The New Eastgate Swing (9 page)

There was faint applause as the number ended. At the bottom of the stairs Markham could see the musicians. Piano, bass and, a basic drum kit behind a red-faced tenor player, a boy of about eighteen, hair cut neat and short. The lad reached into a pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. At least he didn't start another tune.

Markham bought two coffees and carried them to a table in the far corner. Georgina had already shrugged off her coat, dressed down in a twinset and burgundy wool skirt. He took out a cigarette and offered it to her. She shook her head. She rarely smoked, looking after her voice.

There was time while the next set of musicians set up. Small talk, bits and pieces of the day. It was idle, easy chat that Bob Barclay interrupted when he dragged over a chair. He owned the club, a jazz fan and musician his whole life.

‘Evening, Dan, Georgina. Did you hear about that thing on Briggate? The jazz funeral?'

‘I saw it,' Markham told him.

‘I wish I had,' Barclay said with a sigh. ‘We did something like that years ago with the Yorkshire Jazz Band, you know.'

‘No.' Maybe it had happened while he was still in Germany.

‘Great fun.' The man's face lit up with pleasure. ‘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. The thrill of the music bled into Mark Fox's words and the sense of two dead Germans, then the surprise on Duncan's face when he raised the camera and began clicking the shutter. It took almost an hour by the luminous hands of the clock before his breathing began to steady and he settled.

He stirred to the smell of coffee. Reaching across, the other side of the bed was empty. He blinked, looking at the clock. Almost nine, the dull light of winter coming through the gap in the curtains.

A few seconds later Georgina entered, wrapped in his dressing gown and holding two mugs.

‘Don't get used to this,' she warned as she settled next to him. ‘Once in a blue moon. I've been awake for a while thinking about this gig.'

‘You'll be fine,' he assured her as he sat up. ‘You're good, you know that.'

She gave a tight smile.

‘But this, I don't know, it feels different,' she said.

***

She was quiet all through the morning. Long silences filled lunch. When they finished she washed up, then said, ‘Would you mind if I went home?'

‘Of course not.'

‘It's just … you know.'

‘Want me to run you there?'

‘No, it's fine. I fancy a walk.'

It was a long stroll, at least an hour to her flat in Headingley.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes.' She hugged him. ‘I don't know why this gig is making me think so much. I just want to sort it all out. Sure you don't mind?'

‘You go,' he said kindly.

***

Alone, he pottered around, tidying the flat, the quicksilver piano playing of Art Tatum pushing him on. He didn't know why playing at Studio 20 worried Georgina so much. To him the place felt almost like a second home; he was as comfortable there as in his flat. Still, he wasn't a musician and the audience knew their jazz. But he had faith in her; she had true talent, one that could shine beyond Leeds one day if she took the risk.

An early evening and a Sunday catching up on domestic things. Cleaning, washing his clothes. The things of everyday that he fitted into the corner of empty time.

It was an evening for crumpets and butter. Just like childhood. Back then they'd gather round the radio, hearing the news on the Home Service as they ate. Sunday suppers were the only meal where they didn't sit at the table, the rules relaxed once a week. He could still recall sitting cross-legged on the floor, his mother reminding him not to drop anything on the rug. For a second he could hear her again. Even the tone of voice she always used. Strange, he thought, the things that stuck in the mind.

He was reading
The Quiet American
when the telephone rang. Without even thinking, he reached over and lifted the receiver, hearing the coins drop into the box when he answered.

‘Hello Dan, how are you? It's been a long time.'

The voice was so familiar. He ought to know it … then she gave a soft, throaty chuckle and he could place her. Carla. She'd walked out of his life three years before, caught up and broken by the case that ruined his fingers. There'd been a final meal when she made her farewell and then she was gone. He'd loved her. It had taken months for him to realise that, even longer before her ghost stopped walking through his dreams.

‘I'm doing quite well,' he answered hesitantly. ‘What about you? Where are you?'

‘I'm down at the station. My train's been delayed. Look, I don't suppose you fancy a drink, do you? I have a couple of hours to kill.'

‘Of course.' He didn't even need to think about it.

‘Oh good.' She sounded genuinely pleased. ‘The Scarborough Hotel in a few minutes?'

‘Yes.'

***

He washed quickly and dressed. His good grey suit, white shirt, and a tie in subtle shades of red. God, he felt as nervous as a boy taking a girl out for the first time. His hands were shaky as he drove into town, finding a place to park by the old tram depot.

She was sitting at a table by the window, smoking a cigarette, a glass of something in front of her. He'd never expected to hear from her again. After she left he hoped she'd change her mind. But the silence had continued until he knew there was no hope. And now here she was again.

She hadn't seen him come in; he had the chance to study her. So much the same, but with more polish and poise. More confidence. Wide, draped black slacks and a vivid top in paisley swirls and belled sleeves. Utterly divorced from fashion but someone looking ahead of it. He paid for his ginger ale and sat down across the table from her.

‘Well, hello stranger,' she said, and the smile reached up to her eyes. ‘Did I take you by surprise?'

‘Just a little.' He laughed; he couldn't help it. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Oh, train problems on the way back to Durham.' She waved it away. ‘Thank you for coming down. You're looking well, Dan.'

‘So are you,' he told her, and it was true. ‘Still teaching up there?'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘but I've been down in London. I had a new exhibition that opened yesterday.'

He'd seen her name in the newspapers from time to time, hailed as one of the fresh young things of British art.

‘Did it go well?'

Carla shrugged.

‘All the appropriate noises. A few pieces sold. Decent reviews in the Sundays. How about you? Still in the detective business?'

‘Same as ever.'

‘Do you still go to that jazz place? I can't remember its name.'

‘Studio 20. And yes, I do. It sounds like your career is taking off.'

She smiled and shook her head.

‘I just paint and sometimes people like it.'

The silence held for half a minute. He stubbed out his Craven A in the ashtray and lit another.

‘It doesn't look as if Leeds has really changed,' Carla said finally.

‘Does it ever?' he asked, then the question that had been nagging him since the phone rang: ‘What made you give me a ring?'

‘I had some time between trains,' she began, then shook her head again. ‘Well no, that's not true. I wanted to see you again. We left everything rather unresolved, didn't we?' Carla frowned. ‘
I
did, I suppose. Not you.'

‘You made your decision to leave. I honestly can't blame you after what happened.' Two years of her work had been ruined. An act of destruction aimed at him.

‘It helped, in a way, you know. It changed the way I look at life and what I do.'

He still had a painting she'd given him. A picture of a sooty industrial landscape, the only birthday present she could afford then. It still hung on his wall. The way Carla had become known, it was probably the most valuable thing he owned. But he'd never sell it.

‘Do you like Durham?' Markham asked. Small talk was safe, away from the swamp of feelings and history.

‘Yes.' Her face brightened and became more mobile. ‘I was lucky, I found a place up by the cathedral and the university. Gorgeous old building and my window looks down on the river. Are you still in the same place?'

‘I haven't found a reason to move. I still use that espresso pot you brought back from Italy.'

‘I'd forgotten all about that!' Her eyes widened. ‘Oh God, all the stuff I had in my suitcases.'

The conversation flickered through this and that for half an hour, weaving its way clear of the personal.

Finally she finished her drink.

‘Are you seeing anyone?' Carla asked bluntly.

For a second he said nothing, surprised that he was reluctant to give her an honest answer.

‘I've been going out with someone for a while,' he admitted finally. ‘What about you?'

‘I've more or less been a nun,' she said with a mixture of humour and frustration. ‘Stupid, isn't it? What's your mystery woman like?'

‘She's a singer. Jazz.'

‘That should be right up your street.'

‘Works at Boots.'

‘Is it serious?' The question took him aback.

‘Not really. It's …' He searched for the right word. The honest word. ‘Convenient. For both of us,' he added.

‘I see.' Her eyes moved to the clock over the bar. ‘I'd better get a move on or I'll miss the bloody train.' She drained her glass, put on her coat and lifted a small suitcase. He took it from her hand.

‘I'll walk over with you.'

In her heels she was almost as tall as him. Close up, he could smell her perfume. Something very subtle, very adult and sophisticated.

‘That would be lovely. Thank you.'

He bought a platform ticket and saw her into the carriage. She lowered the window on the door.

‘This is all very
Brief Encounter
, isn't it?' she laughed.

‘It's been good to see you again.' He meant every word.