Free Love in the Years of Lunacy by Mandy Sayer Page B

practising only one thing: she had to play long tones on her instrument for four hours each day. This was to refine her breathing, pitch and timbre. As the sun moved across the sky, as shadows inched their way over the footpath and garden, she’d stand on her bedroom balcony, blowing one sustained note over and over, until the barking of dogs turned to howls and neighbours complained and she was banished to the basement air-raid shelter by her mother.
    By her sixth lesson in the gardens, when James thought she was ready, he asked her to play, in succession, all the major scales and their triads, which turned out to be a series of lurching rises and falls, a breathy ladder of awkward progressions. When she achieved the right tone, her fingering was inconsistent, and when the fingering was correct her embouchure faltered. The two techniques never seemed to unite and she grew frustrated.
    James instructed her again to merely practise minor, major and blues scales, with corresponding triads, in slow, long tones. It was monotonous work and sometimes her mind would drift from the next chordal progression in the scale to thoughts about him, their conversations, to the stories he’d told her as they strolled beneath palm trees or sipped milkshakes down at Circular Quay.
    There was one aspect of James that still perplexed her, however, and late one night, when they were playing cards in the Arabian Café, she decided to broach the subject.
    â€˜How come, when we’re out, you don’t—you never . . .’ She was trying to sound casual but her voice came out all high and nervous. She took a deep breath. ‘How come you’ve stopped touching me? Not—not even my hand?’
    James frowned and rearranged his cards. The pianist was playing ‘My Blue Heaven’ with lots of flourishes and cadenzas, his wooden leg thumping in time against the floor.
    â€˜Well?’ she prompted.
    James sighed and put his cards face down on the table. He fixed his eyes on her. His gaze was steady but his right eyebrow was twitching.
    â€˜Honey, where I come from, no white girl’d invite a guy like me to her home—’specially not to meet her parents.’
    â€˜Why not?’ she asked. ‘Why not just as a friend?’
    James’s eyes suddenly flared. ‘You know, my granddaddy got hanged from a tree in the Bogalusa city park?’
    She was shocked into silence. He began balling and releasing one fist against the table, as if he were warming up for a boxing match.
    Finally she asked him, ‘Why?’
    A drunk lurched out of the toilet and steadied himself against the piano.
    James sighed. He leaned across the table. ‘Because he whistled at a white girl who passed him on the street.’
    Pearl gaped at him. What he had just told her seemed impossible. What about the justice system? What about the police?
    James had a sour look on his face, as if he just swallowed something bitter. He took a sip of water, then held the glass with two hands and gazed into it intently. ‘Last time I toured the South,’ he said, ‘I was with Benny Goodman’s band. Me and the bass player, Herschel Evans, we were the only Negroes in the group. And every restaurant the band stopped at, me and Herschel always had to eat in the kitchen.’
    Pearl picked up her teacup and gulped at her wine. James’s voice remained low, but angry, almost menacing.
    â€˜And forget about hotel rooms. No niggers allowed. Sometimes me and Herschel’d doss down with a local black family. A couple of times—in Georgia—we even slept backstage after the gig. And some nights, when the band pulled into a new town and the club owner realised there were two niggers in the band, they’d cancel the booking but wouldn’t pay us.’
    She started to say something, to express her outrage and dismay, but he cut her off.
    â€˜But the worst time,’ he continued, ‘was when the