knew I was safe with Mac, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
The following afternoon when my mother gave me my supper I was having trouble concentrating.
‘What’s the matter with you today, Jack? Cat got yer tongue?’ she asked, after I’d failed to answer yet another question. ‘You’re jumpy as a jackass!’
I wanted to tell her, but then again I didn’t. I knew she liked Mac and was grateful when he fixed her snow boots, but he was still one of ‘them upstairs’ and she might be worried about Dolly’s reaction should she find out Mac was mixing with the enemy. ‘We had an exam today,’ I said, ‘it was hard.’ This wasn’t the truth – the exam hadn’t been difficult at all – but afterwards some of the brighter girls said they’d found it hard, so I was only half fibbing.
‘Oh, Jack, you’re such a clever boy, I’m sure it will be all right,’ she replied, dismissing my concern as she piled my plate with mashed potato and boiled cabbage. ‘Eat up. Maybe I’ll manage a soup bone from the butcher tomorrow. Never know, eh?’
I felt a bit ashamed because I knew she trusted me completely.
After my mom left for work, I got ready for the grand adventure. It was late November and already pretty chilly. We’d be returning after sunset and so I packed several sheets of newspaper inside my shirt – more than I probably needed, but this way I wouldn’t crackle as I walked. Then I put on my big overcoat (the charity lady, Mrs Sopworth, had been right, I had grown into it), my winter cap with padded flaps that covered my ears, and a pair of knitted gloves (same charity lady). I felt a bit overdressed for the time of the year, but walking to the library two days previously a chilly November wind had blown up around six o’clock, and Mac had mentioned that we’d be standing outside. I hated the cold. I decided that when I was grown up I was going to live in the South Seas or somewhere like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday lived.
I was ready twenty minutes before I heard Mac coming down the stairs into the front hallway. I met him at our door, which led off the foyer directly into our kitchen. ‘Thank you, sir, for asking me,’ I said.
Mac chuckled. ‘Let’s get it straight from the beginning, Jack. I’ll call you Jack and you call me Mac and we can be buddies, right?’
I nodded, not quite knowing how to reply. Mister or sir was how kids addressed adults. ‘I’ll try . . . ah, Mac.’
‘It’s just that all the folk that love jazz think of themselves as the same,’ he explained. ‘We don’t use our names to address each other – kids and grown-ups, we call each other “brother” or “sister”. We all . . .’ he hesitated a split second then spoke out of the corner of his mouth, stretching his words, ‘Jes jazz fans, man! Yeah, you can say that again, Brother Jack!’ He grinned. ‘That’s how we talk.’ He patted me on the shoulder and continued. ‘I hope you’re gonna be one of us, Brother Jack. The harmonica is a natural jazz instrument.’ He grinned again. ‘Yeah, man, Brother Jack, I’ve got a distinct feelin’ you are gonna take to jazz music like a duck to water, my good man.’
Mac obviously liked to talk in what I suppose was meant to be black people’s language, but my ear told me it was sort of phoney, so I didn’t try to copy it.
As we walked along Dundas Street you could hear music coming from this big warehouse, its timber walls practically vibrating with the volume. It sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before.
Outside, there were several groups of young people huddled together against the cold, their feet tapping and their bodies swaying to the music. Some had their eyes closed.
‘Come on, Jack, too cold to stand with the brothers and sisters. I know a place where we can be warm.’ Mac led me behind the building to a small shed directly alongside a set of eight wooden steps leading to a red door. Three pipes ran from the shed into the building, each
The following afternoon when my mother gave me my supper I was having trouble concentrating.
‘What’s the matter with you today, Jack? Cat got yer tongue?’ she asked, after I’d failed to answer yet another question. ‘You’re jumpy as a jackass!’
I wanted to tell her, but then again I didn’t. I knew she liked Mac and was grateful when he fixed her snow boots, but he was still one of ‘them upstairs’ and she might be worried about Dolly’s reaction should she find out Mac was mixing with the enemy. ‘We had an exam today,’ I said, ‘it was hard.’ This wasn’t the truth – the exam hadn’t been difficult at all – but afterwards some of the brighter girls said they’d found it hard, so I was only half fibbing.
‘Oh, Jack, you’re such a clever boy, I’m sure it will be all right,’ she replied, dismissing my concern as she piled my plate with mashed potato and boiled cabbage. ‘Eat up. Maybe I’ll manage a soup bone from the butcher tomorrow. Never know, eh?’
I felt a bit ashamed because I knew she trusted me completely.
After my mom left for work, I got ready for the grand adventure. It was late November and already pretty chilly. We’d be returning after sunset and so I packed several sheets of newspaper inside my shirt – more than I probably needed, but this way I wouldn’t crackle as I walked. Then I put on my big overcoat (the charity lady, Mrs Sopworth, had been right, I had grown into it), my winter cap with padded flaps that covered my ears, and a pair of knitted gloves (same charity lady). I felt a bit overdressed for the time of the year, but walking to the library two days previously a chilly November wind had blown up around six o’clock, and Mac had mentioned that we’d be standing outside. I hated the cold. I decided that when I was grown up I was going to live in the South Seas or somewhere like Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday lived.
I was ready twenty minutes before I heard Mac coming down the stairs into the front hallway. I met him at our door, which led off the foyer directly into our kitchen. ‘Thank you, sir, for asking me,’ I said.
Mac chuckled. ‘Let’s get it straight from the beginning, Jack. I’ll call you Jack and you call me Mac and we can be buddies, right?’
I nodded, not quite knowing how to reply. Mister or sir was how kids addressed adults. ‘I’ll try . . . ah, Mac.’
‘It’s just that all the folk that love jazz think of themselves as the same,’ he explained. ‘We don’t use our names to address each other – kids and grown-ups, we call each other “brother” or “sister”. We all . . .’ he hesitated a split second then spoke out of the corner of his mouth, stretching his words, ‘Jes jazz fans, man! Yeah, you can say that again, Brother Jack!’ He grinned. ‘That’s how we talk.’ He patted me on the shoulder and continued. ‘I hope you’re gonna be one of us, Brother Jack. The harmonica is a natural jazz instrument.’ He grinned again. ‘Yeah, man, Brother Jack, I’ve got a distinct feelin’ you are gonna take to jazz music like a duck to water, my good man.’
Mac obviously liked to talk in what I suppose was meant to be black people’s language, but my ear told me it was sort of phoney, so I didn’t try to copy it.
As we walked along Dundas Street you could hear music coming from this big warehouse, its timber walls practically vibrating with the volume. It sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before.
Outside, there were several groups of young people huddled together against the cold, their feet tapping and their bodies swaying to the music. Some had their eyes closed.
‘Come on, Jack, too cold to stand with the brothers and sisters. I know a place where we can be warm.’ Mac led me behind the building to a small shed directly alongside a set of eight wooden steps leading to a red door. Three pipes ran from the shed into the building, each
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