Rags to Riches

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‘But you’re a woman. Who is the recognised leader?’

‘Brent Shackleton,’ she said, keeping calm. ‘He’s not here. And when he’s not around I look after anything that might crop up.’

‘Okay,’ the man conceded. ‘I reckon you’ll have to do. I daresay you’re a sight prettier than this Brent Shackleton, anyway, eh?’

‘But he can be quite charming when he’s a mind to be.’ Maxine responded, indignant at the man’s attitude but maintaining her polite smile.

‘Can I get you a drink, Mister?’ Toots said, his arm as always around Pansy’s trim waist, even while waiting to be served at the bar.

‘Thanks, pal. That’s the best offer I’ve had since I’ve got here. Pint of Ansell’s…My name’s Bill Brighton, by the way. I’m the music critic for the Mail.’

‘Oh, I’ve read your column lots of times,’ Maxine said, overlooking her indignation, recognising the need to exaggerate the truth in the cause of flattery and what it might buy them in free publicity. ‘I always enjoy reading it.’ At this, Bill Brighton’s attitude visibly softened. ‘So what do you want to know about us, Mr Brighton?’

‘Well, word has got to us about the band. Some pretty impressive comments over the last few weeks. I wanted to come and hear you for myself.’

‘Pity we’re short of the trombonist then,’ Toots commented. ‘Trust that to happen when you come along.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ve been mightily impressed…The name of the band, though…The Owls and the Pussycats? Who thought that one up?’

‘Brent Shackleton and me,’ Maxine answered, recalling their brain-storming a while ago.’

‘Borrowed from Edward Lear, eh?’

‘Well, we didn’t think he’d mind.’ She took her drink from Toots and thanked him.

Toots handed the reporter a beer. ‘Thanks…So who plays the runcible spoon, eh?’ he roared.

‘Nobody in this band, Mr Brighton,’ Maxine replied straight-faced. ‘The owl and the pussy-cat ate with a runcible spoon.’

Everybody burst out laughing.

‘Oops, sorry, Miss,’ Bill Brighton said, discountenanced. ‘An easy mistake. And I thought I knew that poem by heart. Anyway, listen. I really like your music and I like the way you play. I reckon you’ve got a big future ahead of you, and I’ll tell our readers that. Good bands are hard to come by. Are you professional?’

‘No, we all have other jobs,’ Toots replied raising his glass.

‘Cheers. Do you hope to become professional?’

Nobody answered, only an exchange of uncertain glances between the band.

‘Some of us would love to be,’ Maxine said. ‘But I don’t think it will happen. Some of us are professional musicians already. I play in the CBO. So does Brent Shackleton. Pansy here plays in the Hippodrome pit orchestra. We’d have to be mighty successful to give up our regular jobs and depend solely on The Owls and the Pussycats for our bread and butter.’

‘For your mince and slices of quince, eh?’ Bill Brighton suggested, jeopardising his credibility with another risky witticism, which everybody ignored.

‘I’d give up my other job tomorrow,’ Pansy remarked. ‘I’d love it just playing in this band.’

Bill Brighton had many more questions. Finally, he said he’d got enough information to give them a write-up in his newspaper and asked when he might send a photographer to take some pictures. Brent Shackleton would organise that, Maxine said. Brent would be in touch with him early next week.

Brent Shackleton drew earnestly on several more cigarettes before he saw his front door open and reveal a dim column of light. A tall man was momentarily silhouetted – Stephen Hemming. Brent watched him leave, turn and wave to Eleanor. His pulse raced with bitter resentment. The cheek of the man. Just how long had this been going on? He tried to calm himself down as he watched Stephen furtively cross the road to his car in the darkness. What was the sense in getting up-tight about this? What sense was there in creating a fuss? Creating a fuss would achieve nothing. He would confront Eleanor, but calmly. He must not get angry like the last time. The trick was to remain reasonable. In any case, why try to compete? If she wanted him, she could have him. No amount of animated cajoling would win back her favours.

He waited till Stephen disappeared then drove his own car unhurriedly to the front of his house. Breathing deeply in an effort to maintain his calm, he locked the car and slowly walked up the path to the front door. As he opened it, he caught sight of Eleanor at the top of the stairs, floating across the landing in her dressing gown.

‘Eleanor!’

She did not answer.

If they had been to bed the bedclothes would still be strewn about. He rushed upstairs and walked into their bedroom, expecting the worst. But the bed was untouched, exactly how it had been when he left home earlier; his Fair Isle pullover was still on the counterpane where he had left it. Stephen and Eleanor had evidently not been to bed. Maybe he was wrong about Stephen. Maybe he was wrong about Eleanor. Perhaps it had been merely a social call.

Eleanor was in the bathroom. He sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Still agitated, he stood up again and walked downstairs to the sitting room. Everything was neat and tidy. Every cushion was where it should be. No used cups and saucers lay about, no dirty drinking glasses, no articles of clothing, no carelessly discarded underwear, no unwitting clues that might hint at any extracurricular sexual shenanigans. No, Eleanor was too artful to be caught out like that. Except that maybe the place was too tidy.

In the kitchen he boiled the kettle, ground some coffee beans and made himself a drink. He grabbed his half-full bottle of cheap French brandy, poured a generous measure into a tumbler and sat down with both drinks at the kitchen table, sipping the hot one, alternately gulping the one that caught the back of his throat. Why had Stephen Hemming been to this house? What was the creep up to?

Eleanor left the bathroom and Brent called her. This time she answered: no, why should she come downstairs? She was going to bed. She was tired. Just because he was home early didn’t mean she had to sit up with him.

‘I’ve just seen Stephen Hemming,’ he called, trying to stay calm, trying to sound casual, that it was of no consequence. ‘What was he doing here?

‘Stephen?’ she commented as if it was news to her.

‘Yes, Stephen. I saw him leave here a few minutes ago. His car was parked in Arthur Road. Why was he here?’

He heard Eleanor padding down the stairs and he lit a cigarette.

She appeared at the kitchen door looking apprehensive. The pleasant fragrance of her toilet soap was like an aura around her.

‘Yes, Stephen was here,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m helping him with his new business.’

Brent exhaled smoke in a great gust and took another slug of brandy. ‘Helping him do what?’

‘Helping him get organised. He’s got no idea of office routines, accounting – that sort of thing.’

‘So how are you helping him, Eleanor? You know as much about office routines and accounting as I know about the inside of Hitler’s trouser legs. What’s going on?’

‘What could be going on?’ she asked, her sham resentment purporting innocence.

‘I dread to think.’

‘With Stephen? You can’t seriously suggest —. Nothing’s going on, Brent, for God’s sake. Jesus Christ, why do you think anything’s going on?’

‘Because I know you.’

‘Are you accusing me of something, Brent Shackleton? If so, you’d better be careful. You’d better be very careful.’

‘Then why are you in possession of his engagement ring? The ring he gave to Maxine Kite?’

Eleanor gasped with trepidation. ‘That was not