Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

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.