Rags to Riches Page 2

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, Maxine. I daresay you’ll soon get used to the idea. Smoke?’ He proffered a silver cigarette case.

  ‘I don’t, thank you.’

  He took one and lit it. ‘I’ve been with this outfit nearly five years now. It keeps me in these…Just about…’ He tapped the cigarette case nonchalantly and she was not sure that she admired his indifference. ‘Where do you live, Maxine? Are you local?’

  ‘Ladywood,’ she replied, anticipating her new lodging arrangements. ‘With my sister and her husband.’

  ‘Ladywood? That’s almost walking distance from here, isn’t it?’ He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

  ‘It’s very convenient.’ Her cello was back in its case. She closed the lid and picked it up. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way. Nice to meet you, Mr Shackleton.’

  ‘Call me Brent. It is all right if I call you Maxine, isn’t it?’

  She smiled and lingered a moment. There was something appealing about him after all; the way he looked at her. His dark eyes were focused only on her, piercing, making her feel decidedly self-conscious. But not the way Stephen did. Definitely not the way Stephen did.

  ‘I’ll see you at rehearsals next week, I imagine,’ she said affably.

  ‘Shall you come to the concert on Sunday evening?’

  ‘The concert? I could…I suppose I should really, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘You should. Come and say hello afterwards. I’ll introduce you to some of the team.’

  Stephen Hemming was a quiet, practical, but very determined soul. He was twenty-six, unmarried, living at home with his parents and Pansy, his younger sister. Pansy had introduced him to Maxine Kite when the two girls were attending Bantock’s School of Music together. Stephen fell in love with Maxine on sight. He could not resist her. She seemed so vulnerable and he wanted to protect her, especially since he was predisposed to girls like that. But her apparent vulnerability was not her only attractive feature; she was inordinately lovely with lips that for many sleepless nights he yearned to kiss and creamy curved breasts he longed to caress. And her ears were so delicate, translucent, like finest Dresden china…He was mesmerised that her forearms lacked any of the soft down that every other girl seemed to have. Yet, she was totally unaware of her silky sensuousness. It never ceased to astound him how he managed to keep his hands off her. But she did not allow him such liberties.

  Stephen loved art, in its broadest sense, and thus anything artistic and creative. So he saw in Maxine’s musical ability a gift that he wished to see flourish. And she arrived in his life at the right time three years ago when he was languishing over a girl to whom he’d been engaged. Maxine certainly diverted his mind from that trauma.

  Stephen designed jewellery in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter and he was good. His talent was being sought by several manufacturers since he understood all the manufacturing processes, the techniques and the skill of the people who made the products; and he took account of all this in his designs. He was seriously considering starting his own design house, specifically aimed at serving the abundance of businesses in the area that produced adornments ranging from cheap buttons to creations on a par with the Crown Jewels. His lack of capital, however, was impeding any such progress.

  Yet he had made himself afford a car; a 1935 Austin Ten-Four Lichfield. It was bigger than he needed, but it could accommodate Maxine’s cello across the back seat – and that had been the deciding factor. It had set him back one hundred and fifty-two pounds; money he could have used to set up a business. But since he realised he was not extravagantly handsome, owning a car set him apart from other young men and gave him an advantage; in Maxine’s eyes especially, he hoped. Yet, so far, it had done him no good. So far, all that his gallantry had achieved was delivering her, her cello and the rest of her belongings further away from him, to the home of her sister and brother-in-law.

  He drove her into Daisy Road in Ladywood and pulled up outside the end of terrace house that was her new home.

  ‘You can’t imagine how upset I am that you’re leaving us, Maxine,’ he said, making a final attempt to get her to change her mind. ‘The good times, the laughs we’ve had…’

  ‘It’s not as if I’ve emigrated to Australia, Stephen,’ she replied pragmatically.

  ‘But you won’t be there when I get home from work, or when I get up in a morning. I’ll miss you, Maxine. I’ll miss you like hell. Pansy will miss you as well. So will my mother and father.’

  ‘Pansy understands, Stephen. Knowing what it takes to lug my cello about, she appreciates that living here will be far more convenient. Your mother and father understand, too. It’s not as if I’ve upped and left without discussing it. I wouldn’t. And I shall visit them when I can. They’ve been very kind to me while I’ve been lodging there.’

  ‘Because they love you – like a daughter,’ Stephen commented, trying desperately to invoke greater feelings of guilt in her. ‘But sometimes I get the impression, Maxine, that it’s me you’re trying to get away from.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not at all,’ she fibbed, affecting indignation, for she was anxious not to hurt his feelings. ‘How can you think that? But seeing each other less often, we might appreciate each other the more. Anyway, thanks for taking the trouble to bring me here. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘I’ll help you with your things, shall I?’

  ‘That’s very nice of you, Stephen.’

  ‘I’ll expect a kiss for my trouble.’

  ‘And if you don’t get one?’ she asked, half-serious.

  ‘Then I’ll leave your things at the side of the road.’

  Of course, he did not mean it and she smiled to herself as she alighted from the car. She opened the rear door and attempted to get her cello off the back seat herself, knowing full well that he would gently move her out of the way and do it for her. As he did so, with his predictable chivalry, she leaned towards him, gave him a token peck on the cheek and smiled to let him believe she’d been teasing.

  ‘Is that it? My kiss?’ he queried, his disappointment obvious. ‘Each day that passes they’re rationed the more…So, shall I see you on Saturday night?’

  ‘Best not this Saturday, Stephen. I’ll have so much to do. But Sunday, if you like. If you feel like going to the CBO concert with me.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll take you.’

  ‘Say seven o’ clock. The concert starts at half past. That’ll give us plenty of time. But come in and have a cup of tea now you’ve come this far, Stephen.’

  Chapter 2

  That Sunday, Stephen arrived promptly at seven and parked his Austin behind Will’s maroon motor car, a Swallow SSI. He walked up the path and knocked at the door.

  Will Parish invited him in. ‘I imagine she’ll be ready in a minute or two, Stephen. Come and wait in the sitting room.’

  ‘Hello, Stephen,’ Henzey greeted affably, fastening a napkin on the baby who was lying on the settee next to where she was sitting. ‘Sorry if it pongs a bit in here. I’ve just had to change him.’

  Stephen spotted a soiled napkin on the floor near Henzey’s feet and tried not to breathe in too deeply lest it offend him. ‘One of the joys of having children,’ he commented.

  ‘One of the drawbacks. Oh, he’s as good as gold…aren’t you, my little cherub?’ she cooed, slipping the baby’s waterproof pants over his napkin. She lifted him, holding him against her bosom. ‘There…that’s better, isn’t it? Now you feel all nice and comfy again.’

  ‘Have you decided on a name for him yet?’ Stephen asked conversationally.

  Henzey looked at Will for permission to reveal it. He nodded his assent with a smile.

  ‘Aldo,’ Henzey said.

  ‘Aldo?’ Stephen queried, uncertain as to how he should react.

  ‘Well…Aldo Benjamin, really. But we shall call him Aldo.’

  Maxine appeared at the sitting room door. She wore a simple dark green dress with a flared skirt, belted at the waist, and carried a black leather handbag that matc
hed her shoes.

  ‘So, now you know the baby’s name, Stephen.’

  ‘Yes. It’s, er…’

  ‘Awful?’ Maxine suggested wryly. ‘Is that the word you’re looking for?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Henzey said, clutching Aldo to her. ‘Isn’t it my little pet? It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful little boy.’

  ‘It’s a frightful name,’ Maxine countered with a gleam in her eye, and Will chuckled again at the minor controversy this choice of name was causing. She carefully took the child and cradled him in her own arms lovingly while Henzey took the soiled napkin to the scullery. ‘Whatever possessed them, eh?’ she said in baby talk. ‘Fancy calling a lovely little boy like you Aldo, you poor thing. Fancy calling you Aldo when they could have called you something decent, like Robert, or Peter…or David…or even Stephen.’

  ‘Oh, Even Stephen’s a good one,’ Will mocked good-naturedly. ‘Why don’t we call him Even Stephen?’

  ‘Because we’ve already got one Even Stephen,’ Maxine answered flippantly.

  Stephen felt flattered, hopeful even, that by implication he was one of the family…almost.

  Once in the car and on their way, Stephen said: ‘Are they serious about calling the poor child Aldo?’

  ‘I know. Isn’t it just too awful?’

  ‘How are you settling in, Maxine? D’you think you’ll be happy? You know you’re more than welcome back at —’

  ‘It’s nice,’ she interrupted. ‘They haven’t even noticed I’m there yet with the baby to occupy them, and that suits me…Anyway, I’m really looking forward to the concert, aren’t you? It seems ages since I’ve been to a CBO concert.’

  ‘You went to a couple last year. I took you.’

  ‘But, like I say, it seems ages ago. I should have gone to more.’

  ‘Seems like you will in future, doesn’t it?’ He turned to look at her as he changed up a gear. ‘I wonder what they’re playing tonight?’

  ‘Mozart’s ‘Prague’ for one, somebody told me. Sibelius’s Second and…oh, I can’t think of the other.’

  In no time they were pulling up into a space outside the Italian Renaissance style Council House in Colmore Row. Birmingham Town Hall and its colossal columns faced them, predominating like the Roman Temple of Castor and Pollux as it overlooked the weathered statue of Queen Victoria and New Street.

  Stephen got out of the Austin and, to Maxine’s annoyance, immediately rushed round to the other side to open the door for her. Why did he persist in doing that? She could just as easily open the door herself and save time, too. It seemed he was putting her on a pedestal when she did not want to be on a pedestal. She did not deserve it. She had nothing to give in return.

  They found their seats in the auditorium and, as the orchestra tuned up, Maxine grew more excited at the prospect of playing with these musicians. She wanted tonight’s concert to be a triumph.

  She turned to Stephen. ‘I’m getting quite nervous, you know.’

  ‘But you’re not even playing.’

  ‘I’ve got the jitters for the orchestra. I do hope it goes well.’ Just then, the audience began to applaud and Maxine looked up. ‘Look, that’s Leslie Heward, the conductor,’ she exclaimed in an excited whisper. ‘The man who auditioned me.’

  The audience fell quiet and Leslie Heward raised his baton. Suddenly the place was charged with the first explosive chord of Mozart’s Symphony number 38 in D major – the ‘Prague’ Symphony.

  No sound is as rich, as full, or as emotive as the sound of a full orchestra playing Mozart, Maxine reflected, moved – except maybe Beethoven. Such an extraordinary, exciting sound. No wonder its appeal had spanned centuries. She wallowed in it, savouring every note, loving every familiar twist and turn in the score, every interweaving of the instruments, every development of every theme.

  But, halfway through, it surprised her to discover that she was paying scant attention to the cellists, the bassists, or any of the strings. For some time, her eyes had scarcely moved from the handsome trombonist sitting in the brass section. Brent Shackleton seemed to play with more panache than his colleagues. He was more animated, more of a showman, bursting with confidence. His hair was attractively unruly, inclined to flop to one side as he played, causing him to push it back with his fingers when the score allowed him the opportunity. But then, he was younger than any other member of the brass was. He was certainly worth looking at.

  In those rarer moments when she was not concentrating on Brent Shackleton, Maxine also tried to envisage herself playing in this brilliant orchestra. The thought of actually being a part of it thrilled her, especially the notion of being broadcast on the wireless, of being recorded and able to hear the performance on record forever after, knowing she would have contributed.

  When it was all over and the applause had died she remained in her seat, while the rest of the audience drifted outside into the chilly May evening.

  ‘Shall we go?’ Stephen suggested, ‘or are we going to stay here all night?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Ten past ten. I have to be up in the morning.’

  ‘But I’ve been asked back to meet some of the orchestra. Do you mind?’

  ‘No, course not. Who invited you? The conductor? You never said.’

  ‘Oh, just one of the players,’ she answered dismissively.

  ‘Well let’s make our way to the side of the stage. Some of them are mingling there already, look. You’d best go first – they won’t know me from Adam.’

  Maxine got up hesitantly from her seat. ‘D’you reckon they’ll think I’m a bit pushy?’

  ‘Not if you’ve been asked.’ He felt an urge to hug her. Her reticence was typical.

  ‘But it was only a casual invitation. Maybe I —’

  ‘Come on, let’s get it over with. It’ll be good for you to make an acquaintance or two before you actually start working with them. Somebody familiar to talk to when you actually get there.’

  She sighed guiltily. ‘Okay.’

  Hesitantly, she led the way to the side of the stage. Some of the players were sharing a joke, accepting the plaudits of friends and relatives. A hefty middle-aged man with grey hair saw her and smiled as she approached.

  ‘Hello, Miss,’ he said, over the shoulder of a colleague. ‘Are you looking for somebody?’

  ‘Oh, nobody in particular. I’m, er…joining the orchestra next week as cellist. I was invited to meet some of the members after the concert.’

  The other man turned around to look at her. ‘Joining the team, eh? Well, we could do with a pretty face among this bunch of sourpusses, that’s for sure. Cellist, did you say?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Maxine Kite.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Kite.’ They shook hands. ‘Jim Davies, first violins. And this is Bill Roberts. Second violins.’

  She shook Bill’s hand too. They seemed a friendly lot so far.

  ‘I was impressed with the performance tonight,’ Maxine remarked. ‘The ‘Prague’ Symphony was brilliant.’

  ‘Well, you can thank Mozart for that, m’dear,’ Bill suggested dryly.

  She introduced Stephen and, as she did so, spotted Brent Shackleton. As he looked in her direction she involuntarily put up her hand and waved. He acknowledged her and made his way towards her.

  ‘Good to see you, Maxine,’ he said. ‘You made it, then.’

  Unwittingly she turned away from Stephen and the others. ‘Yes, I made it.’ She was aware she sounded breathless.

  ‘Enjoy the concert?’

  ‘Yes, it was grand.’

  ‘We played well,’ Brent said. ‘It’s a fairly safe repertoire for the Sunday concerts.’

  ‘I suppose that’s what people come to hear…something they’re familiar with…something they know.’

  ‘I reckon so. Are you looking forward to joining?’

  ‘I can’t wait. You can’t im
agine.’

  ‘Is that your young man talking to those two fiddle players?’ She resisted the urge to turn around and nodded dumbly, wishing profoundly that she could deny Stephen. ‘I think he’s trying to catch your attention. Is he a musician as well?’

  ‘Oh, no. He designs jewellery. He’s actually very good.’

  ‘Jewellery, eh? Did he design that brooch you’re wearing?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Quality piece,’ he commented approvingly. ‘Very elegant…You look very elegant yourself, Maxine, if you don’t mind me saying so. I love your dress.’

  ‘Oh! Thank you.’

  Her delight showed in her eyes, but Brent did not have time to notice it. His attention was suddenly drawn beyond her, beyond Stephen, and Maxine thought she saw him acknowledge someone. It was a woman, possibly in her mid-twenties; statuesque, beautiful, exquisitely dressed, her dark hair sleek in a style straight out of Vogue.

  ‘Sorry. I have to dash, Maxine.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘See you at rehearsals.’

  As Brent walked away she turned and rejoined Stephen who was labouring over his conversation with the two violinists.

  ‘I see you’ve already met our Brent, then,’ Bill said.

  ‘Brent, yes. I’d quite forgotten his name. He introduced himself after my audition.’

  ‘He should’ve introduced you to Gwen. Come with me, young Maxine. Let me introduce you to Gwen. You’ll be playing alongside her. Brilliant cellist, is Gwen…’

  ‘Maxine, can I ask you something?’ Stephen said, breaking a silence that was disproportionately long for the short drive back to Ladywood.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  He’d sussed that she’d earlier avoided admitting that Brent Shackleton had been the one to suggest going to meet some of the orchestra after the concert, that he was the one she’d really gone to see. He’d seen her acknowledge Brent too eagerly and turn her back on everybody else. He’d witnessed her sparks of interest for Brent, sparks too bright for her own good, too bright for his own good. He must prevent them flaring into a full scale inferno, and the only way he could think of doing that was by escalating her interest in himself. He had not caught sight of Brent’s beautiful companion, so this was a radical strategy which, in all probability, would not work anyway. But desperate situations required desperate measures. And Stephen was desperate. He was also desperately celibate.