Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

‘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…’