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‘You’ve decided to marry Stephen.’
‘Henzey! He’s given me up. He doesn’t want to see me again. I can’t get over it.’
Henzey stopped what she was doing and looked open-mouthed at her sister. ‘But he doesn’t mean it, Maxine,’ she said consolingly, believing her to be upset. ‘I bet he doesn’t mean it.’
‘He does.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He just told me he doesn’t want to see me anymore. He wants to be free to chase other women. Women who’ll let him have his wicked way…He says I’m a cold fish.’
‘Sounds to me like he’s already found another woman, Maxine,’ Will said, looking up from his labours. ‘Sorry to sound so cynical, but I bet it’s true. Otherwise there’d be no point in giving you up, would there? Not till he’d actually found somebody…Just you think about it.’
‘Gosh, Will. Do you think so?’
‘It stands to reason.’
‘The rotter! And he reckons he’s been working hard trying to get his new business off the ground. I bet all the time he’s been off with somebody else.’
‘The crafty monkey,’ Henzey said.
‘The dirty devil,’ Maxine concurred.
‘He’s a dark horse, our Maxine. I always had him marked down as a dark horse. Are you very upset?’
‘I’m surprised more than anything. And disappointed. I’m not upset particularly.’
‘Oh, it’s a terrible thing, infidelity,’ Will remarked. ‘Emotional incontinence, that’s what it is. Anybody who embarks on the ship of infidelity deserves to go down with it.’
Henzey looked up at Will. ‘That’s a bit profound,’ she remarked.
‘It’s true, though, Henzey,’ Maxine said. ‘A sign of moral weakness, isn’t it, Will? I could never do that to anybody. I might think about it, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. I know I couldn’t.’
‘I’ve seen so many people come to grief over their infidelity,’ Will said. ‘At least you’re not married, Maxine. At least you don’t have the prospect of a ruined marriage ahead of you…Children…Divorce. Thank your lucky stars for that.’
‘But only a few weeks ago he was asking me – begging me to marry him.’
‘Fickle,’ Will said, with great scorn. ‘I’ve got no time for fickle folk. Good job you found out about him now and not later.’
‘I bet the kettle’s boiling,’ Henzey said, getting up from the sofa where she had been wrapping oddments. ‘I’ll go and make the tea. Then I’m off to bed. We have to be up early in the morning.’
‘What are the arrangements for tomorrow, Henzey?’ Maxine enquired. ‘Do you want me to come with you first thing, to help you put the curtains up and that?’
‘No, no,’ Henzey replied. ‘I can cope. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Aldo while Will takes me to the new house first. I can hang the new curtains and do a last clear up before you and the removal van arrive.’
Chapter 8 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)
Maxine listened in awe to Boris Szewinska, the solo violinist who was appearing with the CBO, and his impassioned interpretation of Brahms’s Violin Concerto. In parts she and her cello were unoccupied, and in these quieter moments she marvelled at the soloist’s dexterity. Some of those passages seemed impossible, yet he not only played them with apparent ease, but also eked out emotions that sent shivers up and down her spine. Such fervent emotion. Such staccato fire. And yet, such poignant tenderness. If only she could play like that. If only she could summon passion profound enough to enable her to play like that.
Maxine had been mulling over Stephen’s ditching her a fortnight ago in favour, obviously, of another girl. Why had she been unable to show him any affection? Was she really so frigid that she could feel none of the emotions that other, normal girls, evidently feel? Would ardent love, true desire, elude her forever? Indeed, would she ever recognise it if it stared her in the face?
And then, for no accountable reason, she remembered Howard Quaintance. It was during a quiet passage when the solo violin was soulfully singing a song of lost love, piercing in its plaintiveness, agonising in its intensity. Maybe she could feel these things for Howard Quaintance if she ever met him again, if she was ever blessed with the opportunity – if, indeed, he could even remember her. But she remembered him all right; how she felt when he touched her hands to swap over her ring from one hand to the other. She remembered his closeness, his unassuming geniality, the lovely manly scent of him, and the thrill of it returned bringing a lump to her throat. Maybe she could feel emotion. Maybe she was not such a cold fish after all. Maybe it was just that Stephen had never brought it out in her. Maybe only music could make her feel like this. Maybe she could feel nothing unless potent music was present to urge it on.
Maybe she never would.
With a deft swoop of his baton, Leslie Heward, the conductor, collected the whole orchestra into a rich swell of sound and Maxine was right on cue. The soloist, for a few bars, became just another player intermingling with the other instruments till he soared away again on another flight of extraordinary complexity and fervour. Funny, Maxine thought, how even when you are concentrating on your music your mind still considers other things; funny how Howard Quaintance had sprung to mind.
Before she knew it, Boris Szewinska was taking his bows. He took a beautiful bouquet of summer flowers that somebody handed to him, bowed again, and left the stage, showing no inclination to perform an encore. The applause continued, Boris returned and turned to the orchestra and conductor, happy for them to take a share of the acclaim.
On the way back to the dressing rooms, Maxine stopped when she saw Brent Shackleton barging his way over to her.
‘When you’re ready, Maxine, I’ll give you a lift home,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I only have to change. I’ll be a minute, no more.’
In the ladies’ dressing room, she doffed the black evening dress she wore for concert nights and put on her normal Sunday attire. It was thoughtful of Brent to always give her a lift to and from concerts. To lug her cello all the way to Dudley now, alone on the tram, then walk all the way to Oakham Road and the new house, would be no mean feat especially late at night.
‘Can you manage that?’ Brent asked gallantly as they left the Town Hall. ‘Let me carry it.’
‘I can cope. It’s no weight. Besides, you’d have two instruments to carry.’
‘The piccolo player’s got the best job when it comes to transport,’ he quipped. ‘You should have taken up the piccolo.’
‘Or the triangle.’
He laughed generously. ‘I’m only thankful we don’t have to lug a piano about. At least the jazz club’s got its own…Talking of which, do you fancy going there now for an hour?’
‘But we’re not playing tonight…Are we?’
‘We’re not, but another band is. The Brummagem Hot Stompers. Ever seen them?’
‘No. Are they good?’
‘Not bad. In any case, it’s always good to evaluate the competition occasionally.’
That did it. It was reason enough. ‘Okay, let’s go then. You won’t get into trouble with Eleanor, will you? Being late home, I mean.’
‘Oh, sod Eleanor,’ he said with feeling. They reached his car, parked on the street outside. He opened the door and took Maxine’s cello. ‘She’s been a bit off lately. It’ll serve her right to be on her own.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem, Brent,’ Maxine suggested as she watched him place her cello on the back seat. ‘Maybe she spends too much time on her own. Maybe you should go home sooner. You should bring her to more concerts.’
‘She’s not interested in concerts,’ he said looking at her over the roof of the car. ‘She’s not interested in anything except herself. When I get home she’ll most likely be in bed, fast asleep. She’s probably already in bed now.’ He got in the car and unlocked the passenger door. Maxine got in and made herself comfortable. He lit a cigarette, turned the key, and the big powerful engine burst into life. ‘So let’s go, eh?’
They had travelled about a hundred yards when Maxine said: ‘You know, Brent, I feel guilty going to the jazz club with you tonight if you’re not on the best of terms with Eleanor. Perhaps you should take me home.’
‘What the devil for? It’s nothing to do with Eleanor. In any case, I’d rather be in your company than hers.’
Maxine smiled with tenderness, flattered that Brent should make such an admission. She looked at him as he drove, the moving streetlights reflected in his brooding eyes.
‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she said. ‘But my concern is that Eleanor might get the wrong idea.’ She shrugged. ‘You know…’
‘I don’t care if she does.’
‘But I care, Brent. Spare a thought for me. I don’t want her maligning me for something I haven’t done.’
‘So you’d rather go home?’
‘Unless you promise you won’t tell her you’ve taken me tonight.’
He smiled to himself. ‘Oh, count on it, Maxine. I’ve no intention of doing that.’
‘Good. Thank you, Brent.’
They arrived outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club. Brent pulled on the handbrake, stopped the engine and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘By the way, there seems to be a lot of outside interest in the band all of a sudden. I’ve got bookings for the Tower Ballroom for a few Saturday nights, starting the week after next, and if they like us it could be a resident spot. As well as others. What do you think of that, eh?’
‘That’s smashing,’ Maxine said inadequately, but with a wide grin of satisfaction. She showed no intention of getting out of the car, happy to learn of the band’s increasing success.
‘I’ve had enquiries, too, from further afield. Some, wanting to book us up for Christmas and New Year. We can put our fees up for then, especially New Year’s Eve. We can virtually name our own price.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘You’re gorgeous in that slinky new dress, you know, Maxine.’ He gave her a grin as indiscreet as his thoughts.
‘Well thank you,’ she replied.
‘I’ve been thinking, Maxine. I think we should feature your singing more. I want you to be the band’s main vocalist. Leave the piano sometimes and stand stage front. You’ve got a great jazz voice – different – but you look the part as well. We must exploit it. So, think of some more songs you’d like to sing.’
He leaned towards her, almost imperceptibly, and she could have sworn he was going to kiss her, so she tilted her head tentatively to offer her mouth. But he did not take advantage and she felt a pang of disappointment when he opened his door to get out. At once she opened the passenger door, her disappointment turning to embarrassment, for he must have noticed her intention to submit. What if he thought it too obvious? Think of something to say, quickly, to distract him.
‘ “Where or When?” ’
‘As soon as you like. At the next practice if we can.’
‘No,’ she exclaimed, a peal of laughter concealing her embarrassment. ‘I mean can I sing the song called “Where or When”?’
‘Oh, that. Sure.’
The CBO was busy with the summer season and The Owls and the Pussycatshad a rapidly filling schedule too. After the Saturday promenade concerts, Maxine and Brent had to dash to the Tower Ballroom for their new series of gigs. They were booked to play a couple of forty-five minute spots, alternating with the resident dance band who, like all self-respecting musicians, welcomed the break as an opportunity to consume more beer.
But increasingly, the regular dance band were foregoing their extra beer to listen to this outstanding new seven-piece outfit. Maxine and Pansy, in their new, slinky, shiny, clingy dresses, drew wolf whistles galore, but everybody had to admire the music they were creating, and that manifested itself in loud and prolonged applause.
When Maxine sang her favourite new love song, ‘Where or When?’ the couples who were dancing fell into an embrace and shuffled together slowly on the dance floor, but most also had an eye on the stage, watching her. She had presence. She had style. Oh, she had everything.
Rehearsals saw them attempting more of the new swing music that was coming from America. From a specialist source in New York that Brent knew, called the Commodore Music Shop, they were able to send for records and musical arrangements. They acquired records by Jack Teagarden, Django Reinhardt, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington that were not available in Britain. And, as they enlarged their repertoire and their music became more sophisticated, so the booking enquiries flooded in. Would they play at this wedding, that society function? Would they give an outdoor concert in Canon Hill Park? Would they play at this town hall, that hotel?
Certainly. They would play as many as they could. Brent wanted the money. And as they played further afield, more and more people were hearing their name.
‘Have you heard that new band called The Owls and the Pussycats? They’re great! They’re fantastic! They’re wonderful!’
Word spread.
Word spread like fire in a bone-dry forest, fanned by a strong breeze.
However, Brent Shackleton’s growing elation over the band was offset somewhat by a discovery he made at home late one afternoon in July. Returning from a CBO rehearsal, he went upstairs to get changed. He took off his cufflinks and went to place them in the small glass dish on his tallboy where he always left them, when he noticed Eleanor’s jewellery box there too. It had been left open inadvertently. She was not overly endowed with fine jewellery, but one piece stood out among the other trinkets. It was a ring, with a huge amethyst set in a cluster of diamonds. Brent picked it up. He had seen this ring before. A ring as distinctive as this he could not be mistaken about. This ring he had seen on Maxine Kite’s finger. It was her engagement ring, later transferred to her right hand. What in God’s name was it doing in Eleanor’s jewellery box?
After Saturday evening’s CBO concert, Brent was already waiting backstage for Maxine to leave the ladies’ dressing room.
‘Maxine,’ he said, and his cool brown eyes manifested a look of disquiet. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the Tower, but I can’t play tonight. Something’s cropped up.’
She looked at him with concern. ‘Oh? What?’
‘I can’t say. It might be nothing. On the other hand, it could be significant. I can’t say yet.’
‘Well I hope it’s something easily sorted out,’ she said sincerely. ‘But how shall we get on tonight without a trombone player?’
‘Oh, you’ll be okay,’ he assured her. ‘Nobody will miss my line. You’ll cope fine.’
They walked to his car, and he drove her to the Tower Ballroom. ‘The manager is supposed to let us know tonight whether he wants to book us for a resident season,’ he said as he pulled up outside. ‘Talk to him, Maxine, and explain that I can’t be there. I’ll leave it to you to sort out. But don’t go below that figure we said. If they want us they’ve got to pay.’
Maxine nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you Tuesday at practice. I hope you get it settled, whatever it is.’
He smiled ruefully and held up his hand as a departing gesture.
Funny how Maxine Kite had grown on him. Three months ago he hadn’t been that interested. Nowadays, though, he considered Maxine a prospective conquest. But Eleanor alone was enough for any man. His relationship with Eleanor was strange, obsessive, and he could not help himself where she was concerned. Ever since she’d coyly let him glimpse her first adolescent triangle of soft, pubic hair, they’d been lovers and their secret had fuelled their greater ardour for each other over the years. The curious and inexpert fumblings of youth, the unexpected, uncontrived sensations they experienced together, all gathered momentum and escalated into an ardour so intense that there had been times when they simply could not get enough of each other; when they would stay in bed all day. And this prolonged, frenetic lovemaking would render them sore and exhausted for days afterwards.
But their relationship was strained at present. A couple of times in the past Eleanor had been aloof, indifferent towards him. He had grown suspicious then that she had been interested in another man. Whether or not it had amounted to anything, he did not know, short of asking her. Yet, he would not ask her for fear of learning the truth. The same suspicions had drawn him home early tonight. Something was wrong and he needed to find out what.
As Brent drove on through the poorly lit streets of Bearwood towards Handsworth where he and Eleanor lived, he thought of the other women he had had; women who had failed to divert him in the way Eleanor evidently became diverted. They meant nothing; merely conquests; food for the ego.
His thoughts quickly returned to Maxine Kite. He understood that it would be ungallant of him to try and ensnare Maxine in a sexual relationship, but only because he perceived she was forthright and had some honour; he could not reasonably expect her to be willing because of Eleanor. All the same, she was eminently beddable; and gallantry had never been his strong point anyway. Each time he looked at her he discovered something new; a different expression, a tiny mole on her arm he had not noticed before, how the light glinting off her lush dark hair reflected some other unexpected colour. She was his equal when it came to conversation, knowledgeable enough to discuss any topic. She was bright, intelligent, fun, not given to tantrums or selfishness. She would be bright, intelligent and fun in bed, too. Sooner or later he would bed her. He always got what he wanted. And he had no other competition now that Stephen was gone.
At that moment, Brent saw Stephen’s car parked in Arthur Road, a side street close to his house in Grove Lane. What the devil was he doing here? This could explain the ring. Unless he was visiting somebody else close by. Brent knew few of his neighbours; by choice he did not socialise with them, so he did not know who lived where Stephen’s car was parked.
But Eleanor’s recent indifference and his finding Stephen’s ring spelled it out, shouted it louder than any megaphone could. Of course, the crafty monkey was visiting Eleanor. Brent’s mind flickered back to that evening at the jazz club when Eleanor first met him. They had chatted easily and for quite a while, but not sufficiently to arouse any suspicion. Stephen was the last person he would have considered to be of interest to Eleanor. The man was too insipid, too ordinary and too dull for somebody as vibrant and discerning as Eleanor.
Brent sat staring at Stephen’s car for ages, deciding what he should do for the best. He did not want to enter the house for fear Stephen was there with Eleanor. It would be counter-productive to confront them or find them in a compromising situation. First, in any case, he should make sure. So he reversed his car into Mostyn Road, another side street where it was out of view and hid behind the school gates from where he had sight of Stephen’s car and his own front door. One thing was certain; if Stephen was up to no good with Eleanor, he would take great pleasure in his revenge. And what more fitting revenge than to bed Maxine Kite when Stephen had manifestly failed to do so? What more satisfying conclusion than to induce her to fall in love with him? That would prove beyond any doubt that he was much more of a man than Stephen.
He lit a cigarette and waited…and waited.
At the Tower Ballroom, all was going well. Despite Brent’s absence, The Owls and the Pussycatswere giving a good account of themselves. Only they seemed to know that somebody was missing from the line-up. As far as the dancing couples were concerned, everything was fine. When they had finished their first spot they headed thirstily for the bar. Within a couple of minutes a man approached them wearing a dark suit that badly needed pressing.
‘Who’s the leader of your band?’ he asked, addressing all of them and nobody in particular. ‘I’m from the Evening Mail. I wondered if I could interview your leader.’
‘Maybe I can help?’ Maxine responded.
‘But you’re never the band leader, are you?’
‘I am when he’s not around,’ she answered steadily.
