The Jazz Files

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  “No offence taken, Mr Rokeby,” Poppy interrupted, hoping he would close the gap between them again. “We each have our own roads to travel.” She smiled and cocked her head towards the double door. “Now perhaps you can show me what you do here in the photography department.”

  But Daniel looked at his pocket watch again and declared they had run out of time and needed to get back for the briefing. Poppy noticed the scarring on his hands as he put the timepiece back in his pocket. “Another time then, Mr Rokeby.”

  “Indeed. Another time, Miss Denby.”

  Rollo Rolandson was standing in front of a blackboard with a piece of chalk and a baton. He nodded to Daniel and Poppy as they came in, and briefly introduced her to the team as his new editorial assistant. This was greeted with a knowing chuckle from the assembled men. Pulling out a chair, Daniel whispered to her to ignore them. She smiled at him thankfully and took the seat at the back of the room.

  “Let’s get started then,” said Rollo. “Miz Denby. Get yourself a notebook and pencil. An editor’s assistant should take notes of all meetings and type them up afterwards. Do you type, Miz Denby?”

  Poppy, who had been preparing for the job not just by researching at the British Library but by practising on Grace’s typewriter at home, was truthfully able to say that she did. She declined to point out that that should have been one of the questions he asked at the interview, and instead took a notebook and pencil from one of the reporters with a thankful smile.

  “Righto. How are we doing for tomorrow’s lead, Bert?”

  The large man Poppy had noticed when she first walked in was sprawled in a chair with crumbs down his shirt front. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth before answering. “It’s either the x-ray machine contract or the sex disqualification bill.”

  “Which one’s stronger?” Rollo asked.

  “Probably the bill. Got more on it at the moment,” Bert answered, taking a loud slurp from his coffee cup.

  “And what’s your angle?”

  Poppy thought she detected a roll of the eyes as Rollo spoke.

  Bert put his cup down. “For tomorrow’s story, simply that we will soon be having female lawyers and accountants.”

  “Lord help us all!” someone muttered.

  “And you have comment from the Old Bailey?” Rollo asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And that Reynolds woman?”

  “I do. But I haven’t been able to get a comment from Dorchester yet. Should be this afternoon – just had a telephone call about it. I’ll follow up after this.”

  “Excellent. All right then, we’ll go for the sex discrimination story above the fold. What have we got for below?” Rollo stepped away from the blackboard, which was now covered in his near-indecipherable scrawls.

  Another voice piped up: “Wimbledon. That Frenchy won again. The one with the short skirt. And Daniel’s got a luv-er-ly pic.”

  On cue Daniel walked to the front of the room and presented a picture of Suzanne Lenglen to Rollo, who in turn showed it to the room. It was met by wolf whistles. No one bothered apologizing to Poppy.

  “Can we tie this in to the aeroplane story, Joe?” Rollo addressed his question to a young, dark-haired man Poppy had met earlier on their tour. “Advertising have been on to us to give Instone Airline more column inches.”

  “I suppose I could mention that she flew in from Paris with them,” Joe replied. “They did open the Paris to Hounslow route a few months ago. And I’ve heard they’re also about to transport a racehorse over for the Grand Prix Paris later in the year, and Lenglen’s bound to make a bet or two on it, so I can do a follow-up.”

  “A flying horse? That’ll do it. Excellent. Now, arts and entertainment. Where’s Lionel?”

  “Off sick.”

  Rollo’s thick red eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead. “Sleeping off a night at Oscar’s more like it. Did he post a story yesterday?”

  Throats were cleared and everyone suddenly appeared interested in their notes.

  “I’ll take that as a no then. Have we got anything to fill it?” Rollo asked his disinterested audience.

  Again he was met by silence.

  He swore. Poppy was startled but managed to hide her surprise. Daniel looked apologetically at her. She mouthed, “Don’t worry.”

  “Then what the hell are we going to do?” Rollo started to pace; he was getting redder and redder.

  “He’s going to blow…” someone muttered.

  “I – I – can get you a story on Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Old Vic.”

  The whole room spun around to look at Poppy. “I – I – know one of the actresses. I can get an interview.”

  Rollo stopped pacing. “Can you get it today?”

  “I can try.”

  “Good. Then get on it. Joe, if she can’t get it have you got something about Miz Lenglen appearing at some jazz club or restaurant or something?”

  “I could whip something up.”

  “Excellent. But let’s give Miz Denby a chance first, shall we?” He poked the baton in her direction. “It’s over to you now, Poppy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Mr Thompson was very grateful to his friend, Mr Jones, for passing on the tip that Willow Park Asylum in Battersea was in need of a new window cleaner. Just south of the river from his usual patch in Chelsea, he and Bess could make it there and back in an afternoon. But today, he had finished his cleaning in double time and left the asylum early because he had something to deliver to an address in Fleet Street.

  It had taken him a while to agree to the delivery. He had been told when he first got the job that he should not engage with any of the residents. That was easy enough. He found the men and women wandering around in their nightgowns disturbing. In the men’s wing there were young ex-soldiers, shell-shocked and staring, that reminded him of what his son had been through. He didn’t want to engage with that at all. Better he stay on his side of the glass, and they on theirs.

  But then one day, in the women’s wing, he had seen a woman who didn’t seem like the others. She would sit quietly by herself and read. She had some flowers on her windowsill that she tended and she would stare out of the window, past him and his ladder, looking longingly at the horizon. From her second-floor window she could not see much beyond the walls of the grounds, as the towers of Battersea Gasworks blocked her view. But she looked, nonetheless.

  She was in her mid to late thirties, with pallid skin and long auburn hair worn in a plait down her back. She had large, grey eyes that on another face, living another life, might have been described as intelligent; on hers they simply looked haunted. Mr Thompson thought her face familiar, and it took him a good few visits before he realized where he had seen her before: 137 King’s Road, Chelsea; prior to the war she had been a regular visitor. After this realization, the woman started to become a real person in Mr Thompson’s mind, not just a white-robed spectre. And before he knew it he was trying to catch her eye. Then one day he did. And she noticed. Nothing happened that first day other than she stopped looking through him and looked at him. But it was enough.

  In the following months Mr Thompson and the woman continued to notice each other and gradually became comfortable with it. Last month she had even looked up and smiled when she heard the scrape of his ladder and the clatter of his bucket. He had smiled in return. Smiling did not come easy to Mr Thompson, but nor, he supposed, did it come easy to her.

  But today he was surprised when she waved at him to catch his attention and held up a piece of paper to the window, asking: “CAN YOU HELP ME?” He did not know how he could help her, but he nodded anyway. Then she got up, went to her door to check no one was coming, and scratched around in a corner. She emerged with an envelope. As it was a warm day, the window to her room was slightly open. Bars blocked her from escaping, and nails had been hammered into the sash window frame so it could never be opened more than a crack, but there was enough space for her t
o slip the envelope through. He wiped his hands dry on his overalls and took it. Mr Thompson had had no more than a few years of schooling, but it was enough to read the address: “MR ISAACS, THE GLOBE NEWSPAPER, FLEET STREET.”

  Near the window she again spoke the words she had written: “Will you help me?”

  “I will,” he mumbled back.

  Poppy got the bus to King’s Road, ran in to tell Dot and Grace her wonderful news, then jumped on the next bus she could get to Waterloo, where her aunt told her Delilah would be in rehearsal at The Old Vic. Poppy had never been in a real theatre before. The only theatrical performances she had ever attended were Sunday school plays where, inevitably, because of her blonde curls, she was cast as an angel. Poppy hated acting and could barely hold a tune, but as a child who loved making up stories, she did fancy herself as a playwright. She used to secretly write plays to be performed by her two dolls – necessitating the pair of them playing multiple roles – and when that failed, she would make temporary paper stand-ins.

  One year she had suggested writing a modern version of the nativity to be performed in the Methodist chapel, but her suggestion was pooh-poohed by her brother, and she feared her parents would agree with him. So the script for The Three Wise Men of Morpeth was shelved.

  Despite having a famous actress in the family – or perhaps because of it – the world of the arts was treated with suspicion by the Northumberland Denbys. Reverend Denby and his wife did not come from the branch of the church that believed creative activities to be inherently immoral or evil, but they did share the view that unless the arts were employed to teach the Bible or exhort people to faithful Christian service, then there was not much use for them.

  So when Dotty Denby flounced off to London to make her debut on the West End stage they were more puzzled than scandalized. They simply did not understand it. Art for art’s sake, or pure entertainment, or as an expression of a creative impulse, did not have any place in the world of Reverend and Mrs Denby, so Poppy had wisely kept her compulsions to herself.

  Poppy felt a thrill of excitement as she stepped over the threshold and into the foyer of The Old Vic theatre, just down the road from Waterloo station. Her aunt had delighted in telling her the place was run by a Christian woman – Lilian Baylis – who didn’t share Reverend and Mrs Denby’s view of the arts. Although she did share their views on temperance.

  The Old Vic had started as a mission to the working-class men of Waterloo, to give them a wholesome alternative to drinking every night in the pub. Due to Lilian’s background in theatre she started staging plays and gained a reputation for being a serious alternative to the elitist froth on offer in the West End. She soon expanded into opera and ballet, and in the same year that Poppy walked through the door to interview the young up-and-coming actress Delilah Marconi, a full-time Shakespearean director had been appointed – Robert Atkins.

  In fact, unknown to Poppy, the flustered-looking man she bumped into in the foyer and from whom she asked directions to Delilah, was the great director himself.

  “She’ll be in the chorus dressing room. That way.” He pointed and then strode off, calling: “Has anyone seen Bottom?”

  Poppy scuttled in the direction of the chorus dressing room, manoeuvring her way past trunks of props and racks of costumes. She had to stifle a yelp when she almost collided with a man wearing a donkey’s head. He hiccuped an apology at her, wafting whisky-laden breath in her direction, then staggered off down the hall.

  “BOTTOM!” she heard someone call again.

  “Comin’!” slurred the donkey, steadying himself on the wall.

  Poppy shook her head and knocked on the door that said “Women’s chorus”. Someone called “come in”, so she entered.

  Inside was a long bench covered in boxes of make-up and hairpieces under a long line of mirrors framed with gaslights. Racks of clothes lined the other wall and there were a number of women in various states of undress.

  Then someone called out to her: “Poppy!”

  Poppy saw a waif-like creature draped in diaphanous strips of black and grey over a skintight leotard. It was Delilah. Her heavily made-up face with cobwebs drawn on each cheek smiled a warm greeting. In one hand she held a tube of lipstick; in the other a cigarette with red lipstick stains. She transferred both accessories to one hand and reached out the other to draw Poppy to her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Delilah, but would you mind if I interviewed you for the newspaper? I want to do an article on an up-and-coming actress.”

  “Publicity’s never a bother, luvvie,” purred another fairy. “And if you want up and coming, I’m going way faster than Delilah!”

  Delilah pulled up a seat for Poppy and motioned for her to sit. “Get in line, Edith!” she quipped, and the other actresses laughed.

  “The paper? You got the job?”

  “I did,” squealed Poppy. Delilah squealed too and gave her a hug.

  “And you’re doing an article already?”

  “I am. The arts editor is sick and –”

  “Who’s the arts editor?” asked Edith.

  “Lionel somebody-or-other.”

  “Lionel Saunders from The Globe?” asked Delilah, impressed.

  “That’ll be the one.”

  “Drunken old letch.” Edith screwed up her face.

  “Careful, Edie, you’re cracking your make-up,” said Delilah and deliberately turned her back on her fellow actress and willed Poppy to look only at her. She took Poppy’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Well done, you! Look, I don’t have time now – we’re starting rehearsal in a few minutes – but I’ll arrange with Robert for you to watch and we can talk afterwards.”

  “Robert?”

  “Atkins. The director. You haven’t done your research, have you?”

  “Well – I – it was all rather sudden. I didn’t expect to get an assignment the first day and – well – I just sort of thought of you and –”

  “It’s all right,” interrupted Delilah. “I’ll get you up to speed. You have at least read the play, haven’t you?”

  “Well –”

  Edith sniggered. Delilah sighed. “Here, read mine.”

  An hour later, Poppy was sitting in the auditorium completely entranced by what she was seeing on stage. The director had given his permission for her to watch when he heard she was the niece of Dotty Denby.

  “Dotty Denby? The most entrancing Titania I have ever had the pleasure to work with. I was her Oberon in 1905 at Drury Lane. Now her daughter’s an arts editor!”

  “Niece. And I’m not an arts editor. I’m a –”

  “Bottom! Where is that ass?”

  Atkins rushed off, leaving Poppy to watch the rehearsal. She followed in the script and noted each time Cobweb spoke: there weren’t too many occasions. But it didn’t matter. The story of the lovers lost in the forest and the rivalry between the king and queen of the fairies was an absolute delight. Poppy knew her parents would think it frivolous; she thought it wondrous.

  But then in Act III, scene 1, something unexpected happened. It was Delilah’s big moment, when Titania entrusted Cobweb and the other fairies with the care of the poor man she had just turned into a donkey – the one they called Bottom. Atkins had obviously managed to track down the elusive actor. Being half drunk didn’t seem to affect his performance too much; but then, as he was being led off the stage by his fairy companions, Atkins called out, “Make it more playful. Give one of them a piggy back. You, Cobweb, jump on!”

  Delilah did as she was bid; but Bottom, who could just about manage to keep himself on his feet, was not prepared for the extra weight – slight as it was – and he and Delilah tumbled off the stage and into the orchestra pit. Delilah screamed, Bottom swore, and everyone else gasped in shock.

  Poppy rushed to see if her friend was hurt. She got to the front just as Atkins and some of the other actors were pulling her out.

  “I’m fine,” she said. �
��He broke my fall. But he’s been sick all over me.”

  “Eeeeeewwwwww!” came the chorus from the rest of the fairies.

  “Lord, give me strength!” said Atkins, then took control, marshalling his troops like a general on the battlefield. “Get him out of there before Lily gets here. And pay him off; he’s half tanked most of the time anyway. Who’s the understudy? Good. Get into his costume. You, help her wash off that sick. And you” – he pointed to Poppy – “come with me. We need to have a little talk about exactly what’s going into your article.”

  CHAPTER 7

  It was nearly four o’clock when Poppy got off the bus at the bottom of Fleet Street and had to wait for a horse-drawn window-cleaner’s wagon to pass before she crossed to the sunny side of the street. The sun matched her mood. She had spent a fantastic afternoon with Mr Atkins – although she felt at times he had been directing her instead of her interviewing him – but for her very first article, she didn’t mind. She had been going over her notes first on the train and then on the bus and she was wavering between angles: should she go with “Young up-and-coming actress in Shakespearean comedy” or “Top West End director brings serious theatre south of the river”. The former was what she had intended and what she knew Delilah was hoping for, but she instinctively knew Rollo would want the “big name”. By the time she was a block away from The Globe she had decided she would try to blend the two: “Top director takes a chance on new talent”. Apparently Delilah wasn’t the only new face on the programme, so she felt she could justifiably make it work. Now she just had to write it up.

  She was still smiling when she entered the Globe foyer and waved to Mrs Bradshaw at the reception desk. Mavis Bradshaw smiled in return. “You look pleased as punch, Poppy. Good first day?”

  “Oh, the best! I’ve just been to Waterloo and –”

  A dreadful scream echoed through the atrium, punctuated by a sickening thud. Stunned, Poppy turned to see the body of a man, his limbs contorted like those of a broken doll, in the middle of the black and white mosaic floor. Mavis Bradshaw’s screams took over where the man’s had stopped and Poppy watched in horror as a red pool spread across the tiles.