The Songbird

by Val Wood

  Eyebrows were raised and mouths shaped into round Os as this news was given and several shop pwners said they would come along to see her and bring their friends. ‘We know you, of course, Mr Marino,’ some of them said. ‘We always look forward to hearing you play.’

  ‘So there we are, Poppy,’ Anthony said as they left a confectioner’s shop. ‘We shall be sure of an audience on Monday at least!’

  ‘Look, there’s another.’ Poppy pointed to a lamp-post with a poster on it. They dashed across and Anthony carefully altered the name of Polly Massini to Poppy Mazzini.

  ‘Well, at least I shall never forget your name,’ he commented. ‘It is etched into my mind for ever. Nor will I ever forget how to spell it!’

  ‘I’ve really enjoyed this morning,’ Poppy told him. ‘I don’t know what I would have done with myself if you hadn’t been here, not knowing anyone or knowing where to go. I’ve always had someone with me,’ she confessed. ‘My father always wanted to know where I was, and my brother Tommy always looked out for me. I’ve been pampered and spoiled, I suppose, and now I have to manage on my own.’

  He nodded and perused her with his dark eyes. ‘You seem quite self-assured to me. You’re probably feeling a little homesick, are you? After all, you’re starting on a brand new career in a strange place far from home.’

  At his words, to her horror, she started to cry. ‘Yes,’ she snuffled. ‘I miss my pa, and I miss my ma. I should never have left.’

  He patted her shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right, Poppy. Don’t worry. After Monday you’ll feel differently. Once you see the audience file into the theatre and hear the music strike up, you’ll get that frisson of excitement and everything will be all right.’ He handed her a clean white handkerchief. ‘Come on. Dry your tears. You’re a performer and everyone gets down at some time.’ He peered at her anxiously. ‘How old are you? Sixteen?’

  She blew her nose noisily and shook her head. ‘Thirteen and three-quarters,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘And I want to go home!’

  ‘Oh!’ he said, staring at her. ‘It is rather scary the first time on your own: although,’ he added, ‘some start much earlier. Marie Lloyd and Vesta Tilley were very young children when they went on stage, although both were from music hall families, which makes a difference, I suppose.’ He frowned, then asked, ‘Couldn’t someone have come with you for your first week?’

  She explained that there was no-one, that her mother was dead and her only brother had gone to sea. ‘I thought I was so clever, you see. Doing it by myself. But it’s different now I’m away from home. I know Hull and I know the people and they know me.’ Tears began to fall again. ‘And here I’m a stranger.’

  He led her towards a steamy little café where he ordered tea and toast for them both, and sat silently watching her as she recovered and drank her tea and ate first her toast, and then his. ‘Nothing wrong with your appetite, anyway!’ he said solemnly.

  She gave a little giggle and then blew her nose again. ‘My mother used to say she could always tell if I was sickening for something as it was the only time I came off my food!’

  ‘That’s better.’ Anthony smiled, then said softly, ‘You must miss her a lot.’

  ‘I do,’ Poppy said and gave a deep sigh. ‘But I wonder if I would be here if my mother were alive. She always said that my father wouldn’t agree to my having a stage career, and yet he did.’

  ‘You persuaded him?’ he said. ‘Twisted him round your little finger as daughters are apt to do?’

  She nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Look,’ he said suddenly. ‘I have to go.’

  She immediately felt guilty at taking up his time until he went on to say, ‘I asked Bradshaw if I could go into the theatre and rehearse for an hour or two. But if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, why don’t we have a stroll round Brighton? Perhaps go and have a look at the Royal Pavilion if it’s open, or some of the gardens?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to be a bother to you if you have other things to do.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ he assured her. ‘And perhaps later we could have a meal at Orlando’s? Real food, I mean, and not lodging house stodge.’

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said, feeling much better. ‘And that reminds me. I met Miss Jenkinson at my lodgings. She said she gave you your first piano lesson!’

  His face wreathed into a grin. ‘Dear old Jenky. She did indeed. I must take her out to tea whilst I’m here in Brighton. She lived round the corner from us in London and taught me when I was about four. She was quite famous herself when she was young, apparently.’ He nodded at Poppy’s surprised expression. ‘She toured all the big concert halls and theatres. Then she fell in love with someone and gave up performing at his insistence, and then the bounder jilted her two days before their wedding. She never played a performance again, but only taught, and then later she moved to Brighton and played in the theatre orchestras.’

  ‘Goodness,’ Poppy murmured. ‘And I was worrying whether or not she would be good enough to play for me! I thought she was too old. I didn’t look beyond her age or appearance.’

  ‘That’s what we do when we’re young,’ Anthony answered. ‘At least that’s what my father says. Antonio, he says,’ he put on an Italian accent, ‘you musta looka further than ze skin.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘Oh, you’ve cheered me up so much, Anthony. I’m so very grateful to you. I think I’ll go back to my diggings and write another letter to my father and tell him how I’m looking forward to Monday.’

  But she didn’t write to her father that day, but wrote instead to Charlie to tell him where she was appearing and saying how nice it would be if he could come and see her. ‘I begin my career on Monday,’ she said, ‘and I’m very excited but also very nervous.’ She didn’t tell him about Anthony Marino, for she didn’t think he would have heard of him, nor did she want him to think that she had a male friend, which, she gnawed on the end of her pen as she meditated, I think he will become.

  The next day, she met Anthony and they walked to the Royal Pavilion, once the lavish and bizarre establishment of George IV when he was Prince Regent, and subsequently used by other members of the royal household. Then, when the railway came to Brighton, and made it into a popular seaside venue for the London masses, the pavilion was sold to Brighton town.

  ‘How wonderful!’ Poppy exclaimed as they approached the Steine Front and saw the domes and elegant pinnacles, the rotunda, and the Indian and Chinese influences on the once simple farmhouse which had been transformed into an exotic palace. ‘It’s like a magical eastern palace set by the English sea!’

  ‘I’ve never visited it before,’ Anthony said, as they gazed at elaborate ornate ceilings and candelabra; at Indian silks, cabinets and ottomans, the Chinese interiors and delicate porcelain, and the Japanese lacquered furniture. ‘I’ve been often to Brighton but there’s never enough time between performances for sightseeing. You’ll find the same, Poppy, once you’re under way with your career: all you’ll see of a town is the railway station, the inside of a theatre and your lodging house, where you’ll fall exhausted into bed every night.’

  As they left at the end of the afternoon and walked back towards the town, she thanked him for taking her. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Thank you! I’ve often wanted to visit, and having a companion with me made it all the more enjoyable. Now, shall we eat? Then I’m for an early night. Tomorrow is a busy day and for you a most exciting one. Your very first professional performance.’ He glanced at her, his eyes crinkling. ‘Your first step on the way to stardom!’

  They ate supper at Orlando’s restaurant and Orlando wished her luck for the following day, promising that he would try to come and see the show some time during the week. Anthony gave her a letter, which he asked her to give to Miss Jenkinson, and walked with her to Mrs Johnson’s. Then he said goodbye and set off back the way they had come, to his own lodgings.

  The front door was open, and she stepped in
to the hall, which was piled high with trunks and leather suitcases and coats and scarves flung over the top of them. There was a clamour of voices coming from the parlour. Mrs Johnson came through into the hall and greeted Poppy. ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just coming to close the door. They’ve brought enough luggage for a twelvemonth.’

  ‘New guests, Mrs Johnson?’ Poppy asked. ‘Has Mr Harding left?’

  ‘Yes, dear, he’s gorn,’ she said. ‘The Terry Sisters ’ave harrived.’ She nodded in a self-satisfied manner. ‘They’re my regulars. They’re no bother, though they will hargue.’

  ‘Could I come in and say hello?’ Poppy asked. ‘I’ve met them before, but I don’t know if they’ll remember me.’

  Mrs Johnson ushered her into the parlour where the Terry Sisters were sitting talking to Miss Jenkinson and the kettle on the fire was starting to boil and whistle.

  The three women looked up at Poppy as she entered with Mrs Johnson behind her, and Ena Terry, her feet elegantly crossed, her neat ankles showing, said, ‘Come on, Johnny, make us a cuppa tea, I’m fair gasping.’

  ‘Give me a chance,’ Mrs Johnson said. ‘I ’aven’t got two pairs of ’ands! This is Miss Mazzini, by the way. She says you’ve met.’

  ‘Have we?’ Veronica Terry screwed up her face. ‘I’m Ronny. This is Ena. Where’ve we met?’

  ‘You were playing at the Mechanics in Hull – Boscoe’s is its proper name. You came to my father’s coffee house with Mr Damone after one of the shows.’ Poppy didn’t say she had sung for them; she wanted to know if they remembered.

  Ena pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘We get about a lot,’ she said. ‘Though we’ve been to Hull several times.’

  ‘I remember you!’ Ronny exclaimed. ‘You were that little girl who sang for us! Dan was most impressed. Don’t you remember, Ena?’

  ‘Mm, vaguely.’ Ena yawned. ‘Gawd, I’m dead beat. Hurry up with that tea, Johnny. I’m ready for my bed.’

  ‘Yes! Dan said you’d make a star,’ Ronny continued. ‘So what are you doing here? Are you on the boards now?’

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy was scarcely able to believe her luck at being here with the Terry Sisters. ‘I met Mr Damone again at a competition in Hull.’ She refrained from telling them that he had written to her. ‘This will be my first professional appearance.’ She smiled exultantly. ‘I’m appearing at Bradshaw’s with you.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ Ena glanced sharply at her, and for a moment Poppy thought she felt hostility, though she remembered her as being friendly. Then Ena added, ‘Well, all the best, dearie. Hope you’ve got stamina. You need it in this game. It fair wears you out.’

  ‘What are you, then?’ Ronny asked. ‘A singer or a dancer? Or do you do both, like us?’

  Poppy hesitated, and then said. ‘I’m a singer, but I dance too.’

  ‘Descriptive ballad singer, then?’ Ena asked. ‘Not like us. We’re dancers who sing!’

  ‘I’m playing for Miss Mazzini,’ Miss Jenkinson cut in. ‘I’ve been in to see Mr Bradshaw and he’s asked me to, seeing as it’s her first time. You ladies will require the full ensemble as usual?’

  Ronny sighed. ‘Yes. We need them to cover up our off-key notes.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Ena snapped. ‘I don’t sing off key!’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Ronny retorted. ‘But somebody does – that last review said so!’

  ‘Pah! Critics! What do they know?’ Ena fished about in her bag and brought out a cheroot and Poppy remembered how astonished she’d been when she had first seen her smoking. Few women in Hull smoked, apart from the poor ones who smoked pipes of tobacco.

  ‘You will excuse me?’ Miss Jenkinson rose hurriedly from the table. ‘But I have things to do before I retire to bed. I trust you have had a good day, Miss Mazzini?’ she said to Poppy.

  ‘I’ve had a lovely day, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been to the Royal Pavilion. And I’ve something for you.’ She smiled at Miss Jenkinson as she gave her the envelope from Anthony and saw her cheeks flush with pleasure as she opened it. She looked at Miss Jenkinson with different eyes now that Anthony had told her of her background. She saw her capable hands with their polished nails, her neat coiffured hair, her tasteful dress and carefully arranged scarf at her neck, and most of all her polite cultured manner, so at odds with the rather brash Terry Sisters.

  ‘How lovely,’ Miss Jenkinson murmured. ‘I will look forward to that. Such a dear boy. Well.’ She looked up at Poppy, who stood almost a head taller. ‘I’ll say good night, and see you in the morning at breakfast. We could walk to the theatre together, if you wish, and discuss your music?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Jenkinson. I’d like that very much.’ Then Poppy added, ‘I’ll be pleased to take any advice you could offer.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Joshua had given Albert a key to the back door. He thought that the lad might want to go out to meet friends after the coffee shop was closed, and didn’t want to put too many restrictions on him. He insisted, however, that if he was the last to come in, he must bolt the door after him. Tommy had previously had his own key and used to be the last to bed, but he never forgot to bolt the door.

  Shortly after Poppy had left for Brighton, Joshua had come downstairs one morning, early as usual, and found Albert’s truckle bed still pushed up against the wall, not having been slept in, and the back door locked but not bolted. He opened the front door to the shop, ready for when Nan came in, for she was always on time, and then went back into the kitchen to stoke up the range ready for the morning’s baking. He filled the kettle with water and swung it over the fire to boil. There was no sound of Lena moving around upstairs and he guessed that she was still in bed. This, he thought grumpily, will be the second time she’s been late.

  ‘Lena!’ he shouted up the narrow staircase. ‘It’s a quarter past five!’

  She came down about ten minutes later, her clothes crumpled, her eyes bleary, and her hair brushed roughly into a snood. She blinked at him, then gave a simpering smile. ‘What a naughty girl I am,’ she said croakily. ‘I slept in again.’

  ‘Albert didn’t come back last night,’ Joshua said brusquely. ‘He must say if he’s going to stay out and then I can bolt ’door.’

  ‘He must have decided to stay at our place,’ Lena said. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want to disturb us.’ She glanced sideways at him, lowering her lashes onto red cheeks. When he didn’t respond, she turned and took a flowered teapot and two cups and saucers out of the cupboard and set them on the table.

  ‘I’ll see to ‘breakfast,’ Joshua told her. ‘You’d better get started on ’bread or there’ll be none ready for ’customers when they come in.’

  ‘There’s some left from yesterday.’ Her mouth turned down. ‘They’ll have to have that if they won’t wait.’

  ‘What?’ Joshua’s tone was sharp. ‘We have to have fresh bread! My customers expect it. Yesterday’s bread is sold off cheap.’

  Lena raised her eyebrows, but didn’t answer. She went to the store cupboard for the flour, tipped it into an earthenware pancheon, made a hole in the centre and added a knob of yeast. She poured in some warm water from the kettle, and a pinch of sugar to help it froth. Then she casually threw in a lump of lard.

  Joshua saw what she was doing. I suppose everybody bakes differently, he thought, but I’m sure that Mary used to dissolve the sugar in the water first and then add the yeast to it. Then he gave a shrug. No-one had complained, at least not to him.

  He drank a cup of tea and then went into the shop to start organizing his day. He knew which of his regular customers would come in first and what they required. There was Mrs Forbes who bought a screw of tobacco for her husband. Mrs Brownlow would want one of yesterday’s loaves at a reduced price. A child whose name he didn’t know always came in for a bag of broken biscuits, which he suspected was the only food he would have that day, and a young boy came in for an ounce of tea for his gran.

  Then, as the morning drew on
, other customers would come in for the first bread out of the oven, which today, he thought, as he glanced up at the clock, would be late.

  ‘Good morning!’ Nan was her usual cheerful self as she came through the door. ‘Lovely morning.’

  Joshua nodded. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ Nan asked. She seemed to have an instinct for knowing when something was wrong.

  Joshua gave a sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He glanced towards the inner door. ‘It’s just that Lena’s late up and has only just started making ’bread, and Albert hasn’t come in yet.’

  ‘Oh!’ Nan’s eyes flickered uneasily. She knew of the new arrangements, whereby Lena had taken Tommy’s room, and Albert was to sleep downstairs, but she hadn’t commented on them. She took off her shawl. ‘I’d better see if I can help Lena, then, before I start anything else, though I was going to clean ’windows this morning. They’re getting very steamy now that ’weather’s colder.’

  The doorbell jangled and Albert rushed in. ‘Sorry I’m late, Josh,’ he said. ‘I – er, I decided to stay at home last night. I was at the other end of town with some mates so there seemed no sense in coming back here.’ He must have seen Joshua’s glower, for he added, ‘It was late, and I didn’t want to disturb you or Ma.’

  ‘Don’t call me Josh, Albert,’ Joshua said firmly. ‘My name’s Joshua. We have to have a proper understanding,’ he went on. ‘The door has been unbolted all night. So you either come back here and lock up properly, or you stay in your own home and give me back my key!’

  Albert’s face reddened. ‘Sorry. I – I think Lena’s given notice on our place, so we’ll not have it anyway after next week.’

  Nan glanced anxiously at Joshua, then hurried through the door into the living quarters.