by Nancy Carson
They had travelled about a hundred yards when Maxine said: ‘You know, Brent, I feel guilty going to the jazz club with you tonight if you’re not on the best of terms with Eleanor. Perhaps you should take me home.’
‘What the devil for? It’s nothing to do with Eleanor. In any case, I’d rather be in your company than hers.’
Maxine smiled with tenderness, flattered that Brent should make such an admission. She looked at him as he drove, the moving streetlights reflected in his brooding eyes.
‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she said. ‘But my concern is that Eleanor might get the wrong idea.’ She shrugged. ‘You know…’
‘I don’t care if she does.’
‘But I care, Brent. Spare a thought for me. I don’t want her maligning me for something I haven’t done.’
‘So you’d rather go home?’
‘Unless you promise you won’t tell her you’ve taken me tonight.’
He smiled to himself. ‘Oh, count on it, Maxine. I’ve no intention of doing that.’
‘Good. Thank you, Brent.’
They arrived outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club. Brent pulled on the handbrake, stopped the engine and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘By the way, there seems to be a lot of outside interest in the band all of a sudden. I’ve got bookings for the Tower Ballroom for a few Saturday nights, starting the week after next, and if they like us it could be a resident spot. As well as others. What do you think of that, eh?’
‘That’s smashing,’ Maxine said inadequately, but with a wide grin of satisfaction. She showed no intention of getting out of the car, happy to learn of the band’s increasing success.
‘I’ve had enquiries, too, from further afield. Some, wanting to book us up for Christmas and New Year. We can put our fees up for then, especially New Year’s Eve. We can virtually name our own price.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘You’re gorgeous in that slinky new dress, you know, Maxine.’ He gave her a grin as indiscreet as his thoughts.
‘Well thank you,’ she replied.
‘I’ve been thinking, Maxine. I think we should feature your singing more. I want you to be the band’s main vocalist. Leave the piano sometimes and stand stage front. You’ve got a great jazz voice – different – but you look the part as well. We must exploit it. So, think of some more songs you’d like to sing.’
He leaned towards her, almost imperceptibly, and she could have sworn he was going to kiss her, so she tilted her head tentatively to offer her mouth. But he did not take advantage and she felt a pang of disappointment when he opened his door to get out. At once she opened the passenger door, her disappointment turning to embarrassment, for he must have noticed her intention to submit. What if he thought it too obvious? Think of something to say, quickly, to distract him.
‘ “Where or When?” ’
‘As soon as you like. At the next practice if we can.’
‘No,’ she exclaimed, a peal of laughter concealing her embarrassment. ‘I mean can I sing the song called “Where or When”?’
‘Oh, that. Sure.’
The CBO was busy with the summer season and The Owls and the Pussycats had a rapidly filling schedule too. After the Saturday promenade concerts, Maxine and Brent had to dash to the Tower Ballroom for their new series of gigs. They were booked to play a couple of forty-five minute spots, alternating with the resident dance band who, like all self-respecting musicians, welcomed the break as an opportunity to consume more beer.
But increasingly, the regular dance band were foregoing their extra beer to listen to this outstanding new seven-piece outfit. Maxine and Pansy, in their new, slinky, shiny, clingy dresses, drew wolf whistles galore, but everybody had to admire the music they were creating, and that manifested itself in loud and prolonged applause.
When Maxine sang her favourite new love song, ‘Where or When?’ the couples who were dancing fell into an embrace and shuffled together slowly on the dance floor, but most also had an eye on the stage, watching her. She had presence. She had style. Oh, she had everything.
Rehearsals saw them attempting more of the new swing music that was coming from America. From a specialist source in New York that Brent knew, called the Commodore Music Shop, they were able to send for records and musical arrangements. They acquired records by Jack Teagarden, Django Reinhardt, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington that were not available in Britain. And, as they enlarged their repertoire and their music became more sophisticated, so the booking enquiries flooded in. Would they play at this wedding, that society function? Would they give an outdoor concert in Canon Hill Park? Would they play at this town hall, that hotel?
Certainly. They would play as many as they could. Brent wanted the money. And as they played further afield, more and more people were hearing their name.
‘Have you heard that new band called The Owls and the Pussycats? They’re great! They’re fantastic! They’re wonderful!’
Word spread.
Word spread like fire in a bone-dry forest, fanned by a strong breeze.
However, Brent Shackleton’s growing elation over the band was offset somewhat by a discovery he made at home late one afternoon in July. Returning from a CBO rehearsal, he went upstairs to get changed. He took off his cufflinks and went to place them in the small glass dish on his tallboy where he always left them, when he noticed Eleanor’s jewellery box there too. It had been left open inadvertently. She was not overly endowed with fine jewellery, but one piece stood out among the other trinkets. It was a ring, with a huge amethyst set in a cluster of diamonds. Brent picked it up. He had seen this ring before. A ring as distinctive as this he could not be mistaken about. This ring he had seen on Maxine Kite’s finger. It was her engagement ring, later transferred to her right hand. What in God’s name was it doing in Eleanor’s jewellery box?
After Saturday evening’s CBO concert, Brent was already waiting backstage for Maxine to leave the ladies’ dressing room.
‘Maxine,’ he said, and his cool brown eyes manifested a look of disquiet. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the Tower, but I can’t play tonight. Something’s cropped up.’
She looked at him with concern. ‘Oh? What?’
‘I can’t say. It might be nothing. On the other hand, it could be significant. I can’t say yet.’
‘Well I hope it’s something easily sorted out,’ she said sincerely. ‘But how shall we get on tonight without a trombone player?’
‘Oh, you’ll be okay,’ he assured her. ‘Nobody will miss my line. You’ll cope fine.’
They walked to his car, and he drove her to the Tower Ballroom. ‘The manager is supposed to let us know tonight whether he wants to book us for a resident season,’ he said as he pulled up outside. ‘Talk to him, Maxine, and explain that I can’t be there. I’ll leave it to you to sort out. But don’t go below that figure we said. If they want us they’ve got to pay.’
Maxine nodded. ‘All right. I’ll see you Tuesday at practice. I hope you get it settled, whatever it is.’
He smiled ruefully and held up his hand as a departing gesture.
Funny how Maxine Kite had grown on him. Three months ago he hadn’t been that interested. Nowadays, though, he considered Maxine a prospective conquest. But Eleanor alone was enough for any man. His relationship with Eleanor was strange, obsessive, and he could not help himself where she was concerned. Ever since she’d coyly let him glimpse her first adolescent triangle of soft, pubic hair, they’d been lovers and their secret had fuelled their greater ardour for each other over the years. The curious and inexpert fumblings of youth, the unexpected, uncontrived sensations they experienced together, all gathered momentum and escalated into an ardour so intense that there had been times when they simply could not get enough of each other; when they would stay in bed all day. And this prolonged, frenetic lovemaking would render them sore and exhausted for days afterwards.
But their relationship was strained at present. A couple of times in the pa
st Eleanor had been aloof, indifferent towards him. He had grown suspicious then that she had been interested in another man. Whether or not it had amounted to anything, he did not know, short of asking her. Yet, he would not ask her for fear of learning the truth. The same suspicions had drawn him home early tonight. Something was wrong and he needed to find out what.
As Brent drove on through the poorly lit streets of Bearwood towards Handsworth where he and Eleanor lived, he thought of the other women he had had; women who had failed to divert him in the way Eleanor evidently became diverted. They meant nothing; merely conquests; food for the ego.
His thoughts quickly returned to Maxine Kite. He understood that it would be ungallant of him to try and ensnare Maxine in a sexual relationship, but only because he perceived she was forthright and had some honour; he could not reasonably expect her to be willing because of Eleanor. All the same, she was eminently beddable; and gallantry had never been his strong point anyway. Each time he looked at her he discovered something new; a different expression, a tiny mole on her arm he had not noticed before, how the light glinting off her lush dark hair reflected some other unexpected colour. She was his equal when it came to conversation, knowledgeable enough to discuss any topic. She was bright, intelligent, fun, not given to tantrums or selfishness. She would be bright, intelligent and fun in bed, too. Sooner or later he would bed her. He always got what he wanted. And he had no other competition now that Stephen was gone.
At that moment, Brent saw Stephen’s car parked in Arthur Road, a side street close to his house in Grove Lane. What the devil was he doing here? This could explain the ring. Unless he was visiting somebody else close by. Brent knew few of his neighbours; by choice he did not socialise with them, so he did not know who lived where Stephen’s car was parked.
But Eleanor’s recent indifference and his finding Stephen’s ring spelled it out, shouted it louder than any megaphone could. Of course, the crafty monkey was visiting Eleanor. Brent’s mind flickered back to that evening at the jazz club when Eleanor first met him. They had chatted easily and for quite a while, but not sufficiently to arouse any suspicion. Stephen was the last person he would have considered to be of interest to Eleanor. The man was too insipid, too ordinary and too dull for somebody as vibrant and discerning as Eleanor.
Brent sat staring at Stephen’s car for ages, deciding what he should do for the best. He did not want to enter the house for fear Stephen was there with Eleanor. It would be counter-productive to confront them or find them in a compromising situation. First, in any case, he should make sure. So he reversed his car into Mostyn Road, another side street where it was out of view and hid behind the school gates from where he had sight of Stephen’s car and his own front door. One thing was certain; if Stephen was up to no good with Eleanor, he would take great pleasure in his revenge. And what more fitting revenge than to bed Maxine Kite when Stephen had manifestly failed to do so? What more satisfying conclusion than to induce her to fall in love with him? That would prove beyond any doubt that he was much more of a man than Stephen.
He lit a cigarette and waited…and waited.
At the Tower Ballroom, all was going well. Despite Brent’s absence, The Owls and the Pussycats were giving a good account of themselves. Only they seemed to know that somebody was missing from the line-up. As far as the dancing couples were concerned, everything was fine. When they had finished their first spot they headed thirstily for the bar. Within a couple of minutes a man approached them wearing a dark suit that badly needed pressing.
‘Who’s the leader of your band?’ he asked, addressing all of them and nobody in particular. ‘I’m from the Evening Mail. I wondered if I could interview your leader.’
‘Maybe I can help?’ Maxine responded.
‘But you’re never the band leader, are you?’
‘I am when he’s not around,’ she answered steadily.
‘But you’re a woman. Who is the recognised leader?’
‘Brent Shackleton,’ she said, keeping calm. ‘He’s not here. And when he’s not around I look after anything that might crop up.’
‘Okay,’ the man conceded. ‘I reckon you’ll have to do. I daresay you’re a sight prettier than this Brent Shackleton, anyway, eh?’
‘But he can be quite charming when he’s a mind to be.’ Maxine responded, indignant at the man’s attitude but maintaining her polite smile.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mister?’ Toots said, his arm as always around Pansy’s trim waist, even while waiting to be served at the bar.
‘Thanks, pal. That’s the best offer I’ve had since I’ve got here. Pint of Ansell’s…My name’s Bill Brighton, by the way. I’m the music critic for the Mail.’
‘Oh, I’ve read your column lots of times,’ Maxine said, overlooking her indignation, recognising the need to exaggerate the truth in the cause of flattery and what it might buy them in free publicity. ‘I always enjoy reading it.’ At this, Bill Brighton’s attitude visibly softened. ‘So what do you want to know about us, Mr Brighton?’
‘Well, word has got to us about the band. Some pretty impressive comments over the last few weeks. I wanted to come and hear you for myself.’
‘Pity we’re short of the trombonist then,’ Toots commented. ‘Trust that to happen when you come along.’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ve been mightily impressed…The name of the band, though…The Owls and the Pussycats? Who thought that one up?’
‘Brent Shackleton and me,’ Maxine answered, recalling their brain-storming a while ago.’
‘Borrowed from Edward Lear, eh?’
‘Well, we didn’t think he’d mind.’ She took her drink from Toots and thanked him.
Toots handed the reporter a beer. ‘Thanks…So who plays the runcible spoon, eh?’ he roared.
‘Nobody in this band, Mr Brighton,’ Maxine replied straight-faced. ‘The owl and the pussy-cat ate with a runcible spoon.’
Everybody burst out laughing.
‘Oops, sorry, Miss,’ Bill Brighton said, discountenanced. ‘An easy mistake. And I thought I knew that poem by heart. Anyway, listen. I really like your music and I like the way you play. I reckon you’ve got a big future ahead of you, and I’ll tell our readers that. Good bands are hard to come by. Are you professional?’
‘No, we all have other jobs,’ Toots replied raising his glass.
‘Cheers. Do you hope to become professional?’
Nobody answered, only an exchange of uncertain glances between the band.
‘Some of us would love to be,’ Maxine said. ‘But I don’t think it will happen. Some of us are professional musicians already. I play in the CBO. So does Brent Shackleton. Pansy here plays in the Hippodrome pit orchestra. We’d have to be mighty successful to give up our regular jobs and depend solely on The Owls and the Pussycats for our bread and butter.’
‘For your mince and slices of quince, eh?’ Bill Brighton suggested, jeopardising his credibility with another risky witticism, which everybody ignored.
‘I’d give up my other job tomorrow,’ Pansy remarked. ‘I’d love it just playing in this band.’
Bill Brighton had many more questions. Finally, he said he’d got enough information to give them a write-up in his newspaper and asked when he might send a photographer to take some pictures. Brent Shackleton would organise that, Maxine said. Brent would be in touch with him early next week.
Brent Shackleton drew earnestly on several more cigarettes before he saw his front door open and reveal a dim column of light. A tall man was momentarily silhouetted – Stephen Hemming. Brent watched him leave, turn and wave to Eleanor. His pulse raced with bitter resentment. The cheek of the man. Just how long had this been going on? He tried to calm himself down as he watched Stephen furtively cross the road to his car in the darkness. What was the sense in getting up-tight about this? What sense was there in creating a fuss? Creating a fuss would achieve nothing. He would confront Eleanor, but calmly. He must not get angr
y like the last time. The trick was to remain reasonable. In any case, why try to compete? If she wanted him, she could have him. No amount of animated cajoling would win back her favours.
He waited till Stephen disappeared then drove his own car unhurriedly to the front of his house. Breathing deeply in an effort to maintain his calm, he locked the car and slowly walked up the path to the front door. As he opened it, he caught sight of Eleanor at the top of the stairs, floating across the landing in her dressing gown.
‘Eleanor!’
She did not answer.
If they had been to bed the bedclothes would still be strewn about. He rushed upstairs and walked into their bedroom, expecting the worst. But the bed was untouched, exactly how it had been when he left home earlier; his Fair Isle pullover was still on the counterpane where he had left it. Stephen and Eleanor had evidently not been to bed. Maybe he was wrong about Stephen. Maybe he was wrong about Eleanor. Perhaps it had been merely a social call.
Eleanor was in the bathroom. He sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Still agitated, he stood up again and walked downstairs to the sitting room. Everything was neat and tidy. Every cushion was where it should be. No used cups and saucers lay about, no dirty drinking glasses, no articles of clothing, no carelessly discarded underwear, no unwitting clues that might hint at any extracurricular sexual shenanigans. No, Eleanor was too artful to be caught out like that. Except that maybe the place was too tidy.
In the kitchen he boiled the kettle, ground some coffee beans and made himself a drink. He grabbed his half-full bottle of cheap French brandy, poured a generous measure into a tumbler and sat down with both drinks at the kitchen table, sipping the hot one, alternately gulping the one that caught the back of his throat. Why had Stephen Hemming been to this house? What was the creep up to?
Eleanor left the bathroom and Brent called her. This time she answered: no, why should she come downstairs? She was going to bed. She was tired. Just because he was home early didn’t mean she had to sit up with him.
