always sold a really rough vin ordinaire. Trés ordinaire.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. Vin du table made of real table.’
‘I learned a lot of good tunes in Paris. Call it nostalgia. So, you have been looking up jazz, Miss Fisher?’
‘Do call me Phryne. Yes. Fascinating, and not much written. Percy Grainger is of the opinion that it is a new musical idiom.’
‘Never heard of him—what does he play?’
‘Mr Stone, I never know if you’re joking or not.’
‘If I call you Phryne, you must promise to call me Tintagel. Actually most people call me Ten.’
‘How did you get such a name?’
‘My parents were on holiday, and I was conceived on the cliff at Tintagel. It could have been worse. My brother was conceived at Blackpool. Luckily they decided to call him Alexander.’
‘Alexander?’
‘Sandy, after the Sands.’
Phryne chuckled. ‘Well, shall we go?’
‘No, the place doesn’t hot up until eleven. We might play some of your records. Well, well! Race discs, I do declare.’ He turned over a Bessie Smith recording reverently. Phryne sipped her coffee.
‘Blues,’ she explained. ‘I have always liked blues. So I asked a friend in America to buy the Race records for me. They are not on general release—Columbia must have had a failure of nerve. Now that jazz has caught on so well, I expect that they will be released again.’
Mr and Mrs Butler passed, on their way to the pictures. Phryne waved. ‘Have a nice time!’ she called.
The ‘Empty Bed Blues’ wailed from the phonograph. Phryne and Tintagel sat in silence as the gospel singer’s voice lingered on each note, extracting maximum pain.
‘No more, no more,’ said Phryne. ‘Or I’ll get the blues. I’ve got some New Orleans stuff—play that.’
Tintagel wound the gramophone and put on ‘Basin Street Blues’. ‘Dance?’ suggested Tintagel Stone. Phryne moved into his arms.
Prolonged contact with a smoothly muscled body and the scent of soap, starch and male human always had a devastating effect on Phryne’s never-very-good control of her baser emotions. She detached herself reluctantly, and kissed her partner delicately on the mouth. She found that, unlike brass players, whose embouchure produced a callus on the lip, banjo players were delightful to kiss.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘We are going to a jazz club, remember?’
‘Oh, yes, the Jazz Club,’ murmured Tintagel Stone without marked enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps another night?’
‘Tonight,’ Phryne insisted, and took his hand.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Your little finger has the callus.’
‘Interesting?’ asked Tintagel. ‘That’s the way I play the banjo. Steel strings, you know.’
‘Strong forearms,’ said Phryne. ‘Hmm. Look, I can’t spend all night surveying your physical perfection.’
‘Can’t you?’ asked Tintagel, sliding a hand down her back.
The Jazz Club was suitably dark, and smelt of coffee. Phryne had left the Hispano-Suiza in Gertrude Street, locked, and had asked the patrolling policeman to keep an eye on it. Tintagel appeared to be well known. Several figures, indistinguishable in the gloom, waved at him to join them. He ignored them and threaded his way through the tables to the front, where a girl in a red dress which appeared to have been moulded onto her body was singing, accompanied by a drum, a bass, and Ben Rodgers on cornet. The blue wailing melody wound its twelve-bar way over and under the brass, jarring and beautiful.
It was the lament of a whore, cheating her customers, exploited by her pimp. ‘It’s all about a man, who kicks me and dogs me ’round,’ sang the red-headed woman in a breathy, overstrained wail. ‘It’s all about a man who kicks me and dogs me ’round, and when I try to kill him . . .’ The cornet soared, the voice dropped into a dark-brown operatic tenor, throbbing with anger and fear, ‘That’s when my love for him come down.’ The audience were listening with open
‘Ah, yes, I remember. Vin du table made of real table.’
‘I learned a lot of good tunes in Paris. Call it nostalgia. So, you have been looking up jazz, Miss Fisher?’
‘Do call me Phryne. Yes. Fascinating, and not much written. Percy Grainger is of the opinion that it is a new musical idiom.’
‘Never heard of him—what does he play?’
‘Mr Stone, I never know if you’re joking or not.’
‘If I call you Phryne, you must promise to call me Tintagel. Actually most people call me Ten.’
‘How did you get such a name?’
‘My parents were on holiday, and I was conceived on the cliff at Tintagel. It could have been worse. My brother was conceived at Blackpool. Luckily they decided to call him Alexander.’
‘Alexander?’
‘Sandy, after the Sands.’
Phryne chuckled. ‘Well, shall we go?’
‘No, the place doesn’t hot up until eleven. We might play some of your records. Well, well! Race discs, I do declare.’ He turned over a Bessie Smith recording reverently. Phryne sipped her coffee.
‘Blues,’ she explained. ‘I have always liked blues. So I asked a friend in America to buy the Race records for me. They are not on general release—Columbia must have had a failure of nerve. Now that jazz has caught on so well, I expect that they will be released again.’
Mr and Mrs Butler passed, on their way to the pictures. Phryne waved. ‘Have a nice time!’ she called.
The ‘Empty Bed Blues’ wailed from the phonograph. Phryne and Tintagel sat in silence as the gospel singer’s voice lingered on each note, extracting maximum pain.
‘No more, no more,’ said Phryne. ‘Or I’ll get the blues. I’ve got some New Orleans stuff—play that.’
Tintagel wound the gramophone and put on ‘Basin Street Blues’. ‘Dance?’ suggested Tintagel Stone. Phryne moved into his arms.
Prolonged contact with a smoothly muscled body and the scent of soap, starch and male human always had a devastating effect on Phryne’s never-very-good control of her baser emotions. She detached herself reluctantly, and kissed her partner delicately on the mouth. She found that, unlike brass players, whose embouchure produced a callus on the lip, banjo players were delightful to kiss.
‘Come on,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘We are going to a jazz club, remember?’
‘Oh, yes, the Jazz Club,’ murmured Tintagel Stone without marked enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps another night?’
‘Tonight,’ Phryne insisted, and took his hand.
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Your little finger has the callus.’
‘Interesting?’ asked Tintagel. ‘That’s the way I play the banjo. Steel strings, you know.’
‘Strong forearms,’ said Phryne. ‘Hmm. Look, I can’t spend all night surveying your physical perfection.’
‘Can’t you?’ asked Tintagel, sliding a hand down her back.
The Jazz Club was suitably dark, and smelt of coffee. Phryne had left the Hispano-Suiza in Gertrude Street, locked, and had asked the patrolling policeman to keep an eye on it. Tintagel appeared to be well known. Several figures, indistinguishable in the gloom, waved at him to join them. He ignored them and threaded his way through the tables to the front, where a girl in a red dress which appeared to have been moulded onto her body was singing, accompanied by a drum, a bass, and Ben Rodgers on cornet. The blue wailing melody wound its twelve-bar way over and under the brass, jarring and beautiful.
It was the lament of a whore, cheating her customers, exploited by her pimp. ‘It’s all about a man, who kicks me and dogs me ’round,’ sang the red-headed woman in a breathy, overstrained wail. ‘It’s all about a man who kicks me and dogs me ’round, and when I try to kill him . . .’ The cornet soared, the voice dropped into a dark-brown operatic tenor, throbbing with anger and fear, ‘That’s when my love for him come down.’ The audience were listening with open
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