Rags to Riches

‘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

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 one of the musicians sitting at the rear of the hall, who nodded his approval.

‘Congratulations, Miss Kite,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You’ll be receiving official notice to play in all the orchestra’s concerts this season. We’ll be doing Sibelius’s Seventh Symphony soon. Are you familiar with Sibelius’s work?’

‘Some, yes, Mr. Heward.’

‘Excellent. And we’re doing Beethoven’s Fifth, the ‘New World’, Shostakovich’s First, and Tchaikovsky’s Fourth…and lots of Elgar, of course.’ He smiled steadily. ‘Doesn’t scare you, does it?’

Maxine smiled back; her usual shy smile. ‘No, sir, it doesn’t scare me at all.’

‘Splendid! That’s what I like to hear. Thank you, Miss Kite. Rehearsals will start for you here next Monday at ten. I shall look forward to your contribution to the orchestra.’

‘Thank you, Mr Heward,’ she beamed, her delight evident in her eyes that were the colour of her cello. ‘Thank you so much.’

Mr Heward shook her hand and left Maxine to put her cello away while he sought the company and comments of the principal cellist.

While she smiled to herself, so relieved and so pleased that she had got the job she wanted so much, another man, much younger than the conductor, walked up to her. He was in his late twenties she estimated, tall, confident and oh, so good-looking.

‘I think you surprised our lord and master,’ he said amiably, adjusting his fashionable Paisley tie.

Maxine regarded him with interest. ‘Do you think so? How did I manage that, I wonder?’

‘I think he was expecting to hear somebody of average ability. He wasn’t quite prepared for somebody with such a pretty face to play quite so well.’

Maxine felt herself colour up at the compliment. But she was at a loss for a suitable reply, apart from a sadly inadequate ‘thank you’.

‘I’m Brent Shackleton, trombonist in this aspiring orchestra you’ve just joined.’ He held his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you. I really enjoyed listening to you.’

Maxine shook his hand. It was cool, dry and smooth but his grip was lingering. She smiled readily. ‘I’m Maxine Kite. I’m still in a bit of a daze to tell you the truth. I can’t believe I just got into the CBO.’

‘I shouldn’t worry, Maxine. I daresay you’ll soon get used to the idea. Smoke?’ He proffered a silver cigarette case.

‘I don’t, thank you.’

He took one and lit it. ‘I’ve been with this outfit nearly five years now. It keeps me in these…Just about…’ He tapped the cigarette case nonchalantly and she was not sure that she admired his indifference. ‘Where do you live, Maxine? Are you local?’

‘Ladywood,’ she replied, anticipating her new lodging arrangements. ‘With my sister and her husband.’

‘Ladywood? That’s almost walking distance from here, isn’t it?’ He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

‘It’s very convenient.’ Her cello was back in its case. She closed the lid and picked it up. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way. Nice to meet you, Mr Shackleton.’

‘Call me Brent. It is all right if I call you Maxine, isn’t it?’

She smiled and lingered a moment. There was something appealing about him after all; the way he looked at her. His dark eyes were focused only on her, piercing, making her feel decidedly self-conscious. But not the way Stephen did. Definitely not the way Stephen did.

‘I’ll see you at rehearsals next week, I imagine,’ she said affably.

‘Shall you come to the concert on Sunday evening?’