Jack of Diamonds by Bryce Courtenay

grooves. It never occurred to me that my voice would have travelled up through their floorboards as readily as the music travelled down, but they never complained; perhaps the silent treatment they’d imposed on us prevented them from speaking.
    I recall my favourite song was ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, but I loved most of the songs filtering down from the McClymonts’: ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, ‘A Bicycle Built for Two’. Many of them were popular during the Great War, when, I suppose, someone in the McClymont family had a good enough job to be able to afford the gramophone and seventy-eights. They hadn’t added any new records since and all of them were badly worn from being played so often.
    But there was worse, much worse, to come for Dolly McClymont, Mac and the twins. The arrival of the harmonica marked the beginning of a whole new musical era. I was desperate to learn to play, and practised for so long that my reading suffered. I knew all the tunes by heart, so I didn’t have to wait for the gramophone to start up. Sometimes I’d practise until my lips hurt. When I think back, it must have been sheer hell for ‘them upstairs’. The boy soprano might have been annoying but the novice harmonica player would have been far worse. Unknowingly, I had probably paid them back for the emotional hurt they’d so cruelly inflicted on my mother.
    I don’t know whether it was from kindness or desperation but Mac confronted me one afternoon in the hall when Dolly and the twins must have been out. ‘Jack, you’re coming along nicely with that mouth organ. I’m surprised how quickly you’ve learned to play. Well done, and my goodness, all self-taught, eh?’
    I was too young or gauche to know how to react, so, instead of thanking him for the compliment, I said, ‘Sorry, sir.’
    He gave me a knowing grin. ‘Can’t speak for the missus and the girls, but I reckon you’re doing great. I liked it when you used to sing, you’ve got a real nice voice, Jack. But the harmonica makes a nice change from the records; goddamn gramophone drives me crazy.’ He smiled again. ‘Jack, I like the way you push the beat, put some oomph into the music. I like jazz. “Alexander’s Ragtime—”’
    ‘Jazz?’ I’d never heard the word.
    ‘Black man’s music, from America.’
    I’d seen one or two black people on the street, but I’d never met one, and was surprised to learn that different coloured people had different music. ‘Do black people have black music?’ I asked, curious.
    ‘I’ll say!’ he replied, obviously enthusiastic.
    My mother called the Iroquois songs I sang with her folk songs, but because they were just tunes, they didn’t count in my mind as real music. Now Mac was talking about jazz music that belonged to American black people.
    ‘You can hear it at the Jazz Warehouse on Dundas Street, not far from Yonge Street. Take you if you like,’ he offered.
    I instinctively glanced upstairs.
    ‘No, no, tomorrow.’ He glanced up too. ‘It’s quilting night. They’ll leave for St Enoch’s just before four o’clock. What say we take off about half past? Plenty of time to catch the jam session.’
    ‘What’s a jam session?’
    ‘Oh, it’s when the musicians play for themselves. We’ll just stand outside and listen. I know just the spot.’
    Jazz, black people’s music, jam session, and all happening in some warehouse on Dundas Street, not far from the street where the Mission handed out free beef sandwiches, tea and milk. It was close enough for us to walk there, no more than half an hour away, so we wouldn’t need money for the streetcar. ‘That would be great, thank you, sir,’ I said formally.
    ‘Good. Bring your instrument, Jack.’
    ‘My what?’
    ‘Mouth . . . er, harmonica.’
    Instrument! Mac was treating me like I was a proper musician. The timing was good – I wouldn’t have to tell my mom – and I