Читать книгу Rags to Riches - Nancy Carson - Страница 8

After the party, Maxine accompanied Stephen when he drove Lizzie and Jesse back home to the dairy house where they lived in Dudley. The ride was distinguished by the stilted conversation. Jesse had already been discreetly advised that Maxine’s ‘engagement’ was not entirely in accordance with her wishes and this inhibited any mention of it; but now, all other topics seemed like laboured small talk. So it was with some relief that Maxine parted company with Lizzie that night, with of course, the customary kiss and mutual instructions to look after themselves.

On the way back to Ladywood, Maxine and Stephen remained unspeaking for some minutes, till Maxine decided this problem should be sorted out, and the sooner the better; and that she should get in the first thrust.

‘Why did you give me this ring, Stephen, when you knew perfectly well I didn’t want to get engaged?’ she began calmly. ‘It was so embarrassing. What did you expect me to do?’

‘It was a calculated risk,’ he answered honestly, avoiding her eyes by fixing his on the glinting tram lines that sometimes made the car veer one way then the other if the narrow tyres became tracked by them. ‘I risked my hand believing you wouldn’t make a fool of me by handing it back – not in full view of everybody, at any rate.’

‘Well you were right about that. But, Stephen, I can’t believe it. We only discussed all this a week ago. I told you then that I didn’t want to get engaged. Do we have to go through it all again? What do I have to say to make you understand?’

‘Oh, I do understand, Maxine,’ he replied, and stroked her knee affectionately with his left hand.

She didn’t like that but she tolerated it, as long as his hand did not presume to wander higher. Why did she not enjoy being touched by Stephen? And he wanted her to marry him and do all those disgusting things he’d mentioned?

‘So why did you do it?’ she pressed.

‘Because I want to make you my own. I thought that if you didn’t refuse it then, then you would have accepted it – full stop – in the eyes of everybody there. I thought you would have committed yourself by not refusing it. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

‘But it can’t work like that, Stephen. I have to agree to it. Don’t you see?’

‘I just thought you would. I just thought that giving you the ring openly, with everybody watching, would sort of…’

‘Coerce me?…I think that’s the word. But coercion won’t work with me, Stephen.’ She took the ring off her finger and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘There. If you’re that keen on getting engaged offer it to somebody else.’

Stephen was angered by that. He stopped the car abruptly and switched off the engine.

‘Maxine,’ he said indignantly, ‘I want you. Nobody else. Now I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you with my offer of marriage, but it was sincere. I can’t help being in love with you. I can’t help the way I feel.’

‘But you seem to have no understanding or appreciation of how I feel, Stephen. Is that why you lost the last girl you were engaged to? By not considering her feelings?’

That struck a chord, Maxine could tell. He’d never offered any explanation as to why his previous entanglement with Evelyn had failed, and she had never pressed him for one. It seemed irrelevant to them.

‘I’m sorry, Maxine,’ he said quietly, and sighed like a football being deflated, as if resigned to the situation at last. Perhaps he saw that if he persisted with this he was going to lose her altogether. ‘No more talk of engagements then, eh?’

She shrugged indifferently. ‘I’m not even sure that I want to carry on seeing you.’

‘Maxine!’ He felt a cold shiver run down his spine in his panic. He couldn’t lose her. He mustn’t lose her. ‘Maxine don’t say that. Please don’t say that.’

‘Well it’s true, Stephen. I’m not in love with you. I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with you.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters.’

‘No,’ he said resolutely. ‘It doesn’t matter at all, because love will come. In time, you will come to love me. Such things happen all the time. I can wait. I’m quite happy to wait.’

‘I think you’ll be waiting for ever.’

‘Don’t say that, Maxine. Look, let’s just go on as we were, eh? I promise I won’t mention marriage or getting engaged again.’

She sighed, a heavy, frustrated sigh; Stephen was not going to be easy to shake off. ‘I don’t know…Do you want to know the truth, Stephen? I feel trapped with you. You don’t give me any space. You don’t allow me any time to myself, or time with any other friends – even with Pansy, your own sister. You want to see me every night of the week when I don’t want to see you. You don’t give me time to practise my cello even, when I need to practise on my own. When I need to stay in and practise you still come round. What do you think I’m going to do when you’re not there? Run off with somebody else? It’s as if you don’t trust me.’

‘Of course I trust you.’

‘You don’t…because you assume I’m like you. You’re judging me by your own standards.’

‘Maxine, I never realised…I never knew you felt that way,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If that’s what you want, that’s all right by me. I won’t see you every night.’

‘So let’s make it just two nights a week.’

‘Three,’ he pressed.

‘Two, or nothing at all…And I choose which two.’ She could not help but smile to herself. She knew he had to agree or lose her. She had no wish to hurt him or belittle him but she needed space; more now than ever before; and if it cost her his friendship, then so be it. ‘Oh…And no more opening the car door for me. Or any other damned door for that matter. I can do that on my own – if you don’t mind.’

‘Agreed…’ He sighed, and hesitated, as if to say something else.

‘Go on…What were you going to say?’

He felt in his pocket and withdrew the ring. ‘This…Give me your left hand.’

‘Stephen! I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’

‘Hear me out, Maxine…Give me your left hand.’

‘No.’

‘Just give me your left hand.’

He was smiling mysteriously, triumphantly. What sort of silly game was he playing? She gave him her hand tentatively.

‘I’ll only take it off again,’ she warned.

‘It’s no longer an engagement ring, Maxine,’ he said seriously and positioned the ring perfectly on her third finger. ‘It’s no longer an engagement ring. It’s just a ring…Any sort of ring. A ring of friendship. A dress ring. Anything you like.’

‘But it’s not an engagement ring?’ she queried, seeking reassurance. Then, more assertively: ‘It’s not an engagement ring.’

‘I just said so. It’s not an engagement ring. I conceived it and designed it just for you…to have, no matter what. I want you to have it, Maxine. Wear it, or don’t wear it, as you fancy.’

‘As long as it’s not an engagement ring.’

‘Not any more. How many times must I tell you?’

Maxine admired it on her finger again. The magnificent amethyst shone, amplifying the paltry light it picked up from the gas street lamps. It really was beautiful. Stephen certainly knew his job.

‘Okay,’ she said, satisfied. ‘Thank you. Now can we go?’

He drove her home, content that whilst she no longer regarded it as an engagement ring, everybody else would.

Rehearsals that week were hard work. Sibelius’s 6^th Symphony was scheduled for its Birmingham airing in two weeks, and nobody, even the conductor, was familiar with the score. But they battled through it, and after the third effort, everybody felt more comfortable with it. Roméo et Juliette, from Berlioz, was also on the agenda, universally popular with the players, and Maxine enjoyed its honest melodic drama.

All week Maxine had been puzzled and disappointed that Brent Shackleton had not taken time to come and chat to her, neither during breaks nor at lunch times. Even when they had finished and it was time to go home he had stayed chatting to his fellow brass. His lack of attention intrigued her. Maybe he had noticed from a distance the new ring she was wearing and, perceiving it as an engagement ring, decided discretion might be better exercised. Maybe if she took it off when she was coming to rehearsals…That would be sensible anyway.

But things took a different turn the following Monday. An evening rehearsal had been arranged so that the CBO could team up with the amateurs of the Festival Choral Society, to practise Beethoven’s mammoth Mass in D. It was the first time Maxine had been involved with choral music.

Rehearsal finished shortly after ten o’ clock and a further orchestra-only rehearsal was scheduled for the following morning. Thus, Stephen need not collect her and her cello since she could leave it packed away in the rehearsal room ready for the next day. Whether Brent had sussed this had never crossed her mind, but he ambled over to her, carrying his trombone case.

He was smiling, which negated any notion that he’d been deliberately avoiding her. ‘You’re looking well, Maxine. Pretty as a picture, as usual.’

‘Thank you.’ She blushed instantly and felt her heart start pounding like a kettledrum. She did not understand why she reacted to him in this way. It was such a nuisance. She did not enjoy blushing; she felt such a fool. Suddenly she was aware of the ring on her finger and tried to avoid showing her left hand.

‘If you don’t fancy going straight home, I’d love to take you to that club I know.’

Lord! He wanted to take her out. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for clubs, Brent,’ she said excusing herself but with bitter disappointment. She was wearing a full navy skirt of a length sufficient to afford some modesty when she was playing her cello, and a white blouse that she felt must be grubby after a whole day’s wear.

‘Oh, you’re dressed fine, Maxine. It’s only a jazz club.’

‘A jazz club?’ Her eyes gave away her interest.

‘Yes.’ It amused him that she seemed to repeat everything he said, but phrased as a question.

Of course, she would love to go to a jazz club. It would be a change to hear jazz. ‘I’d love to,’ she admitted. ‘The only problem is, they’ll be expecting me back home soon.’

‘Haven’t you got a key?’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve got a key.’

‘Well then…Why keep making excuses not to come?’

‘But what about your young lady?’

‘What about your young man?’ he countered.

‘Stephen? He’s not coming tonight.’

‘Neither is my young lady, as you call her.’

‘So what should I call her? What’s her name?’

‘Eleanor.’

‘Won’t Eleanor mind? You taking me to a club, I mean?’

‘I shan’t ask her whether she minds or not. I shan’t tell her anyway.’

Her smile of approval confirmed her collusion. ‘Actually, it’s no business of Stephen’s, either…If you’re sure I’m dressed okay? I could go home and change. It’s only up the road.’

‘You’re fine, Maxine. You look ravishing.’

She thrilled at his compliment, sincere or not. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

‘I might, if they deserve it. Come on, then, let’s go. I don’t want to be late.’

She grabbed her handbag and the navy cardigan that had been draped over the back of her chair and hurtled after him, finding it hard to keep up.

‘How far is it?’ she asked when they were outside in the street.

‘Not far.’

‘Do you have to walk quite so fast?’

He hesitated. ‘Sorry. It’s just that I should have been there fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Why? What’s all the rush?’

‘I’m due on stage. I play in a jazz band.’

‘You play in a jazz band?’

There she went again, repeating his words. ‘Yes. I’m a musician, remember. I have to earn money somehow. The CBO doesn’t pay enough. Here…’ They had arrived at a car; a very smart, curvy looking car; a Mercedes Benz, black, big, flaring with chromium plating. It sported enormous headlights perched on the front wings and a spare wheel nestling in the side sweep. He unlocked the door and threw his trombone and case in the back. ‘Hurry up.’

She let herself in and recognised the rich, dark smell of leather. He fired the engine and they shot off like a hare sprung from a trap. Maxine silently approved of his showing off in this expensive motor car. Yet their journey was short; incredibly short. They had travelled no more than four hundred yards when he pulled into a side street off Broad Street, the main road west out of the city, and stopped outside what looked like an old warehouse. Maxine stepped out of the car and while Brent retrieved his trombone from the rear seat she caught a glimpse of a canal basin harbouring a random fleet of narrowboats tied up for the night.

‘This way,’ he called. ‘Look, do you mind if I go on ahead and see you inside? Silas will let you in. Just tell him you’re with me.’ He dashed off, leaving her to find her own way.

She decided then not to rush. Let him get on with it and indeed, she would see him inside, when she got there. She entered by the door that he had not held open for her and pondered with wide-eyed amusement the very novelty of it. The reek of stale beer, body odour and cigarette smoke was strong, even in the small lobby she found herself in. A man was sitting at a table, and she knew the body odour was wafting from him.

‘One and six to get in,’ he mumbled.

‘How much?’ Now that was inconsiderate of Brent. She fumbled in her handbag.

The man drew asthmatically on a crinkled cigarette that was wet with spittle at one end. ‘Am yarra member?’ he asked, in a thick Birmingham accent.

Maxine could hear the buzz of people laughing and chatting inside, the chink of glasses and the unmistakable plinks of a banjo being tuned.

‘Sorry, no,’ she replied. ‘Do I have to be? I’m with Brent Shackleton, that chap who came in before me with the trombone. He’s in the band.’

‘Wharrim?’ His look suggested both scorn and a suggestion that he did not believe her. ‘You’m a fresh un, in’t ya?’

She shrugged. ‘Fresh as a daisy, me.’

‘Goo on, then, young madam. Gerron in. I’ll believe ya. Thousands wun’t.’

Maxine shoved the door open. She had no preconception of what the inside of this jazz club might be like. It bore no resemblance to the ultra smart jazz clubs in America she’d read about: the Cotton Club in New York, the Sunset Café in Chicago. Bare light bulbs hung dimly from ceiling rafters rendering a sleazy, Spartan atmosphere. Drifting cigarette smoke and the blend of feminine perfumes failed to mask the underlying mustiness that caught the back of her throat like the pungent stink of a damp dog. A few shaky tables furnished the place, acquired from house clearances by the looks of them, and rickety old chairs of similar origin that some people were rash enough to sit on. But most folks remained standing; including the young girls; too young, some of them. The stage, a makeshift affair, was constructed of beer crates supporting sheets of plywood, but Maxine could see several instruments on it, and one or two players getting ready to perform.

Brent located her in the dimness. ‘Oh, there you are. Let me get you a drink.’

‘A glass of lemonade, please.’ She was relieved that he’d taken the trouble to find her. ‘What time do you start playing?’

‘In about five minutes. Arthur’s split the reed on his clarinet. He’s just gone to get another.’

‘Where’s he going to get a reed from at this time of night?’

‘He reckons he’s got a spare one in his car.’

‘In his car?’ she jibed. ‘Not in his instrument case?’ It seemed inconceivable that a clarinettist should not have a spare reed immediately to hand. It was akin to having no spare strings in her cello case. Unthinkable.

Brent turned away from her and addressed the barman. Next thing, she was clutching a half-pint of beer.

‘I asked for lemonade,’ she said, amused that he’d got it wrong.

‘Never mind. You’ll enjoy that. Do you good…Look, Arthur’s back. See you later.’

As he hurried towards the stage, she smiled to herself. Stephen would stifle her with attention if she let him, but Brent was the sort of person who needed space himself, so would never restrict her. She could scarcely believe that two men could be so different. And yet this Eleanor, whom she had seen but not met…Where did she fit in? Was Brent married to her, or was she just a casual girlfriend? Already, Maxine perceived that Brent was not the sort to tie himself down in marriage; she felt they had that in common.

The band struck up, interrupting her thoughts. They were playing a thing called ‘Tiger Rag’. She’d heard it before on a record by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band – a record that Pansy had acquired. Her feet started tapping and a few couples started dancing. Arthur came in with a clarinet solo that Maxine did not consider very enthralling. The trumpet player followed – he was good; he was very good. Then it was Brent’s turn on the trombone and he shone, using a plunger mute and growling his notes with great panache. When it was the turn of the piano player Maxine at once noted his lack of competence, as if his fingers could not work the keyboard fast enough. But the banjo player was brilliant, as were the double bass player, and the drummer. Funny, she thought, how being a capable musician enabled you to pick out the flaws in other musicians’ performances, irrespective of the instrument they played.

When they finished the piece a smattering of applause flecked the background murmur and Arthur announced their next number, ‘Fidgety Feet’. Maxine was familiar with that one as well. A tall young man, smart, wearing a Fair Isle pullover the like of which she had seen on photos of the Prince of Wales, asked her to dance and she felt guilty at having to refuse him. She preferred to listen to the band.

This jazz was so informal, so improvised that it allowed for some ineptitude, she pondered, as she watched the pianist’s fingers stumble over the keys. The odd wrong note wasn’t that noticeable and mostly didn’t matter. The music was full of discords anyway, intermingling of instruments that at times sounded chaotic even though a firm underlying matrix was always present. So why did this pianist stand out as being so ill fitted to his job? The tempo changed slightly and Maxine recognised a tune called ‘Empty Bed Blues’. Arthur, clutching his clarinet casually at his side, sang a couple of triplets – incongruously, since the lyrics were meant to be sung by a woman – then proceeded to give another less than sparkling clarinet solo.

Then it struck her. The pianist. He wasn’t using syncopation. He knew what notes to play, but it seemed that he had not fathomed out how to stress the weak beat, the offbeat. The very elements of jazz, she thought, pitch, texture, melodic and harmonic organisation, all those bent notes, are woven around provocative rhythms. The way this man played he might just as well have been pounding out a hymn in a Methodist mission hut. Maxine felt pleased that she had diagnosed this ailment in what was otherwise a reasonable, tight sound.

Having sorted out the piano player, Maxine regarded Brent. His expression was earnest, eyes closed, sweat dripping off his brow as he slid his trombone through intricate passages in ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. This was evidently his preferred world, his preferred music.

At this point she asked herself what she was doing here; what she hoped to gain in this seedy, musty old warehouse that was hazy with cigarette smoke. Had she accepted Brent’s invitation because she wanted to listen to the music? Or was it because she fancied her chances with him? Accepting his invitation was a way of being with him, wasn’t it? But she wasn’t actually with him. He was on the stage sweating buckets over the one thing that possibly mattered more to him than anything else, while she was standing eight feet from the bar, watching, listening, being asked to dance by strange men in whom she had no interest, sipping beer she did not enjoy. She was not actually talking to Brent; she was not getting to know him any better. Neither was she discovering about Eleanor and the depth of his involvement with her.

Maybe she was wasting her time. Why would Brent Shackleton bother with Maxine Kite? In any case, he was inconsiderate. Look how he’d hurried off without her, leaving her to her own devices to gain admittance to the club. Totally, irritatingly inattentive. The absolute opposite of Stephen’s irritatingly superfluous gallantry. Both were as bad as each other. As soon as Brent came off stage she would make her excuses and go home. Besides, it was getting late. Henzey and Will would think she’d been abducted.

Yet, he must be interested in her. He’d asked her to this club, hadn’t he?

As she stood watching, thinking, listening, wavering between one emotion and another, she was aware that a man was standing at her side, but she avoided looking at him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said half apologetically, ‘would you mind very much if I talk to you?’

At least his approach was straightforward, even if he was a bit shy.

‘Why me?’ she asked, curious. ‘The place is full of girls.’ But her smile broadened in direct proportion to her appreciation of his handsome face and the kindly look in his soft eyes that were framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.

‘Because you look like the sort of girl who might have something to say,’ he answered with a warm but tentative smile. ‘The others? I doubt it. I’m also intrigued as to why a girl so attractive should be standing by herself.’

She chuckled amiably. ‘Oh, spare me the flattery. Attractive? Dressed like this?’

‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been watching you for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to come over and speak to you.’ He was about twenty-eight, she judged, clean and well groomed, but with an unruly mop of dark hair that gave him an appealing schoolboy look. ‘Howard Quaintance.’

‘Excuse me?’ They were having to speak in raised voices to be heard over the sound of the jazz.

He smiled pleasantly. ‘I’m Howard Quaintance…Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.’

‘Sorry. Maxine Kite…How do you do?’ She felt that, for the sake of good manners, him being so polite, she ought to offer to shake his hand.

He stood there holding a glass, his other hand in his pocket, casual, unassuming. ‘Delighted to meet you…er…Miss?…Kite.’

‘Miss, yes,’ she affirmed strenuously, amused by his unsubtle way of checking her marital status. ‘Call me Maxine. I’m quite happy to dispense with formality.’

He took a swig of beer. ‘Well, Maxine, what is such an attractive girl doing, standing all on her own in a den of inequity like this?’

‘Actually, I’m with one of the band.’

‘You don’t say? Might I ask which one?’

‘The trombonist.’

‘You don’t say…’ Maxine thought he sounded inordinately surprised. ‘A good musician. Not bad band, either, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Not bad,’ she concurred unconvincingly. ‘Between you and me, though, I’m not so sure about the pianist.’

‘Interesting you should say that,’ he remarked, focusing on the piano player.

‘I’ve been watching him and listening. If only he would syncopate they would really swing.’

‘Mmm…Interesting you should say that.’ He took a thoughtful slurp from his pint. ‘It doesn’t surprise me, though. I’m certainly no musician, but what you say doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re not a musician, are you, by any chance?’

‘I am a pianist,’ she confessed, to justify her comments. ‘But I play cello in the CBO.’

‘The CBO? Hey! You’re a classical musician. That explains your being hauled here by Brent.’

‘You know Brent?’

‘Nodding terms only, I’m afraid. Friend of a friend. Look, can I get you a drink?’

She looked at the barely touched glass of beer with distaste. ‘Would you mind?’ she replied. ‘This beer is too awful. I’d love a glass of lemonade…If it’s no trouble?’

‘Absolutely no trouble at all.’ He quaffed what remained of his pint and turned for the bar.

Great! She had a friend to talk to while Brent was busy. And he was easy to talk to. He seemed nice. She smiled cheerfully, uplifted now. It was pleasant to make new friends. What had he said his name was?…Howard? Yes. Howard Quaintance. Difficult to forget a name like that. In no time he returned and handed her the glass of lemonade. She took a mouthful eagerly to destroy the lingering, bitter taste of the beer.

‘So, how come you and Brent are on nodding terms?’ she asked.

‘Through one of the other members of the band, actually.’

Maxine felt herself go hot. Of course, this Howard was going to tell her it was the piano player, she could feel it coming with the certainty of an express train hurtling down a track to which she was tied and unable to escape. She put her hand over her eyes, and cringed.

‘Don’t tell me it’s the pianist, Howard. Please don’t tell me it’s the pianist!’

He guffawed aloud, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles with unconcealed delight at Maxine’s gaff. ‘Oh, I’m afraid it is.’

‘Oh, God!’ She wanted the ground at her feet to open up and consume her. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

Still howling with laughter, he touched her forearm and she felt his hand, warm, reassuring as he squeezed it.

‘Don’t concern yourself, Maxine,’ he said gently. ‘Old Randolf would be the first to admit he’s no jazz musician. Actually, he’s a church organist, you know. Jolly good he is too, as choirmaster, at playing Wesley and Stainer. Does an intoxicating “All things bright and beautiful”. Took this on as a challenge. For a hoot. A tad out of his depth I think.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ve gone all hot.’ Then she chuckled at her faux pas. ‘Maybe I’m too honest.’

‘Never ever say that, Maxine. Make thine honesty a vice…Shakespeare…Othello, you know.’

She shrieked with laughter. ‘Really? Shouldn’t I make it a virtue?’

He laughed with her at his own gaff.

‘So what do you do for a living, Howard, that makes you quote Shakespeare out of context? Are you an English teacher, by any chance?’

He chortled again and took a mouthful of beer, all the time looking straight into her eyes. She held the glance and recognised an untainted, well-brought-up look.

‘I’d rather not say. I don’t want to sound presumptuous, Maxine, but I rather like you and if I tell you what I do for a living you might not wish to be as affable as you are.’

‘Affable, am I?’

‘Definitely. I find you easy to talk to and hugely amusing. I also find you very direct. I like that. It’s refreshing in a girl…’ He hesitated. ‘On the other hand, we may never meet again, so there’d be no harm in telling you anyway. But, I won’t.’

She laughed at his indecision or his teasing; she wasn’t sure which it was. ‘God! You’re infuriating. Why won’t you tell me what you do?’

‘It’s of no consequence – really…But hey, I am thirsty.’ He took a long quaff from his beer, finishing it off.

‘Well, you’re drinking that rather quickly,’ she commented.

‘Good God! You’re not in the Band of Hope, are you?’

‘Certainly not. More like the band of no hope, me.’ Her tone, she was aware, must have sounded melancholy.

‘How can you possibly say that?’ he asked. ‘With all the musical talent you must possess?’

‘I wasn’t thinking about musical talent particularly.’

‘Oh? What, then?’

It was her turn to shrug, unsure as to how much she should tell him. ‘Oh…Men. I find men are a pain in the neck…Oh, I don’t mean you, Howard – I don’t know you – but some at any rate. I mean it’s either all or nothing with them. At least that’s my experience – which is a bit limited, I hasten to add – just in case I’ve given you the wrong impression.’

‘Is that an engagement ring you’re wearing, Maxine? You must have captured somebody’s heart. But that’s hardly surprising.’

She brought her hand up so he could inspect the ring in the dimness. He took off his glasses to better see close to and slipped them into the top pocket of his jacket.

‘Very impressive,’ he remarked.

‘But it’s not an engagement ring, Howard.’

‘No? Well that’s a blessing.’

She explained in some detail about her relationship with Stephen. How he wanted more than she was prepared to give, how she did not enjoy his caresses, even though she liked him as a person; how he’d tried to trap her into saying she would marry him. She was surprised at the consummate ease with which she was pouring out her doubts and fears to Howard, as if they’d been bosom pals always.

‘But everyone will think it’s an engagement ring, Maxine, and your Stephen knows that,’ Howard advised her. ‘Don’t you see? I thought it was an engagement ring, actually. Why don’t you wear it on your right hand, if you’re still keen on wearing it? Then there can be no misunderstanding. It tends to put off potential suitors, you know.’

Maxine looked at him with wide-eyed admiration. ‘Why didn’t I think of that? That’s brilliant, Howard! That’s absolutely brilliant.’

‘Here. Let me do it. I’ve never removed a ring from a finger before.’

She gave him her hand, thinking it a strange thing for him to say. He put his glass down on a nearby table and touched her slender fingers. Deftly, he slid off the ring.

‘Now, give me your right hand.’ He put the ring on the third finger. ‘Does it fit?’

She nodded coyly, aware that her heart was beating fast with the unanticipated intimacy of the moment. To her surprise, being touched by someone who was not Stephen was surprisingly pleasant and, for the first time in her life, Maxine felt that maybe she was not destined to be unresponsive forever. It had to be Stephen. She felt new hope. Physical contact might be pleasurable after all, and she wondered what her reaction would be if Brent touched her.

‘There. That’s all there is to it. Problem solved.’

‘Thank you.’ She felt herself blush; though in this dim light it barely mattered.

‘Is that why you’re here tonight with Brent Shackleton?’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘I mean, are you trying to seek some reason to justify discarding this Stephen?’

He had a point.

‘Maybe. I don’t really know. I hadn’t analysed my motives particularly. Brent’s a fellow musician. A colleague. To tell you the truth I was ready to go home before you came talking to me.’ But suddenly she saw her chance to find out more about Brent. She must sound as casual as she could. ‘Anyway, I don’t really know Brent that well. What can you tell me about him? I’ve seen him with a girl after CBO concerts. A really beautiful girl. Is he married or anything?’

Howard looked bitterly disappointed. ‘Why don’t you ask him, Maxine?’

Outside it had started to rain. Maxine had not anticipated rain tonight. She pulled her cardigan over her shoulders and ran behind Brent as they headed for his car. He threw his trombone onto the back seat. Once inside he unlocked the passenger door for her.

‘Bloody weather,’ he murmured. ‘Which way?’

‘To the top of Broad Street, then turn right into Ladywood Road.’ She shuffled her bottom on the seat to get comfortable, Howard’s presence still with her.

He turned the car around and drove off. ‘Well? Have you enjoyed tonight?’

‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, thank you. The band’s good. I’m impressed. Have you got a name for yourselves?’

‘The Second City Hot Six.’

‘The Second City Hot Six?…But there are seven of you.’

‘Arthur doesn’t always play. His wife won’t let him out all the time.’

‘Lord, I can scarcely believe that!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not that brilliant anyway, is he?’

‘Not really. But most of the time we haven’t got him. When we have, he’s a bonus.’

‘A liability, more like. He plays that clarinet as if it were a piece of lead piping. The pianist too – he’s the same – worse, possibly.’

He chuckled at her directness. ‘This stuff’s not serious, Maxine. It’s for fun. It doesn’t really matter how good or bad we are, so long as we enjoy playing together. It pays reasonably well, anyway. That’s a bonus.’

‘I suppose so. But I tend to be a perfectionist, Brent. I couldn’t stand to play jazz – or anything else for that matter – unless I was doing it as well as it was possible to do it.’

‘Does that apply to everything you do?’ he asked provocatively.

‘Of course it does.’ His innuendo was lost on her, however.

‘I see you were talking to Randolf’s chum.’

‘You mean Howard? He was nice. Easy to talk to. I liked him.’ The same glow she’d felt when he held her hand lit her up again as she recalled the moment. After a pause, she said: ‘I asked him about you.’

He snorted with laughter. ‘I bet that impressed him.’

‘I asked him if he knew whether you were married.’

‘Oh? And what did he say?’

‘He said to ask you …I think I upset him. So I’m asking. Are you married, Brent?’

He hesitated, and she knew he was debating with himself whether to tell her a lie. ‘Why? Is it important?’

‘It might be.’

‘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.’