Rags to Riches

‘Yet you didn’t ask before you accepted my offer to take you out.’

‘Nevertheless, it had occurred to me.’

‘Nevertheless, you accepted my invitation.’

She felt her colour rise. ‘I suppose I did.’

‘Which suggests it isn’t relevant.’

‘It would be relevant if I had designs on you,’ she said, trying to make it sound as if she hadn’t.

He grinned to himself in the darkness. ‘And do you have designs on me?’

‘Certainly not. Especially if you’re married. So? Are you married?’

‘I might be,’ he teased. ‘And then again, I might not.’

‘Sorry, Brent. Turn left here, please.’

‘Left? Hold tight.’ He braked hard and turned the car into the corner.

‘Now right.’

‘Okay…Now where?’

‘Just here will do…Thank you, Brent. Thanks for taking me to listen to the Second City Hot Seven.’

‘Hot Six.’

She smiled enigmatically as she clambered out of the car. ‘See you at rehearsal in the morning.’

Chapter 5 (#ueb32d124-c031-5f73-b1b4-3a552c7c2770)

Orchestra rehearsals for Beethoven’s Mass in Dwent well. By five minutes past ten everyone had tuned up and was playing. Leslie Heward was not content with some of the passages in the final movement, prompting various discussions and one or two individuals practising certain phrases privately and spontaneously before going over it again together. They broke for lunch at one o’ clock.

Maxine, who had avoided looking in the direction of Brent Shackleton, was surprised when he sidled up to her as she spoke to Gwen Berry on a point of interpretation on the cello score.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Gwen. Do you mind if I steal Maxine off you?’ he asked courteously. ‘Have you got a minute, Maxine?’

Maxine excused herself and stood up.

‘Last night, Maxine…’ he began seriously. ‘Look, do you mind coming with me to The White Hart for a drink? There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s probably best done over a drink.’

‘Okay,’ she said, surprised at the prospect of being in his company again so soon. ‘What do you want to discuss with me?’

‘I need some advice. Something you said last night.’

About the question of him being married? ‘Let me grab my bag.’

She trotted alongside him to the exit. ‘Horrible last night, wasn’t it? The weather, I mean.’ She smiled appealingly to confirm she really did mean the weather.

In Chamberlain Square the pigeons were out in force, strutting earnestly in the sunshine, flapping boisterously as crumbs and crusts landed among them. Lunch time was an engrossing time of day for pigeons, for on fine days such as this the providers of all these scraps of bread, the city’s office workers, took to the Square to enjoy sandwiches and flasks of tea among the splendour of some of Birmingham’s grandest Victorian architecture. Office romances budded and blossomed as workers sought relief in the sunshine from the tedium of eye straining paperwork in poorly lit rooms.

Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.

He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.

They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.

‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’

‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’

He grinned. ‘Okay. Lemonade. What about a sandwich? They do decent sandwiches here.’

‘No thanks.’ She had taken her own sandwiches as she did every rehearsal day. They were lying in her basket next to her cello; to be eaten alongside her cello usually. Besides, she could never countenance buying sandwiches when they were so cheap and easy to make at home.

Brent returned with their drinks. ‘There’s nowhere to sit.’

‘Then we’ll have to stand.’ She took the glass from him and sipped it. ‘So what do you want to discuss with me?’

‘The Second City Hot Six.’ He took a long draught through the foam on his beer.

‘Oh? How do you think I can help?’

‘Well, you’re a musician, Maxine. You listen to jazz. You reckon you play it yourself occasionally…’

‘But only for fun. Never seriously. I’ve only ever played it with my friend Pansy. She’s brilliant, mind you. Completely wasted.’

‘Cigarette?’

‘I don’t smoke, Brent. You know I don’t smoke.’

‘I forgot. Sorry…Something you said last night, Maxine, made me think. You said there was no point in doing something – playing jazz for instance – if you didn’t do it right. You said you’re a perfectionist.’

‘I suppose I am. I can’t stand music to be played slapdash.’

He lit his cigarette. ‘After I dropped you off I thought about that. And you know, you’re spot on. I want to earn my living playing jazz. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. You made me realise with that comment of yours that if that’s what I want, then I have to do it properly to achieve it. Why shouldn’t I be the best? Why shouldn’t the band be the best? It’s the only way forward.’

‘Quite right,’ Maxine agreed, wafting unwanted smoke away with her hand.

‘I want to take it more seriously, Maxine. You know, there’s good money to be made playing jazz. I could earn a lot more than I do playing in the CBO and, believe me, I could do with it. So I need some guidance from a self-confessed perfectionist. You heard us last night, Maxine. What should we do to get the best out of what we’ve got? How can we improve, do you think?’

‘By hard practice, I should say. By disciplined practice. It’s no good turning up for practice and fooling about. If there’s something to be rehearsed, rehearse it. Rehearse it till it sounds as good as you hear it in your imagination. And then keep on rehearsing it till playing it is second nature – till you don’t have to think about it.’

‘But everybody else in the band has to be of the same mind.’

‘Course they do. A half-hearted musician will stick out like a sore thumb amidst really serious ones – and spoil what they do.’