Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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      Of course, she could return to live with her mother in Dudley but, rather, Maxine was inclined to accept her sister’s offer of accommodation here. She had tasted freedom and relished it. Going back to mother’s she would lose that precious independence. In any event, her self-esteem would not allow her to return home.

      Maxine was pinning all her hopes on the audition. It would mean regular work, money in her pocket. But most importantly, it would allow her this much-needed breathing space from Stephen. No, she was not in love with him. Trouble was, he was too fond of her, too protective. He was suffocating her. And this house here in Ladywood, the home of her sister and brother-in-law, was far more convenient for the Town Hall and the CBO’s rehearsal rooms than having to lug her cello to and from his folks’ house in Smethwick, especially on those occasions when she had to make the journey by tram. The trouble was, there had been talk of moving from Ladywood back to Dudley; and that meant Smethwick would be more convenient again. Still, she wouldn’t mention that to Stephen yet; he would only try to get her to stay.

      ‘I should’ve thought the chances of anybody making a living playing a cello in Birmingham would be a bit limited to say the least,’ Lizzie commented and Maxine detected the same sad scepticism she’d heard a hundred times before. ‘It’s not as if they want a celloist on every street corner.’

      ‘The word is cellist, Mother,’ Maxine corrected, amused that her mother had got the word wrong. ‘But I can play piano as well, remember…and I can sing. If I don’t get this job in the CBO I’d be quite prepared to play piano and sing – in a pub even.’

      ‘Over my dead body.’ Lizzie wrung the sheet more animatedly and tossed it into a wicker washing basket with the other, ready to peg out. ‘I’m not having you singing in a public house like some wailing old music hall tart. I’ll see you back home first. You’re not twenty-one yet, remember…Struth, it’s been bad enough worrying over our Henzey up there these last few years, not to mention our Alice. Now I worry about you as well.’

      ‘You needn’t worry about me, Mom. I’ll be okay.’

      ‘Famous last words…’

      The kettle on the gas stove started to bobble and boil and Maxine applied herself at last to making the pot of tea she should have organised a while ago.

      ‘I’ll go and hang these sheets out,’ Lizzie said. ‘Don’t forget to pour me a cup of tea before you take some upstairs to our Henzey and Will.’

      When she climbed the stairs carrying the tea tray, Maxine thought she heard her name mentioned. The door to Henzey’s and Will’s bedroom was ajar. She pushed it open gently with her foot.

      ‘Tea!’ Will Parish exclaimed chirpily, and held the door open for her. ‘Thank the Lord. We thought you’d got lost,’

      Maxine placed the tray on the dressing table. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long. Actually, I forgot.’ She uttered a little laugh of self-mockery. ‘Telling Mother about Stephen. Then I had a lecture off her.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So how are you feeling now, Henzey? Tired, I bet.’

      ‘Tired, but content.’ Henzey ran her fingers through her dark hair and smiled happily. She looked pale but she was entitled to, having just endured childbirth, even though it had not been protracted. Henzey leaned over towards the crib at the side of the bed where the new baby lay. ‘Isn’t he beautiful? Who do you think he’s like, Maxine? D’you think he’s like Will?’

      Maxine peered into the crib where the new baby was sleeping. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured indecisively. ‘He’s got your colouring, our Henzey…’

      ‘But his features are Will’s, don’t you think?’

      ‘Oh, he looks like himself, Henzey,’ Will protested, half amused at speculation he considered pointless. ‘How can you say who he’s like yet? He hasn’t been born more than a few hours. With a newborn child, I don’t see how you can possibly tell who he’s like. In a week or two you might be able to say. But more often than not, children tend to look like their grandparents.’

      ‘In that case,’ Henzey declared, ‘he’s bound to be like my father, his hair’s so dark. He was dark, as well, with blue eyes. And tall. Oh, I wish he were here now to see him.’

      ‘Yes, he’s a bit like our dad, Henzey, now you mention it,’ Maxine conceded, handing a cup and saucer to Henzey.

      ‘I wish I’d known your father,’ Will said in all sincerity, accepting his cup of tea from Maxine. ‘Thanks, Chick…A real character by all accounts.’

      ‘A gentleman,’ Henzey uttered nostalgically. ‘Honest and forthright. He used to love to hear Maxine play the piano…Remember, Maxine?’

      ‘It seems so long ago…’ At the mention of her father Maxine peered out of the window into the back garden, seeking her mother. ‘Mother’s pegging out your sheets, Henzey. I’d better go and help her. It looks freezing out there for April.’

      ‘Don’t let her stay too long, Maxine. She’s worked hard all day. I don’t know what we’d have done without her.’

      ‘We’ll just clear up, Henzey. Then we’ll be off. Can I come and see the baby tomorrow? I’d love to hold him. Oh, I’m dying to hold him, Henzey. He’s so beautiful…’

      Henzey smiled contentedly. ‘Course you can. Come as soon as you’re ready.’

      Maxine’s audition for the City of Birmingham Orchestra fell on 30^th April 1936, a Thursday. The large rehearsal room with its high ceiling, its tall, Gothic windows and its sawdusted, woodblock floor, looked and smelled like a school hall. Musical instruments stood or lay haphazardly, unattended, alongside utilitarian metal music stands and the printed scores of Elgar. Leslie Heward, the conductor, asked Maxine some questions about her musical training and she confirmed that she’d spent the last three and a half years at Bantock’s School of Music studying her instrument.

      ‘Show me what you can do, Miss Kite,’ he said. His demeanour was kindly, maybe to ease her nerves.

      ‘May I play The Swan from Carnival of the Animals?’

      ‘Of course. Let me hear it.’ Leslie Heward smiled generously. The Swan was no surprise.

      The long hanging notes of a haunting melody, as poignant as a love song, poured from Maxine’s cello like tears. The rich timbre of the instrument, the emotion in her playing, her instinctive grasp of the composition’s spirit, and the visual grace with which she played, all conspired to work positively for her. She was aware of other musicians, including the principal cello, listening intently from the rear of the rehearsal room.

      ‘That was excellent, Miss Kite. You seem to have a natural empathy with your instrument. I’m impressed.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Heward.’ She smiled demurely.

      ‘What else do you know?’

      Maxine had swotted up Dohnànyi’s Konzertstück for cello and orchestra, but Mr Heward heard her play only a part, evidently satisfied already with her ability. He pulled out a volume of music from a pile beside him and asked her to sight read. It was a section from Elgar’s First Symphony. She performed that with expertise too and Maxine knew she had been successful when Mr Heward turned and smiled to СКАЧАТЬ