Rags to Riches

‘Actually, I’m with one of the band.’

‘You don’t say? Might I ask which one?’

‘The trombonist.’

‘You don’t say…’ Maxine thought he sounded inordinately surprised. ‘A good musician. Not bad band, either, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not bad,’ she concurred unconvincingly. ‘Between you and me, though, I’m not so sure about the pianist.’

‘Interesting you should say that,’ he remarked, focusing on the piano player.

‘I’ve been watching him and listening. If only he would syncopate they would really swing.’

‘Mmm…Interesting you should say that.’ He took a thoughtful slurp from his pint. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though. I’m certainly no musician, but what you say doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re not a musician, are you, by any chance?’

‘I am a pianist,’ she confessed, to justify her comments. ‘But I play cello in the CBO.’

‘The CBO? Hey! You’re a classical musician. That explains your being hauled here by Brent.’

‘You know Brent?’

‘Nodding terms only, I’m afraid. Friend of a friend. Look, can I get you a drink?’

She looked at the barely touched glass of beer with distaste. ‘Would you mind?’ she replied. ‘This beer is too awful. I’d love a glass of lemonade…If it’s no trouble?’

‘Absolutely no trouble at all.’ He quaffed what remained of his pint and turned for the bar.

Great! She had a friend to talk to while Brent was busy. And he was easy to talk to. He seemed nice. She smiled cheerfully, uplifted now. It was pleasant to make new friends. What had he said his name was?…Howard? Yes. Howard Quaintance. Difficult to forget a name like that. In no time he returned and handed her the glass of lemonade. She took a mouthful eagerly to destroy the lingering, bitter taste of the beer.

‘So, how come you and Brent are on nodding terms?’ she asked.

‘Through one of the other members of the band, actually.’

Maxine felt herself go hot. Of course, this Howard was going to tell her it was the piano player, she could feel it coming with the certainty of an express train hurtling down a track to which she was tied and unable to escape. She put her hand over her eyes, and cringed.

‘Don’t tell me it’s the pianist, Howard. Please don’t tell me it’s the pianist!’

He guffawed aloud, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles with unconcealed delight at Maxine’s gaff. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it is.’

‘Oh, God!’ She wanted the ground at her feet to open up and consume her. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

Still howling with laughter, he touched her forearm and she felt his hand, warm, reassuring as he squeezed it.

‘Don’t concern yourself, Maxine,’ he said gently. ‘Old Randolf would be the first to admit he’s no jazz musician. Actually, he’s a church organist, you know. Jolly good he is too, as choirmaster, at playing Wesley and Stainer. Does an intoxicating “All things bright and beautiful”. Took this on as a challenge. For a hoot. A tad out of his depth I think.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve gone all hot.’ Then she chuckled at her faux pas. ‘Maybe I’m too honest.’

‘Never ever say that, Maxine. Make thine honesty a vice…Shakespeare…Othello, you know.’

She shrieked with laughter. ‘Really? Shouldn’t I make it a virtue?’

He laughed with her at his own gaff.

‘So what do you do for a living, Howard, that makes you quote Shakespeare out of context? Are you an English teacher, by any chance?’

He chortled again and took a mouthful of beer, all the time looking straight into her eyes. She held the glance and recognised an untainted, well-brought-up look.

‘I’d rather not say. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Maxine, but I rather like you and if I tell you what I do for a living you might not wish to be as affable as you are.’

‘Affable, am I?’

‘Definitely. I find you easy to talk to and hugely amusing. I also find you very direct. I like that. It’s refreshing in a girl…’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, we may never meet again, so there’d be no harm in telling you anyway. But, I won’t.’

She laughed at his indecision or his teasing; she wasn’t sure which it was. ‘God! You’re infuriating. Why won’t you tell me what you do?’

‘It’s of no consequence – really…But hey, I am thirsty.’ He took a long quaff from his beer, finishing it off.

‘Well, you’re drinking that rather quickly,’ she commented.

‘Good God! You’re not in the Band of Hope, are you?’

‘Certainly not. More like the band of no hope, me.’ Her tone, she was aware, must have sounded melancholy.

‘How can you possibly say that?’ he asked. ‘With all the musical talent you must possess?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about musical talent particularly.’

‘Oh? What, then?’

It was her turn to shrug, unsure as to how much she should tell him. ‘Oh…Men. I find men are a pain in the neck…Oh, I don’t mean you, Howard – I don’t know you – but some at any rate. I mean it’s either all or nothing with them. At least that’s my experience – which is a bit limited, I hasten to add – just in case I’ve given you the wrong impression.’

‘Is that an engagement ring you’re wearing, Maxine? You must have captured somebody’s heart. But that’s hardly surprising.’

She brought her hand up so he could inspect the ring in the dimness. He took off his glasses to better see close to and slipped them into the top pocket of his jacket.

‘Very impressive,’ he remarked.

‘But it’s not an engagement ring, Howard.’

‘No? Well that’s a blessing.’

She explained in some detail about her relationship with Stephen. How he wanted more than she was prepared to give, how she did not enjoy his caresses, even though she liked him as a person; how he’d tried to trap her into saying she would marry him. She was surprised at the consummate ease with which she was pouring out her doubts and fears to Howard, as if they’d been bosom pals always.

‘But everyone will think it’s an engagement ring, Maxine, and your Stephen knows that,’ Howard advised her. ‘Don’t you see? I thought it was an engagement ring, actually. Why don’t you wear it on your right hand, if you’re still keen on wearing it? Then there can be no misunderstanding. It tends to put off potential suitors, you know.’

Maxine looked at him with wide-eyed admiration. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? That’s brilliant, Howard! That’s absolutely brilliant.’

‘Here. Let me do it. I’ve never removed a ring from a finger before.’

She gave him her hand, thinking it a strange thing for him to say. He put his glass down on a nearby table and touched her slender fingers. Deftly, he slid off the ring.

‘Now, give me your right hand.’ He put the ring on the third finger. ‘Does it fit?’

She nodded coyly, aware that her heart was beating fast with the unanticipated intimacy of the moment. To her surprise, being touched by someone who was not Stephen was surprisingly pleasant and, for the first time in her life, Maxine felt that maybe she was not destined to be unresponsive forever. It had to be Stephen. She felt new hope. Physical contact might be pleasurable after all, and she wondered what her reaction would be if Brent touched her.

‘There. That’s all there is to it. Problem solved.’

‘Thank you.’ She felt herself blush; though in this dim light it barely mattered.

‘Is that why you’re here tonight with Brent Shackleton?’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘I mean, are you trying to seek some reason to justify discarding this Stephen?’

He had a point.

‘Maybe. I don’t really know. I hadn’t analysed my motives particularly. Brent’s a fellow musician. A colleague. To tell you the truth I was ready to go home before you came talking to me.’ But suddenly she saw her chance to find out more about Brent. She must sound as casual as she could. ‘Anyway, I don’t really know Brent that well. What can you tell me about him? I’ve seen him with a girl after CBO concerts. A really beautiful girl. Is he married or anything?’

Howard looked bitterly disappointed. ‘Why don’t you ask him, Maxine?’

Outside it had started to rain. Maxine had not anticipated rain tonight. She pulled her cardigan over her shoulders and ran behind Brent as they headed for his car. He threw his trombone onto the back seat. Once inside he unlocked the passenger door for her.

‘Bloody weather,’ he murmured. ‘Which way?’

‘To the top of Broad Street, then turn right into Ladywood Road.’ She shuffled her bottom on the seat to get comfortable, Howard’s presence still with her.

He turned the car around and drove off. ‘Well? Have you enjoyed tonight?’

‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, thank you. The band’s good. I’m impressed. Have you got a name for yourselves?’

‘The Second City Hot Six.’

‘The Second City Hot Six?…But there are seven of you.’

‘Arthur doesn’t always play. His wife won’t let him out all the time.’

‘Lord, I can scarcely believe that!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not that brilliant anyway, is he?’

‘Not really. But most of the time we haven’t got him. When we have, he’s a bonus.’

‘A liability, more like. He plays that clarinet as if it were a piece of lead piping. The pianist too – he’s the same – worse, possibly.’

He chuckled at her directness. ‘This stuff’s not serious, Maxine. It’s for fun. It doesn’t really matter how good or bad we are, so long as we enjoy playing together. It pays reasonably well, anyway. That’s a bonus.’

‘I suppose so. But I tend to be a perfectionist, Brent. I couldn’t stand to play jazz – or anything else for that matter – unless I was doing it as well as it was possible to do it.’

‘Does that apply to everything you do?’ he asked provocatively.

‘Of course it does.’ His innuendo was lost on her, however.

‘I see you were talking to Randolf’s chum.’

‘You mean Howard? He was nice. Easy to talk to. I liked him.’ The same glow she’d felt when he held her hand lit her up again as she recalled the moment. After a pause, she said: ‘I asked him about you.’

He snorted with laughter. ‘I bet that impressed him.’

‘I asked him if he knew whether you were married.’

‘Oh? And what did he say?’

‘He said to ask you …I think I upset him. So I’m asking. Are you married, Brent?’

He hesitated, and she knew he was debating with himself whether to tell her a lie. ‘Why? Is it important?’

‘It might be.’

‘Yet you didn’t ask before you accepted my offer to take you out.’

‘Nevertheless, it had occurred to me.’

‘Nevertheless, you accepted my invitation.’

She felt her colour rise. ‘I suppose I did.’

‘Which suggests it isn’t relevant.’

‘It would be relevant if I had designs on you,’ she said, trying to make it sound as if she hadn’t.

He grinned to himself in the darkness. ‘And do you have designs on me?’

‘Certainly not. Especially if you’re married. So? Are you married?’

‘I might be,’ he teased. ‘And then again, I might not.’

‘Sorry, Brent. Turn left here, please.’

‘Left? Hold tight.’ He braked hard and turned the car into the corner.

‘Now right.’

‘Okay…Now where?’

‘Just here will do…Thank you, Brent. Thanks for taking me to listen to the Second City Hot Seven.’

‘Hot Six.’

She smiled enigmatically as she clambered out of the car. ‘See you at rehearsal in the morning.’

Chapter 5

Orchestra rehearsals for Beethoven’s Mass in D went well. By five minutes past ten everyone had tuned up and was playing. Leslie Heward was not content with some of the passages in the final movement, prompting various discussions and one or two individuals practising certain phrases privately and spontaneously before going over it again together. They broke for lunch at one o’ clock.

Maxine, who had avoided looking in the direction of Brent Shackleton, was surprised when he sidled up to her as she spoke to Gwen Berry on a point of interpretation on the cello score.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Gwen. Do you mind if I steal Maxine off you?’ he asked courteously. ‘Have you got a minute, Maxine?’

Maxine excused herself and stood up.

‘Last night, Maxine…’ he began seriously. ‘Look, do you mind coming with me to The White Hart for a drink? There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s probably best done over a drink.’

‘Okay,’ she said, surprised at the prospect of being in his company again so soon. ‘What do you want to discuss with me?’

‘I need some advice. Something you said last night.’

About the question of him being married? ‘Let me grab my bag.’

She trotted alongside him to the exit. ‘Horrible last night, wasn’t it? The weather, I mean.’ She smiled appealingly to confirm she really did mean the weather.

In Chamberlain Square the pigeons were out in force, strutting earnestly in the sunshine, flapping boisterously as crumbs and crusts landed among them. Lunch time was an engrossing time of day for pigeons, for on fine days such as this the providers of all these scraps of bread, the city’s office workers, took to the Square to enjoy sandwiches and flasks of tea among the splendour of some of Birmingham’s grandest Victorian architecture. Office romances budded and blossomed as workers sought relief in the sunshine from the tedium of eye straining paperwork in poorly lit rooms.

Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.

He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.

They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.

‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’

‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’

He grinned. ‘Okay. Lemonade. What about a sandwich? They do decent sandwiches here.’

‘No thanks.’ She had taken her own sandwiches as she did every rehearsal day. They were lying in her basket next to her cello; to be eaten alongside her cello usually. Besides, she could never countenance buying sandwiches when they were so cheap and easy to make at home.

Brent returned with their drinks. ‘There’s nowhere to sit.’

‘Then we’ll have to stand.’ She took the glass from him and sipped it. ‘So what do you want to discuss with me?’

‘The Second City Hot Six.’ He took a long draught through the foam on his beer.

‘Oh? How do you think I can help?’

‘Well, you’re a musician, Maxine. You listen to jazz. You reckon you play it yourself occasionally…’

‘But only for fun. Never seriously. I’ve only ever played it with my friend Pansy. She’s brilliant, mind you. Completely wasted.’

‘Cigarette?’

‘I don’t smoke, Brent. You know I don’t smoke.’

‘I forgot. Sorry…Something you said last night, Maxine, made me think. You said there was no point in doing something – playing jazz for instance – if you didn’t do it right. You said you’re a perfectionist.’

‘I suppose I am. I can’t stand music to be played slapdash.’

He lit his cigarette. ‘After I dropped you off I thought about that. And you know, you’re spot on. I want to earn my living playing jazz. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. You made me realise with that comment of yours that if that’s what I want, then I have to do it properly to achieve it. Why shouldn’t I be the best? Why shouldn’t the band be the best? It’s the only way forward.’

‘Quite right,’ Maxine agreed, wafting unwanted smoke away with her hand.

‘I want to take it more seriously, Maxine. You know, there’s good money to be made playing jazz. I could earn a lot more than I do playing in the CBO and, believe me, I could do with it. So I need some guidance from a self-confessed perfectionist. You heard us last night, Maxine. What should we do to get the best out of what we’ve got? How can we improve, do you think?’

‘By hard practice, I should say. By disciplined practice. It’s no good turning up for practice and fooling about. If there’s something to be rehearsed, rehearse it. Rehearse it till it sounds as good as you hear it in your imagination. And then keep on rehearsing it till playing it is second nature – till you don’t have to think about it.’

‘But everybody else in the band has to be of the same mind.’

‘Course they do. A half-hearted musician will stick out like a sore thumb amidst really serious ones – and spoil what they do.’

‘The one bad apple that spoils the whole bag, eh?’

‘Yes. So, it requires hard work and very serious commitment. But, Brent, I tell you straight. You’ll get nowhere with that pianist. I don’t mean to be unkind but he’s next to useless. He’s an organist and choirmaster, for God’s sake, and that’s all he knows how to play. Even Howard said he was no good playing jazz.’

‘Oh yes. I forgot you and Howard are big chums now.’ His comment seemed tinged with cynicism, Maxine thought, but she hoped she was mistaken.

‘You need a decent clarinettist besides. Somebody dedicated. It’s no good having one whose wife won’t let him out at night. That’s just too pathetic. You have to be professional about this if you want to be a professional – all of you. In any case, he hasn’t got the ability either to play jazz. He doesn’t feel the music. I told you…’

‘Yes, you did…So will you help us? Will you come to some of our practices and try to put us right? Will you come and guide us where we’re going wrong? Help us get things right? I’m too close to it to judge properly. It needs a fresh ear. I reckon you could do it. You know what to listen for. Make any comment you reckon is warranted.’

‘I’m flattered that you’ve asked me,’ she replied with a broad smile that revealed her even teeth and put a sparkle in her eyes again. ‘I’d love to help. When do we start?’

‘How about tonight? I’ll pick you up from home at half past seven.’

It had not occurred to Maxine that the jazz club might not be open for business that night. The Second City Hot Six had assembled to practise, and they had the place to themselves except for Nat Colesby, the owner and licensee. He was cleaning beer lines, restocking shelves, cleaning up, and on hand to serve beer to the six or seven musicians as they worked up a thirst. The band practised here most Tuesdays. Although the rest of them had noticed Maxine the previous evening with Brent, he introduced her tonight. He outlined his ideas and aspirations and explained how he thought she could help.

‘So what happens about Arthur?’ Kenny Wheeler, the drummer asked. ‘The chap’s woman-licked. You can’t count on him to be that dedicated.’

‘That I know,’ Brent replied. ‘We’ll have to find another clarinettist.’

‘Ain’t there nobody in the CBO?’ Charlie Holt, the slightly tubby double bass player enquired.

‘Nobody who’d want to join us,’ Brent remarked.

Maxine had already considered that Stephen’s sister Pansy would be an admirable replacement but it was not up to her to suggest it. It might sound too pushy if she did. But if they found nobody quickly, she could perhaps drop a hint. After all, Pansy could do with the work. She was dissatisfied working in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t want a girl in this band.

George Tolley, the banjo player who answered to Ginger, took his instrument out of its case and began plinking, tuning it up. ‘Where’s Randy? He’s late. So do we bugger off home or get cracking on something then without him?’

‘Randolf’s not coming,’ Brent informed them.

‘Bloody typical. So bang goes this new commitment before we even start.’

‘I’ve sacked him, Ginger. He just isn’t good enough. And Maxine agrees. That job’s up for grabs as well. So we’ll have to start without a pianist.’

‘Christ. Who is considered good enough?’ Kenny asked. ‘Are all our jobs shaky in this line-up? I’d like to know in case I need to look elsewhere.’

‘You’re not going to be sacked, Kenny,’ Brent said. ‘Nor anybody else. Those of us here are first-rate musicians, well capable of playing the sort of stuff we’re likely to encounter. Arthur and Randy are not up to it. Deep down we all know that and odds are they’d admit it themselves. I want us to be the best jazz band in the Midlands – in the country – so we need chaps capable of getting us there. As of now, we look for a new clarinettist and a new pianist…I’ll put an advert in the paper in the next day or two…Right. What shall we start with?’

‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band,’ Jimmy Randle suggested with a mischievous smirk. Jimmy was the trumpet player and better known as Toots.

‘Oh, anything but that, Toots,’ Ginger pleaded. ‘I hate it. Let’s do “My Sister Kate”.’

Brent stood up, poised to play his trombone. ‘Right. “I Wish I Could Shimmy like my Sister Kate”…One, two, one two three four…’

And they were away.

Maxine listened intently. Some things that could be improved were evident immediately and she could not imagine why they had not put them right before. Maybe it was because a stranger’s ear can detect weaknesses that those most closely involved are deaf to. Wood for trees. But they were all competent musicians.

‘So, what d’you think, Maxine?’ Brent asked when they had finished running through the number.

‘Well…It seems as if you’re all trying to outplay each other – as if you’re all trying to do a solo at the same time. Try to play for each other. Be more together, as one unit, not six separate ones. It all needs tidying up, too. The stops should be cleaner…Kenny, when you’re supposed to have a rest for a few beats, don’t try and fit in a drumroll to fill the gap. Stay silent till you’re due to come in again and let the melody instruments and the singer have their glory. Those little rests are for emphasis, for effect. It’s what makes Jelly Roll Morton great. It’ll make your music more effective as well. Otherwise it sounds all ragged and undisciplined.’

‘Kenny likes to turn every number into a drum solo,’ Charlie Holt remarked, and Maxine detected his frustration at Kenny’s overly enthusiastic drumming. ‘He thinks he’s Gene Krupa.’

Maxine’s eyes creased into a smile. But she had to be honest. She had to take this seriously. That’s why she was here.

‘Same applies to you, Ginger, really,’ she continued. ‘The banjo is a rhythm instrument as well. Try playing with the drummer, not as if you’re in competition. Generally, when Kenny has a few beats break, you stick to the break as well…Why don’t you try it again doing just that?’

Brent counted them in once more. At the first point where Kenny was supposed to stop, he did so and the effect was significant: it all held together more tightly, more eloquently. The musicians looked at each other and Maxine could see satisfied grins passing from one to another at the immediate improvement. She was relieved, for she was not certain how these hard-nosed males, with vastly more jazz experience, were likely to view advice from a much younger person – even worse, a girl. Doubtless one or two would resent it unless she had something positive to say, something that really worked. Musicians, she had learned already – male ones especially – were a race apart: hard-nosed, uncompromising; usually hard drinking as well, just to add to their volatility.

‘It sounds better already,’ Toots Randle admitted.

‘Just one little point that improves the overall quality,’ Maxine confirmed. ‘It demonstrates much more musical discipline as well.’