Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

‘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 thSymphony 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.’