Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson

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