Rags to Riches

‘One day, maybe,’ she said, happy to concede that point for now. ‘Are you going to come in for a night cap?’

He peered at his wristwatch by the scant light of the street lamp. ‘Much as I’d like to, I’d better not. I’ve got to be up. When shall I see you?’

She shrugged with indifference. ‘I don’t know. Come round Wednesday night, if you want.’

‘Not till Wednesday? What about before that? What will you be doing tomorrow night…and Tuesday night?’

‘Practising my cello, I expect. I have to practise, Stephen.’

‘I could listen. You know I love to hear you play.’

She shrugged again, irked at his tedious inability to face reality. ‘Come round Tuesday night then.’

‘What about Monday night?’ he persisted.

‘Stephen, I can’t see you every night. And I don’t want to see you Monday night.’

‘Just Tuesday then.’

‘Just Tuesday.’

‘…A kiss?’

She pursed her lips in the least romantic way she could and he pressed them with his own. At once breaking off, she opened the car door, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and, before he had chance to open his and come round to her side, she was gone. As she thrust open the front door of the house she heard him start the car and drive off.

Inside, while she hung up her coat, she heard Henzey and Will talking in the sitting room. Henzey called, and Maxine answered.

‘The kettle’s just boiled if you want a drink,’ Will said. ‘Had a good night?’

Maxine smiled enigmatically. ‘Yes, and no.’

Henzey looked up from folding clean napkins on her lap, instantly curious. ‘Tell us, then.’

‘Well the concert was smashing. The orchestra was brilliant. And I met one or two of them afterwards…’

‘But?’

‘But…’ Maxine sighed dramatically and shook her head. ‘On the way home Stephen asked me to marry him – of all the stupid things.’

‘I take it you don’t want to marry him,’ Will said.

She slumped down on the settee, disconcerted. ‘I’m too young, Will. This new job. I’m not ready for marriage. I don’t want to be tied down. There are too many other things in life I want to do first.’

‘You could do a lot worse, our Maxine,’ Henzey commented. ‘You could do a lot worse than marry Stephen Hemming.’

‘Oh, I know, Henzey. He’s as good as gold. But I’d be no good for him. He’s just a friend. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘Then let’s hope he doesn’t get tired of waiting.’

‘If he wants to wait that’s up to him, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea for him. Maybe I ought to swim around in it a bit and meet a few more. Just think what I might be missing.’ She got to her feet again. ‘I think I’ll make myself a cup of cocoa. Anybody else?’

‘No thanks,’ Will said.

‘Not for me, either,’ Henzey said. ‘But, hey – I nearly forgot…’

‘What?’ Maxine stood poised at the door, ready to take off into the kitchen.

‘Will came up with the idea of all the family getting together and going along to see your maiden concert, as he called it, then all coming back here afterwards for a celebration. For your twenty-first. What do you think?’

Maxine grinned happily. Her widest grin that night. ‘Oh, that would be smashing. Oh, isn’t that husband of yours kind, Henzey?’ She looked at Will. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Will. Thank you. Thank you ever so much.’

‘And tomorrow,’ Henzey added, ‘I’m going to buy the tickets for the concert.’

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

It was with some nervousness that Maxine took her place by her beloved cello on the stage at Birmingham Town Hall that second Saturday in May 1936. She looked bewitching in a new black evening dress she’d treated herself to, and her eyes shone with expectation. Along with everybody else she checked her tuning, at the same time peering into the audience, trying to locate family and friends who had come to both support her and celebrate her twenty-first birthday afterwards. Gwen Berry, at her side, nodded her encouragement as she adjusted the music score on the stand in front of them that they were to share.

Before Maxine knew it, they were into the first elegant phrases of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major. John Ball, the soloist, whom she had met briefly, was the orchestra’s own clarinettist. At rehearsal Maxine had been impressed with his ability.

It was a glorious feeling playing with other musicians. The music was like a magic carpet flying them all to exotic places. The tempo was the speed of flight, the melodies the delightful undulations in it, each trill the carpet’s frill rippling in an ethereal breeze. It all seemed unstoppable. Not that she wanted it to stop. It was addictive. Maxine likened it to riding in Stephen’s car; moving was infinitely more agreeable than not moving; stopping was inevitably a disappointment. But all too soon the music was at an end. All too soon the magic carpet had landed.

After the applause they took off again on another ride: a fairly recent piece by Ravel, called Boléro. Leslie Heward controlled the emotion in the music skilfully, building the tension almost imperceptibly. At first it was coquettish, provocative like a frivolous woman tantalising an admirer. Halfway through, their mutual arousal was already obsessive, ascending steadily to an orgy of compelling passion till the last, loud, staccato chords brought it to a shuddering, juddering finish like sated lovers spent of their last drop of energy.

Applause was immense and sustained and Maxine turned to Gwen, smiling with satisfaction, proud to be a part of this orchestra. So profound had been her concentration that, at the interval, she felt drained. Yet still to come was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Backstage she joined the queue at the trestle table that supported a pile of cups and saucers and a huge urn containing enough tea to refresh the orchestra with at least two cups each.

‘How’s it going, Maxine?’

She turned to see Brent Shackleton standing behind her and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, hello.’ She smiled brightly as she would at an old friend and hoped he could not detect her nervous reaction. The opportunity to speak to him had not presented itself since after last Sunday’s concert, even at rehearsals, and she wondered if he had deliberately avoided her. Well, he was not avoiding her now.

‘So? How’s it going?’ he asked again. ‘Are you settling in all right?’

‘Oh, fine, yes, thank you.’

‘Good. I spotted you in Boléro. Kept you busy towards the end, didn’t it?’

She laughed awkwardly. ‘You, too. I saw you had plenty to do as well.’

‘I’m still breathless.’ He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Good, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Great.’ They shuffled towards the head of the queue together.

‘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.