Love in the Years of Lunacy Read Free Page A

some extra cash during his furlough.
    The tune ended and applause rose through the hall. When it died down Pearl could hear the rhythm of the rain against the hall’s tin roof, like a loud drum roll.
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen,’ Merv announced, ‘This is Merv Sent and the Senders!’
    â€˜Where are you sending us, Merv?’ cried a man from the audience, his Southern drawl filling the room.
    â€˜I’m sending you all completely mad!’ cried Merv. He wiped his clarinet reed with the hem of his jacket. ‘And believe me,’ he added, ‘it’s not a long trip.’
    The audience laughed and clapped.
    Merv gave the twins a quick wave, beckoning them to join the band. Martin already had his case open and was fitting his tenor sax together, but Pearl hesitated. It seemed as if everyone in the room was still staring at her, appraising her skin, her hair. She’d never felt so white, so completely naked.
    Martin leaped up the stage stairs while Pearl pieced together the old alto sax that she’d inherited from her father. Aubrey Willis had taught them the basics but since they were eight she and Martin had studied privately at the Conservatorium of Music, learning classical music, theory and composition. Everything they knew about jazz, though, had been picked up from listening to imported records and learning first-hand on gigs.
    Merv counted in ‘St Louis Blues’ and the band plunged into the first verse.
    Pearl joined Martin under the spotlight. She sensed a slowing of the dancers again as they gazed up at her. Americans were often bemused—even amused—at the sight of an Australian girl playing jazz saxophone. To them, she was like a sideshow curiosity and, after sets at the Trocadero, she usually enjoyed being surrounded by yanks, who’d ask her where she’d learned to blow as well as she did. But she’d never performed in front of black Americans before and was unsure of how they’d react.
    Martin gave her a nudge in the ribs and she cleared her throat, parted her feet—mirroring him—and they began to play. Gazing out at the dancers, she was astonished to see so many variations of skin colour; blue-black and mahogany, milky tea and sepia, all marbling together in swirls of rising smoke. And there were none of the waltzes and cha-chas of the Trocadero ballroom. As the band hit the second chorus, women were sliding between the parted legs of their partners. Pleated skirts snapped in time with the music while maps of perspiration formed on the backs of the men’s shirts. She caught sight of Roma, dancing around the hall with a short black American, her loose dress flapping around her like a flag in a gale.
    Merv counted in ‘Bugle Call Rag’, an up-tempo tune that Pearl didn’t know very well. She wasn’t sure of the melody, and the pace was so fast she could barely keep up. Martin was already on top of the beat, blowing effortlessly into his tenor as if he’d played the song every day of his life. As she struggled to keep up she sensed the reed in her mouthpiece softening between her lips; it felt like a limp, useless piece of rubber and was ruining her tone. She tried halving the tempo, then just blowing harmony, but to her dismay a couple of wrong notes escaped the bell of her sax. The band was into the fourth chorus and next it would be Pearl’s turn to take a solo and she was wondering how on earth she’d get through it when there was a commotion down the back of the hall. A group of servicemen stood hooting and whistling and then another tenor saxophone suddenly began howling.
    Through the half-light, she couldn’t quite see who was playing it; she could only hear the runs between the registers that were fast and sharp and accenting the back beat. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere, up through the floorboards, from the very walls themselves, even bouncing off the pressed tin ceiling. The