Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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СКАЧАТЬ they finished the piece a smattering of applause flecked the background murmur and Arthur announced their next number, ‘Fidgety Feet’. Maxine was familiar with that one as well. A tall young man, smart, wearing a Fair Isle pullover the like of which she had seen on photos of the Prince of Wales, asked her to dance and she felt guilty at having to refuse him. She preferred to listen to the band.

      This jazz was so informal, so improvised that it allowed for some ineptitude, she pondered, as she watched the pianist’s fingers stumble over the keys. The odd wrong note wasn’t that noticeable and mostly didn’t matter. The music was full of discords anyway, intermingling of instruments that at times sounded chaotic even though a firm underlying matrix was always present. So why did this pianist stand out as being so ill fitted to his job? The tempo changed slightly and Maxine recognised a tune called ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Arthur, clutching his clarinet casually at his side, sang a couple of triplets – incongruously, since the lyrics were meant to be sung by a woman – then proceeded to give another less than sparkling clarinet solo.

      Then it struck her. The pianist. He wasn’t using syncopation. He knew what notes to play, but it seemed that he had not fathomed out how to stress the weak beat, the offbeat. The very elements of jazz, she thought, pitch, texture, melodic and harmonic organisation, all those bent notes, are woven around provocative rhythms. The way this man played he might just as well have been pounding out a hymn in a Methodist mission hut. Maxine felt pleased that she had diagnosed this ailment in what was otherwise a reasonable, tight sound.

      Having sorted out the piano player, Maxine regarded Brent. His expression was earnest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow as he slid his trombone through intricate passages in ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. This was evidently his preferred world, his preferred music.

      At this point she asked herself what she was doing here; what she hoped to gain in this seedy, musty old warehouse that was hazy with cigarette smoke. Had she accepted Brent’s invitation because she wanted to listen to the music? Or was it because she fancied her chances with him? Accepting his invitation was a way of being with him, wasn’t it? But she wasn’t actually with him. He was on the stage sweating buckets over the one thing that possibly mattered more to him than anything else, while she was standing eight feet from the bar, watching, listening, being asked to dance by strange men in whom she had no interest, sipping beer she did not enjoy. She was not actually talking to Brent; she was not getting to know him any better. Neither was she discovering about Eleanor and the depth of his involvement with her.

      Maybe she was wasting her time. Why would Brent Shackleton bother with Maxine Kite? In any case, he was inconsiderate. Look how he’d hurried off without her, leaving her to her own devices to gain admittance to the club. Totally, irritatingly inattentive. The absolute opposite of Stephen’s irritatingly superfluous gallantry. Both were as bad as each other. As soon as Brent came off stage she would make her excuses and go home. Besides, it was getting late. Henzey and Will would think she’d been abducted.

      Yet, he must be interested in her. He’d asked her to this club, hadn’t he?

      As she stood watching, thinking, listening, wavering between one emotion and another, she was aware that a man was standing at her side, but she avoided looking at him.

      ‘Excuse me,’ he said half apologetically, ‘would you mind very much if I talk to you?’

      At least his approach was straightforward, even if he was a bit shy.

      ‘Why me?’ she asked, curious. ‘The place is full of girls.’ But her smile broadened in direct proportion to her appreciation of his handsome face and the kindly look in his soft eyes that were framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.

      ‘Because you look like the sort of girl who might have something to say,’ he answered with a warm but tentative smile. ‘The others? I doubt it. I’m also intrigued as to why a girl so attractive should be standing by herself.’

      She chuckled amiably. ‘Oh, spare me the flattery. Attractive? Dressed like this?’

      ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been watching you for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to come over and speak to you.’ He was about twenty-eight, she judged, clean and well groomed, but with an unruly mop of dark hair that gave him an appealing schoolboy look. ‘Howard Quaintance.’

      ‘Excuse me?’ They were having to speak in raised voices to be heard over the sound of the jazz.

      He smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m Howard Quaintance…Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.’

      ‘Sorry. Maxine Kite…How do you do?’ She felt that, for the sake of good manners, him being so polite, she ought to offer to shake his hand.

      He stood there holding a glass, his other hand in his pocket, casual, unassuming. ‘Delighted to meet you…er…Miss?…Kite.’

      ‘Miss, yes,’ she affirmed strenuously, amused by his unsubtle way of checking her marital status. ‘Call me Maxine. I’m quite happy to dispense with formality.’

      He took a swig of beer. ‘Well, Maxine, what is such an attractive girl doing, standing all on her own in a den of inequity like this?’

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ