It manifested itself in the first number after the break – ‘Royal Garden Blues’, and Pansy handled the clarinet solo with such astonishing flair that her flamboyance and joy elicited an uplift of effort and poise from each of the others. People stopped dancing just to stand and watch. The mood of the band now was infectious; their newfound competence made them smile and project themselves to their audience with even greater panache. They were great to dance to, brilliant to listen to, but even better to watch. They had presence.
Next came a bouncy version of ‘Dippermouth Blues’, a King Oliver number, which was a bit of a risk because it had an extended clarinet solo. But Pansy handled it magnificently, and even the band applauded her after it.
Brent was enjoying himself more than he could ever remember. When Maxine turned to get her timing from him he winked at her and she felt a warm glow when she saw the gleam of contentment in his eyes. She had done the right thing in introducing Pansy. It was a feather in her cap. After a few weeks of dedicated rehearsals, who knows what great sounds they might be producing, what great songs they could be performing?
‘So how much money can we expect to make each week from playing in the Second City Hot Six, Maxine?’ Pansy asked from the rear seat of Stephen’s Austin Ten as he drove towards Daisy Road. ‘I’d love to give up playing in that pit orchestra.’
‘I haven’t the foggiest idea, Pansy,’ Maxine replied, turning her head to see into Pansy’s sparkling eyes. ‘Not a great amount yet, I don’t suppose. But the way we played tonight…and that without a practice. If we play like that all the time we’ll be getting bookings all over the place. I’m really excited.’
‘And would you give up playing your cello in the CBO, Maxine, if this jazz thing really took off?’
Maxine shrugged. She loved her cello; she loved the classical music she played on it. ‘I don’t know, Pansy. This jazz is…well, it’s fun but…I suppose there’s more money to be made playing jazz than there is playing classical music, but I don’t know.’
‘More than playing in the pit orchestra at the Hippodrome. What do you think, Stephen?’
‘Oh, I’m all for it, Pansy. I think you’ll do well – very well. Eleanor was mightily impressed, and she’s heard a few jazz bands.’
‘What did you think of Eleanor, Stephen?’ Maxine asked with genuine curiosity. ‘I thought she seemed a bit snotty.’
‘Snotty? Maxine you do say some things. She wasn’t snotty at all. I found her very nice…very easy to talk to.’
‘Easy to look at, too, eh?’ Pansy teased. ‘She should have been arrested wearing that dress. It looked as if it had been painted on – like her red nail varnish.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Pansy,’ Stephen said, irritated by his sister’s criticism. ‘I agree it was…well, revealing, but she wore it with such style.’
‘Well I wouldn’t wear anything like it. Would you, Maxine?’
‘Well, let’s face it, you couldn’t carry it off - either of you,’ Stephen responded curtly, without giving Maxine her chance to reply.
‘Don’t be daft, Stephen. Maxine’s figure is equally as good as Eleanor’s. So’s mine for that matter. It’s just that we’re not interested in flaunting ourselves like she is.’
‘Because you couldn’t carry it off. Eleanor can. There’s a subtle difference.’
‘She’s got no inhibitions if you ask me,’ Pansy persisted. ‘That’s why. I don’t see that as something to be proud of, our Stephen.’
Stephen smiled smugly to himself as he stopped the car outside the end terrace that was, for the time being, still the home of Henzey and Will and Maxine. He kissed Maxine cursorily on the lips as he bid her goodnight.
‘Goodnight, Stephen. Goodnight, Pansy.’ She squeezed her friend’s hand in appreciation. ‘You were brilliant tonight, Pansy. Absolutely brilliant.’
‘Thanks, Maxine. Goodnight…Hey, Maxine! Do you know whether Toots, the trumpet player, is married or anything?’
‘Toots?’ Maxine grinned. ‘I haven’t a clue. I barely know him. Fancy him, do you?’
Pansy shrugged, and the darkness hid her blushes. ‘He seems nice.’
Stephen Hemming stopped his car behind Brent Shackleton’s outside the Gas Street Basin Jazz Club and bid cheerio to his sister Pansy and to Maxine as they left him for another evening of band practice. ‘See you about eleven,’ he called as the two girls turned to wave before they entered the club.
‘Thank God for this new business he’s started,’ Maxine commented. ‘At least it’s keeping him out of my hair.’
‘I can see you don’t mind.’ Pansy said.
‘Mind? I’m glad. He was driving me mad a while ago. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. At least it’s taken his mind off me. Gives me a chance to get on with my own life for a change.’
Pansy opened the inner door to the club. The others were there, tuning up, fooling around. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you put up with him, Maxine - how you’ve put up with him for so long. I wouldn’t fancy him for a boyfriend. He’s too self-centred.’
‘Well, while the cat’s away…’ She winked at Pansy devilishly. ‘I think he’s losing interest anyway. I won’t let him have what he wants.’
‘I don’t blame you, either. I can think of much nicer men to play hanky-panky with.’ Pansy smiled at Maxine, reflecting her contentment as she fell into the welcoming arms of Toots Randle. ‘Hello, sugar-lips,’ she greeted, kissing him briefly. ‘Sorry we’re late. Stephen was late collecting us.’
She placed her clarinet case on a chair and went back to Toots’s arms. In the month since Pansy had joined the band, a vibrant romance had blossomed between them; a romance that did not hide itself but which was open and honest, for all to see. Both had been unattached, neither seeking romance, but suddenly it had hit them and they were enjoying it. It was reflected in their playing too. A musical rapport was blossoming between them that manifested itself in some clever and often seemingly spontaneous interplay between trumpet and clarinet.
But spontaneous it was not – at least, not always. The band had been practising intensely and the musicians, especially Pansy and Toots, had got to know each other’s play better than ever. Each probed the abilities of the others and they pushed themselves and each other to the limit of their capabilities. This required many practice runs at the same piece, and a new riff that was improvised one moment, when considered worthy by the others, would become standard play in that number. But even to an experienced musician who might be listening, it seemed spontaneous.
‘What’s on the agenda for tonight?’ Maxine asked Brent.
‘Something a bit different. For a change. A friend of mine just came back from the United States. He picked up a record in New York that he reckons is a big hit there. He thought we’d be interested in playing it before anybody else cottoned on. I brought it along to listen to.’
‘What is it?’
‘A swing number – a bit of a novelty really. Called “The Music goes ’Round and Around”. It’s ideal for a seven-piece band.’
‘Let’s hear it then.’
Brent called everybody to order and placed the record on the turntable. He wound up the gramophone, placed the needle in the groove