Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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      ‘You can hear the jazz influences in Boléro, can’t you? The sliding trombone and all that.’ He offered her a cigarette which she declined, and lit one himself. ‘It’s not so stuffy as some of the music we play.’

      ‘I suppose not. Still…’ She shrugged, hesitant, not sure in what vein to continue the conversation, anxious not to disagree with him. ‘To tell you the truth, I love it all.’

      ‘Mind you, some of these so-called modern classics are a bit pretentious. You know…Mahler, Scriabin…stuff like that.’ He deeply inhaled smoke and seemed to hold it in his lungs for ages. ‘In my opinion.’

      ‘I know what you mean,’ Maxine said inadequately. They had reached the trestle table, so she picked up a cup and saucer and held it under the tap of the urn.

      ‘Not like jazz,’ he remarked.

      She moved away from the table when her cup was full. ‘You like jazz, then?’ she asked when he’d rejoined her.

      ‘Oh, I love jazz.’

      ‘I like jazz as well,’ she replied truthfully and sipped her tea. ‘I used to listen to jazz records all the time. The people I used to lodge with – before I went to live with my sister – have a daughter who was a keen jazz fan. She used to get hold of some obscure records from America. She’s a musician as well and we used to play it together, mimicking it – just for a laugh, me on the piano usually, she on clarinet. I don’t get the chance to hear much now. Occasionally I hear a snatch on the wireless. Yes, I quite like jazz.’

      ‘You play piano as well?’ He sounded surprised.

      ‘I started out on piano.’

      He nodded his approval. ‘Oh, it’s great, jazz. It’s not so contrived as this stuff we play here, is it? You know where it comes from?’

      ‘America, I suppose.’

      ‘Africa.’ He drew on his cigarette and paused long enough for this gem of information to register. She saw his probing eyes, steady upon her, awaiting her response.

      ‘Africa?’

      ‘Missionaries.’ Now he took a gulp of tea.

      ‘Missionaries?’

      ‘Missionaries. Missionaries achieved Africanisation of their own hymnbooks, you know, when they were converting the natives to Christianity.’ He sounded pat, as if he’d held the same discussion many times before.

      ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

      ‘Well, African tribes interpreted our Christian hymns their own way, using the influences of their own music. That’s what I mean. You know…their own ritual music – chants, tribal songs – stuff like that.’

      ‘And that was jazz?’

      ‘Not yet. It was just the beginnings.’ He was laughing. She had not seen him laugh like this before; he always seemed so serious; a touch preoccupied maybe.

      Maxine lifted her cup and sipped her tea again, still drawn to his penetrating eyes like a beautiful moth drawn to a night-light.

      ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘African music developed in a way totally differently to our European music. It was less abstract, less aesthetic – do you know what I mean?’ Maxine nodded her increasing understanding. ‘It was more practical, more of a language – a way of communicating – and they could alter its meaning or emotion just by altering the pitch of a note, or changing the inflection in the voice.’

      ‘So it was more functional than music for mere art’s sake?’ She was glad that her interest in his explanations was genuine. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

      ‘Yes, and more rhythmic. Much more rhythmic. They used what they could lay their hands on for percussion instruments. A stick to beat out a rhythm. On a hollowed out tree trunk, for instance.’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Maxine had never seriously pondered the roots of jazz before. It was quite intriguing. Brent Shackleton was certainly intriguing.

      Brent puffed more smoke into the room, then drained his cup. ‘Then, when those poor Negroes became victims of the slave trade, these songs – these hymns if you like – evolved into work songs with lyrics to suit the situation. The slave owners encouraged them to sing such songs – apparently they improved the work rate. They weren’t daft, you know. When the slaves were freed, the more musically inclined of them that could afford it got hold of proper instruments. Some got to be brilliant and, because of their own Negro influences – you know, using complicated rhythms and altering notes and sounds by pitch and inflection – jazz evolved.’

      ‘I never realised,’ Maxine said. ‘I thought somebody just invented it.’

      ‘Well, there you are. You learn something every day…Fancy another cup of tea?’

      She leaned over to the trestle table to return her empty cup and saucer. ‘Oh, I’d best not, thank you. Any more and I’ll be plaiting my legs,’ she remarked self-effacingly.

      ‘And you can’t play the cello with your legs plaited.’ His eyes met hers directly with a candour that prompted her colour to rise at what she imagined he implied though, to her surprise, she did not mind. ‘Anyway, what are you doing afterwards, Maxine?’

      ‘After the concert?’ Her heart fluttered while she sipped tea again, her eyes down, lids lowered, in an effort to conceal her intensifying blushes.

      ‘There’s this club I go to…I wondered if you’d like to come.’

      She managed to stifle the urge to choke. ‘I can’t,’ she said, surprised at the depth of her disappointment. ‘Sorry. Not tonight at any rate. But thanks for asking.’

      ‘Some other time, maybe?’

      ‘Yes…I’d like that.’ She felt guilty for encouraging him, because of Stephen. But what was wrong with a half promise to go out with Brent at some other time? It was a vague agreement anyway. It might never happen…And yet why shouldn’t it? She was not married to Stephen. She was not even engaged. Nor ever likely to be.

      ‘Is it because of your young man that you can’t come?’

      ‘No, not just him,’ she said. ‘My whole family is out there. There’s a celebration afterwards. It’s my twenty-first today, you see.’

      ‘Your twenty-first?’ Brent turned round. ‘George, d’you hear that? It’s Maxine’s twenty-first today.’

      It seemed that all the rest of the orchestra heard it, too, and at once Maxine was swamped with congratulations from all directions.

      ‘Your first concert with the band on your twenty-first birthday, eh?’ somebody said. ‘You’ll never forget that.’

      Maxine flashed a polite smile.

      ‘Does the boss know?’ another person asked.

      ‘We’ll make sure he does,’ yet another replied.

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