Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  Brent quaffed his beer, then handed his cigarettes round. While they lit them, Dan handed over the photos to the journalist.

  ‘Superb,’ Bill Brighton said. ‘Lovely looking girls. You should go far with those two…I know one thing – I wouldn’t mind going all the way with either of ’em.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ Brent agreed.

  ‘That redhead! Cor! I love redheads.’

  Brent did not wish to be drawn into a bawdy conversation about his two female colleagues and thought a change of tack might be appropriate and do the band some good. ‘Why don’t you come and hear us again, Bill? Come and hear the full line-up. If you thought we were good as a six-piece, you’d be more than impressed with the full line-up. And we’ve worked on some newer material since.’

  ‘Actually, I’d love to. If only to get a look at them madams again.’ He guffawed at that. ‘I expect they’re already fixed up?’

  Brent nodded.

  ‘Ah well. Never mind. I’ll come anyway. It should be an aural as well as a visual treat, eh?…Tell me, Brent – have you got much work on?’

  ‘Pretty fair. Two nights a week regular. Occasionally three.’

  ‘I expect you’d like to turn professional?’

  ‘I already am. I play in the CBO as well.’

  ‘But there must be stacks more money playing jazz.’

  ‘If you get well-known. If you’re in demand. If you broadcast. If you make records.’

  ‘That’s a lot of “ifs”, Brent. I get to know quite a lot of people. Influential people. There’s one chap it might pay you to get in touch with. Tell him about the band, the sort of stuff you play, your aims. Send him a couple of those photos. Let him see what beautiful girls you’ve got playing with you and stress how talented they are. I mean, Brent, an outfit like yours could be a really big draw in London as a show band.’

  ‘So who is this chap?’

  ‘Seth Cohen. He runs an entertainment agency in London. He books bands like yours for shows and big important dos. Get in with him and you could be made.’

  Brent drew deep on his cigarette, looking pensive. ‘But just a letter and a couple of photos might not be enough to tempt him – enough to offer us anything. I mean, he’d want to hear us.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine he would. He’d want to see you performing.’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly likely to trek all the way from London on the strength of a letter from its leader.’

  Bill Brighton mused over the photographs again. ‘You know…for a small favour, I might be able to pull some strings.’

  ‘What sort of favour?’ Brent queried.

  ‘Fix me up with one of those girls. The redhead.’

  ‘She’s spoken for, Bill. Well and truly.’

  ‘The dark-haired one, then. The sharp one. I ain’t that fussy.’

  Brent pondered Howard Quaintance and his intense dislike of the man. ‘Mmm. Leave it to me, Bill,’ he answered with a wink.

  ‘Sounds all right to me.’

  ‘So what sort of strings can you pull?’

  ‘When I get back to the office I’ll telephone Seth Cohen for you. I’ll give him the name of your band as a hot tip. I’ll tell him how good you are. I’ll tell him where you’re playing regular…Where are you playing regular by the way?’

  Brent told him.

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell him he ought to come and see for himself, else he could lose out. I’ll tell him another agent’s interested but I reckon he should get in quick. I’ll tell him you’re going to send him some photos…The dark-haired one, eh?…Mmm…No, leave it all to me. I’ll send him the photos as well. Coming from me, it’ll be better. You’re right, he might not take so much notice of a letter from you. After all, you’re biased.’

  ‘Well thanks, Bill. I’ll see as you’re fixed up with Maxine…’

  They shook hands.

  ‘I always had the feeling us two could work something out, Brent.’

  Chapter 13

  At practice the following Tuesday, the band learnt ‘I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter’, the vocal taken by Maxine. Then they perfected a bright, zippy number that had recently come from America called ‘Just One of Those Things’, composed by Cole Porter for the Broadway show Jubilee. Brent dreamed up a sparkling trombone solo to be complemented immediately afterwards by Pansy soloing on clarinet, then Toots on trumpet. It promised to be one of their standard numbers. Maxine polished a love song she had been practising at home called ‘He’s Funny That Way’. She insisted that it be done in a very plaintive way, with only her own piano accompaniment, incidental rhythm guitar, and double bass. The rest of the band had no objection; they could disappear from the stage for a drink while it was being performed.

  While they were running through ‘He’s Funny That Way’, Brent took advantage of his rest by studying Maxine. She was, without doubt, the most talented person he had ever met. Her instinct for knowing how to interpret a song never ceased to astonish him. Many a time at rehearsals they would have discussions, sometimes heated, on how a particular song should be performed, but he almost always had to concede that hers was the better way. He usually consulted her nowadays over any musical arrangements he was writing. The upshot was that the band was developing a style and sound of its own. Even though the numbers they played were by other artists and generally well known, they put their own stamp on them, rendering them unmistakably theirs.

  Maxine halted progress of the song to establish with Ginger Tolley when he was to come in with his amplified guitar. It did not seem appropriate to introduce the guitar too early.

  ‘What’s wrong with me coming in right from the top?’ Ginger asked.

  ‘Because it enhances the song and the arrangement to come in at the beginning of the verse after the chorus,’ Maxine said. ‘Let’s try it.’

  So they tried it again, with just piano and bass to start and her vocals, of course. At the point she wanted Ginger to start playing, she nodded to him. The mellow jazz chords melded perfectly with the two other instruments, and yet were exquisitely understated. Its effect induced beams of approval from the others.

  At the end of the song, Maxine turned to Brent. ‘Wasn’t it classier done that way?’

  ‘I have to admit, it adds to the overall effect. It’s a quiet, serene sort of number done this way. Maxine’s right, Ginger. We shouldn’t overcook it. It sounds better now. Let’s hear you go through it again…’

  Brent watched Maxine’s hands as she played the introduction on the piano, her right hand deftly trickling semiquavers, her left hand accompanying with soft, sustained jazz chords. She had beautiful hands; elegant, eloquent, smooth and gentle; to put rings on those slender fingers would be to spoil them. His eyes travelled over her tanned right forearm and he noticed how flawless her skin was. He would love to see her with no clothes on. God, he would love to finger all that lovely warm skin, feel it writhing passionately against his own. He watched her mouth. Her lips were even more succulent, even more beautifully animated as she sang. Why had he not seen long ago how sensual her mouth was? He tried to imagine kissing her. He watched her lightly tanned bosom rising and falling with every controlled breath. Her breasts were pushing against the thin cotton material of her low-cut summer dress, nipples nudging tantalisingly against the bodice. Then he allowed his eyes to roam over her skirt to witness how it outlined so tormentingly the contours of her thighs as she sat. Hopefully, her liaison with Howard Quaintance would not last. But why not try and turn her head anyway?

  ‘That was great, Maxine,’ he said and began applauding. The others did likewise. ‘Brilliant. I think you’ve got that one off to a tee now. Are you happy with the double bass part, Charlie?’

  Charlie said he was.

  ‘Okay, so let’s run through the other songs again – then we’ll call it a night.’

  When they had finished and packed up their instruments, Brent stepped over to Maxine.

  ‘Do you want a lift, Maxine?’

&
nbsp; ‘Please, if it’s no trouble.’

  They left the building and walked to his car. When they were aboard he fired the powerful engine and they were on their way.

  ‘That number you did tonight, Maxine…It was superb. You really know how to put that stuff over.’

  It was how she felt, she wanted to say; she was in love, that’s why she could put it over so well. It came from the heart. But she merely thanked him for saying so.

  They discussed their practice. It had been a fruitful night and they were both pleased with the results. They were travelling past the hangman’s tree when Brent said what he really wanted to say.

  ‘Maxine, I’ve been thinking about you a lot…On a personal level…’

  She turned and looked at him apprehensively. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’d love to take you out one night. Let’s go out and have some fun together, you and me. We get on well, we have similar interests.’

  ‘We do, I agree.’

  ‘And I fancy you like hell, Maxine…’

  ‘You said so before,’ she replied trying to sound modest about it. ‘Brent, I’m really flattered…but…but already I’m seeing Howard and I’m very fond of him. He’s fond of me, too…It wouldn’t be fair. And besides, you’re married. You know I wouldn’t dream of going out with a married man.’

  ‘Maxine, if you knew how I felt about you, you wouldn’t turn me down quite so heedlessly.’

  ‘Well, you just said you fancy me,’ she replied. ‘So what? I suppose you fancy lots of girls. You won’t exactly be heartbroken if you can’t have me.’

  ‘But I’m aching inside for you. I have been for ages. And to watch you become taken with another man is painful, Maxine. Very painful.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And anyway, I don’t think he’s any good for you. I think he’s the wrong sort…Too serious…Hell, Maxine, he’s a vicar. He’ll try and put a stop to your going out nights and playing in the band.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, Brent.’ She did not appreciate his comments very much but was touched that he should appear concerned.

  ‘I care about you,’ he said persuasively. ‘I want you. I want to look after you. I want to be your man…As regards Eleanor, I’ll give her up – gladly – today if you want me to. Just say the word.’

  They pulled up outside Willowcroft and Brent tugged at the handbrake. His arm crept around the back of her shoulders.

  ‘Why now, Brent?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean – why now?’

  ‘When I first joined the CBO I would’ve fallen at your feet. I think you know I was quite taken with you…before I knew you were married, that is. Why choose now to capitalise on it? Why choose now when I’m already seeing Howard Quaintance?’

  ‘I wasn’t certain of my feelings then. I am now.’

  ‘Oh, Brent…Don’t. I’m not worth it, believe me. I’d be no good for you. I’m not sexually experienced or anything like Eleanor must be…I’m not even sure I want to be. I just want to play my music. I don’t want a complicated life.’

  ‘Just say you’ll go out with me, Maxine.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said decisively. ‘You see me often enough – mornings and evenings. God, we must spend more time together than the average married couple. I can’t be involved with you more than that, Brent.’

  He shrugged and took his arm from round her. ‘I won’t give up, you know, Maxine. I might retreat now, but I won’t give up. So be warned…And remember – all’s fair in love and war.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she replied.

  Over the next few weeks, Brent did not allow her to forget it. Although he was never gushing, she was affected by his persistent declarations of his feelings. The trouble was, she was never quite sure why he really wanted her; never quite sure whether what he felt was good honest lust or plain jealousy over Howard. It seemed certain that whatever he felt was exaggerated by Eleanor’s obvious lack of devotion, so maybe he was just lonely and needed a shoulder to cry on. She felt sorry for him and felt the necessity to humour him a little, but not sufficiently to give him the wrong impression.

  And all these confused emotions began to percolate into her relationship with Howard. She loved Howard. She knew it was love, because she always looked forward to the next time they were to meet; she missed him terribly when they were apart and hated it when he left her at night. But, with all these distractions from Brent, she wondered how Howard perceived her strength of feeling; did she seem sufficiently committed in his eyes? Could he discern her distraction? In their tender moments, she had already whispered that she loved him, and she meant it, but was she sufficiently convincing? She wanted Howard to be under no illusion and her guilt began to fuel her need to compensate. She must prove her love beyond any doubt.

  She saw she was about to get the chance one morning at the end of August when she and Henzey were having breakfast after Will had gone to work.

  ‘Are you enjoying your holiday, Maxine?’ Henzey asked.

  ‘I’d be enjoying it more if Howard and me could go away to the seaside or something for a week. Look at the weather – it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You’d be talked about scandalous, our Maxine. Word might even get to Howard’s church.’

  Maxine buttered a piece of toast and nodded. ‘I know. We’ve been out on day-trips here and there but it’s not the same.’

  ‘Are you going out Saturday night?’ Henzey asked speculatively.

  ‘We’ve got nothing planned. Why?’ She bit into her toast.

  ‘Will and I have been invited to dinner with Neville and Eunice. We need a baby sitter…’

  ‘That’s all right, Henzey,’ Maxine replied, at once appreciating the potential. ‘Me and Howard would be happy to stay in and baby-sit.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Maxine. Will can let him know tomorrow. We do appreciate it.’

  ‘I wish I could do it more often, Henzey. You seldom seem to go out. Any night we’re free Howard and me could baby-sit.’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask before.’

  ‘I’m quite happy to baby-sit with Howard.’ She gave Henzey a knowing look. ‘You won’t be home too early, will you?’

  Henzey chuckled at what her sister was implying. ‘Far be it from me to spoil your fun, Maxine…So why don’t you make a real evening of it and cook him a meal? You could light some candles and make it really romantic.’

  ‘Yes, a nice, romantic dinner by candlelight…’ Maxine smiled joyously. ‘Hey, that’s a smashing idea. I could buy a bottle of wine. Any ideas what I could cook for him?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll think of something…’

  Maxine sipped white wine from one of Henzey’s crystal goblets, then peered over the top of it. Her eyes, sparkling like brilliant, full cut brown topaz in the candlelight, met Howard’s with a jubilant smile.

  ‘And what did you say it’s called, this dish?’ he asked.

  ‘Chicken Marengo.’ She spelled it out. ‘M-A-R-E-N-G-O.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘With my spelling, you mean?’

  He hooted with laughter. ‘That as well.’

  ‘Do you know where it comes from – the dish?’

  ‘Marengo? – But that’s just a wild guess.’

  ‘Stop mocking, Howard.’ She tittered then sipped her wine again. ‘Well, I’m going to tell you. After the Battle of Marengo in eighteen hundred, which Napoleon won in Italy – against the Austrians, by the way – he sent some men to forage for food for his supper and all they could find was chicken, tomatoes, onion, garlic and a bit of smoked bacon. So they mixed it all together and cooked it in wine. Better that than let their glorious leader Napoleon starve, they thought. As it happened, it turned out quite tasty and, by all accounts, it became one of his favourite meals. He always referred to it as Chicken Marengo.’

  ‘So there’s garlic in it?’ Howard queried.

  ‘Some. There
doesn’t have to be but there is in this. Don’t you like garlic?’

  ‘You won’t want to kiss me.’

  ‘It won’t matter if we’ve both eaten it. Like with onions. Have some more wine, Howard…’ she picked up the bottle and topped up his glass.

  ‘You’ll have me drunk.’

  ‘What are you like when you’re drunk?…But I bet you don’t get drunk, do you, being a clergyman?’

  ‘It has been known, Maxine. Especially when I was a student at theological college. We’re not all saints, us clergymen. Not by any means. And certainly not at college.’

  ‘Have you ever been drunk on communion wine?’ she asked, replenishing her own glass.

  ‘Once or twice – but not at church. Mind you, I have heard tales about some of our more elderly brethren toping on the stuff. Anyway, finishing off what’s left after Holy Communion gives you an appetite for your Sunday lunch.’

  ‘How come when I take Holy Communion, the vicar only ever allows it just to touch my lips? Why am I never allowed a good swig? It isn’t fair.’

  ‘I just told you. He has to save it for himself for later. I’d let you have a jolly good swig, though, Maxine. I wouldn’t be stingy.’

  Love radiated from her eyes that seemed extra large by candlelight. She reached over the table and put her hand on his momentarily. ‘You’re kind, Howard…I’m really pleased you’ve enjoyed my cooking. It’s not something I do often. Now, let me clear these plates away and we’ll have some pudding.’

  ‘Pudding? You’re spoiling me. What sort of pudding?’

  ‘Apple pie, laced with cinnamon – and lashings of thick cream.’

  ‘Sounds inordinately wicked.’

  ‘Mmm, I hope so.’ Their eyes met and held. ‘It’s about time we started to be wicked.’

  She collected the plates and took them into the kitchen where she slipped them into a bowl of sudsy washing-up water to soak. Two minutes later she returned to the dining room with the apple pie and cream.

  ‘How big a piece can you manage?’ she asked.

  ‘Big,’ he replied assertively. ‘I do have a weakness for apple pie.’

  She cut him a piece and spooned dollops of thick cream over it. ‘I made the pie myself.’ She handed it to him and watched him, her elbows on the table, her face in her hands. ‘Go on, tuck in.’