The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Of course.’ Poppy was relieved to see her depart. She didn’t want Mrs Marsden to hear her sing. She was convinced that if that patronizing lady discovered that she was performing in variety halls she would turn up her pretty little nose in disdain.

  Poppy and Mrs Bennett watched from the curtained window of the music room as Mrs Marsden was assisted into her smart conveyance, and as if she knew they were there she waved a gloved hand from the window.

  ‘Does she miss him, do you think?’ Poppy asked softly, thinking of Anthony’s heartache when Jeanette had told him she was marrying someone else.

  ‘Anthony?’ Mrs Bennett answered vaguely, still gazing out of the window at the disappearing carriage. ‘I don’t know. She would never admit it, if she does.’ Then she and Poppy looked at each other guiltily. ‘Oh!’ Mrs Bennett drew in a breath. ‘Do you know him? Anthony Marino? Yes, of course you must!’

  ‘I spoke out of turn,’ Poppy said hurriedly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, that’s all right.’ Mrs Bennett was flustered. ‘It is all over. A long time ago. But I still do feel for the dear boy.’ She put her hand to her chest. ‘I did so want them to marry. He writes such beautiful music and I think he still writes for her.’

  Should I tell her that Anthony told me he wrote that song for himself? No, she decided. Mrs Bennett is a romantic, just as I am. Dan Damone said that his sister had married for love and not for money. It would shatter her idealistic dreams if she thought that someone could recover from a broken love affair. She turned towards the piano. And how could anyone recover, if they had truly loved? Does Anthony have a secret longing for Jeanette even though she is married to another man? She sighed and murmured, ‘Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing . . .’

  ‘A plant with most cutting grows, most barren with best using,’ Mrs Bennett continued. ‘Samuel Daniel. I remember that from my schooling!’ She smiled. ‘Come along, no more talk of love. Let’s make music.’

  They were only halfway into the lesson when the front door bell rang. Mrs Bennett tutted crossly. ‘I will tell the girl to say I am not at home.’

  But the maid opened the door and Dan came rushing in, his cape flying and his hair awry. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt,’ he told his sister. ‘But this just couldn’t wait. I need an answer! I’ve come at full speed and I hoped that I’d find you here,’ he said, turning to Poppy. ‘Tremendous news, if you are ready for it.’

  ‘News! What news? Has something happened?’ Poppy asked.

  He sat down and then got up again. ‘We’ll take your advice, of course, Marian. You must say if Poppy is ready.’

  ‘Ready? For what?’ Mrs Bennett asked.

  ‘To sing in concert. In Paris!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ‘To sing – in Paris? But—’

  ‘A French agent has been in London, on holiday with his wife, and seemingly they went out to the theatre one evening and heard you.’ Dan put up his hands as Poppy opened her mouth to ask questions. ‘I don’t know where or what you were singing, but he was sufficiently impressed to go back to France and inform the managers of several concert halls and theatres. He mentions Lyon, Reims and Rouen too as possibilities.’

  He fished around in his pocket and brought out a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve enquired into his credentials, and he’s bona fide.’ He waved the paper at her. ‘They sent a telegram. If you agree, they’d like you to go over next month!’

  ‘But I can’t speak French, and what would I sing!’ Panic filled her. It was one thing singing in England, quite another singing in France.

  ‘Nothing too grand,’ he said soothingly. ‘Small halls or theatres and possibly salons for private performances. But it would be good for you, Poppy, don’t you think, Marian?’ he said to Mrs Bennett. ‘Better to start in concert halls and legitimate theatre over there, than here where you are known in music hall.’

  ‘You mean that if I’m not successful then no-one in England will hear of it?’ Poppy lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  He patted the seat of the sofa. ‘Come and sit here. No, of course I don’t mean that! Not at all. But the theatres and variety halls in London are asking for you as a popular singer. In France you can stretch your repertoire.’ He looked at his sister for confirmation. ‘Could she become another Jenny Lind?’

  ‘Jenny Lind! I’ve heard of her. She sang “La Sonnambula”.’ Poppy almost whispered the name as she remembered singing for her mother.

  ‘She did,’ Marian Bennett said. ‘She was known for it. Ah, non giunge. Do not mingle. It was one of her set pieces when she sang in concert.’ She shook her head. ‘Poppy is a different kind of singer entirely.’

  ‘I know it,’ Poppy told her softly. ‘I can sing it.’

  Dan gave a huge smile. ‘Well, there you are then! What else? What else can she sing, Marian?’

  Marian Bennett put her fingers to her head. ‘You’ve caught me off guard. Erm, Strauss waltzes. Ballads – “Greensleeves”! Folk songs. Rossini. But she can’t go abroad alone! It’s different here in music hall – everyone starts young and they’re not always chaperoned – but France! She must have a travelling companion; she would be considered immoral otherwise. It would be disastrous. There would be rumour and innuendo – especially as she doesn’t know the language, or the customs!’

  He pursed his lips and teased his whiskers as he surveyed the women. ‘But does it appeal?’ he asked Poppy. ‘Is she ready?’ he questioned his sister.

  Poppy nibbled her bottom lip. Already she was getting excited just at the idea of it.

  ‘Y-yes. She has to start sometime – but . . .’ Mrs Bennett looked doubtful and Poppy guessed that she would have had similar misgivings if the same had been asked of her own daughter.

  Dan sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Then you go with her,’ he suggested. ‘John can manage without you for a few weeks.’

  Poppy and Marian Bennett looked at each other. Poppy had never been introduced to Mr Bennett, though she had sometimes seen him walking down the steps from the house, his head in his newspaper and a pipe in his mouth. What he did for a living she had no idea.

  ‘Leave John? How ever would he manage without me?’

  ‘You’ve got a maid and a cook. Anyway, he’s so absent-minded he probably wouldn’t notice that you weren’t here.’

  ‘I couldn’t afford to go,’ she exclaimed. ‘What about my pupils?’

  ‘Who would I sing with?’ Poppy asked. ‘Will I have a pianist or an ensemble – what?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘I’ll find out about all that before we agree on a contract. There will no doubt be other singers too.’

  ‘So . . .’ Poppy gazed at Mrs Bennett. ‘If I were to take a companion who is also a pianist . . . ?’ She let the question hang in the air, but her eyes brightened.

  ‘I . . .’ Mrs Bennett clasped her hands to her chest. ‘I’ve never played the piano in a concert hall!’

  ‘You play the piano every day!’ Dan jumped up. ‘Of course! Well thought, Poppy. We can say that you will accept, and will bring your own accompanist and chaperon. What say you, Marian? Is it agreed?’

  ‘I must ask John.’ Marian Bennett had gone quite pink. ‘He won’t refuse, I’m sure, but – oh dear!’

  It was then that Poppy thought of Charlie. What would he say? What would he think? He couldn’t object, of course, unlike Mr Bennett who could refuse to let his wife go; but, she thought, Charlie would most likely disapprove. And I do so want his approval.

  She went straight round to his workshop on leaving Mrs Bennett’s. He was sitting in his window and she was struck by his likeness to his father, who was always in his chair.

  ‘One day I shall take on an apprentice and have women to do the machining for me,’ he said, by way of greeting, as she entered the door. ‘I shan’t be bent over a piece of leather all day like my father!’

  ‘But surely customers will want you to make their shoes?’
She came and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re such a fine shoemaker.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said, mollified. ‘But just take a look at my order book! Another six pairs of shoes to make, and all for the theatre or for Roger’s friends. I’m going to be working day and night to finish them.’ He looked up at her. ‘Could you slip out and get me a meat pie for my dinner?’

  ‘Yes, of course I can,’ she agreed. ‘And when I come back I’ve something exciting to tell you.’

  ‘What?’ He picked up his awl and began pressing holes in the welt of a shoe to make it ready for stitching.

  ‘I’ll tell you when I get back.’ He might be in a better mood after he’s eaten. He seems very grumpy now, and who wouldn’t be, she thought, glancing round the small dark workshop. The only place he could afford, he’d told her, when first showing it to her.

  On the way back with the meat pie, she slipped into a nearby hostelry and bought him a small jug of ale. I’m sugaring the pill, she thought. Wheedling him so that he’ll be pleased for me. Surely I shouldn’t have to do this?

  ‘So will you go?’ he asked, when she had told him the news. He looked downcast and took a gulp of ale. ‘Is that what singers do? Travel abroad before they’ve made a name for themselves at home?’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘Nothing to do with me, of course. I can’t influence you.’

  ‘But it is to do with you, Charlie – Charles. I – I want to go, but . . .’ I want him to say well done, or what a wonderful opportunity. ‘I’d like your opinion,’ she tailed off quietly.

  ‘Well, seeing as you ask, my opinion is that you should stay here. Plenty of places to sing at in London, if it’s really what you want to do.’ He took another sup of ale, but pushed the half-eaten pie away. ‘You’ve spread your wings already by moving away from Hull. London’s the place to be; it’s the hub for theatres, for business, for anything you can think of. I shall make my name here.’ He drew nearer to his bench and began working beeswax into the threads of hemp which he would use for sewing. ‘Although when I’m established I might try Europe.’

  She left him, saying that she was still thinking about the offer; that she hadn’t yet made up her mind. As she walked down the street a young woman was alighting from a brougham, and looking around her as if she was in unfamiliar territory.

  ‘Pardon me,’ she said to Poppy. ‘I’m looking for Charles Chandler, the shoemaker. Do you happen to know where his premises are?’

  She was expensively dressed in rich brown velvet: a full-skirted tailored jacket with large sleeves and a wide panelled skirt. On her head she wore a neat velvet boater with a short veil.

  I’m glad I cleared away Charlie’s dinner plate, was Poppy’s first thought. He would be cross to have someone like this catch him unawares. ‘I’ll take you.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve just this minute left him.’

  ‘Is he any good, do you know?’ the young lady asked. ‘I’ve heard excellent reports, but I don’t know of anyone personally who has had a pair of shoes made.’ Her voice was haughty; it held no warmth at all, Poppy mused. But still, what does that matter if she’s a potential customer?

  ‘I have a pair,’ Poppy told her. ‘He made me a pair of dancing shoes. I wear them constantly.’

  ‘Really? Oh, that’s splendid! That’s just what I want for a special occasion. A supper dance.’

  ‘Here we are!’ Poppy pushed open Charlie’s door. ‘He’s inundated with work, but I’m sure he’ll see you. Charles!’ she called. ‘A visitor for you.’

  The Marinos had received a letter from Anthony and he had enclosed one for Poppy. She opened it as she was having supper with them. It was brief, telling her of his travel plans. ‘I am leaving France in a few days to go to Switzerland; to Basel and then Zürich. After that I shall travel to Milan, Florence, Bologna and Siena. I am giving you this information, Poppy, in case you should ever need to get in touch with me – for whatever reason. I trust that you are happy – you seemed to be when I saw you last. Yours in affection, Anthony.’

  ‘France, Switzerland, Italy!’ she murmured and Mario beamed.

  ‘It is good, yes, all this travel? You should do it too. Travel broadens the ’orizons.’

  His wife nodded. ‘It is true what he says. But we only go to Italy in a blue moon, we never go anywhere else, not to France or Germany, only we travel through these places!’

  Mario lifted up both hands and looked round the small restaurant. ‘Why should we go? We have everything we want ’ere. It is the young who should travel, as we did.’

  His wife waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Yes,’ she said to Poppy. ‘You must travel while you can or else you meet an ’usband who wants always to stay at ’ome.’

  Poppy sat listening to them chuntering good-heartedly at each other. Should she tell them of her offer? She decided that she would. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, ‘I’ve been offered engagements in France. I have to make up my mind by tomorrow, so that Dan can write a proposal and send a telegram. What should I do?’ she asked. ‘I can’t ask my father, there isn’t time.’

  ‘Alone?’ Rosina asked, and Mario, who had just said that she should travel, shook his head. ‘Not alone,’ he said. ‘It is too dangerous for a young lady.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett, my singing coach, might be able to travel with me. If her husband approves, that is.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett? Ah, yes.’ They both nodded their heads in complicity and looked at each other.

  ‘I do know about Anthony and Mrs Bennett’s daughter,’ said Poppy. ‘Anthony told me.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mario came and sat next to her, putting his chin in his hand and gazing at her. ‘He discussed her with you? That is good.’ He gave a big smile. ‘Rosina – that is good, yes?’ he said to his wife. ‘He talks about her at last!’

  Rosina heaved a sigh. ‘I knew it. I knew that one day he would be over her.’

  A few days later, Poppy told Charlie that she had decided to travel to France. Mr Bennett had decreed that his wife should accompany Poppy and indeed said that he was delighted that the opportunity had presented itself. He had been introduced to Poppy and she found him to be of courtly and old-fashioned charm, yet worldly enough to agree that his wife should travel without him.

  ‘You see, I can’t miss the chance,’ Poppy explained to Charlie. ‘It might open so many doors for me.’

  He nodded, biting his lip and pondering. Then he said, ‘Will you see that pianist fellow whilst you’re over there?’

  ‘Anthony!’ She laughed. ‘Why no!’ Goodness, she thought. Is he jealous? Warmth spread over her at the idea. ‘He’s gone to Switzerland – I think,’ she added cautiously.

  He came towards her and put out his arms and drew her towards him. ‘I shall miss you,’ he said, and bent to kiss her. ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘Dan has suggested I take other engagements whilst I’m over there, so perhaps several weeks, maybe a month or more. Will you really miss me, Charlie?’ she asked. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Of course, you little goose! Of course I will. I shall be slaving away here whilst you’re enjoying yourself, taking bouquets and being flattered by compliments.’ He looked down at her and smiled and she felt overwhelmed with love for him. Perhaps after all he did really love her, though he could never love her as much as she loved him.

  ‘I love you, Charlie,’ she whispered. ‘And I’ll think of you every day I’m away.’

  He kissed her again, his lips tender against hers. ‘One day you’ll prove it,’ he said softly. ‘One day you’ll show me how much you love me.’

  ‘I’ve loved you since I was ten,’ she murmured. ‘Isn’t that proof?’

  ‘How sweet you are, Poppy! My adorable girl.’

  ‘How old do I have to be, Charlie, before you believe I love you and you say that you love me?’ She gazed up at him, her emotions in confusion.

  He shook his head and said tetchily. ‘I’ve told you that I love you, Poppy. Of course I do.’

  She blinked as tears filmed her eye
s. Why did she always have to ask him? Why was her happiness always tinged with doubt and uncertainty? Her heart told her to believe the words he uttered. Her head told her that she must have a care, or her heart would break.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  A month later they crossed to France. Poppy had written to her father to tell him her news, and regretting that there was no time to come home to Hull before she went away. There were rehearsals of her chosen pieces of music, three new songs to learn and a duet with a tenor she had been asked to consider. There was also a wardrobe to prepare, and Mrs Bennett was helping her with this.

  The first thing she had suggested was a corset to accentuate Poppy’s tiny waist and uplift her breasts, for the two gowns they had chosen for her performances were cut low on the bodice. One was in apple green with diaphanous sleeves of chiffon, the other in creamy white satin with frilled lace sleeves over net and edged with satin ribbon. Both emphasized charm and youthful sensuality.

  Charlie had come to say goodbye at Mrs Bennett’s where she was staying for the last few days before their journey, and had imparted the news that he was taking on an apprentice.

  ‘So soon?’ she exclaimed. ‘Have you business enough to do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve promises of lots of work. You remember the young lady who came the day you were there, Miss Amanda Burchfield? Roger recommended her. She’s ordered several pairs of shoes, and I went to visit her father who asked me to make him a pair of boots. He’s a self-made man,’ he added. ‘Has his own carriage and a house full of servants.’

  She was pleased for him, of course, but he seemed uninterested in her own plans, although as she showed him out he took her hand and said bon voyage, and that he would miss her. ‘I hope you do, Charlie,’ she’d whispered. ‘I shall think of you whilst I’m away, and I hope you think of me, even though you will be so busy.’