Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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       Chapter 6

      With hardly a breeze to disturb it, Rotton Park Reservoir mirrored the yellowing flare of the western evening sky and its wrack of orange cloud in its cool stillness. The air was gentle and mild and the trees, casting long, springtime shadows, wore their fresh green coats vividly in the low, brassy sunshine, hardly waving. At the water’s edge three schoolboys dipped their fishing nets and one whooped with glee as he scooped out a stickleback. Stephen took Maxine’s hand, which she accepted without enthusiasm, as they set off clockwise around the reservoir for a stroll.

      ‘You been all right?’ he asked.

      ‘I’ve been fine.’

      ‘Rehearsals going okay?’

      ‘Fine.’ Of course, he meant the CBO. ‘We’re rehearsing with the choir again on Thursday evening. Beethoven’s Mass in D. It’ll be the last practice before we perform it.’

      ‘I’ll pick you up after. You’ll need a lift with your cello.’

      ‘No, it’s okay, Stephen. I’ll get a lift.’

      ‘Oh? Off who?’

      ‘Off Brent Shackleton.’

      ‘Brent Shackleton? Why him? No, I’ll meet you. I’ll bring you home.’

      She was tired of this. She stopped abruptly, breaking the idyll. She slipped her hand out of his and turned to face him, her eyes ablaze with the fire of the sky. ‘Stephen, there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t want you to collect me, because after rehearsal I’m going somewhere with Brent.’

      ‘You’re what?’ he taunted. ‘Over my dead body.’

      ‘Listen, I’ve been asked to join a jazz band as pianist and I’ve accepted.’

      ‘A jazz band? As if you hadn’t got enough to occupy you.’

      ‘Yes, a jazz band, Stephen. And we’re practising like mad to get everything right. Thursday night, after CBO rehearsals, Brent and I are going to the jazz club to practise. He’s the trombonist in the band as well, see?’

      ‘No, I don’t see, Maxine. Why couldn’t you have told me about it sooner? I reckon there’s something going on between you and that Brent Shackleton.’

      ‘There’s nothing going on, Stephen.’ Worse luck, she felt like adding.

      ‘I won’t let you do it, Maxine. It’s not fair. I won’t let you.’

      ‘Stephen, it’s all fixed,’ she rasped, hot with indignation. ‘You won’t stop me, either. If you try and stop me I’ll stop seeing you anyway. You don’t own me. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. What a damn cheek!’

      ‘I don’t like it, Maxine,’ Stephen said sullenly. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

      ‘Then you know what to do. Give me up, for God’s sake. Forget me. It’s not going to work anyway with you following me everywhere like a lapdog. I need to be free, Stephen. I need freedom to pursue my own life. You don’t seem to appreciate that. You’ve never appreciated it.’

      He sighed. She was right. Their romance had no chance of succeeding while she was only half-hearted about it. But what could he do? He wanted her. He wanted to be with her. Always. But what was the point of banging your head against a brick wall?

      They ambled on, unsettled, their business unfinished. A hundred yards behind them, the three little boys had lost interest in their fishing and hooted with laughter as now they skimmed stones across the lake to see who could achieve most bounces. Before them, the trees and houses on the opposite side took on a dark grey hue, silhouetted against the deepening evening glow.

      ‘Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Brent Shackleton?’ Stephen asked at length.

      ‘Nothing at all.’

      ‘You give me your word?’

      ‘God!’ she exclaimed, exasperated. ‘On my honour!’

      ‘So where do I fit in with this jazz band? It seems as if I’m superfluous to requirements.’

      ‘Oh, I suppose you’ll be lurking somewhere. Anyway, I want Pansy to join the band as well.’

      ‘Oh, well, I bet Pansy would jump at the chance,’ he said brightly.

      Maxine smiled to herself at his sudden change of mood and imagined him asking Pansy to be his spy. Not that it would do him any good; Pansy would only tell him what she wanted him to know. But it could work against her; if he delivered Pansy to gigs he would still be around when she really wanted to see less of him.

      ‘Will you ask her to meet me on Friday night at that jazz club in Gas Street when she’s finished at the Hippodrome?’ Maxine requested. ‘We’re playing then and I’d like her to meet the others.’ She thrust her hand into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Will you give her this letter?…It explains everything. We really do need a good clarinettist. Hearing us play might just whet her appetite.’

      ‘All right, leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see she comes along. I’ll bring her myself.’

      By half past ten on Friday night the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club was heaving with people. Cigarette smoke drifted in fat blue clouds into СКАЧАТЬ