Free The New Eastgate Swing by Chris Nickson Page B

‘People didn’t know what to make of it.’ Barclay gave a small cough. ‘Georgina luv, I was wondering, would you fancy playing here sometime? I’ve been hearing good things about your music.’
    The question took her by surprise. Markham saw her glance doubtfully at the old upright piano. She was used to a baby grand, the type of instrument in all the nightclubs.
    ‘It would be a real gig,’ Barclay continued quickly. ‘Two sets. I’d pay you,’ he added quickly.
    ‘Yes,’ she answered after a moment. She sounded stunned by the offer. It was the first time Barclay had suggested it. And Studio 20 was a real jazz club. The fee might not be as much as other places, but the kudos was much greater. ‘Of course. Thank you.’ She started to grin.
    ‘Good.’ Barclay clapped his large hands together. ‘That’s settled. I didn’t know if you’d want to. It’s not the poshest place.’ But there was pride in his voice as he said it.
    ‘Really, I’ll be glad to.’ She still sounded as if she couldn’t quite believe it.
    Markham sat, drinking coffee and listening to the two of them talk. They hashed out the details quickly. A month away, a Saturday night. He’d put up posters, maybe even an advertisement in the newspaper. By the time he wandered away to his usual place, watching everything from behind a partition, she was beaming with excitement. Georgina reached across the table and took a cigarette from his packet.
    ‘Celebration,’ she told him as she flicked the lighter. ‘That’s a turn up.’
    ‘A good one, though.’
    ‘Yes.’ He could see she was already planning. ‘There’s a club booker from Manchester I’ve been trying to persuade to see me,’ Georgina said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe he’d be willing to pop over.’
    She was off and running. Music meant even more to her than it did to him. For him it was joy. For her it could become a living.
    They stopped talking as the next combo began playing. A trumpeter in his fifties, bald head glistening under the lights, a saxophonist with a sleeveless Fair Isle jumper over a shirt and tie, backed by a young trio. The guitarist with the greasy quiff and denim jeans looked as if he ought to be playing skiffle, but he was a good accompanist, agile and thoughtful, while the bassist and drummer swung things gently through ‘On Green Dolphin Street’ and five other standards. It was good stuff, better than competent but without the extra something to really lift it.
    He glanced at Georgina. Her eyes were fixed on something he couldn’t see. She was imagining herself there, he knew. Four weeks to plan and practice on the battered old piano that filled one whole corner of her tiny bedsit. He was proud of her. Maybe this was the start of the break she needed.
    They stayed through the next soloists, a pair of West Indians working with the same rhythm section. Markham had seen them play any number of times in the last three years. They were good. Better than good, they really had something. And they were still working as street cleaners for the council, living in cheap housing off Chapeltown Road. But every time he heard them, the music was full of life, the harmonies and lines spiralling high. By the time they finished he knew they weren’t going to hear anything better tonight. Better to leave on a high note.
    He’d left the car by the office and they strolled down Briggate arm in arm. The wind tugged briefly at his hat but couldn’t dislodge it.
    ‘What’s this?’ Georgina laughed when she saw the Escort Estate. ‘God, Dan, it’s hideous. You haven’t bought it, have you?’
    ‘The garage let me use it while they work on mine. It’s only until Monday.’
    Without them discussing it, he drove back to Chapel Allerton, parking behind his flat. Everything was quiet, good people already fast asleep. They made love with soft delight in the darkness, then she curled around and fell asleep.
    He had his eyes closed, but his brain wouldn’t slow down.