Free Jack of Diamonds by Bryce Courtenay Page A

piping soprano. But she especially loved the stuff we’d heard together on our walks over the summer. She’d sometimes stop at the sink or stove, close her eyes and say, ‘Oh, Jack, that’s lovely.’ One night she’d said, ‘Jack, I’d love it if you played to me while I had my first cup of tea.’
    We called them ‘First Cuppa Concerts’, and it was nice, but now I longed to play the new music I’d learned and see what she thought. Sometimes I’d feel it so strongly that I was glad when it was time for her second cup so I could stop and brush her hair. Every time I played the old stuff and not the jazz I’d learned, not telling my mom weighed heavily on my conscience. It bothered me that I hadn’t told her about hitting the steps to learn jazz. Hitherto there had never been a secret between us. I’d tell her everything and she knew all about the gramophone and me teaching myself the harmonica.
    Christmas Day came and went, my dad disappearing for the entire day, and soon my mom was back at work. Chilblain time was well and truly upon us, and she always wanted me to play while she soaked. The trouble was that I was totally consumed by jazz. Sometimes I’d practise for hours, and before long I could harmonise a few numbers and play a couple of short solos. I was dying to play them to her but I hadn’t even played for Mac. We’d decided I wouldn’t show him my progress for two months.
    The more I learned and the more involved I became, the more I worried that my mom might not like me going to the Jazz Warehouse with Mac, especially to learn American black people’s music. Ragtime I knew she liked, and it was kind of like jazz and kind of like the marches we’d hear at some of the summer parades, only with hiccoughs. In fact, it had helped me grasp some of the elements in the jam sessions. Much later I’d learn that jazz was closely related to ragtime. It also adopted lots of the musical vocabulary of the ‘blues’, with bent notes, ‘growls’ and smears. But of course I knew none of this at the time. All I knew was that my mom enjoyed ragtime, so maybe she’d also like jazz.
    I knew what my dad’s views would be. If he found out I was playing ‘nigger music’, he’d hit the roof and probably me, and then stop me playing or even listening to jazz again. I wanted to learn enough so that if this happened I could go on playing secretly. But when I thought about it properly, I knew I would need my mom to co-operate. She didn’t mind black people one little bit and although there were women in Cabbagetown who suggested she possessed a touch of the tar brush she was proud of her Iroquois blood, which wasn’t white or black but sort of in between. I finally decided that the best way to break the news to her was during our next First Cuppa Concert to play the little I’d learned, watch for her reaction and then come clean.
    So, one night, when her feet were in the pail and her hands were warming themselves around her first King George cup of tea, I sat on the second kitchen chair and took up my harmonica, ready to play. ‘Mom, I’m going to play you something different tonight,’ I announced with my heart thumping.
    ‘You mean something new? That’s nice, Jack. Is it from the rotunda or a marching band?’
    ‘No, just wait and see,’ I replied, looking suitably mysterious, a kind of half-smile on my face, which I hoped would prevent her seeing how nervous I suddenly was.
    ‘New? What is it? I can’t wait,’ she replied, then took a sip of tea and looked up over the cup at me. ‘Go ahead, Jack, I’m listening.’
    I began to play. I’d practised all evening before she came home to make doubly certain I got it right. I’d decided that if she didn’t like it, I was going to have to tell her about the Jazz Warehouse anyway, and about Mac and me hitting the steps. It was not something I could keep to myself any longer. Like I said, we never lied or kept things secret from each other and I was