by Nancy Carson
Alice was way ahead of other girls her age when it came to worldly ways. Since adolescence she had been man-mad. It had been her vocation in life to find out as much about sex as she could and what she discovered exhilarated her. At fourteen she knew more about it than most married women and, at sixteen, had indulged in it in more fanciful ways than most ever dreamed of. Alice went out and did what they dared not even think about. Many would have been disturbed to know how wantonly she behaved, others might even have applauded and admired her, envying her absolute defiance of rigid convention. But to Alice it was sheer recreation.
The trouble was, Charles was intending to act for her in her divorce and it would cost next to nothing. So, for the sake of thrift, she was loathe to dispense with him. In fairness, he was doing his best within the limitations of the law since his just reward, he believed, would be her hand in marriage. But, to Alice, it seemed to be taking an age, even pleading special circumstances. Neither was she bothered about giving her hand in marriage. She fancied a change already.
Many a young woman would jump at the chance of marrying a well-off young man, especially as he was presentable and had an assured future in the family law practice. It would be a wonderful opportunity to step up in the world and be someone, to indulge yourself with almost everything you wanted. However, for the time being, Alice’s priorities lay elsewhere.
On the way they spoke little, except to communicate what she wanted to drink when they stopped at a pub in Smethwick. Typically, too, she asked how much it cost. Charles was not stupid, and it was plain to him that their relationship was not as vibrant as it used to be. However, he patiently endured Alice’s sullenness as just being part of her nature, and looked forward to the next time she would deign to allow him access to her sylph-like body, for the promise of these exotic activities, which she performed par excellence, sustained him through the dry times.
They finally arrived at the Tower shortly after nine o’ clock. Few folk had arrived by this time, but the Bob James All Stars were playing a sequence of quicksteps, though nobody was dancing yet. They made for the bar. There they stayed, talking little, mostly watching other people. Alice was fascinated by a petite blonde girl with a pretty face and a neat figure about the same age as herself, but who wore a wedding ring and a printed cotton summer dress that looked home-made. It had a loose skirt and a tight bodice with a recklessly low neckline which, Alice reckoned, made her look common and sluttish. And although Alice often acted like a slut, she never ever dressed like one.
Shortly after ten o’ clock, Maxine walked in with Howard.
‘Alice!’ she greeted. ‘What a surprise. I never expected to see you tonight. Hello, Charles. You’ve already met Howard, haven’t you?’
Charles stood up, extended his hand and they shook.
‘You’m cutting it a bit fine, in’t yer, our Maxine?’ Alice suggested. ‘What time yer on? I din’t think you was comin’. We’ve been sittin’ ’ere like mawkins, waitin’.’
‘We don’t go on till half past ten.’
‘Blimey! Not till then?’
Charles asked them what they fancied to drink. Presently Pansy arrived with Toots and the conversation expanded. Brent Shackleton arrived, smoking and, in five minutes, the rest of the band were present. Alice was intrigued to see the common blonde girl she’d been watching make a beeline for one of the band members; the one Maxine had introduced as Kenny Wheeler, the one with the wicked smile. Now the girl was hanging possessively onto his arm as if he would make an involuntary exit skywards if she let go. So blatant a display of possession annoyed Alice. Besides, he was far too classy for her; far too handsome. Kenny introduced her as Rose, but it was evident by the wedding ring and her demeanour that she was somebody else’s wife.
By now the bar was full and noisy with the sound of conversation and laughter, and you had to speak up to be heard even by the person next to you. Saturday-night-out perfume vied for precedence with the smoke that crept through every cubic inch of the atmosphere. At twenty past ten, Maxine and Pansy excused themselves; they had to change ready for the show. Howard continued chatting with Charles while Alice, intrigued, insinuated herself into Rose’s conversation with Kenny.
Unfortunately, Rose did not particularly welcome the intrusion, for Alice soon started to garner Kenny’s attention. Rose flashed withering looks at her, which Alice noticed but defiantly ignored, for she had set herself a mission. Kenny himself was married and not averse to a bit on the side by the looks of things. He could make an ideal candidate with whom to conduct an exciting casual affair, someone to whet her own sexual appetite, someone with whom she could pep up her own flagging sex life. She need not become emotionally involved. The overwhelming appeal of his masculine good looks and convenient circumstance created an ache for him in her groin.
‘How long have you played in this band, Kenny?’ Alice asked, in another deliberate attempt to annoy and oust Rose.
‘Two years I reckon. How long have you been Maxine’s sister?’
She smiled coquettishly, pleased with his response. ‘That’d be tellin’. If I told you that you’d know how old I am.’
‘Thirty?’ Rose suggested snidely.
‘Look in the mirror if you want to see somebody thirty,’ Alice replied, scorning the girl further. Kenny seemed amused by the exchange. She turned to him again, eyes brim full with sparkles. ‘What’s your day-time job then?’
‘I work for the Post Office.’
‘The Post Office? Mmm! You can stick a letter in my letterbox anytime.’
Rose seemed to grow bigger with her increasing annoyance. ‘He ain’t a postman, then see. He works for the telephones.’
‘He can phone me then,’ Alice retorted incisively and flashed another dazzling smile at Kenny as much to further belittle Rose as to intrigue him. ‘I’ll give you my number…later.’
As she walked away she heard Rose say, ‘Cow!…And stop gawping after her.’ Knowing that the eyes of both were upon her, she swung her slim hips provocatively – an undeniable talent she possessed – as she walked away to rejoin Charles. She was pleased with her sortie. She was sure she had achieved her objective.
A few minutes later she was aware that the others had gone to take their places on stage. ‘Come on, let’s go and watch our Maxine’s band,’ she said to Charles and Howard.
It was the first time either Charles or Alice had heard The Owls and the Pussycats. They stood for a long time, watching, though Alice’s eyes seldom strayed from Kenny.
‘Dance with me,’ she suggested to Charles.
Charles shrugged at Howard with a look of resignation and stepped onto the dance floor with Alice. He was not a brilliant dancer but he did a passable quickstep before the band slowed the tempo. As she and Charles shuffled across the floor in a clinch Alice manoeuvred them near to the stage where she could easily watch the band over Charles’s shoulder. Kenny caught her looking at him. She lowered her eyelids feigning coyness and he winked at her, making a big show of twirling his drumsticks into the air. When she looked up again he was still watching her and she mouthed her telephone number. ‘Two – four – three – one.’
He repeated it back in an exaggerated mime and she confirmed it with bright eyes laden with devilment, before Charles turned her round and pressed her firmly to him.
Maxine invited Howard in as usual for a drink before he went back to Quinton. She made a pot of tea and, while it steeped, they both made innuendo, probing to see whether the other thought it appropriate to make love when it was so late. But that night fell into the pattern that had been evolving ever since the end of August; when the tea had brewed, they each took a mug into the sitting room and quietly closed the door. And the tea went cold while they made love in the dark with ever increasing devotion and expertise, lying partly dressed on the three-seater settee in front of the fireplace.
They had discussed, of course, the possibility of being compromised if either Will or Henzey came downstairs. It hadn’t hap
pened yet, and Maxine was confident it never would. Henzey had already intimated that because her sister was in love she needed privacy and a place to express it. Her hearth was infinitely preferable to the back seat of Howard’s old car or the damp grass of some cold meadow, for he, of all people – a man of the cloth – could ill afford to be discovered by some over-zealous vigilante of public morality who might happen on them.
The other of the Kite sisters to indulge in lovemaking that night was Alice. It took place on the back seat of Charles’s car overlooking the reservoir in Edgbaston. New and novel locations always seemed to lift their encounters, but the cramped and unladylike contortions she had to endure rather took the edge off it. However, Alice was somewhat motivated by another factor; Kenny was but a short distance away in his Post Office van – with Rose. Having left the ballroom at the same time, Alice brightly called goodnight to him and waved as he stashed first his drum-kit into the back of the van, then Rose into the front. Whilst she was anxious to see whether Kenny’s windows would steam up, she could hardly linger herself without creating some reason to stay. So Alice took the initiative, made amorous advances to Charles and they eventually clambered into the back of his car. The logic behind all this was that Kenny would see, would know what they were doing, and receive notice that she was not averse to such nocturnal activities. From her supine position on the back seat, she contorted herself agonisingly to raise her head, turn and wipe the window to see whether the windows of Kenny’s van were steamed up. From his vastly more convenient elevation, lying on top of Rose across the two seats of his van, it was easy to raise his head and peer through his own window to return the compliment. Simultaneously, Alice tried to live out the fantasy that it was Kenny who was applying himself to her with such dedication.
One person who was not quite so fortunate was Brent Shackleton. Brent arrived at Handsworth that night to a house in darkness. As usual when he came home, he poured himself a drink and went to sit at the kitchen table, intending to scan the evening newspaper. As he turned on the light he saw an envelope standing against an empty milk bottle on the table. It bore his name in Eleanor’s handwriting. His throat went dry as he opened it. It read:
Dear Brent,
I don’t imagine it will surprise you after all that has happened to learn that I’ve gone to live with Stephen. I know this is the coward’s way of letting you know, but Brent I am a coward and I couldn’t stand a blazing row. I hope you’ll forgive me. Please don’t come after me asking me to come back because it will do you no good. I’ve gone for good.
I have taken everything I own, except the furniture. If I find I have forgotten anything I still have my key so I can come back for it when you’re out.
Our relationship was never right and you know it, so please don’t think too harshly of me for taking this opportunity to make a new life for myself. It was inevitable. I wish you well and I hope you do me, too. When the dust has settled a bit I hope we can be adult about it and that you can accept it.
Whatever, I shall always love you,
Eleanor.
Chapter 15
When the CBO’s season of concerts had finished, Maxine had cultivated the habit of going by bus to attend Evensong at Howard’s church. Occasionally, he was allowed to preach a sermon and when that happened she would gaze at him fondly from her pew, listening intently and pondering how extraordinarily fortunate she was to have the love of this kind, gentle soul.
He was everything she had ever dreamed of. She adored his easy-going ways, his calm, stable nature. It was not his style to endow Maxine with flowers every time they met, nor could he afford to, but he never failed to surprise and delight her with little flourishes of romance, whether by deed or by word. He was sensual, loved touching her and she, responsive to it, was often reminded how months ago she hated it when Stephen Hemming used to touch her. Things were so different now.
They had not talked of furthering their relationship; the subject of marriage had not cropped up. However, she knew he was as serious about her as she was about him. Marriage, she had no doubt, would be on the agenda at some point. And she was happy not to press for it. It was still too soon – much too soon. She still relished the freedom to pursue her music, and certainly Howard would never shackle her with constraints. Let marriage approach in its own good time…
So, as the service ended that Sunday evening and the choir and clerics trooped out to the vestry, Maxine edged her way to the end of the pew and joined the queue that was moving slowly down the aisle to exit into the dusk of this cool September. Peering round the heads of the departing parishioners she saw that already Howard was at the door at the rear of the church, shaking hands and saying goodnight. She marvelled at how he could manage to get there so quickly. But when Maxine’s turn came Howard was talking to somebody, so to save holding up the queue and making her partiality for the curate obvious, she shook the vicar’s hand instead and waited for Howard outside.
When he finished he whisked her back to the vicarage where he had to change, for he could hardly patronise the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club wearing a dog collar and black shirt. So Maxine, as usual, waited in the car while he scurried off inside.
When they arrived at the club, bustling, noisy and smoke laden as always, Brent Shackleton put down his pint and made a beeline for Maxine.
He acknowledged Howard as if he’d conceded that Howard was a valid consideration in her life now. However, he looked straight at Maxine. ‘Can I have a word – in private?’
‘What is it?’ Maxine responded.
Howard discreetly nodded his consent. He still felt this cold resentment from Brent. He would never speak privately to Maxine in front of him.
Maxine moved to one side and Brent followed. ‘What’s the matter, Brent?’
‘It’s Eleanor…She’s gone…Left…’ He shrugged to emphasise his lost look and the hopelessness of his situation.
‘Oh, Brent, I’m so sorry…You mean she’s gone with —?’
‘With that bloody Stephen Hemming. She’s gone to live with him. I rue the day those two ever met.’
He looked upset and Maxine felt sorry for him. She felt the urge to draw him to her and comfort him, but she resisted it. Instead she put her hand on his arm and squeezed it reassuringly.
‘She’ll come back. I bet you anything she’ll come back. If it’s any consolation, Brent, I don’t know what she sees in him. When did it happen?’
‘Last night when I got back from the Tower. She’d left a note.’
‘A note? That was considerate. Couldn’t she tell you to your face?’
He shrugged. ‘Evidently not.’
‘Do you want her back – after what she’s done?’
His reply, a second or two coming, was considered. ‘She’s made her bed. She can damn well lie in it.’
‘I wonder if Pansy knows? Stephen is her brother after all.’
At that moment, Pansy and Toots arrived. Maxine called Pansy over and Howard took advantage of the moment to enquire what Maxine wanted to drink.
‘Did you know about Stephen and Eleanor?’ Maxine asked Pansy.
Pansy looked bewildered, not knowing how she was supposed to reply. Maxine realised her friend’s dilemma; whether she should let on that she’d known almost from the beginning that they were having an affair.
‘I mean, did you know that Eleanor had left Brent and gone to live with Stephen?’ Maxine said.
‘Gosh, no! When?’
‘Last night,’ Brent answered.
‘She left a note,’ Maxine said scornfully. ‘Can you believe that?’
‘If it’s any consolation, Brent, I don’t know what she sees in him.’
Brent forced a smile. Strange what could amuse you in times of distress. ‘That’s exactly what Maxine said, Pansy.’
‘Well, he’s such a nonentity. I have to admit it, even though he’s my own brother.’
‘I get the impression his new business has got off to a good start.’
&
nbsp; ‘So he says. Last time I saw him he said how well he was doing already. He reckoned he’d got lots of work. He’s started off a manufacturing business as well now. Did you know that?’ Brent shook his head then rolled his eyes. ‘That’s where he’ll make a lot of money, he says. He must be coining it in already. That great big house he’s renting…And he’s bought a posh new car, you know.’
‘A new car?’ Maxine queried. ‘He must have borrowed a fortune from the bank.’
‘Or pinched it from the Mint,’ Brent said derisively. ‘Anyway, I reckon that’s what the attraction is – money. Eleanor’s money mad, you know. Knowing her as I do, she’s seen Stephen as her best chance to get into the money. She’s realised it’s too hit and miss waiting for me to make money from music. She must believe she’s got a better chance with him…But I’ll show her. I’ll show her who’s capable of making money…Big money…I’ll show her. Mark my words. We just need a lucky break.’
The Owls and the Pussycats had played four numbers, the usual warm-up type of stuff that went down well in the jazz club – traditional, stomping music. Then, through the darkness, standing at the other end of the room close to the bar, Brent spotted Bill Brighton, the music critic from the Evening Mail. He was with another man, small, slightly built, grey hair, with a camel-hair coat worn over the shoulders. Brent felt a lump come into his throat and he suddenly forgot all about Eleanor.
