Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

thank you,’ she replied. ‘I only have to change. I’ll be a minute, no more.’

      In the ladies’ dressing room, she doffed the black evening dress she wore for concert nights and put on her normal Sunday attire. It was thoughtful of Brent to always give her a lift to and from concerts. To lug her cello all the way to Dudley now, alone on the tram, then walk all the way to Oakham Road and the new house, would be no mean feat especially late at night.

      ‘Can you manage that?’ Brent asked gallantly as they left the Town Hall. ‘Let me carry it.’

      ‘I can cope. It’s no weight. Besides, you’d have two instruments to carry.’

      ‘The piccolo player’s got the best job when it comes to transport,’ he quipped. ‘You should have taken up the piccolo.’

      ‘Or the triangle.’

      He laughed generously. ‘I’m only thankful we don’t have to lug a piano about. At least the jazz club’s got its own…Talking of which, do you fancy going there now for an hour?’

      ‘But we’re not playing tonight…Are we?’

      ‘We’re not, but another band is. The Brummagem Hot Stompers. Ever seen them?’

      ‘No. Are they good?’

      ‘Not bad. In any case, it’s always good to evaluate the competition occasionally.’

      That did it. It was reason enough. ‘Okay, let’s go then. You won’t get into trouble with Eleanor, will you? Being late home, I mean.’

      ‘Oh, sod Eleanor,’ he said with feeling. They reached his car, parked on the street outside. He opened the door and took Maxine’s cello. ‘She’s been a bit off lately. It’ll serve her right to be on her own.’

      ‘Maybe that’s the problem, Brent,’ Maxine suggested as she watched him place her cello on the back seat. ‘Maybe she spends too much time on her own. Maybe you should go home sooner. You should bring her to more concerts.’

      ‘She’s not interested in concerts,’ he said looking at her over the roof of the car. ‘She’s not interested in anything except herself. When I get home she’ll most likely be in bed, fast asleep. She’s probably already in bed now.’ He got in the car and unlocked the passenger door. Maxine got in and made herself comfortable. He lit a cigarette, turned the key, and the big powerful engine burst into life. ‘So let’s go, eh?’

      They had travelled about a hundred yards when Maxine said: ‘You know, Brent, I feel guilty going to the jazz club with you tonight if you’re not on the best of terms with Eleanor. Perhaps you should take me home.’

      ‘What the devil for? It’s nothing to do with Eleanor. In any case, I’d rather be in your company than hers.’

      Maxine smiled with tenderness, flattered that Brent should make such an admission. She looked at him as he drove, the moving streetlights reflected in his brooding eyes.

      ‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she said. ‘But my concern is that Eleanor might get the wrong idea.’ She shrugged. ‘You know…’

      ‘I don’t care if she does.’

      ‘But I care, Brent. Spare a thought for me. I don’t want her maligning me for something I haven’t done.’

      ‘So you’d rather go home?’

      ‘Unless you promise you won’t tell her you’ve taken me tonight.’

      He smiled to himself. ‘Oh, count on it, Maxine. I’ve no intention of doing that.’

      ‘Good. Thank you, Brent.’

      They arrived outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club. Brent pulled on the handbrake, stopped the engine and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘By the way, there seems to be a lot of outside interest in the band all of a sudden. I’ve got bookings for the Tower Ballroom for a few Saturday nights, starting the week after next, and if they like us it could be a resident spot. As well as others. What do you think of that, eh?’

      ‘That’s smashing,’ Maxine said inadequately, but with a wide grin of satisfaction. She showed no intention of getting out of the car, happy to learn of the band’s increasing success.

      ‘I’ve had enquiries, too, from further afield. Some, wanting to book us up for Christmas and New Year. We can put our fees up for then, especially New Year’s Eve. We can virtually name our own price.’

      ‘Brilliant.’

      ‘You’re gorgeous in that slinky new dress, you know, Maxine.’ He gave her a grin as indiscreet as his thoughts.

      ‘Well thank you,’ she replied.

      ‘I’ve been thinking, Maxine. I think we should feature your singing more. I want you to be the band’s main vocalist. Leave the piano sometimes and stand stage front. You’ve got a great jazz voice – different – but you look the part as well. We must exploit it. So, think of some more songs you’d like to sing.’

      He leaned towards her, almost imperceptibly, and she could have sworn he was going to kiss her, so she tilted her head tentatively to offer her mouth. But he did not take advantage and she felt a pang of disappointment when he opened his door to get out. At once she opened the passenger door, her disappointment turning to embarrassment, for he must have noticed her intention to submit. What if he thought it too obvious? Think of something to say, quickly, to distract him.

      ‘ “Where or When?” ’

      ‘As soon as you like. At the next practice if we can.’

      ‘No,’ she exclaimed, a peal of laughter concealing her embarrassment. ‘I mean can I sing the song called “Where or When”?’

      ‘Oh, that. Sure.’

      The CBO was busy with the summer season and The Owls and the Pussycats had a rapidly filling schedule too. After the Saturday promenade concerts, Maxine and Brent had to dash to the Tower Ballroom for their new series of gigs. They were booked to play a couple of forty-five minute spots, alternating with the resident dance band who, like all self-respecting musicians, welcomed the break as an opportunity to consume more beer.

      But increasingly, the regular dance band were foregoing their extra beer to listen to this outstanding new seven-piece outfit. Maxine and Pansy, in their new, slinky, shiny, clingy dresses, drew wolf whistles galore, but everybody had to admire the music they were creating, and that manifested itself in loud and prolonged applause.

      When Maxine sang her favourite new love song, ‘Where or When?’ the couples who were dancing fell into an embrace and shuffled together slowly on the dance floor, but most also had an eye on the stage, watching her. She had presence. She had style. Oh, she had everything.

      Rehearsals saw them attempting more of the new swing music that was coming from America. From a specialist source in New York that Brent knew, called the Commodore Music Shop, they were able to send for records and musical arrangements. They acquired records by Jack Teagarden, Django Reinhardt, Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington that were not available in Britain. And, as they enlarged their repertoire and their music became more sophisticated, so the booking enquiries flooded in. Would they play at this wedding, that society function? Would they give an outdoor concert in Canon Hill Park? Would they play at this town hall, that hotel?

      Certainly. They would play as many as they could. Brent wanted the money. And as they played further afield, more and more people were hearing their name.

      ‘Have you heard that new band called The Owls and the Pussycats? They’re great! They’re fantastic! They’re wonderful!’

      Word spread.

      Word spread like fire in a bone-dry forest, fanned by a strong breeze.

      However, Brent Shackleton’s growing elation over the band was offset somewhat by a discovery he made at home late one afternoon in July. Returning