The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Probably didn’t.’ Ena spoke to Poppy’s reflection. ‘The matinee audiences like something lively. They don’t want romantic mush to remind them of what they’ve lost – or never had,’ she added sourly.

  Ronny made a moue and raised her eyebrows even higher, causing them to shoot up into her hairline. ‘Hark at Miss Crabby,’ she said. ‘She knows all about it if anybody does!’

  Poppy, glancing at Ena, gasped. Ena had mouthed an expletive through the mirror at the back of Ronny’s head, and though she had stopped short of saying it aloud, there was no mistaking what she had meant.

  ‘Come here.’ Ronny indicated for Poppy to come closer. She peered at her face. ‘Have you been on like that?’

  ‘What do you mean? Dressed like this?’ Poppy was flummoxed. This was one of her best dresses. The skirt was cut to flounce and the bodice had floating sleeves.

  ‘No! The dress is lovely. Your face! You ain’t wearing any make-up.’ Ronny stared at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I am. I am!’ Poppy insisted. ‘I’ve rouged my cheeks and I’ve got lipstick on.’

  Ena swung round now. ‘Well, they’ll not see that from the back of the stalls.’ She laughed. ‘Your face will have completely disappeared!’

  Poppy stared open-mouthed at the sisters. ‘Will it?’ she said. ‘No-one has ever mentioned that before.’

  ‘Well, I dare say that when your family and friends came to see you on your home turf, they were sitting in the front row. Am I right?’ Ronny asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I’ve so much to learn, Poppy thought miserably. I’m such a beginner.

  Ronny and her sister swung round to face the mirror again and both fastened back their hair and began to pin on their headdresses. Ronny saw Poppy watching them. ‘If you like,’ she said, with a mouthful of hairpins, ‘I’ll show you how to do your face. Maybe tonight at Johnny’s, after the show? If I’m not too tired,’ she added.

  Poppy saw Ena glance at her sister, but she made no offer of help, instead continuing to arrange the feathers and beads around her head. Then they both stood up and seemed to tower above her. They were wearing very high-heeled shoes with the front of the shoe made from transparent material, with sparkling diamante straps around their ankles.

  ‘So how do we look?’ Ronny asked.

  They were transformed. Poppy could see that. From being rather mousy, unremarkable women who wouldn’t merit a second glance out in the street, they were now elegant, glamorous performers.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘Just wonderful.’

  ‘Glamour. That’s what people come for,’ Ronny said, looking down on her. ‘That, or to be made happy and merry. And it’s our job to satisfy them.’

  During the interval, the Terry Sisters drank coffee and rehearsed some of their dance steps. Poppy felt as if she was in the way, so she changed into her outdoor clothes, packed away her stage clothes, and made her way to the back of the stalls where she sat alone in an empty row and waited for the second half to begin. Will I ever be on in the second half, she wondered? Will I ever top the bill as I did in Hull? Will I even have the stamina to continue? I did so want to sing my romantic songs. I wanted to perform with feeling, and not just sing merry ditties!

  The lights were dimmed and she sank down into her seat as the curtain rose to show a piano on stage with a potted palm tree in the background. Jack Bradshaw appeared and the audience applauded as he announced, ‘Your favourite pianist and mine – returned by special request – the talented – Mr Anthony – Marino!’

  Anthony strode onto the stage, bowed, flourished a white handkerchief which he then tucked into his trouser pocket, and took his place at the piano. How splendid he looks! Poppy gazed admiringly as Anthony ran his hands across the keys. He wore a black frock coat and crisp white shirt with stand-up collar and a white rose in his buttonhole. His hair curled just below his collar whilst a stray lock hung about his forehead.

  He wears his hair like that because it looks appealing, she thought. He seems – she smiled – a romantic figure, I suppose. And just out of reach! The old ladies will love him. How clever! Whereas I need to look older if I’m to sing romantic music. I need to look as if I know what love is. She gave a small sigh. They won’t realize that I do know already.

  Anthony played merry tunes and marching songs, waltz arrangements by Johann Strauss, and charming lyrical pieces, but not the music that had once made her cry. She sat and listened and watched, not just Anthony but the audience too. She let her gaze wander about the auditorium and saw them nodding their heads in time to the music, tapping their feet to a hornpipe or singing softly to the popular melodies. Poppy realized that Anthony had chosen the music especially for this audience. He has learned to know what they want, and in order to make a living he plays the music they like. And that is what I must do if I’m to succeed. For now, she decided. Only for now.

  She joined in the applause at the end of Anthony’s performance and then stayed to watch the Terry Sisters, wondering as she did so why they appeared higher up the bill than Anthony when he was so evidently more talented. They looked good though, she thought, from the rear of the stalls, and even if their singing wasn’t quite what it might be, they had developed their act to incorporate dance steps which provocatively showed off neat ankles through their split, glittering, befeathered skirts. The lyrics of music hall songs were enhanced by simpering expressions and much fluttering of fans, and Poppy guessed that the singing might be further enlivened at the evening performance.

  As the Terry Sisters took their bow, Poppy got up to leave. As she made her way to the exit, an elderly woman blocked her way. ‘Excuse me, Miss Mazzini.’

  Poppy glanced down at her. She was quite tiny and looked rather frail and was dressed in black. ‘Hello,’ she said softly, for the next act, a tenor, was about to begin.

  ‘I just wanted to say . . .’ The woman whispered so low that Poppy couldn’t hear her, and indicated that the woman should follow her through into the foyer.

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ the woman repeated as they went through the doors, ‘and I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion, but I saw you sitting in the stalls.’ She nodded. ‘The stars often sit at the back, so I look out for them. And I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Poppy said gratefully. ‘That is so very kind.’

  ‘And I especially liked that lovely song – “Will You Be Forever True”.’ The old lady blinked up at her. ‘It reminded me of when I once loved somebody and I thought he loved me. Except that he didn’t,’ she added sadly. ‘He left me for another.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Poppy was embarrassed. ‘So very sorry.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be, dear,’ she replied. ‘It was a very long time ago. But the love I had for him has sustained me all of my life. I never loved again, you see.’ She gave a wistful smile that deepened the lines in her face. ‘There never was another. But I don’t ever want to forget him, and your song reminded me again.’ She lifted her head and her blue eyes gazed into Poppy’s. She smiled. ‘I’m a sentimental old woman, and I do realize that it’s only a song and not your own experience. You’re far too young to know. But you sounded as if you had really known love.’ She patted Poppy’s arm. ‘I hope that when you learn to love, it will be with someone who will love you in return.’

  She turned and hobbled with the help of a walking stick towards the doors of the theatre. ‘I shan’t stay to hear the tenor,’ she called back. ‘His voice is too thin, and I don’t care for the comic. He’s not in the least funny. Goodbye, my dear. I wish you luck in your career. You will go far.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘But set your sights higher than Bradshaw’s,’ she added. ‘Much higher.’

  Poppy watched her through the windows of the swinging doors. She has paid me such a compliment, she mused. So why do I feel so sad?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Poppy stepped outside and was about to walk back to her diggings for an hour’s rest before the evening sh
ow when a voice hailed her from the stage door at the side of the building. It was Anthony.

  ‘Jack Bradshaw’s looking for you,’ he called, coming towards her. He was dressed again in his warm jumper and an overcoat, with woollen gloves on his hands. ‘He wants to see you about tonight’s show.’

  ‘Oh!’ Immediately she was anxious and it must have shown in her face because Anthony smiled. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said. ‘It won’t be anything to worry about.’

  ‘Well, he does scare me,’ she said. ‘His voice is so loud.’

  ‘That’s because he’s deaf. He doesn’t know he’s shouting. I’m just off for a walk by the sea,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘I’d better see what he wants,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

  She walked down the narrow passage from the stage door vestibule towards Jack Bradshaw’s small office. She saw him through the open door. He was sitting at his desk smoking a cigar and coughing. She called out, ‘Did you want a word, Mr Bradshaw?’

  He jumped and looked up. ‘Didn’t hear you,’ he spluttered. ‘You girls will creep about!’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did you want me?’ Behind her, towards the stage, she could hear voices and laughter as Bill Baloney concluded his act, and then applause and the orchestra playing the finale as the audience prepared to depart.

  ‘I just wanted to say, will you swap a couple of numbers round for tonight? Put that love song in the middle and finish with something merry. A bit cheeky, maybe?’ He narrowed his eyes as he drew on the cigar. ‘That’s what they like of an evening. Have a word with Miss Jenkinson and arrange it.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was relieved it was nothing more than that. ‘Was I all right?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’ He seemed puzzled by the question.

  ‘My act! Was it all right?’ I’ve obviously made a huge impression on him, she thought.

  ‘Oh! Yes. Fine. Fine.’ He looked her over. ‘But tonight is the telling time. We’ve two charabanc parties coming in. We’ll see how they like you. That’s why I say make it a bit saucy!’

  And so she didn’t try to catch up with Anthony but stayed behind to rehearse another song with Miss Jenkinson, who pursed her lips when she heard what Mr Bradshaw had said. ‘Well, I suppose he knows what his audiences want,’ she said primly. ‘But I would have thought we had sauce enough with the Terry Sisters and Mr Baloney, and that dreadful Nancy Martell, without its coming from the mouth of a sweet young thing like you.’

  A sweet young thing. That was how Miss Jenkinson saw her, and probably how the old lady who had spoken to her a little earlier saw her too. And she didn’t want to appear brash or bold. She had never sung songs with a double meaning. In fact, she thought ruefully, I’ve only recently discovered what they mean. She came to a decision.

  ‘You’re right, Miss Jenkinson,’ she said. ‘So I won’t do it. I’ll sing two love songs, and finish with the mazurka, and I won’t do the sauce.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll leave that to the others.’

  She was first into the dressing room that evening and sat alone in front of the spotted mirror, looking dispassionately at her face. Her skin was a creamy colour toning with her red hair, and the usual summer freckles on her nose had faded. Ronny’s right: my features won’t be seen from the back of the theatre. So, foundation cream to give me colour, and then I’ll darken my eyebrows, she thought, picking up a pencil. And what colour for my eyes? Green – it’s got to be green.

  She glanced up as Ronny came in. ‘Hello,’ she said through the mirror. ‘I’m putting on more make-up as you suggested.’

  Ronny nodded. She looked glum. ‘Good girl.’ She sat down and put her feet up on the dressing shelf, her skirt falling around her calves. She gazed at Poppy. ‘Did nobody tell you anything about stage life before you came to Brighton?’

  Poppy paused in the act of outlining her eyes. ‘No. I don’t really know anyone from the theatre. I had my dance and singing teachers, but that’s what they taught me – to dance and sing, and how to stand and how to breathe, but not about appearing in a production.’

  ‘I can’t believe that Dan took you on without any experience and sent you here to Brighton!’ Ronny said. ‘To sink or swim! It’s so unlike him.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s just trying me out?’ Poppy suggested.

  Ronny shook her head. ‘No, he wouldn’t do that. He has his reputation to think of.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘He must have great faith in you. Expectations! Here.’ She swung her feet down and stood up. ‘Let me show you how to do that.’ She opened up her own make-up box and brought out a small container and brush. ‘This is what you need for your eyes. Now keep very still so that it doesn’t smudge.’

  Poppy did as she was told and felt Ronny’s light touch around her eyes.

  ‘Try not to blink for a minute,’ Ronny said, stepping back to view the effect. ‘This is called kohl. Arab women use it to darken their eyes and stage people do too.’

  Poppy looked in the mirror. Her eyes looked enormous.

  ‘Now do your lashes if you haven’t any false ones.’ She peered closer at Poppy’s face. ‘Mmm. Perhaps you don’t need them. Your lashes are long enough anyway.’

  Ronny sat down again, opened her bag and drew out a cheroot. Poppy hadn’t seen her smoke before. Ronny lit it and drew until the tip glowed. ‘Want one?’ she asked, seeing Poppy watching her.

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. I don’t – at least – I’ve never—’

  ‘No?’ Ronny’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, no doubt you will before long. Still.’ She knitted her eyebrows into a frown and sighed. ‘Stay as sweet as you are for as long as you can.’

  Poppy turned back to the mirror. She had half an hour to finish her make-up and get changed. ‘Where’s Ena?’ she said, brushing rouge onto her cheeks. ‘Isn’t it getting late?’

  ‘Probably.’ Ronny drew again on the cheroot, then with it tight between her lips started to peel off her shoes and stockings. ‘As for Ena,’ she muttered. ‘I neither know or care.’

  ‘Oh.’ Poppy drew the outline of her mouth with a red pencil, and then filled it in with scarlet. ‘Have you had a row? My brother and I were always falling out when we were little, and we had arguments all the time until—’

  ‘She’s not my sister.’ Ronny unfastened the buttons on her dress and let it slip to the floor. Then she picked it up and threw it over a chair. She put her hands on her hips and, clad only in her silk slip, surveyed her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands over her flat stomach and turned to look at herself sideways. Then she sighed and turned to the rail where their dresses were hanging with a white sheet over them. ‘We’re not related.’

  ‘You’re not related?’ Poppy stared. ‘But you said that your parents were stage people!’

  Ronny shook out her dress, teasing out the feathers. ‘They are. Hers and mine.’ She hung the dress at the end of the rail and came to sit in front of the mirror. ‘We met when we were youngsters, about ten or eleven, and just starting out. We were in a dance troupe. Our parents knew each other and they put their heads together and suggested we join up as a double act.’ She gave a shrug. ‘We became the Terry Sisters. The public don’t know we’re not sisters,’ she added. ‘Only the stage folk do.’

  ‘And now you’ve fallen out,’ Poppy said anxiously. ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Heavens no,’ Ronny said. ‘We argue all the time. We live in each other’s pocket, that’s the trouble. We’ve nothing in common. We wouldn’t even be friends if it weren’t for the act.’

  ‘I see.’ Poppy stepped into her dress and buttoned it up, then fastened on her red shoes. ‘I hope she turns up in time.’

  ‘She will.’ Ronny stubbed out the cheroot. ‘She has to. Nice shoes,’ she commented. ‘Very classy.’

  ‘Handmade!’ Poppy beamed and was gratified when Ronny gave a whistle. ‘A friend made them. He’s a shoemaker. He’s just come to London to work.’

  ‘I’m impressed!’ Ronny said. ‘An admirer?’r />
  ‘Mm – yes!’ she answered, but before she could explain the door burst open and Ena rushed in, followed by Nancy Martell who pushed past her, saying, ‘I’m on before you. Outa my way.’

  Ena dug her elbow into the other woman. ‘Don’t you push me, you old hag!’

  ‘Who you calling an old hag?’ Nancy lifted her hand and for a moment Poppy thought she was going to strike out at Ena.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Ronny said sharply. ‘There’s a show starting in fifteen minutes. Fight outside if you want, but not in here, and not before the show.’ She glanced at Poppy who had gasped. ‘Take no notice, darling. Nance is always late and always blames everybody else for it. It’s never her fault.’

  Nancy transferred her glare to Ronny but didn’t speak and took off her outdoor coat, skirt and blouse and sat in front of the mirror. She had pale fleshy shoulders and a thick neck. She covered her dark hair with a hairnet, rubbed foundation cream on her face, stuck on false ginger eyebrows and rouged her cheeks, then put lipstick on her top lip to make a bright cupid’s bow. Then she carefully placed a curly ginger wig on her head before stepping into her costume. Ronny and Ena glanced at each other, raised their eyebrows at a common enemy and continued to prepare themselves for the evening performance.

  Poppy stood waiting in the wings once more. She wasn’t as nervous as she had been for the matinee; rather she was taut with pent-up excitement. She could hear the buzz from the audience and the occasional guffaws and shrieks of raucous laughter. The charabancs have arrived, she thought. Everybody’s come for a good time. The tumbler, who was again going on first, and stretching his toes and limbs as before, gave her a grin. ‘House full,’ he said, peeping round the edge of the curtain.

  Poppy took a breath. She hoped that Mr Bradshaw wouldn’t be angry that she wasn’t putting in any saucy songs, and mentally rehearsed what she would say to him if he was.