The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Has she?’ Joshua was concerned to hear that. The new arrangements were meant to be just a trial, to see how they all got along. He hadn’t expected Lena to give up her own house just yet. And, he worried, Tommy and Poppy were right: there was something about Albert that was slightly disagreeable, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it to say what it was. The fellow was good at figures, no doubt about that, and the cash box was always correct at the end of each day, and he did his best to be pleasant, Joshua was sure of that, but he felt that some of the customers were uneasy about Albert and preferred to wait for him to be free to serve them.

  He heard a clatter of a pan or something heavy being dropped, and then Lena’s raised voice. ‘Finish stacking these tins, will you?’ he said to Albert. ‘Then grind ’coffee beans and open ’door.’ He was convinced that the aroma of freshly ground coffee drew people into the shop.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked as he went into the kitchen. ‘Dropped something?’

  ‘She knocked my arm and the whole lot went down.’ Lena was picking up squashed and battered uncooked breadcakes from the floor, dusting them off with floury fingers and putting them back onto a baking tray.

  Nan was standing with a pan and brush in her hand. Her eyes were wide and startled and as she glanced at Joshua she gave a slight shake of her head. Joshua put up his hand to stop her from explaining. ‘An accident, I expect,’ he said. ‘Is the bread ruined?’

  ‘It’ll have to do.’ Lena opened the oven door. ‘There’s no time to make another batch.’ She pushed the tray into the oven and faced Joshua with a red and sweating face.

  ‘You’re not . . . you’re not going to bake those? They’ve been on ’floor!’

  ‘’Floor’s clean enough,’ Lena said. ‘Fortunately I cleaned it thoroughly myself last night before I went to bed. It wasn’t very clean up to then,’ she added meaningfully, glancing at Nan. ‘But there, if you want a job done properly, you’re best doing it yourself.’

  ‘I scrubbed ’floor yesterday morning,’ Nan broke in. ‘As I do every morning.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t clean enough for me.’ Lena glared at her. ‘You could eat off my floor!’

  ‘Well, it seems that somebody’s going to,’ Joshua said ironically, but then added doubtfully: ‘I suppose ’heat will kill off any germs?’

  Lena busied herself at the kitchen table, kneading the remaining dough and roughly shaping it into loaves and rounds. ‘What folks don’t know about they won’t worry about,’ she said sharply.

  Joshua heaved a sigh as he left the kitchen. The two women didn’t get on, that was obvious, but he didn’t know what he could do about it. Nan was very reliable and his wife had thought the world of her, but Lena was forever complaining about her.

  ‘That delivery from Donkin’s should be coming in this morning,’ he said to Albert. ‘I thought it would have come yesterday. You did tell them it was urgent, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Albert assured him. ‘I spoke to the foreman in the warehouse about it.’

  ‘Foreman? Well, next time give the order to Mr Donkin himself. Then we’ll be sure of getting it on time. We’re running short of tea and sugar,’ he added. ‘We must be selling a lot more than usual. It’s not a month since ’last order was put in.’

  Mrs Forbes came in for the usual screw of tobacco. ‘Mister said to ask, is it ’same brand as before?’ she whined.

  ‘Same as he allus gets, Mrs Forbes.’ Joshua pointed to the tin on the shelf. ‘I get it in specially for him.’ He kept in a cheap but strong brand of tobacco for those who couldn’t afford much.

  She nodded and handed over her coppers and went out, as Mrs Brownlow came in for yesterday’s bread. ‘Last lot was stale,’ she said, giving Albert a penny in exchange for a loaf.

  ‘It’s yesterday’s bread,’ he muttered. ‘What do you expect?’

  Joshua looked up. ‘Sorry about that, Mrs Brownlow. It should keep. Here, take this breadcake to make up for it.’

  She gave a smile which lit up her sallow face. ‘Thanks, Mr Mazzini. We ate it anyway, but it wasn’t your usual.’

  Donkin’s delivery waggon clattered up to the door. ‘I’ll get it, Joshua.’ Albert scurried to the door and Joshua saw him talking to the driver and taking the delivery note from him.

  ‘Breadcakes are ready!’ Lena shouted. ‘Can somebody fetch ’em?’ She had placed the hot breadcakes on the wire trays, and was tapping the bottom of the loaves to determine if they were cooked. ‘These are ready as well,’ she said triumphantly. ‘So we’re not behind after all.’

  ‘My, that was quick!’ Joshua said and wondered how she had managed it in only half the usual time.

  ‘Nan!’ she yelled. ‘Come and clear up in here while I have a cup o’ tea and some toast.’ She sat down on a kitchen chair. ‘I’m fair mafted,’ she said, wiping her face on a piece of rag. ‘I’ve just one more lot of loaves to put in when the oven comes up again, and that’s it.’

  ‘What about ’scones?’ Joshua asked, picking up one of the trays. ‘You’ve those to do.’

  ‘We’ve some left from yesterday,’ she said. ‘I’m going to sprinkle ’em with water and warm ’em up again.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Josh,’ she said. ‘It’s what everybody does with leftovers! I bet your wife did the same, only she never told you.’

  Nan, coming downstairs, eyed Lena. ‘Excuse me, Lena, but she didn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘I worked for Mrs Mazzini for a long time and I never saw her do that!’

  ‘What would you know about it?’ Lena snapped. ‘You’re just a skivvy. What would you know about what goes on in a bakery?’ She turned to Joshua, who was standing in the doorway about to go into the shop. ‘I’ll not have this, Josh. I’ll not have my judgement challenged. She’s crossed me more than once and I’ll not have it!’

  Joshua dithered in the doorway with the tray in his hands. He was a man who didn’t like discord. Indeed, he had never been used to it. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Let me just put this down.’ He placed the breadcakes in a basket on the counter top and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Now, ladies,’ he said placatingly. ‘Don’t let’s have any argument. I don’t know how my wife baked; she just got on with it. It was probably different from how you do things, Lena, but that doesn’t mean that either of you is right or wrong. Just different, that’s all.’

  Nan didn’t speak but collected the baking bowls and implements and put them into the deep sink. She ran hot water onto them; it was always red hot, being heated from the range. Lena, however, glared at her, and then rising from the chair she put the remaining loaves into the oven. ‘Don’t forget to make the tea,’ she said spitefully. ‘You’ve done nowt else much this morning.’

  Joshua escaped back into the shop. The groceries had been delivered and Albert had opened one of the sacks of tea and was weighing the leaves into four-ounce paper bags, which was how they usually sold it. Few of their customers could afford to buy more than that at one time. Joshua felt despondent. The morning hadn’t gone well. If only Tommy had stayed at home, he thought. There would have been none of this disharmony. Tommy was a good baker, too, even better at making bread than his mother had been. Still, it wasn’t to be. Youngsters would do what they wanted to do, to make their way in life. We shouldn’t stand in their way.

  I hope he’s all right, he pondered dismally, worrying that he hadn’t heard from Tommy since that first letter. Too busy enjoying himself to think of his poor old da. Of course, his ship might not come back into Hull port. He remembered the strikes earlier in the year when the dockers had refused to unload three barges because one of the crew wasn’t a union member. The dispute had escalated throughout the docks and shipping federation, and free labour had been brought in. A timber yard had been fired and the police called in to keep law and order had been pelted with stones, but the Wilson company, who owned the ship Tommy had sailed in, wouldn’t concede to the strikers and had threatened to take their ships out of
Hull.

  At ten o’clock, the post arrived. ‘Letter from abroad, Mr Mazzini,’ the postman said. ‘Hope it’s good news.’

  ‘So do I,’ Joshua murmured. ‘I’m due for some.’

  It was a letter from Tommy. ‘At last!’ Joshua breathed, and, opening the envelope, began to read Tommy’s account of his seafaring life. ‘I’m in the Baltic,’ Tommy wrote. ‘We’re doing the timber run, and it’s not very exciting. I don’t know how long it will take or when I’ll be home. Hope you and Poppy are managing without me. I have to go now, but will write again when I can. Your loving son, Tommy.’

  Joshua turned over the page looking for a postscript. Is that it, he thought? I’ve been waiting all this time and that’s all he has to say! At least Poppy told me what she had been doing and that she’d met up with Charlie Chandler in London and that pianist fellow in Brighton. He heaved a sigh. And she said that she missed me.

  He heard another crash coming from the kitchen and Lena’s raised voice. Albert, up on a ladder stacking shelves with tins, raised his eyebrows. ‘Lena’s got her dander up,’ he said. ‘We’d better all watch out.’

  Joshua closed his eyes for a second before taking a deep breath. He put the envelope in his overall pocket, then, setting his mouth in a pinched line, he marched through the inner door into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I feel sick! Poppy stood shivering in the wings. The fire curtain, which was decorated with advertisements for local amenities and had willow trees and turreted castles painted upon it, was still down. The stagehands were standing with ropes and pulleys ready to draw it up when they were given the signal. The orchestra was tuning up and she could hear a hum of voices coming from the auditorium. I’m glad that I’m not first on. She had been billed at the bottom of the programme, which should have meant that she was first to appear, but at the rehearsal Jack Bradshaw had decreed that an acrobat should go on first and Poppy second. The acrobat was standing in front of her now, rising up and down on his toes, flexing his calves and swinging his arms.

  Poppy hunched into her shawl. I’ll be no good, she thought. I’m so frightened. Why am I here? I should have stayed at home with Pa. I don’t like being on my own. Her lips trembled and she wanted to cry. She had shared a dressing room with the other female performers, the Terry Sisters and Nancy Martell the comedienne, but they hadn’t been good-humoured and barely spoke to each other, let alone her, and she had been too shy and nervous to start a conversation with them.

  ‘How are you feeling, Poppy?’ Anthony Marino breathed the words as he came up behind her. ‘All set?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered back. ‘I’m scared. I don’t want to go on!’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve been out front and there are lots of old ladies in the house, and they’ll love you!’

  ‘Perhaps so. But what about tonight? The old ladies won’t be there then.’ What if the audience heckle me tonight, she thought.

  She had been over her routine this morning with Miss Jenkinson, who had been very patient and understanding at interpreting the tempo of Poppy’s dancing of the mazurka, and then playing softly as she sang two romantic love songs. ‘You’ll do very well, my dear,’ she had said, when Poppy had finished. ‘And I shall speak to Mr Bradshaw about having a violinist play for you also, later in the week. Not just yet,’ she had added. ‘You and I are fine together until you have got over your nervousness.’ She seemed to have guessed that Poppy felt like a sack of trembling jelly.

  But now as she waited in the wings, saw the curtain rise and the acrobat somersault onto the stage, Poppy felt that she would never be able to control either her feet or her voice. She watched in a stupor as the performer came to the end of his act, heard the applause of the audience and the tattoo of the drum as he did his final roll across the stage, somersaulted and spun, ran to the wings and then back to centre stage. He gave a low bow, holding his hands to his ankles, then swiftly backflipped off the stage, over and over, to exit.

  It’s me! She suddenly woke up, licked her dry lips, held up her head and squared her shoulders as she was announced. ‘A young lady – fresh from her astounding success in northern England – come specially for your entertainment . . .’

  Anthony nodded encouragingly to her, as Jack Bradshaw, holding out his arm to draw her on, proclaimed, ‘Miss – Poppy – Mazzini.’

  She threw off her shawl and ran to centre stage. Bowed. Put her hands on her hips, her head to one side, and Miss Jenkinson began the lively music of the mazurka.

  Poppy smiled as she danced the spirited rhythm, for she could hear some members of the audience clapping in time to the music. Then she shut her ears to it and concentrated solely on the piano, as some of the clapping was half a beat behind.

  There was spontaneous applause as she finished. She came to the front of the stage and took a bow, and saw that the theatre was only partly full in the stalls, and that, as Anthony had said, most of the audience was made up of elderly people who probably didn’t care to venture out in the evenings. She took several breaths as she unfastened the scarf which had bound her head, shook out her hair and announced that she would like to sing two particular favourites of hers, and she hoped that they would like them too.

  She sang first of all an appealing, merry tune, one which people were whistling in the streets of Hull. An earnest young swain was urging his ladylove to marry him, and soon. ‘Come, pretty May, Come, pretty May, Marry me now ’fore I’m old and grey.’ Then she sang the response of his sweetheart, in a voice all sweetness and guile. ‘I’ll not marry you, Harry, I’m too young and merry.’

  She paused for a second’s effect, and Miss Jenkinson, taking her lead, held her hands over the keys, before she ended, teasingly, ‘But don’t go away – for maybe – one day!’

  Poppy invited the audience to join in the chorus and found that her nervousness had gone and she was elated at their response.

  She took her bow again and began her final song, ‘Will You Be Forever True?’ She assumed a graceful appealing pose, lifted her arm to let the flimsy scarf float above her head, and began. ‘La la, la la, la la-ah, hold me close forever more.’

  Though she concentrated on the music and her voice, she couldn’t help but think of Charlie. This is my song for him, to show that I love him. If only he would come and hear me, then he would really understand. He wouldn’t think that I was only a girl just out of school. She did one more glide round the stage, came to the front and let her voice soar for the final line. ‘Gone on the silent breath of night.’

  There was polite sporadic applause and she backed away, then she returned, tripping lightly to centre stage and giving a deep bow before exiting.

  She breathed hard and stood back as a magician in black tailcoat and tall hat and carrying a tall box with a spangled cover pushed past her. Anthony was still there, but standing back so as not to be in the way.

  ‘They didn’t like me!’ she said. ‘What was wrong?’

  He took her arm and they moved away from the wings. ‘They did like you,’ he said. ‘But they don’t often get your quality of singing. They liked the merry song best,’ he added, looking down at her. ‘They want to tap their feet and clap their hands and go home happy.’

  ‘I see,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Should I give up and go home?’

  ‘Give up!’ He was astonished. ‘With a voice like yours? Certainly not. But you need to take some advice. I have to go,’ he said. ‘I need to change.’ She was so wrapped up in herself that she had almost forgotten that he was performing too.

  ‘Oh! I shall stay and listen,’ she said. ‘I so loved your playing when you came to Hull.’

  ‘Ah!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You might find this quite different; but go and put on something warm,’ he advised. ‘Backstage can be a chilly place.’ Though he was wearing black dress trousers, he also had on a thick high-necked jumper over his shirt. ‘Don’t catch a chill.’

  ‘That’s what Miss Je
nkinson told me,’ she murmured, and he nodded briefly and went off to the men’s dressing room.

  Poppy shivered as she made her way back to the dressing room. Anthony was right; it was cold and draughty down these narrow passages. She’d dropped her shawl as she’d made her entrance on stage but it wasn’t where she’d left it.

  ‘This yours, miss?’ One of the stagehands, coming towards her down the corridor, held it up. ‘I found it in a corner in the wings.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it from him and noticing how grubby it had become. Someone must have kicked it to one side.

  ‘Best to hang it up next time, miss,’ he said. ‘There’s some hooks on the wall just inside the wings. Anybody might have tripped over it,’ he added.

  ‘Oh! Sorry. I must have dropped it.’ She felt foolish. How unprofessional of her. She hadn’t been thinking of the other performers but only of herself. As she opened the door to the dressing room she heard the applause for the magician, but then was almost knocked over by the comedienne Nancy Martell.

  ‘Outa my way,’ she barked. ‘I’m on,’ and the large woman, dressed up in a curly red wig and a voluminous apron over a striped bodice and skirt, rushed past her.

  The Terry Sisters, who were appearing in the second half, were sitting in front of the mirror finishing off their make-up. Their eyes were heavily outlined in black with bright blue shadow on their lids. Their brows were arched high and long false eyelashes swept their cheeks. As they sat, Poppy would hardly have known one from the other.

  They both looked at her through the mirror. Ena didn’t speak but reached for a lip brush and paint pot, and began to fill in her mouth withscarlet. Ronny swung round to face her. ‘How’d you get on? Your first time, wasn’t it?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Away from home,’ she said. ‘So it was different.’

  ‘Course it is,’ Ronny said. ‘No friends or family to support you and give you a clap. So how was it?’ she repeated. ‘Did they like you?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Poppy hesitated. ’They liked the first two numbers anyway. The mazurka and the ditty. I don’t know if they liked the romantic song.’