Nancy Carson - Rags to Riches

‘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.’

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.