Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

‘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.

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.