by Nancy Carson
Maxine, I will close now. I believe I have made my feelings and my intentions absolutely clear. I love you and miss you more than I thought possible. Please be home soon. Please be my wife. God bless you and keep you always.
All my love,
Howard.
She began to weep uncontrollably.
So he had written. He’d written and he still loved her after all…then at least. He had wanted to marry her…then.
But since she had not replied, what would he think now? That she’d received his letters and decided to ignore them? That she was a fickle, unfeeling vixen?
He was bound to think that.
But Brent was to blame. Brent had callously intercepted them and hidden them away from her like some overbearing father trying to protect a virgin daughter from an inappropriate gigolo.
How could he? What right did he have?
Of course, he had no right. He had no right at all.
She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and sniffed. So that was the first letter Howard had written. The first of four. She opened another to glean his reaction to not getting her reply.
The Vicarage
Foxham
Norfolk
Friday 27th November 1936
Maxine, my one and only love,
Every morning since the return of the Queen Mary to Southampton, I have rushed in vain to the letterbox here in the vicarage to collect your reply. I can only hope that there is some hitch in the postal system between that great port and Foxham. It wouldn’t surprise me, in fact, since this area is quite remote. So I write this second letter in the hope that it arrives safely and that you will reply first chance you get.
I have settled in here quite well. Foxham is a very small town, less than 2000 souls, I believe, yet the church is disproportionately large and grand for such a relatively small population. However, everybody here has welcomed me warmly and they are all very friendly, although some have said how surprised they are to get a vicar so young and one who is unmarried! I have told them that as time goes by both states will be altered, God and you willing! I must say it is very rural, close-knit, and very different to Birmingham.
I don’t know whether you will like the vicarage. It is a mausoleum, huge, Georgian, and in desperate need of repair. It is also damp, cold and costs a fortune in fire coal. Maybe I should not tell you this for fear it puts you off coming, but I have determined never to keep anything from you ever again. The grounds are enormous, too, but I suspect that in summer they host acceptable gardens and I understand that provision is made for a gardener as well as the housekeeper and staff I seem to have inherited. No doubt I shall be expected to hold garden parties. Incidentally, there is a strong American connection here, which you will learn about in due course.
Anyway, my darling, my offer of marriage still stands! I love you and miss you far more than you could ever imagine. I can’t wait for your first letter to arrive and I long for the day when we are together again. Meanwhile, be happy and safe sailing across the Atlantic, but please don’t enjoy yourself too much and forget all about me. I have the unenviable task now of composing two sermons for services tomorrow. God alone knows what I shall preach!
Please write soon and let me know you still love me, because the waiting is unbearable.
Love now and forever,
Howard.
It had been ten months since she had cast eyes on him, ten months since she had heard his voice. It had been ten months since he had written these words and in those ten months his love for her had more than likely expired. In ten months he could have fallen in love with another girl and might even have married, even as she had married. If he had, she hoped his marriage was a success and not the dismal failure hers was. But even if he had not married, even if he remained single, he could never marry her when she eventually became divorced, and risk expulsion from the Church. What strange and cruel tricks life plays on us. She would give everything she owned, everything she’d earned to put the clock back ten months to that weekend before she left him for the incredibly eventful journey to the present day.
She opened another letter, dated 26th December – Boxing Day. His last letter.
My darling,
Writing this letter is likely to be one of the most difficult and heartbreaking things I am ever likely to do. This is my fourth letter to you and I am writing not knowing whether you have received my last three letters or, if you have, whether you are deliberately ignoring them. Just knowing I have your love would make life bearable, but I do not know it any longer. If you have not received my previous letters, I pray you receive this, for I love you more than words can say and look forward to the day you are here to be my wife. If you have received them but are ignoring them, what must I do to get you to reply? I need you, Maxine. Without you, I barely exist. Life is nothing without you and hardly worth the living.
However, I must plod on. I have a job to do here and I am determined to do it and it is only the prospect of work, and events that challenge me every day, that keep my feet planted on the ground.
Write to me, Maxine. Let me know what you feel. If you do not write to me then come to me as soon as you can on your return to these shores. Whatever you do, let me know that you love me.
Yours eternally,
Howard.
With misty eyes she opened the last remaining letter, the one that was his third to her. He reaffirmed his love and his growing concern at a lack of any reply. He enlarged on the community in which he worked and the church itself, but she could tell from his tone that he was growing despondent. He was already living in fear that he might have lost her.
She wept again. Never in her life had she felt so wretched, so unhappy. She had lost him. She had lost irretrievably the love of her life because she had been deprived of his letters and his love by a callous, heartless brute that masqueraded as a man, when no decent man would ever do what he had done. He had no right. She rued the day she ever met Brent Shackleton. How had she ever been so stupid as to be drawn into his dark, degenerate world, into his sordid lair? Why had she ever allowed him to seduce her? His life, his love, his work, his music, his very existence was a sham. How could she ever shake off the fetters of this abhorrent marriage to him? Oh, sure, she might well be able to divorce him – she would get a lawyer onto it tomorrow – but divorce itself would deny her the dream of marrying Howard.
Maxine put the letters safely in her handbag and wiped her tears for the umpteenth time. She needed some fresh air. She needed some space around her. She needed to get out of this stinking room that had witnessed, like her, that act of fornication that merely confirmed that Brent was, and always had been, capable of adultery; not only Brent but Eleanor, too. So, she quickly splashed cold water around her eyes to reduce the puffiness of her tears, tidied her face and headed for the lift that would take her to the lobby and the warm afternoon air of New York city.
Maxine dodged the ever-lurking photographer at the entrance to the Plaza Hotel and turned east onto Grand Army Plaza. The sky was a hazy blue and the sun shone in her eyes as she headed south along Fifth Avenue, one of New York’s richest streets, swish and sophisticated. She hardly noticed the dust swirling in the breeze and the constant roar of the traffic. She opened her expensive crocodile skin handbag and took out her expensive sunglasses to shield and hide her eyes. To retrieve them she had to rummage past her expensive Cartier powder compact and her tiny bottle of expensive Guerlain perfume. A thought struck her and, as she looked down at the expensive Chanel suit she was wearing, at the trappings of wealth, she was flabbergasted by their irrelevance.
Money.
She had been manipulated, twisted and emotionally tortured because of money.
She walked on in her solitude and realised she was nothing more than another victim of that great city. For all the wealth she had generated she was as poor as the nearest panhandler; poor, because her treasury of dreams had long since been ransacked.
After about half a mile she pa
ssed St Thomas’s church. She considered entering and offering a prayer for herself and for Howard; for Brent, even. But why stop when she could pray while she walked? And she needed to walk.
She turned west onto Fifty-second Street. There, like a monument, stood the Onyx Club; the place they had scored their notable success, where the whole of America, it seemed, wanted to engage the services of The Owls and the Pussycats to help swell their own overflowing coffers. There too was the Open Door Club. The band was due to appear there in a few days, but somehow she doubted whether they would make it. Certainly, she doubted whether she would make it.
A beggar approached her with dirty clutching hands and shifty eyes and asked if she could spare a dime. She stopped, felt in her handbag and handed over her small change. The poor devil’s plight, unfamiliar to her, weighed heavy. She had forgotten about the beggars with their ravaged faces, their washed-up appearances and their reeking clothes, diverted by her life of material splendour at the Plaza. Roosevelt’s New Deal was improving life for some, but the down-and-outs were still too numerous.
The swirling dust rose again and she had to shut her eyes to protect them. A heavily pregnant woman accosted her, in rags and tatters and Maxine handed over several dollar bills. The state of the woman touched her heart, but could not dislodge thoughts of Howard, thoughts of Brent. She walked on, faster and faster, preoccupied with the heartbreak he had suffered because of Brent’s selfish, unfeeling behaviour, aware, indeed of the heartbreak she herself had suffered and was still suffering. And just what had Brent achieved by his despicableness? Absolutely nothing, bar ruining the lives of two decent people.
Her blouse was sticking to her in the heat and her shoes were making her feet sore as she crossed Broadway, dodging the traffic. The buildings here on West Fifty-second Street were less grand. A drunk confronted her and wanted to know how much a classy dame like her charged. Indignant, she told him he couldn’t afford her and continued briskly with her nose in the air. A little way further on, she hid in a doorway while a group of vagrants fought like jackals for the biggest bones and scraps of food plundered from a bin of garbage, in this city she’d grown to love; this, the most dazzling city on earth.
As litter flapped like white birds in the capricious breeze, the sounds of a love song drifted over from a juke joint and Maxine heard her own voice singing ‘Destiny Jests with Me’. How pitifully ironic! Was this her destiny? The wretched, derelict life of a once promising young jazz singer, defiled by an avaricious husband who had no more sense than to let himself be ruined by mind-numbing drugs and strong booze, who had no thoughts higher than his groin. She felt an affinity with these destitutes trapped by circumstances over which they had no control and for whom there was no escape.
The scavengers abandoned what remained of their spoils to seek others. Maxine carried on walking, picking her way over bones that had been picked clean, over broken bottles and comatose drunks. Some day, that man she’d married would be one of their number. How low were some folk prepared to sink to?
It was then she told herself she did not have to drift along on this wayward tide. She had the intelligence to determine her own direction. She had been drawn off course by a treacherous undercurrent. Okay, so it was an undercurrent that might maroon a lesser person. But she was not about to be marooned. She would make it back. Without Brent she had no useless freight to weigh her down and hold her back.
She would make a fresh start, reform the band. She would find a new drummer, a new trombonist, a new guitarist; get rid of the troublesome negative element. She would build the new band around Pansy and Toots and Charlie, if Charlie was still of a mind to play. She would write more songs, make much more money…But she would give much of it away…Think of the poor kids that must have been born to this squalor. Think of that poor, pregnant beggar woman.
Maxine realised she was on Twelfth Avenue and overlooking Pier Ninety. Her heart sank further. The Queen Mary was berthed there. Of course. It was Monday. It would have arrived today. It drew her like a magnet and she watched the comings and goings. Thoughts of home brought a tear to her eye. Oh, if only she could get home; if only for a couple of weeks. Did she really want to start a new band after all? Did she really want to risk her heart and soul in another band for it to be ripped apart by puerile, greedy musicians who had the unfortunate knack of latching on to the wrong company and sleeping with the wrong women?
Maybe not. Not yet, at any rate.
She stood gazing at the Queen Mary for some time, recalling the couple of months she had spent cosseted by its overwhelming splendour. She pondered how life aboard had tricked her into accepting a different set of values, had deceived her by mollifying the heartache she felt over Howard, had beguiled her into taking a flawed view of love and those who claimed to love her.
Well, it would not deceive her again.
She turned to walk away but her feet were so sore. The heel of her right foot had rubbed against her shoe and it was bleeding; she was not used to walking this far, especially after this morning’s outing. So she hailed a taxicab and returned to the Plaza.
Chapter 32
As soon as she arrived back at the Plaza Maxine took a bath. Her walk through New York’s dusty streets had made her feel dirty and grubby. She was still pondering the unfortunate individuals she’d encountered. She was still half-hearted about reforming the band and she considered it in the light of the incident with Brent and Eleanor and her ill-starred marriage. She washed her hair, dried it and did it up in a roll. She cleaned her teeth, applied some make-up and began to feel human again. Despairingly, she took Howard’s letters from her handbag. She sat down, re-read them and considered again the unnecessary pain and anguish he had suffered. If only she could say how sorry she was. If only she could let him know somehow that she still felt the same way she’d always felt.
But what would she gain? Nothing could come of it but the cruel lacerating of wounds that had never healed. She replaced Howard’s letters securely in her handbag and stood up, her head full of his words. Her mouth was dry. She hadn’t had a drink since lunch. So she telephoned room service, asked for a pot of tea and meanwhile drank some water.
While she waited, she set about packing more of Brent’s things. He had far more now than when they first started sharing a cabin on the Queen Mary. Good thing they had these extra suitcases. She cleared out his remaining drawers and his wardrobe, then removed his toiletries from the bathroom and put them in the small travelling case he’d bought for such things. She was just about to place the bag into one of the suitcases when she heard a knock at the door. Room service? Brent?
She was surprised to see Pansy standing at the door, grinning.
‘God, Maxine, where have you been all day? We’ve called a dozen times to see if you were back.’
‘Sorry. I was out with Dulcie this morning and I went a walk by myself this afternoon. Is something the matter?’
‘Brent’s not here, is he?’ she asked in a half whisper.
‘No, thank God. He’s gone. For good. I’ve chucked him out.’
Pansy couldn’t help smiling. ‘Chucked him out? Brilliant! That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. Tell us about it. Can we come in?’
‘We?’ Maxine queried uncertainly, seeing only Pansy.
‘There’s somebody here to see you. Close your eyes…No, close your eyes, Maxine!’ Unknown to Maxine, Pansy gave a signal and two other people came out of hiding and crept towards her. They stood at the door grinning. ‘Okay. You can open them now…’
‘Stephen!’ Like the old friends that they were, they hugged each other. ‘This is one hell of a surprise.’
‘I thought you’d be shocked,’ he said warmly. ‘Oh, you look great, Maxine. Really well turned-out.’
‘And so do you.’ She was aware of a girl she did not know hovering in the background wearing an appealing smile. ‘So are you going to introduce me?’ She at once felt pleased for Stephen that such an appealing and respectabl
e looking girl accompanied him. Maybe she was a new love in his life. She was certainly different to Eleanor.
‘This is Cassandra,’ Stephen said. ‘Cassandra…the famous Maxine Kite.’
The girls shook hands and said how pleased they were to meet.
‘Oh, please come inside. I’ve just sent down for a pot of tea. I can always ask them to bring drinks for all of us. What would you like?’
‘Maybe a bottle of champagne wouldn’t be inappropriate,’ Stephen suggested abstrusely.
‘Champagne? Are we celebrating something, Stephen?’ Maxine asked, glancing at Cassandra who smiled back pleasantly. She was curious about this girl with the intelligent eyes and warm demeanour, especially after Eleanor’s unexpected but fateful appearance earlier.
‘We hope to be, eh, Pansy? Eh, Cass?’
‘Oh? So what are we celebrating? Please sit down and tell me.’ Maxine felt the despondency slough off her like a dead skin. ‘I can’t get over it. It’s such a surprise to see you, Stephen. I never expected to see you here in New York. Mind you, having said that, I didn’t expect to see Eleanor either…’
‘Eleanor?’ A look of disquiet clouded Stephen’s face. ‘You’ve seen her? Here? In New York? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, I’m sure, Stephen.’
‘Hell! I didn’t know she was in New York.’
‘Oh, she’s here all right. Believe me. Large as life, twice as glamorous – as usual – and three times as obnoxious, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. She’s gone with Brent. For good, I think. I er…I got back this afternoon and found them…well…in my bed, frankly.’
Cassandra smiled sympathetically. So far she had said nothing, but now she spoke. ‘Were you upset, Maxine?’ she asked, with genuine concern in her clear blue eyes. ‘Were you shocked? Are you all right?’
