Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.
He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.
They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.
‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’
‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’
He grinned. ‘Okay. Lemonade. What about a sandwich? They do decent sandwiches here.’
‘No thanks.’ She had taken her own sandwiches as she did every rehearsal day. They were lying in her basket next to her cello; to be eaten alongside her cello usually. Besides, she could never countenance buying sandwiches when they were so cheap and easy to make at home.
Brent returned with their drinks. ‘There’s nowhere to sit.’
‘Then we’ll have to stand.’ She took the glass from him and sipped it. ‘So what do you want to discuss with me?’
‘The Second City Hot Six.’ He took a long draught through the foam on his beer.
‘Oh? How do you think I can help?’
‘Well, you’re a musician, Maxine. You listen to jazz. You reckon you play it yourself occasionally…’
‘But only for fun. Never seriously. I’ve only ever played it with my friend Pansy. She’s brilliant, mind you. Completely wasted.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke, Brent. You know I don’t smoke.’
‘I forgot. Sorry…Something you said last night, Maxine, made me think. You said there was no point in doing something – playing jazz for instance – if you didn’t do it right. You said you’re a perfectionist.’
‘I suppose I am. I can’t stand music to be played slapdash.’
He lit his cigarette. ‘After I dropped you off I thought about that. And you know, you’re spot on. I want to earn my living playing jazz. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. You made me realise with that comment of yours that if that’s what I want, then I have to do it properly to achieve it. Why shouldn’t I be the best? Why shouldn’t the band be the best? It’s the only way forward.’
‘Quite right,’ Maxine agreed, wafting unwanted smoke away with her hand.
‘I want to take it more seriously, Maxine. You know, there’s good money to be made playing jazz. I could earn a lot more than I do playing in the CBO and, believe me, I could do with it. So I need some guidance from a self-confessed perfectionist. You heard us last night, Maxine. What should we do to get the best out of what we’ve got? How can we improve, do you think?’
‘By hard practice, I should say. By disciplined practice. It’s no good turning up for practice and fooling about. If there’s something to be rehearsed, rehearse it. Rehearse it till it sounds as good as you hear it in your imagination. And then keep on rehearsing it till playing it is second nature – till you don’t have to think about it.’
‘But everybody else in the band has to be of the same mind.’
‘Course they do. A half-hearted musician will stick out like a sore thumb amidst really serious ones – and spoil what they do.’
‘The one bad apple that spoils the whole bag, eh?’
‘Yes. So, it requires hard work and very serious commitment. But, Brent, I tell you straight. You’ll get nowhere with that pianist. I don’t mean to be unkind but he’s next to useless. He’s an organist and choirmaster, for God’s sake, and that’s all he knows how to play. Even Howard said he was no good playing jazz.’
‘Oh yes. I forgot you and Howard are big chums now.’ His comment seemed tinged with cynicism, Maxine thought, but she hoped she was mistaken.
‘You need a decent clarinettist besides. Somebody dedicated. It’s no good having one whose wife won’t let him out at night. That’s just too pathetic. You have to be professional about this if you want to be a professional – all of you. In any case, he hasn’t got the ability either to play jazz. He doesn’t feel the music. I told you…’
‘Yes, you did…So will you help us? Will you come to some of our practices and try to put us right? Will you come and guide us where we’re going wrong? Help us get things right? I’m too close to it to judge properly. It needs a fresh ear. I reckon you could do it. You know what to listen for. Make any comment you reckon is warranted.’
‘I’m flattered that you’ve asked me,’ she replied with a broad smile that revealed her even teeth and put a sparkle in her eyes again. ‘I’d love to help. When do we start?’
‘How about tonight? I’ll pick you up from home at half past seven.’
It had not occurred to Maxine that the jazz club might not be open for business that night. The Second City Hot Six had assembled to practise, and they had the place to themselves except for Nat Colesby, the owner and licensee. He was cleaning beer lines, restocking shelves, cleaning up, and on hand to serve beer to the six or seven musicians as they worked up a thirst. The band practised here most Tuesdays. Although the rest of them had noticed Maxine the previous evening with Brent, he introduced her tonight. He outlined his ideas and aspirations and explained how he thought she could help.
‘So what happens about Arthur?’ Kenny Wheeler, the drummer asked. ‘The chap’s woman-licked. You can’t count on him to be that dedicated.’
‘That I know,’ Brent replied. ‘We’ll have to find another clarinettist.’
‘Ain’t there nobody in the CBO?’ Charlie Holt, the slightly tubby double bass player enquired.
‘Nobody who’d want to join us,’ Brent remarked.
Maxine had already considered that Stephen’s sister Pansy would be an admirable replacement but it was not up to her to suggest it. It might sound too pushy if she did. But if they found nobody quickly, she could perhaps drop a hint. After all, Pansy could do with the work. She was dissatisfied working in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t want a girl in this band.
George Tolley, the banjo player who answered to Ginger, took his instrument out of its case and began plinking, tuning it up. ‘Where’s Randy? He’s late. So do we bugger off home or get cracking on something then without him?’
‘Randolf’s not coming,’ Brent informed them.
‘Bloody typical. So bang goes this new commitment before we even start.’
‘I’ve sacked him, Ginger. He just isn’t good enough. And Maxine agrees. That job’s up for grabs as well. So we’ll have to start without a pianist.’
‘Christ. Who is considered good enough?’ Kenny asked. ‘Are all our jobs shaky in this line-up? I’d like to know in case I need to look elsewhere.’
‘You’re not going to be sacked, Kenny,’ Brent said. ‘Nor anybody else. Those of us here are first-rate musicians, well capable of playing the sort