Rags to Riches

by Nancy Carson

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ He flopped into a chair and retrieved a tin from his pocket.

  Unruffled, she played a few bars of another new song she’d been working on. ‘Well it’s time you did, Brent. We’ve signed a contract to supply which is legally binding. I’ve fulfilled my part. Now we’re just waiting for the arrangements. The band has to learn them, remember.’

  ‘I’ll get round to it this week.’ He was filling a cigarette paper with tobacco. From another tin he took something else that looked like thin strands of tobacco also. Maxine guessed immediately that it was marijuana.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said scornfully. She got up from the piano stool and walked to the window that overlooked The Pond in Central Park. ‘I’d rather somebody else did the arrangements.’

  ‘Oh? Why pay somebody else?’

  ‘Because you haven’t done them, and the way you keep drinking and smoking that stuff, I doubt whether you have the brains left. Actually, we’re getting Fletcher Henderson and Duke Ellington. We’ve talked to them. They’re happy to do them.’

  As if to say she was a liar, he grinned at her and shook his head while he rolled the strange cocktail in a machine that magically produced a perfectly cylindrical cigarette.

  ‘You? You asked Fletcher Henderson?’ He trimmed one straggling end of his reefer with his fingernails, lit it and inhaled. ‘He’s too busy doing Benny Goodman’s stuff to even consider ours. And Duke Ellington? Ha! You’re living in cloud-cuckoo-land if you think you can get Duke Ellington.’

  ‘Correction. You’re the one living in cloud-cuckoo-land, Brent. You’re incapable these days. Just look at you. You’re pathetic. Anyway, it’s all arranged…’

  ‘What do you mean it’s all arranged?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out? Fletcher Henderson is doing the arrangement for “Gently, Mend My Broken Heart”, and Duke Ellington is working on “Does He Ever Think of Me?”.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Maxine. You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious.’ She walked over to a table where an arrangement of flowers stood in a vase and began fiddling with it, for want of something to do with her hands other than throttling Brent. ‘Ask John Fielding. He fixed it. He agreed we couldn’t afford to wait on you any longer.’

  ‘You mean you’ve discussed this with John Fielding already? Behind my back?’

  She turned and looked at him with defiance in her eyes; defiance he’d not seen before. ‘Yes, I’ve discussed it all with John Fielding – behind your back, if that’s how you see it. He does still manage us and, as far as I am concerned, he’ll continue to manage us. Dulcie invited me there to lunch today and, in the absence of any such invitation from you, I accepted. Fortunately for us, John was home. When I told him you hadn’t done the instrumentation yet, he contacted Fletcher and Duke straight away. He’s as anxious as I am that it’s ready for the film shoot. These Hollywood people don’t mess about, Brent. So he’s taking me to meet Fletcher tomorrow morning and Duke tomorrow afternoon to go through them. They promised they’d have the scores ready by the end of the week.’

  ‘You cow!’

  Two words.

  She had expected more, much more. She had expected some tantrum, some fiery demonstration of his anger and resentment. But none were forthcoming. Instead, he continued to sit in the chair, his breathing heavy, inhaling the smoke from his precious reefer as if his life depended on it. Increasingly, he was descending into a dark world of his own and Maxine realised it. And, in a way, she was not sorry. When he was doped like this he never bothered her. And he was like it increasingly. So far, it had not affected his performances in the band. He was still a trooper, professional, disciplined where playing was concerned. It was the off-duty time that was bringing his problems; time that he did not know how to manage and utilise. His problems were greater than he knew, though, because Maxine realised she did not love him enough to care. She did not even like him anymore. She lacked the inclination now to try and nurture him through his addictions. You only get out of love what you put into it, Maxine had always known, and he had put nothing into theirs; so he could expect nothing in return and serve him right. In no time, he had become a stranger, a monster even, somebody she did not recognise anymore. He had become cold towards her, off-handed. She resented his cuttingly selfish attitude, his shoving aside all her good intentions when she had tried to reason with him. He could go and pickle his brain in whatever illegal substance he could get his hands on for all she cared now. She was not about to break her heart over him.

  She looked contemptuously at him while he was slumped in the chair like some vegetating heap. He looked ugly, hideous, witless. What had she ever seen in him? He was asleep. Of course he was asleep. That’s all he was good for.

  Suddenly filled with despair, Maxine rushed to their bedroom. What had happened to her life? Had she sacrificed it on a dream that had momentarily materialised but which was now faithlessly turning into a nightmare? Why did she have to be saddled with a husband so mercurial, so mercenary, so unfeeling, so hell-bent on his own destruction and on hers? Why, after only two months of marriage, was she wishing she had never set eyes on him? Their music – his and hers – had been blessed with unbelievable good fortune, had put them on the road to unimaginable wealth and the possibility of living that dream – until they got married. Now it was all inexorably slipping away.

  She tried to cry, but no tears would come. She could not weep for Brent Shackleton. He had tricked her. He had diverted her with love that was fickle and tenderness that was sham when she was at her most vulnerable. He had seduced her with soft words and empty promises then beguiled her into marriage with mock pledges and theatrical displays of affection. And for what? For his own financial gain? Surely, it had to be, for she could perceive no benefit for herself. He did not love her. How could he when he spent so little time with her? On some days, the only time she saw him was on-stage. What sort of a marriage was that? Yet he was busily looting her bank account, spending her money.

  Her money.

  His remained in his own account, untouched.

  She began to ponder again what might have been. She had made the biggest mistake of her life, leaving Howard to join the Queen Mary trips. Was this now her punishment, to be trapped in a loveless marriage to a husband who had become a junkie and a drunkard?

  Oh, Howard! Howard, can you ever forgive me? Can I ever forgive myself?

  It was then that the tears began to flow; tears for herself and tears for the only man she had ever truly loved. If only she could turn back the clock. Please, God, let her return to that first Sunday in November last year – now she had the benefit of hindsight. She would not make the same mistake again. Please, God…Please make it happen…

  Eventually, she dried her tears and returned to the sitting room. Brent was dead to the world in his drunken stupor and she looked at him contemptuously as she sat at the baby grand. She made herself comfortable and her fingers trickled over the keys, softly playing the introduction to one of her songs for the Hollywood movie. She thought of Howard. This was another love song for him. At least it was her way of being with him, of reaching out to him. As she began to sing, soulfully, fervently, she hoped with all her heart that he would hear her – sometime…

  …Gently mend my broken heart

  When I come home to you…

  In Harlem, overcrowding in many apartment buildings was appalling and the rents were often beyond the means of tenants. So, in order to fulfil their monthly obligations to the landlords, Harlemites devised a means of raising the necessary cash and bringing everybody some welcome pleasure in the execution of it.

  It worked like this: the tenants of a building would agree to throw a party and would pool their money to spend on food such as pigs’ feet, fried chicken and other culinary delights. They set aside more money to buy booze, of course. Other necessities they must pay for were entertainment, usually in the form of a pianist but more usually
two, advertising, and the provision of a bouncer in case things got rough. Next, they would distribute cards giving the location, date, menu and names of the ‘professors of piano’ that would be playing, and spread the word among selected friends and relatives. On arrival at a rent party, guests would pay a small admission charge, buy food and drink at reasonable prices and dance for as long as they and the refreshments held out. It all normally yielded a healthy profit that easily covered the rent.

  Brent Shackleton and Kenny Wheeler were introduced to this “chitlin’ circuit” by Lips Robinson, a handsome cornet player and Joey Downs, another trombonist, who lived in Harlem. You wouldn’t take your woman to these parties, of course, they told them. Hell, there were always enough spare women there in any case. So, both Brent and Kenny quickly developed a taste for the pretty black and mulatto girls that were present in abundance. And because they were respected jazz musicians and perceived to be wealthy celebrities, the girls were eager to be seen leaving with either one of them, for it was deemed to be a feather in their caps. Naturally, Brent and Kenny were delighted to take advantage of the girls’ willingness.

  Other diversions Harlem offered included a club called Small’s Paradise, a ‘black and tan’ establishment where races intermingled, unlike the Cotton Club where blacks were excluded unless they were waiters, working musicians or visiting celebrities. Brent was fascinated by the free and easy, debauched way of life his two new friends led and allowed them to coach him. They introduced him to a basement club where they regularly held a transvestite fashion display and lewd vaudeville show. It was different. It was a laugh. They took, too, to sampling the goods on offer at a place Joey Downs referred to as ‘Ma Froggatt’s dicty whorehouse’, ‘dicty’ meaning sophisticated. Okay, they had to pay for their women, but some contenders were well worth the expense. And what the hell! They could afford it. They could afford other things too; things most of civilised society never knew existed.

  The day after her meetings with Fletcher Henderson and Duke Ellington, Maxine decided that two more charming men she could not have wished to meet. Because she had witnessed the absolute contrast between those two brilliant musicians and Brent Shackleton, she wondered why her own husband could not be like them. They were proof positive that you could be successful and level-headed, that you could be talented and sane. All it took was self-discipline, common sense and humility. If Brent was too immature to recognise these things, it was madness to continue paying for his philandering. She would not subsidise her husband’s drinking, narcotics and womanising habits further. So she went along to her bank and, but for a couple of hundred dollars, withdrew all the money from the joint account he had set up. That money she deposited in a new account under her maiden name and returned to their apartment at the Plaza.

  It was gloriously hot weather when Stephen Hemming decided to take a day off work and drive alone to Chipping Camden in the Cotswolds. He left Birmingham’s grime behind and found himself travelling through quiet lanes shaded by the lush foliage of oak and elm. He drove past orchards, their trees creaking under the weight of ripening fruit, and fields aglow with the gold of ripe wheat and barley. Sheep grazed the rolling hills with an imperturbability that was enviable. He spotted signposts for villages with beautiful sounding names, like Cleeve Prior, Cow Honeybourne, Weston Subedge and Hidcote Boyce. People stopped and waved, their tanned faces always ready with a smile as he passed them by in his smart Alvis Speed Twentyfive.

  This unhurried, unhostile rurality influenced his mood, changing it from the tense to the relaxed. He did not have any firm notion of what he would do when he arrived at Chipping Camden. His purpose was to establish the identity of the woman he knew as Eleanor but, to do so, he felt certain he would have to unearth information about Brent Shackleton and unravel the mystery via that route. Brent Shackleton had lived there, had been born there, in High Street, but he did not know which house. He had been baptised at the church of St James. It was something to go on, but what if every person that remembered him had left the area now, or had died?

  Stephen realised he had arrived at Chipping Camden when he first had sight of the curved main street through the village. Its charm was instant and breathtaking, as if time had stood still. Exquisite, yellowy buildings lined both sides of the road that broadened out into a wide boulevard, and its gentle curve enticed you to go on and seek more of the same honey-coloured elegance beyond it. Stephen noticed a church with a high tower, overlooking the village. A street on the left looked as if it might lead to it. Cidermill Lane, he noted. It was as good a place as any to start.

  As he pulled up outside the church gate, another construction faced him, mostly in ruins but spectacular in design. An arched gateway remained, flanked by a pair of dilapidated lodge houses with stone roofs constructed in the shape of cupolas; a relic of a prosperous bygone age; an age of enlightenment and good manners. An overgrown field of stubble lay behind, dotted with bright wild flowers, adjoining the churchyard on its left and the blue sky above; the grounds of a former mansion. Even what remained was beautiful, and his innate appreciation of things elegant allowed him to admire it the more, and pity its demise.

  He stopped the engine and got out of the car. Immediately, he was struck by an awesome tranquillity, an unearthly peace. He had never imagined, being stuck seemingly forever in the seething crucible that was Birmingham, that such serenity could exist, especially after the frenetic peaks and troughs of living with Eleanor. The only sounds he could hear as he passed through the church gate into the cathedral nave of lime trees that sheltered the path, were the calls of blackbirds singing as if for their loves.

  Tombstones stood defiant of the ravages of time in the neatly trimmed grass of the churchyard, their surfaces crumbling. Most were indecipherable now. But Stephen inspected some of the later ones, the ones that could still be read, to see if the name Shackleton cropped up. Families of Izods, Trubys, Abbits and Shadbolts were represented, as well as the more common names, but not…Then he came upon a headstone bearing the name Price. Brent’s mother was a Price, he recalled, though it was a common enough name. It was to the memory of John Price and also his wife, Rhoda; nothing to do with Brent’s mother at all. In another part of the churchyard, overlooking the stubble field of the derelict mansion house, were some newer graves. Stephen moistened his lips and ambled over expectantly.

  It was after about fifteen minutes or so that he found some evidence of what he was seeking. To the memory of Arthur Roland Shackleton who passed away suddenly on December 25th 1931. And of Emma Shackleton, his wife, who died February 25th 1932. Rest in peace.

  Brent’s father and mother. He was on the right track.

  Stephen studied it for a few minutes, trying to picture these two people who had died so close in time to each other – only two months apart. He had died on Christmas Day. It must have been a traumatic time for Brent, for he would have been only recently married. Then to lose his own young wife so soon afterwards. Life dealt some cruel blows. There must be a grave for her somewhere; somewhere close by, among these recent ones.

  So he searched. He scrutinised every grave systematically, but found none to the memory of Eleanor Christiana Shackleton.

  He wondered whether the parish records might reveal anything. But how did you get a look at them? The sun was hot on the back of his neck and he looked up at the church. Its fifteenth century Perpendicular tower seemed to glow in the high morning sunshine. Maybe if he went inside he might find some clue. In any case, it was bound to be cooler in there. He strolled towards the door, still peering hopefully at headstones as he walked. But these were old; too old.

  Inside it was cooler. He bowed to the altar out of a reverence indoctrinated over years as a choirboy. He looked around and saw a clergyman kneeling in one of the pews, but facing the back of the church, using a screwdriver. The man looked up when he heard Stephen approach.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Stephen responded as he walked to
wards him. ‘It’s a bit cooler in here than outside.’

  ‘Yes, lucky for me.’ The clergyman was young with a ready smile that rendered him immediately likeable; a priceless asset for a man of the cloth. He picked up a brace and bit that had been lying on the pew and began to drill a hole, but inexpertly. When it was to his satisfaction he looked again at Stephen. ‘I’m blessed with doing the odd jobs this week, it seems,’ he said. ‘Trust the sexton to be on holiday when the pew falls to pieces. Normally he would fix it, of course.’

  ‘Handyman, is he?’ Stephen commented.

  ‘He is. I’m not. I can’t seem to get this screw to bite.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help. If I push against the back of it…look.’

  ‘Excellent…Thank you so much. If I’d used a longer screw of course, it would’ve poked out the other side and possibly injured somebody.’

  The job was soon finished. The clergyman dusted off his cassock with his hands and collected his well-used tools.

  ‘Thanks indeed,’ he said, ‘for your timely arrival. I’d have been here till Christmas trying to do it by myself.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I don’t recall having met you before. You’re a visitor here?’

  Stephen hesitated, then decided to discover whether the clergyman could help in his quest. ‘Yes, I’m trying to trace the death of a young woman round about 1932 or 1933. I believe she was married here.’

  ‘Mmm. I wasn’t here then. Only been here a year myself. I’m the curate, actually. Mr Watkins might know, of course, the vicar. Actually, I have a minute or two to spare. Maybe I could look her up in the parish records for you.’

  Stephen’s heart missed a beat. ‘Would you? I’d be ever so grateful.’

  ‘Come with me to the sacristy. One good turn deserves another, I always say.’ The young curate led him into the priest’s vestry. ‘When did you say this girl died?’