Poppy laughed. “She did! Neither Christopher nor I had any idea where Bucharest or Baghdad were.”
“Neither did your Aunt Mabel,” said Grace drily from the doorway.
“Come now, Grace, that’s not entirely true,” said Dot. “Aunt Mabel was a real adventurer. Gertrude Bell gets all the publicity, but if you read Mabel’s diaries you’d know that she deserved much more credit than she got. She collected everything in this house – from Egyptian stele to Roman amphora.”
“And dead badgers and mouldy pheasants,” added Grace with a grimace.
Poppy looked around her at the clutter-free attic that was in the process of being converted into an elegant bedroom. “I remember the house was filled with treasures! Where’s it all gone?”
“We donated it all to the Hancock Museum. Once they’ve sorted through it they will probably name a gallery in her honour! Imagine that – ‘The Mabel Denby Room’.”
Grace snorted. “Once they’ve got rid of all the junk they might have enough for a single cabinet.” Her voice was chiding but there was a kind twinkle in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t have minded an opportunity to look through it,” said Poppy wistfully. “There might have been something I would have liked to keep.”
Dot looked crestfallen. “Oh Poppy! How selfish of me; I never thought! But you do know, don’t you, that the house will be yours in the end? That’s why I wouldn’t let Grace sell it. It needs to stay in the family.”
Poppy was startled. “The house is mine?”
“Of course! But…,” Grace gave Dot a warning look over Poppy’s shoulder, “… not yet. It’s still in my name. Mabel left it to me. But as I don’t have any children, it will pass to you one day as my next of kin. Besides, I think your father should have had half the share. As you know, Aunt Mabel was never happy that Malcolm married a Methodist and gave up his law studies to become a minister.”
Of course Poppy knew that. Her father’s side of the family never stopped telling her. Malcolm Denby came from a Church of England family who were never that “serious” about religion. But when he met her mother, Alice – an earnest and sincere evangelical Christian – he claimed that he’d “found God” and that the good Lord wanted him to go into the Methodist ministry. His family, including his sister Dot, never quite got over it.
Poppy gave a tight smile, not wanting to give her aunt a chance to take aim at her mother and her puritanical ways, and quickly changed the subject.
“So, when do you think your first lodgers will be able to move in? And do you have a caretaker yet?”
“I think we should be ready in about a month’s time,” said Grace. “But we don’t have a caretaker yet. We are –”
“Oooooh! Forgot to tell you, Grace. When you were out picking Poppy up, Mrs Whatsername from two-doors-down – the one with the poodles – said she had someone she could recommend. A retired art teacher from Armstrong College. Apparently Mrs Whatsername’s son knows her. He’s the one – if you remember – who is helping curate Agnes’ exhibition.” She turned to Poppy. “Golly! I haven’t told you yet, Poppy! Guess who’s coming to stay with us tomorrow night?”
“Agnes Robson,” said Poppy. “Grace told me in the car.”
“I know! Isn’t it fantastic? Such a famous artist! And she’ll be staying here with us! When I saw her at the Tate I just had to extend the offer of hospitality. It’s the least I could do. Did I ever tell you –”
“Dorothy!” Grace snapped. “You’re digressing. What about this potential caretaker? Did you get her name? References?”
“Er, no. Not yet. But Mrs Whatsit, the poodle lady –”
“Sherman, her name is Mrs Sherman.”
“Yes Grace, that’s the one. She has all the details. You can ask her.”
Grace gave an exasperated sigh. Poppy smiled at her sympathetically.
“So, as I was saying,” continued Dot, turning back to her niece, “I was tickled pink when Agnes agreed to stay with us, and –”
The door downstairs opened and slammed shut. A voice trilled up the stairwell. “Cooey! Anyone home? Is that Poppy’s suitcase I see?”
“Delilah!” called Poppy, relieved for the interruption and delighted to hear her old chum’s voice. “We’re up here!”
CHAPTER 3
Armstrong Park was golden. It was late September and the trees lining the meandering paths, and hemming the busy greens, were glorious in their early autumn foliage. Poppy and Delilah walked arm in arm through the gates of the park and headed towards the old ruin.
“It’s called King John’s Palace, but apparently it was built fifty years after John died! Aunt Dot told me it actually belonged to the Sheriff of Newcastle – a fellow called Adam of Jesmond.”
Delilah squeezed her arm. “Adam’s a good name, don’t you think?”
Poppy looked at her petite brunette friend. “Have you heard from him? Your Adam?”
Delilah sighed, stopped, then reached into her handbag for a cigarette. She didn’t offer one to her chum, knowing that Poppy didn’t smoke. Poppy waited patiently for her friend to light up and take her first drag.
After a long exhale Delilah finally said: “I had a letter from him a few months ago. He’s in New York at the moment with Stanislavski. No idea when he’ll be back in old Blighty.”
Poppy frowned. Adam was the only man who had ever come close to taming the exuberant jazz club singer and actress. Delilah was a thoroughly modern miss who felt no shame in taking on and discarding lovers. But Adam had been different, and Poppy had thought for a while that she might be bridesmaid at their wedding. Delilah had thought that too – until Adam decided to take up a job offer with his idol and mentor, the famous theatre director Konstantin Stanislavski, touring the world’s leading theatres.
Poppy empathized. The love of her life – Daniel Rokeby, a former photographer with The Daily Globe – had moved to Kimberley in South Africa two and a half years earlier to live with his children, who had been looked after since the death of their mother by Daniel’s sister. There had been talk for a while of Poppy moving there too and getting a job on the local newspaper, but it never happened. She had hoped that Daniel would soon tire of his life in Africa and come home. In fact, all the letters she had received from him during the first year suggested that things were not going well with his sister and her new husband, and she had half expected him to return within six months – but he had decided to stick it out for the sake of the children. Now, more than two years since their tearful farewell in Southampton, Poppy was finally realizing that she should get on with her life, personally and professionally.
Delilah exhaled again, wafting the smoke away from Poppy with a kid glove. “And Danny Boy? Any more from him?”
Poppy shook her head and bit her lip, intent on not letting her emotions get the better of her. “Not since Easter.”
Delilah pouted and wrinkled up her exquisitely manicured brows. “Men be damned!” Then she laughed and put her arm back through Poppy’s. “Come, I’ll show you something spiffing!”
The two women picked their way carefully down the sloping tinder path, past tennis courts, a bowling green, and a croquet lawn, towards a wrought-iron and brick pavilion and colonnade.
Delilah stopped in front of a flight of steps and gestured with a theatrical flourish: “And this, Miss Denby, is the scene of the crime. This is the place my mother, your Aunt Dot, Grace, and some of the Newcastle suffragettes fire-bombed back in 1913. They left a note saying ‘no peace until women get the vote’.”
“Golly,” said Poppy, “I never knew the Chelsea Six were in on that. I thought it was just the Newcastle sisters.”
Delilah winked at her. “It was, officially, but my mother told me they had come up on the train to support them. I’m not sure if any of the Chelsea cell threw the actual Molotov cocktails, but they were definitely here when it happened. In fact, it wasn’t long before the Lord’s cricket pavilion bombing that put my mother in jail. No one was injured in either attack. Th
ey’d made sure to do it when the venues were empty. But that didn’t stop them from being arrested and convicted for the Lord’s bombing. Someone ratted on them. And my mother always believed the person who had sent an anonymous note to the police was none other than Agnes Robson.”
Poppy’s jaw dropped. “By Jove! Are you serious?”
Delilah took a last drag on her cigarette, dropped it, and stubbed it out with a swivel of her shoe. “Oh yes. My mother always thought it was her. And so did Grace. But Agnes denied it and your aunt – and the rest of the Chelsea Six – believed her. Grace and Gloria were outnumbered. Besides, they had no proof. Just a hunch. But then my mother died and the cell fell apart and they went their separate ways. The Agnes thing fell by the wayside. But I thought you might just want to know why Grace is in such a foul mood about Agnes coming to visit.”
Poppy shook her head, trying to take it all in. “But why is Dot inviting her then?”
Delilah shrugged. “I asked her the very same thing last night. And she said: ‘Grace has been forgiven much, Delilah, so she has no right to hold anything against Agnes.’”
“Really?” said Poppy. “She said that? That sounds awfully serious for Aunt Dot.”
Delilah chuckled. “Your aunt can be serious when she needs to be, Poppy.”
Poppy nodded her acquiescence. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. And I suppose she’s right too. If there’s no actual evidence that Agnes did it – and if Agnes herself denies it – then it’s time to let bygones be bygones. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.”
“Quite. I’ve let it go and moved on. If I can, then Grace should too. And that should be that,” said Delilah in a tone that suggested she would rather not discuss it any further.
Poppy didn’t blame her. She knew Delilah’s mother’s death – at the height of the suffragette struggle – still haunted her. She looked up the pavilion steps and the colonnade filled with tea tables. “Shall we share a pot of tea?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Delilah, giving her friend a wistful smile.
As they were shown to their seats a woman with two white poodles was paying her bill.
“Hello, Mrs Sherman,” said Delilah, catching her attention. “May I introduce my friend Poppy Denby? This is Dot’s niece. Poppy, this is Mrs Maddie Sherman who lives two doors down on Jesmond Vale Terrace.”
Mrs Sherman was a sturdily built woman in her mid-fifties wearing a sensible tweed skirt and jacket. On her head she sported a matching tweed hat with a partridge feather in the brim. Poppy imagined her out somewhere on a country estate – not in the middle of a city park. The two dogs sniffed enthusiastically at Delilah’s shoes.
“Suzie, Charlie, stop that! I’m sorry, Miss Marconi. And Miss Denby, I’m very pleased to meet you. Your aunt has told me all about you. Are you intending to stay long?”
Poppy smiled. “Just a week. I’m going to be attending Delilah’s opening night, then heading up to see my parents in Morpeth.”
“Will you also be coming to the Agnes Robson opening?”
Poppy shrugged. “I’m not sure. I only heard about it for the first time today. When is it?”
“Thursday evening. The day before Miss Marconi’s play, I believe.”
The dogs were now sniffing Delilah’s knees. She patted them gingerly. “Yes. Opening night’s Friday. I’ve got a dress rehearsal on Thursday so won’t be able to go to the exhibition. But I’m sure Dot and Grace will be going. Well –” she gave a knowing look at Poppy, “– Dot will. I believe your son works at the Laing, Mrs Sherman?”
Maddie Sherman looked as proud as Punch. “Oh yes, Dante is curating the exhibition. It’s quite an honour. They thought of bringing someone up from London to do it, but the gallery assured Agnes’ manager that Dante was the man for the job.” She turned to Poppy. “My son has done very well for himself, Miss Denby. But hasn’t yet found a wife…”
If Poppy were not mistaken, Mrs Sherman was sizing her up. “I’m sure you’re very proud,” she said, simply.
Delilah, who was now picking white dog hair off her stockings, chipped in: “Shall we have that tea now, Poppy? I’m parched. Oh, waiter! Over here please.” Then to the woman in tweed: “I’m sure we’ll see you again, Mrs Sherman. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”
If Mrs Sherman felt rebuffed she didn’t show it. Poppy though felt quite embarrassed. When the woman and her dogs were out of earshot she whispered: “That was a bit rude, Delilah.”
Delilah shook out a napkin and placed it on her lap. “Do you think so? Sorry, but if I’d left it any longer those dogs would have been chewing on my thigh bone and you would have been engaged to Dante Sherman.” She giggled. “Golly, who would have thought someone as ordinary as Mrs Sherman would choose such an exotic name for her child?”
“Perhaps it was his father.”
“Possibly. He’s deceased apparently. But he was an icky – ick – fiddlesticks, how do you say it? An ick-thee-olo-gist. There, that’s right. Quite exotic, isn’t it? Something to do with Greek mythology? The fellow who flew too close to the sun?”
Poppy chuckled. “An ichthyologist is someone who studies fish. And Dante is the name of an Italian poet. But yes, quite exotic. Have you met him?”
“I haven’t,” said Delilah, as she eyed out the cake trolley.
“Then how do you know he’s not good marriage material?” asked Poppy, teasing her.
Delilah batted her eyelids in mock flirtation: “I don’t! But as you shall be meeting him first, I shan’t stand a chance!”
“Who says I’ll be meeting him first?”
“Are you really not going to the exhibition? I should imagine it would be rude not to, particularly as Agnes will be staying with us. I at least have an excuse.”
Poppy shrugged. She wasn’t really sure why, but she just didn’t feel like going. She was here on holiday and she had only recently covered an Agnes Robson exhibition in London. It felt too much like work. “I suppose you’re right. It will be rude not to.” She sighed.
“Don’t be so glum, chum. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go to the pictures together this evening? There’s not much to do in this town – no decent jazz clubs – but they’ve got dozens of bioscopes. There’s one not far from here. Shall we go see what’s on?”
Now, a night out with Delilah at the flicks did not sound like work. “Yes,” she said, fanning out her napkin, “that sounds like jolly good fun.”
The Scala Picture Hall on Chillingham Road was in walking distance of Jesmond Vale Terrace. Grace offered to give the girls a lift, but as the evening was clear they decided to take a stroll. Lace curtains twitched as they walked down Rothbury Terrace. Delilah refused to tone down her dress sense for the provincial northern city and wore exactly what she would have done on a night out in London: a brown Van Dyck velvet ankle-length coat with gold embroidered swirls, trimmed at the hem, cuff, and collar with poofs of voluminous black sable fur. Wisps of her dress’s cream chiffon train peeked out the bottom, swirling around her delicate ankles, and swishing the autumn leaves on the pavement. Both the dress and coat were from the January collection of Paul Poiret, Delilah’s latest favourite designer, bought straight off the runway in Paris.
Poppy, on the other hand, wore an older but still stylish coat she’d bought two years ago at a sale at Selfridge’s on Oxford Street. It was a Drecoll-inspired (but not original) black Roman crepe with large silver buttons offset to the left, running from collar to hem. A drop-waisted belt with silver buckle, fastening on the right hip, brought balance to the asymmetrical silhouette. A modest trim of grey fox fur at cuff and collar finished off the outfit. Underneath she wore her most recent purchase, for which she’d saved up for six months: a mauve silk Charles Worth with intricate grey embroidered flowers. Delilah would have considered it an afternoon dress. But for Poppy it was more than suitable for a night at the pictures. It was either that or the wine-red Lucien Lelong with train, which she wanted to keep for the
exhibition opening – yes, she’d decided she really should go. The Lucien Lelong had been a gift from Aunt Dot for her twenty-sixth birthday in April. She had only packed two evening dresses, so she wasn’t sure what she would do now for Delilah’s post-opening night do.
Poppy and Delilah turned into Chillingham Road and joined the flow of passengers alighting from a tram, making their way to the brightly lit Scala Theatre. The Scala was one of over thirty new cinemas that had been built in Newcastle since the start of the Great War. The industrial northern town was booming with its coal mining, ship building, and armaments factories, all given an enormous boost during the years of conflict. Although the boom years were now slowing down, and the region was beset with industrial strikes and rising unemployment, those of middle earnings still had considerable disposable income. The two friends joined a queue of well-dressed Geordies – the ladies in furs and the gents in white tie and tails – as they made their way into the plush art deco foyer, bedecked with marble floor and potted palms. They appeared to be the only two unaccompanied women present, eliciting disapproving glances from the older audience members through clouds of cigarette smoke. Delilah was used to an air of scandal following her wherever she went. Poppy was not quite as comfortable, but she straightened her spine and resolved not to let it bother her.
After they checked their coats into the cloakroom, they bought tickets for the evening’s main feature: The Humming Bird, starring Gloria Swanson. The girls thoroughly enjoyed the story of the Parisienne pickpocket (played, most charmingly, by the lovely Miss Swanson wearing boys’ clothes) who falls in love with a newspaperman who then disappears when he is sent off to war. Poppy and Delilah laughed, cried, and cheered with the audience, accompanied by live piano, and wondered at the skill of Miss Swanson in conveying such emotion without using any words. Poppy’s heart ached at the scenes where the heroine – Toinette – thought her beau might be dead, surreptitiously wiping away tears and trying to dismiss thoughts of her own lost love. But by the end of the story the lovers were reunited and Poppy and Delilah burst into applause. “Bravo! Bravo!” cried out Delilah, tossing her head at the tuts from a matron sitting behind them.
[Poppy Denby 05] - The Art Fiasco Page 3