few weeks of dedicated rehearsals, who knows what great sounds they might be producing, what great songs they could be performing?
‘So how much money can we expect to make each week from playing in the Second City Hot Six, Maxine?’ Pansy asked from the rear seat of Stephen’s Austin Ten as he drove towards Daisy Road. ‘I’d love to give up playing in that pit orchestra.’
‘I haven’t the foggiest idea, Pansy,’ Maxine replied, turning her head to see into Pansy’s sparkling eyes. ‘Not a great amount yet, I don’t suppose. But the way we played tonight…and that without a practice. If we play like that all the time we’ll be getting bookings all over the place. I’m really excited.’
‘And would you give up playing your cello in the CBO, Maxine, if this jazz thing really took off?’
Maxine shrugged. She loved her cello; she loved the classical music she played on it. ‘I don’t know, Pansy. This jazz is…well, it’s fun but…I suppose there’s more money to be made playing jazz than there is playing classical music, but I don’t know.’
‘More than playing in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. What do you think, Stephen?’
‘Oh, I’m all for it, Pansy. I think you’ll do well – very well. Eleanor was mightily impressed, and she’s heard a few jazz bands.’
‘What did you think of Eleanor, Stephen?’ Maxine asked with genuine curiosity. ‘I thought she seemed a bit snotty.’
‘Snotty? Maxine you do say some things. She wasn’t snotty at all. I found her very nice…very easy to talk to.’
‘Easy to look at, too, eh?’ Pansy teased. ‘She should have been arrested wearing that dress. It looked as if it had been painted on – like her red nail varnish.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Pansy,’ Stephen said, irritated by his sister’s criticism. ‘I agree it was…well, revealing, but she wore it with such style.’
‘Well I wouldn’t wear anything like it. Would you, Maxine?’
‘Well, let’s face it, you couldn’t carry it off - either of you,’ Stephen responded curtly, without giving Maxine her chance to reply.
‘Don’t be daft, Stephen. Maxine’s figure is equally as good as Eleanor’s. So’s mine for that matter. It’s just that we’re not interested in flaunting ourselves like she is.’
‘Because you couldn’t carry it off. Eleanor can. There’s a subtle difference.’
‘She’s got no inhibitions if you ask me,’ Pansy persisted. ‘That’s why. I don’t see that as something to be proud of, our Stephen.’
Stephen smiled smugly to himself as he stopped the car outside the end terrace that was, for the time being, still the home of Henzey and Will and Maxine. He kissed Maxine cursorily on the lips as he bid her goodnight.
‘Goodnight, Stephen. Goodnight, Pansy.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand in appreciation. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Pansy. Absolutely brilliant.’
‘Thanks, Maxine. Goodnight…Hey, Maxine! Do you know whether Toots, the trumpet player, is married or anything?’
‘Toots?’ Maxine grinned. ‘I haven’t a clue. I barely know him. Fancy him, do you?’
Pansy shrugged, and the darkness hid her blushes. ‘He seems nice.’

Chapter 7 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
Stephen Hemming stopped his car behind Brent Shackleton’s outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club and bid cheerio to his sister Pansy and to Maxine as they left him for another evening of band practice. ‘See you about eleven,’ he called as the two girls turned to wave before they entered the club.
‘Thank God for this new business he’s started,’ Maxine commented. ‘At least it’s keeping him out of my hair.’
‘I can see you don’t mind.’ Pansy said.
‘Mind? I’m glad. He was driving me mad a while ago. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. At least it’s taken his mind off me. Gives me a chance to get on with my own life for a change.’
Pansy opened the inner door to the club. The others were there, tuning up, fooling around. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you put up with him, Maxine - how you’ve put up with him for so long. I wouldn’t fancy him for a boyfriend. He’s too self-centred.’
‘Well, while the cat’s away…’ She winked at Pansy devilishly. ‘I think he’s losing interest anyway. I won’t let him have what he wants.’
‘I don’t blame you, either. I can think of much nicer men to play hanky-panky with.’ Pansy smiled at Maxine, reflecting her contentment as she fell into the welcoming arms of Toots Randle. ‘Hello, sugar-lips,’ she greeted, kissing him briefly. ‘Sorry we’re late. Stephen was late collecting us.’
She placed her clarinet case on a chair and went back to Toots’s arms. In the month since Pansy had joined the band, a vibrant romance had blossomed between them; a romance that did not hide itself but which was open and honest, for all to see. Both had been unattached, neither seeking romance, but suddenly it had hit them and they were enjoying it. It was reflected in their playing too. A musical rapport was blossoming between them that manifested itself in some clever and often seemingly spontaneous interplay between trumpet and clarinet.
But spontaneous it was not – at least, not always. The band had been practising intensely and the musicians, especially Pansy and Toots, had got to know each other’s play better than ever. Each probed the abilities of the others and they pushed themselves and each other to the limit of their capabilities. This required many practice runs at the same piece, and a new riff that was improvised one moment, when considered worthy by the others, would become standard play in that number. But even to an experienced musician who might be listening, it seemed spontaneous.
‘What’s on the agenda for tonight?’ Maxine asked Brent.
‘Something a bit different. For a change. A friend of mine just came back from the United States. He picked up a record in New York that he reckons is a big hit there. He thought we’d be interested in playing it before anybody else cottoned on. I brought it along to listen to.’
‘What is it?’
‘A swing number – a bit of a novelty really. Called “The Music goes ’Round and Around”. It’s ideal for a seven-piece band.’
‘Let’s hear it then.’
Brent called everybody to order and placed the record on the turntable. He wound up the gramophone, placed the needle in the groove and they all sat in silence while they listened, Pansy on Toots’s lap, her arm round his neck.
‘So?’ he asked, when it had finished.
‘Let’s hear it again,’ said Kenny.
Brent played it again.
‘I like it,’ Pansy said. ‘It’s got some lovely riffs.’
‘But who’s going to sing it?’
‘Well. It describes the course of a note travelling through a trumpet, so maybe Toots should sing it,’ Brent reasoned.
‘Better if Pansy sang it,’ Maxine suggested logically, ‘then Toots could be blowing his note while she’s singing about it.’
‘I don’t like this new stuff,’ Ginger complained. ‘It’s not proper jazz, is it? And we are supposed to be a jazz band after all.’
‘It’s swing,’ Brent said.
‘Like I say, it’s not jazz.’
‘Swing is what jazz is evolving into, Ginger. Why should we be stuck in the style of New Orleans? This new music is more varied – you get novelty songs like this for instance – beautiful love songs as well, but you still need skill to play them. It’s no less taxing on your ability.’
‘It’ll be taxing on Ginger’s,’ Kenny remarked pointedly, adjusting the height of his high hat. ‘There’s no banjo in it. It’s all guitar – amplified at that.’
‘I can play guitar as well,’ Ginger protested. ‘Amplified or not.’
‘Huh! Says you. How come we’ve never seen your guitar?’
‘’Cause we play jazz. Jazz requires a banjo.’
‘Well from now on it’s gonna require a guitar as well if we’re to progress,’ Brent advised. ‘So I suggest you brush up on your guitar and bring it next time.’
‘D’you think Django Reinhardt will have anything to fear?’ Kenny wisecracked.
‘Have we got the sheet music to this, by any chance?’ Charlie asked, tuning his double bass.
‘Sorry. Just this record. Let’s listen to it again, eh?’
They listened once more, and took the first faltering steps in trying to play the number by ear. It was to take many hearings before each became familiar with his or her own part, but by the end of the evening they had it more or less right. Brent was happy, and Maxine was happy. The more they performed it the more comfortable they would be with it and the better it would get, meanwhile acquiring the characteristics of their own developing style.
So, at the end of the evening, they were content that their hard work had achieved something worthwhile. They talked together about this and that while they packed their instruments away and made ready to leave, a time for banter.
‘Anybody want a piece of chewing gum?’ Kenny asked, tossing a chicklet into his mouth nonchalantly. Pansy accepted and so did Toots. Then Kenny reached into one of the cases of his drum kit and splashed toilet water over his face.
‘Off out now then, Kenny?’ Toots enquired.
Kenny grinned. ‘I gotta smell nice. I’m seeing a bit o’ stuff. Picked her up here a couple o’ Sundays ago. A right little goer. Hotter than cayenne pepper.’
‘Well let’s hope your missus never finds out.’
Pansy rolled her eyes at them and turned to Maxine. ‘Toots is taking me home, Maxine. Do you want us to wait with you till Stephen comes?’
Maxine looked at her wristwatch. It said ten past eleven. ‘No, he’ll be here in a minute. You go.’
‘I’ll wait with you, Maxine,’ Brent offered. ‘We can wait in my car.’
Maxine thanked him and followed him outside, and they all wished each other goodnight. Brent got into his car and unlocked the passenger door.
‘I thought that number went well, considering,’ he said, lighting a cigarette when Maxine was sitting at his side.
‘So did I. I’m all for trying these newer styles of jazz. I think it’s got more appeal than straight, traditional jazz.’
‘There’s no doubt, Maxine…And I’ve been thinking…I want the band to have more visual appeal as well. We’ve proved the sound is better – that we’re an accomplished band already. Now, you and Pansy are really good-looking girls. I think we should exploit that to the limit. I think you should both wear really slinky dresses that show up your every curve – something to get the men’s pulses racing a bit. This swing stuff is more sophisticated, more in line with that image. Would it bother you…doing that?’
‘Wearing a slinky dress?’ She hooted at the thought. ‘It’s not really me, but no, I don’t mind – on stage. Maybe I could borrow Eleanor’s.’
He chortled impishly at her irreverence. ‘It wouldn’t fit. She’s bigger than you.’
‘I wasn’t serious, Brent. I’d buy my own.’
‘Great. You’ll do it then?’
‘If you think it’s for the good of the band…Talking of which, what are we going to do about the name? The Second City Hot Seven isn’t exactly inspiring.’
‘Not in keeping with what we’re trying to achieve, I agree, Maxine.’
‘As I see it, Brent, the name has to reflect what we’re trying to achieve. It has to do with the concept we’re trying to put over.’
‘Well, you two in your slinky, revealing frocks could give us a clue. How about Wayward something or other?’ He looked at her admiringly and, in the half-light, she discerned a gleam in his eye. ‘I wish you were a bit wayward, Maxine.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she replied coolly. ‘Anyway, I think we should try and project sophistication…Something adult. Our music is getting more sophisticated, so why shouldn’t we aim at a sophisticated audience? Adults, who know their own mind, who live life as they want to live it – even in sin, if that’s what they want.’
‘Sophisticated Sinners?’
‘Too much of a mouthful.’
‘Syncopating Sinners?’
‘No. I like the Sinners bit, though.’
‘Swinging Sinners.’
‘No, too ordinary…How about Sinful Swingers?’
‘God, no. That’s terrible.’
‘Sinful Syncopators?’
Just then, Stephen’s car pulled up alongside them. Maxine opened the door to let herself out. She turned to Brent. ‘Wayward Swingers.’
He sniggered out loud. ‘What? Sounds rude to me.’
She smiled patiently. ‘Goodnight, Brent. Thanks for waiting with me.’
‘Hey, Maxine. I’ve got it. The perfect name. The Rhythm Seekers.’
‘Yes, that’s good,’ she replied. ‘That’s very good.’
‘No, Maxine. On second thoughts, what has seekers got to do with jazz?’
She closed the door again and sat back. This brainstorming of ideas should not be rushed. ‘Honey Seekers. That’s got a nice ring to it. And it’s jazzy. Remember “Whose Honey Are You” and “Honeysuckle Rose”?’
‘How about Honey and Plenty of Money?’
She tittered irreverently. ‘Wrapped up in a five-pound note, you mean? Are you serious?’
‘Why not? It’s from “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat”. At least it has a familiar sound. “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money wrapped up in a five pound note”…’
Outside, Stephen hooted the horn of his car with impatience.
‘The Owls and the Pussycats,’ they said in unison, almost as if it had been rehearsed, and burst out laughing.
‘Brilliant!’ Maxine exclaimed.
‘That’s the one,’ Brent agreed. ‘The men are the owls, you girls are the pussycats – of course. It couldn’t be better.’
‘I’d better go, Brent. Old Face-Ache outside will be upset if I keep him waiting any longer. See you tomorrow. Thanks for waiting with me.’
‘My pleasure, Maxine…really.’
Brent was becoming ever more aware that Maxine was no ordinary band member. She was a woman and he was warming to her inexorably. He’d always considered her beautiful in a demure way. And that virginal demureness attracted him, especially now she was going to buy a slinky, revealing dress for their stage shows. He was really looking forward to it; to seeing her dressed to kill. The transformation from demureness to out and out glamour promised to be stimulating, and he was reminded of how it had been with Eleanor; a blossoming, innocent schoolgirl suddenly transformed into a bewitching young woman. If Maxine’s complexion was anything to go by, her skin beneath her clothes would be sensational.
At each rehearsal nowadays, whether it was with the band or the CBO, Brent found his eyes always seeking hers, fishing for her warm smile. Undoubtedly she was attracted to him too, but she was evidently uncertain about him, because of Eleanor. Maxine was so talented, too; so talented that she could do wonders for his own career, and for his bank balance, which was permanently in a precarious state these days.
It was not good sense to park his car directly outside the house of the woman with whom he had commenced an affair, so he pulled up in a side street about fifty yards away. It was not normally good sense to conduct such extra-curricular activities in her marital home either, but he knew that tonight it was safe enough so long as they left no trace. As he walked furtively from his motor car, his heart was pounding at the prospect of what he knew was to come. This adventure had given him a new lease of life, had put the world in a much brighter light. His hard-tolerated celibacy was at an end, for the foreseeable future at any rate. This woman was so strikingly beautiful and so anxious to let him partake of it, that even thinking about her aroused him beyond his wildest fantasies.
He tapped on the door. Almost immediately she opened it and his heart leapt with joy at the sight he beheld. The hall was in darkness, to avoid light spilling onto him outside, which neighbours might see. Yet, sufficient light enabled him to see she wore merely a glistening, diaphanous, white nightdress that buttoned down the front. She closed the door quietly behind him.
At once they were in each other’s arms, seeking eagerly each other’s lips before any words passed between them. As he held her, his hands roamed over the thin film of silky material that was between him and her smooth skin. He detected no underwear beneath. Urgently, he undid the buttons at the front and treated himself to a handful of breast, firm, warm and luxurious. As he kneaded one, her nipple hardened and he was excited even more by this response. She, in turn, unfastened his belt and the buttons of his fly with expertise and he felt his trousers fall and lie around his ankles.
He opened the flimsy nightdress fully, dived inside and cupped her firm small buttocks in his hands as he pressed her hard against the newel post. While their mouths were hungry for each other, tasting, tongues exploring, she thrust her hands inside his underpants and he sighed with pleasure as she withdrew him and held him as if she were fondling a priceless treasure. Then, without further ado, she parted her legs and gasped with delight as he slid easily into her.
She threw her head back, sighing, savouring the wonderful sensations, while his mouth explored her, his teeth scratching the tight, smooth skin of her neck. They slumped onto the stairs in their passion and found only minor comfort, she in the support the hard staircase afforded, he in the purchase it provided. They rocked erratically, frequently lying still to try and prolong the ecstasy. But all too soon he had to withdraw, unable to contain himself any longer, and he pumped his semen over her belly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. ‘I’m a bit out of practice.’
She hugged him, but with bitter disappointment. ‘It’s hardly surprising, I suppose.’
‘Give me half an hour.’
‘What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Read?’
It troubled him that she sounded impatient. ‘I’ll do better next time…but not here. Can’t we go to your bed?’
She shook her head slowly, deliberately. ‘The sitting room. The sofa’s fine.’
He rolled off her and tried to stand but his trousers, still around his ankles, ensured that he lost his balance when he moved, so he stumbled, falling back onto the stairs.
‘Oh, Stephen,’ she chuckled. ‘You are funny. Why didn’t you take them off first?’
He laughed with her, acknowledging how silly he must seem, and sat beside her on the stairs. ‘I forgot I still had them on,’ he muttered, untying his shoelaces. ‘I’m not used to all these shenanigans.’
‘Are you suggesting that I am?’
‘No, Eleanor, certainly not.’ He kicked off his shoes and reached down to remove his trousers from around his ankles. ‘It’s just that I’ve never found myself in a situation like this before. Not in a hallway as soon as I walk in.’
‘Then maybe you’ll have to get used to the idea,’ she said with a gleam in her eye. ‘Come on, let’s go into the sitting room. I’ve opened a bottle of whisky.’
She stood up and held her hand out to him. He gathered his trousers and his shoes in one hand and took her hand with the other, allowing himself to be led into the sitting room. It was not particularly tidy and the furniture, he knew from previous visits, was past its best and shabby, though comfortable enough. The only light was from a small table lamp standing on a whatnot in the curtained bay window that lent an ambience of intimacy. Eleanor poured him a measure of whisky and leaned over to hand it to him. As she did so, her nightdress fell open, exposing herself.
‘Thanks, Eleanor,’ Stephen mumbled, his eyes first catching a tantalising glimpse of the dark triangle of hair between her legs, then her long smooth flanks. He gulped with disbelief. God above, was this real? Was he really so privileged as to be bedding this beautiful girl so soon after they’d been introduced; this girl who had fascinated him from the first moment he saw her? Was he really to be so privileged after all this time of celibacy trying to wheedle the knickers off Maxine Kite? The effort of all that, compared to the lack of effort required to achieve the same result with Eleanor, was unbelievable. That two girls should be so different, should take such different attitudes to sexual contact, was thoroughly confusing. But thank God for it.
Eleanor sat beside him, leaned against him and he put his arm around her. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of your clothes off and kiss me?’ she suggested.
He felt like a god. It could never get better than this, surely?
‘All right,’ he breathed and nonchalantly took a sip of whisky before removing his jacket, tie, and shirt.
‘Don’t forget your underpants,’ she said. ‘And your socks…By the way, I hope you brought some French letters with you this time.’
He fished an unopened packet from his jacket pocket and showed her proudly, amused that she had given him no chance to use one when he first arrived, that she found him so utterly irresistible that she couldn’t keep her hands off him. As he divested himself of what remained of his clothes, she shifted so that she was lying down on the sofa, then squashed up to its backrest to make room for him. He lay beside her, opened her nightdress and entertained himself with her breasts while he kissed her.
‘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 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
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 always 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?’
They had travelled about a hundred yards when Maxine said: ‘You know, Brent, I feel guilty going to the jazz club with you tonight if you’re not on the best of terms with Eleanor. Perhaps you should take me home.’
‘What the devil for? It’s nothing to do with Eleanor. In any case, I’d rather be in your company than hers.’
Maxine smiled with tenderness, flattered that Brent should make such an admission. She looked at him as he drove, the moving streetlights reflected in his brooding eyes.
‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she said. ‘But my concern is that Eleanor might get the wrong idea.’ She shrugged. ‘You know…’
‘I don’t care if she does.’
‘But I care, Brent. Spare a thought for me. I don’t want her maligning me for something I haven’t done.’
‘So you’d rather go home?’
‘Unless you promise you won’t tell her you’ve taken me tonight.’
He smiled to himself. ‘Oh, count on it, Maxine. I’ve no intention of doing that.’
‘Good. Thank you, Brent.’
They arrived outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club. Brent pulled on the handbrake, stopped the engine and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘By the way, there seems to be a lot of outside interest in the band all of a sudden. I’ve got bookings for the Tower Ballroom for a few Saturday nights, starting the week after next, and if they like us it could be a resident spot. As well as others. What do you think of that, eh?’
‘That’s smashing,’ Maxine said inadequately, but with a wide grin of satisfaction. She showed no intention of getting out of the car, happy to learn of the band’s increasing success.
‘I’ve had enquiries, too, from further afield. Some, wanting to book us up for Christmas and New Year. We can put our fees up for then, especially New Year’s Eve. We can virtually name our own price.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘You’re gorgeous in that slinky new dress, you know, Maxine.’ He gave her a grin as indiscreet as his thoughts.
‘Well thank you,’ she replied.
‘I’ve been thinking, Maxine. I think we should feature your singing more. I want you to be the band’s main vocalist. Leave the piano sometimes and stand stage front. You’ve got a great jazz voice – different – but you look the part as well. We must exploit it. So, think of some more songs you’d like to sing.’
He leaned towards her, almost imperceptibly, and she could have sworn he was going to kiss her, so she tilted her head tentatively to offer her mouth. But he did not take advantage and she felt a pang of disappointment when he opened his door to get out. At once she opened the passenger door, her disappointment turning to embarrassment, for he must have noticed her intention to submit. What if he thought it too obvious? Think of something to say, quickly, to distract him.
‘ “Where or When?” ’
‘As soon as you like. At the next practice if we can.’
‘No,’ she exclaimed, a peal of laughter concealing her embarrassment. ‘I mean can I sing the song called “Where or When”?’
‘Oh, that. Sure.’
The CBO was busy with the summer season and The Owls and the Pussycatshad a rapidly filling schedule too. After the Saturday promenade concerts, Maxine and Brent had to dash to the Tower Ballroom for their new series of gigs. They were booked to play a couple of forty-five minute spots, alternating with the resident dance band who, like all self-respecting musicians, welcomed the break as an opportunity to consume more beer.
But increasingly, the regular dance band were foregoing their extra beer to listen to this outstanding new seven-piece outfit. Maxine and Pansy, in their new, slinky, shiny, clingy dresses, drew wolf whistles galore, but everybody had to admire the music they were creating, and that manifested itself in loud and prolonged applause.
When Maxine sang her favourite new love song, ‘Where or When?’ the couples who were dancing fell into an embrace and shuffled together slowly on the dance floor, but most also had an eye on the stage, watching her. She had presence. She had style. Oh, she had everything.
Rehearsals saw them attempting more of the new swing music that was coming from America. From a specialist source in New York that Brent knew, called the Commodore Music Shop, they were able to send for records and musical arrangements. They acquired records by Jack Teagarden, Django Reinhardt, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington that were not available in Britain. And, as they enlarged their repertoire and their music became more sophisticated, so the booking enquiries flooded in. Would they play at this wedding, that society function? Would they give an outdoor concert in Canon Hill Park? Would they play at this town hall, that hotel?
Certainly. They would play as many as they could. Brent wanted the money. And as they played further afield, more and more people were hearing their name.
‘Have you heard that new band called The Owls and the Pussycats? They’re great! They’re fantastic! They’re wonderful!’
Word spread.
Word spread like fire in a bone-dry forest, fanned by a strong breeze.
However, Brent Shackleton’s growing elation over the band was offset somewhat by a discovery he made at home late one afternoon in July. Returning from a CBO rehearsal, he went upstairs to get changed. He took off his cufflinks and went to place them in the small glass dish on his tallboy where he always left them, when he noticed Eleanor’s jewellery box there too. It had been left open inadvertently. She was not overly endowed with fine jewellery, but one piece stood out among the other trinkets. It was a ring, with a huge amethyst set in a cluster of diamonds. Brent picked it up. He had seen this ring before. A ring as distinctive as this he could not be mistaken about. This ring he had seen on Maxine Kite’s finger. It was her engagement ring, later transferred to her right hand. What in God’s name was it doing in Eleanor’s jewellery box?
After Saturday evening’s CBO concert, Brent was already waiting backstage for Maxine to leave the ladies’ dressing room.
‘Maxine,’ he said, and his cool brown eyes manifested a look of disquiet. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the Tower, but I can’t play tonight. Something’s cropped up.’
She looked at him with concern. ‘Oh? What?’
‘I can’t say. It might be nothing. On the other hand, it could be significant. I can’t say yet.’
‘Well I hope it’s something easily sorted out,’ she said sincerely. ‘But how shall we get on tonight without a trombone player?’
‘Oh, you’ll be okay,’ he assured her. ‘Nobody will miss my line. You’ll cope fine.’
They walked to his car, and he drove her to the Tower Ballroom. ‘The manager is supposed to let us know tonight whether he wants to book us for a resident season,’ he said as he pulled up outside. ‘Talk to him, Maxine, and explain that I can’t be there. I’ll leave it to you to sort out. But don’t go below that figure we said. If they want us they’ve got to pay.’
Maxine nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you Tuesday at practice. I hope you get it settled, whatever it is.’
He smiled ruefully and held up his hand as a departing gesture.
Funny how Maxine Kite had grown on him. Three months ago he hadn’t been that interested. Nowadays, though, he considered Maxine a prospective conquest. But Eleanor alone was enough for any man. His relationship with Eleanor was strange, obsessive, and he could not help himself where she was concerned. Ever since she’d coyly let him glimpse her first adolescent triangle of soft, pubic hair, they’d been lovers and their secret had fuelled their greater ardour for each other over the years. The curious and inexpert fumblings of youth, the unexpected, uncontrived sensations they experienced together, all gathered momentum and escalated into an ardour so intense that there had been times when they simply could not get enough of each other; when they would stay in bed all day. And this prolonged, frenetic lovemaking would render them sore and exhausted for days afterwards.
But their relationship was strained at present. A couple of times in the past Eleanor had been aloof, indifferent towards him. He had grown suspicious then that she had been interested in another man. Whether or not it had amounted to anything, he did not know, short of asking her. Yet, he would not ask her for fear of learning the truth. The same suspicions had drawn him home early tonight. Something was wrong and he needed to find out what.
As Brent drove on through the poorly lit streets of Bearwood towards Handsworth where he and Eleanor lived, he thought of the other women he had had; women who had failed to divert him in the way Eleanor evidently became diverted. They meant nothing; merely conquests; food for the ego.
His thoughts quickly returned to Maxine Kite. He understood that it would be ungallant of him to try and ensnare Maxine in a sexual relationship, but only because he perceived she was forthright and had some honour; he could not reasonably expect her to be willing because of Eleanor. All the same, she was eminently beddable; and gallantry had never been his strong point anyway. Each time he looked at her he discovered something new; a different expression, a tiny mole on her arm he had not noticed before, how the light glinting off her lush dark hair reflected some other unexpected colour. She was his equal when it came to conversation, knowledgeable enough to discuss any topic. She was bright, intelligent, fun, not given to tantrums or selfishness. She would be bright, intelligent and fun in bed, too. Sooner or later he would bed her. He always got what he wanted. And he had no other competition now that Stephen was gone.
At that moment, Brent saw Stephen’s car parked in Arthur Road, a side street close to his house in Grove Lane. What the devil was he doing here? This could explain the ring. Unless he was visiting somebody else close by. Brent knew few of his neighbours; by choice he did not socialise with them, so he did not know who lived where Stephen’s car was parked.
But Eleanor’s recent indifference and his finding Stephen’s ring spelled it out, shouted it louder than any megaphone could. Of course, the crafty monkey was visiting Eleanor. Brent’s mind flickered back to that evening at the jazz club when Eleanor first met him. They had chatted easily and for quite a while, but not sufficiently to arouse any suspicion. Stephen was the last person he would have considered to be of interest to Eleanor. The man was too insipid, too ordinary and too dull for somebody as vibrant and discerning as Eleanor.
Brent sat staring at Stephen’s car for ages, deciding what he should do for the best. He did not want to enter the house for fear Stephen was there with Eleanor. It would be counter-productive to confront them or find them in a compromising situation. First, in any case, he should make sure. So he reversed his car into Mostyn Road, another side street where it was out of view and hid behind the school gates from where he had sight of Stephen’s car and his own front door. One thing was certain; if Stephen was up to no good with Eleanor, he would take great pleasure in his revenge. And what more fitting revenge than to bed Maxine Kite when Stephen had manifestly failed to do so? What more satisfying conclusion than to induce her to fall in love with him? That would prove beyond any doubt that he was much more of a man than Stephen.
He lit a cigarette and waited…and waited.
At the Tower Ballroom, all was going well. Despite Brent’s absence, The Owls and the Pussycatswere giving a good account of themselves. Only they seemed to know that somebody was missing from the line-up. As far as the dancing couples were concerned, everything was fine. When they had finished their first spot they headed thirstily for the bar. Within a couple of minutes a man approached them wearing a dark suit that badly needed pressing.
‘Who’s the leader of your band?’ he asked, addressing all of them and nobody in particular. ‘I’m from the Evening Mail. I wondered if I could interview your leader.’
‘Maybe I can help?’ Maxine responded.
‘But you’re never the band leader, are you?’
‘I am when he’s not around,’ she answered steadily.
‘But you’re a woman. Who is the recognised leader?’
‘Brent Shackleton,’ she said, keeping calm. ‘He’s not here. And when he’s not around I look after anything that might crop up.’
‘Okay,’ the man conceded. ‘I reckon you’ll have to do. I daresay you’re a sight prettier than this Brent Shackleton, anyway, eh?’
‘But he can be quite charming when he’s a mind to be.’ Maxine responded, indignant at the man’s attitude but maintaining her polite smile.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mister?’ Toots said, his arm as always around Pansy’s trim waist, even while waiting to be served at the bar.
‘Thanks, pal. That’s the best offer I’ve had since I’ve got here. Pint of Ansell’s…My name’s Bill Brighton, by the way. I’m the music critic for the Mail.’
‘Oh, I’ve read your column lots of times,’ Maxine said, overlooking her indignation, recognising the need to exaggerate the truth in the cause of flattery and what it might buy them in free publicity. ‘I always enjoy reading it.’ At this, Bill Brighton’s attitude visibly softened. ‘So what do you want to know about us, Mr Brighton?’
‘Well, word has got to us about the band. Some pretty impressive comments over the last few weeks. I wanted to come and hear you for myself.’
‘Pity we’re short of the trombonist then,’ Toots commented. ‘Trust that to happen when you come along.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ve been mightily impressed…The name of the band, though…The Owls and the Pussycats? Who thought that one up?’
‘Brent Shackleton and me,’ Maxine answered, recalling their brain-storming a while ago.’
‘Borrowed from Edward Lear, eh?’
‘Well, we didn’t think he’d mind.’ She took her drink from Toots and thanked him.
Toots handed the reporter a beer. ‘Thanks…So who plays the runcible spoon, eh?’ he roared.
‘Nobody in this band, Mr Brighton,’ Maxine replied straight-faced. ‘The owl and the pussy-cat ate with a runcible spoon.’
Everybody burst out laughing.
‘Oops, sorry, Miss,’ Bill Brighton said, discountenanced. ‘An easy mistake. And I thought I knew that poem by heart. Anyway, listen. I really like your music and I like the way you play. I reckon you’ve got a big future ahead of you, and I’ll tell our readers that. Good bands are hard to come by. Are you professional?’
‘No, we all have other jobs,’ Toots replied raising his glass.
‘Cheers. Do you hope to become professional?’
Nobody answered, only an exchange of uncertain glances between the band.
‘Some of us would love to be,’ Maxine said. ‘But I don’t think it will happen. Some of us are professional musicians already. I play in the CBO. So does Brent Shackleton. Pansy here plays in the Hippodrome pit orchestra. We’d have to be mighty successful to give up our regular jobs and depend solely on The Owls and the Pussycats for our bread and butter.’
‘For your mince and slices of quince, eh?’ Bill Brighton suggested, jeopardising his credibility with another risky witticism, which everybody ignored.
‘I’d give up my other job tomorrow,’ Pansy remarked. ‘I’d love it just playing in this band.’
Bill Brighton had many more questions. Finally, he said he’d got enough information to give them a write-up in his newspaper and asked when he might send a photographer to take some pictures. Brent Shackleton would organise that, Maxine said. Brent would be in touch with him early next week.
Brent Shackleton drew earnestly on several more cigarettes before he saw his front door open and reveal a dim column of light. A tall man was momentarily silhouetted – Stephen Hemming. Brent watched him leave, turn and wave to Eleanor. His pulse raced with bitter resentment. The cheek of the man. Just how long had this been going on? He tried to calm himself down as he watched Stephen furtively cross the road to his car in the darkness. What was the sense in getting up-tight about this? What sense was there in creating a fuss? Creating a fuss would achieve nothing. He would confront Eleanor, but calmly. He must not get angry like the last time. The trick was to remain reasonable. In any case, why try to compete? If she wanted him, she could have him. No amount of animated cajoling would win back her favours.
He waited till Stephen disappeared then drove his own car unhurriedly to the front of his house. Breathing deeply in an effort to maintain his calm, he locked the car and slowly walked up the path to the front door. As he opened it, he caught sight of Eleanor at the top of the stairs, floating across the landing in her dressing gown.
‘Eleanor!’
She did not answer.
If they had been to bed the bedclothes would still be strewn about. He rushed upstairs and walked into their bedroom, expecting the worst. But the bed was untouched, exactly how it had been when he left home earlier; his Fair Isle pullover was still on the counterpane where he had left it. Stephen and Eleanor had evidently not been to bed. Maybe he was wrong about Stephen. Maybe he was wrong about Eleanor. Perhaps it had been merely a social call.
Eleanor was in the bathroom. He sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Still agitated, he stood up again and walked downstairs to the sitting room. Everything was neat and tidy. Every cushion was where it should be. No used cups and saucers lay about, no dirty drinking glasses, no articles of clothing, no carelessly discarded underwear, no unwitting clues that might hint at any extracurricular sexual shenanigans. No, Eleanor was too artful to be caught out like that. Except that maybe the place was too tidy.
In the kitchen he boiled the kettle, ground some coffee beans and made himself a drink. He grabbed his half-full bottle of cheap French brandy, poured a generous measure into a tumbler and sat down with both drinks at the kitchen table, sipping the hot one, alternately gulping the one that caught the back of his throat. Why had Stephen Hemming been to this house? What was the creep up to?
Eleanor left the bathroom and Brent called her. This time she answered: no, why should she come downstairs? She was going to bed. She was tired. Just because he was home early didn’t mean she had to sit up with him.
‘I’ve just seen Stephen Hemming,’ he called, trying to stay calm, trying to sound casual, that it was of no consequence. ‘What was he doing here?
‘Stephen?’ she commented as if it was news to her.
‘Yes, Stephen. I saw him leave here a few minutes ago. His car was parked in Arthur Road. Why was he here?’
He heard Eleanor padding down the stairs and he lit a cigarette.
She appeared at the kitchen door looking apprehensive. The pleasant fragrance of her toilet soap was like an aura around her.
‘Yes, Stephen was here,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m helping him with his new business.’
Brent exhaled smoke in a great gust and took another slug of brandy. ‘Helping him do what?’
‘Helping him get organised. He’s got no idea of office routines, accounting – that sort of thing.’
‘So how are you helping him, Eleanor? You know as much about office routines and accounting as I know about the inside of Hitler’s trouser legs. What’s going on?’
‘What could be going on?’ she asked, her sham resentment purporting innocence.
‘I dread to think.’
‘With Stephen? You can’t seriously suggest —. Nothing’s going on, Brent, for God’s sake. Jesus Christ, why do you think anything’s going on?’
‘Because I know you.’
‘Are you accusing me of something, Brent Shackleton? If so, you’d better be careful. You’d better be very careful.’
‘Then why are you in possession of his engagement ring? The ring he gave to Maxine Kite?’
Eleanor gasped with trepidation. ‘That was not

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