by Val Wood
He’d kissed her cheek and said that he would never be so busy that he didn’t have time to think of her, and she had to be satisfied with that.
The concert hall was packed at her first appearance. The wildly enthusiastic audience had come to hear an Italian tenor who, although Poppy hadn’t heard of him, was extremely popular in France. Poppy too was greeted by great applause at the end of her performance. She took her bow and gave an encore.
She and Mrs Bennett had been invited to stay with the French agent, Michel Auber, and his wife whilst in Paris and Mrs Bennett had gratefully accepted on their behalf. They lived in a roomy first floor apartment overlooking the Seine and one of its many bridges. Mrs Bennett told Poppy that they couldn’t be too careful in protecting her reputation. When Poppy looked puzzled, she explained that even well-run hotels could be regarded as places for assignations and intrigue, fatal for an innocent female artiste.
Dan had arranged with Michel Auber that he should plan Poppy’s schedule over the next few weeks, but told him that he should always discuss the venues with Mrs Bennett first for her approval. After the first performance, reviews were impressive and led to a flood of invitations to sing at private gatherings and salons. These were carefully considered and she accepted three engagements a week for a month. Whilst they were in Paris, they were taken to view the Eiffel Tower, newly built in 1889 for the Grand Exhibition, and the twelfth-century cathedral of Notre Dame, and climbed the steps in Montmartre to reach the heady heights of the church of Sacré Coeur. Then they moved on to the ancient Roman city and university town of Reims.
Two of the other female singers who had shared the billing at Poppy’s first appearance, Madame Solari and Mademoiselle Lablanche, were also going to engagements in Reims and Michel Auber suggested that they should travel together, while he made bookings for the three of them to sing at the same venue. Poppy was pleased with the arrangement. They were older and more experienced than she was, one French, the other Italian, and they cushioned any nervousness that she felt at being in a strange country, by having visited the place before and therefore being able to advise her. Marian Bennett too was satisfied with the plan; always aware of social protocol, she felt it was safer and more respectable for them to travel with a party.
A letter was forwarded from Poppy’s father, who told her that the shop was once again busy and the coffee shop with its new decorations in a theatre theme was doing well. ‘There’s some attraction between Tommy and Mattie,’ he wrote. ‘They’ve said nothing but there’s something going on there for sure. Nan has noticed it as well. We’d both be pleased if it came to a proper relationship. She’d be good for him and she’s such a help in the shop, full of ideas. I’ve got very fond of her, and of Nan too. I admit I was foolish, not to have had them both here in the first place. But I was at my wits’ end after your mother died and not thinking straight.’
There was also a letter from Anthony, sent on to her by Dan. He had just arrived in Italy where he said he intended to stay for the next three months, in spite of the bitterly cold weather and the snow which had started to fall. He wrote, ‘I’m so proud of you, Poppy. Dan has written of how well you are being received and I’m only sorry that our paths haven’t crossed. I seem always to be moving on in front of you. I hope that perhaps one day you will catch up with me. I have written several songs whilst I have been in Europe and the music publisher Schott has shown an interest. I am enclosing one of them. It might not be suitable for you to sing in private salons, but maybe in the theatre.’ He signed his letter, ‘Your good friend, Anthony.’
Poppy showed the song to Marian Bennett, who having hummed it through said, ‘He’s quite right; it won’t do for the salons. The audiences there seem to prefer the old-established songs from operetta, though the themes are similar, of lost or unrequited love.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Anthony is such a romantic. He writes songs from the heart.’ Then she said wistfully, ‘Such a dear boy. I wish him happiness . . .’ She gave herself a shake. ‘But there.’ She turned to Poppy and gave her back the song sheet. ‘You could sing it in the theatres. It would appeal to those in an audience who like to shed a few tears, and then have a happy ending.’
When Poppy was alone, she hummed the song softly. It was a yearning lyrical melody suitable for voice, piano or orchestra arrangement.
My love she sits a-weeping beneath the greenwood tree
My love she sits a-weeping – but not for me.
Her tears flow for another, to me she was not true
For though I love those pale pink cheeks and starry eyes so blue
The tender lips I fain would kiss their nectar sweet to claim
Love only him who cares not and whisper on his name.
My love she sits a-weeping beneath the greenwood tree
My love she sits a-weeping – but not for me.
I wait for her as the year doth pass when winter turns to spring
When fresh green grows on the greenwood tree,
My dearest love will turn to me, to bring her comfort still.
And when I look upon her face the light of love to see
And with my arms I do embrace her wounded gentle heart
I’ll claim it for my very own and tell her soft, my dearest one,
I’ll never part from thee.
My love she sits a-smiling beneath the greenwood tree
My love she sits a-smiling – she smiles for me.
It’s beautiful. I’ll sing it tomorrow evening, she mused. And announce it as a new composition by Anthony Marino. She was to sing at a small theatre where Madame Solari and an English tenor, Mr Andrew Richardson, would also perform. Marian Bennett was to accompany her on the piano.
The theatre had a full house and Poppy was the first performer. She wore her green gown and had dressed her hair in a loose chignon with ringlets at the side of her face. She didn’t like to wear false curls, as the nearest match to her own was always coarse and gingery and not red and shiny like her own hair. She looked young and fresh as she sang ‘Greensleeves’ in her clear crystalline voice and received rapturous applause.
Marian Bennett was beaming as she too took applause from the audience. It was the best reception they had had on the tour. The tenor then portrayed the character Hoffman from The Tales of Hoffman – followed by Madame Solari who sang arias from La Traviata. A short interval, and Mrs Bennett once more took her place at the piano, a full-size concert grand. Poppy came to stand by it; she folded her hands in front of her and announced that she would like to sing a new composition by the pianist and composer Anthony Marino. She smiled shyly and sweetly at the audience and told them that this was the very first time the song had been heard.
There were appreciative murmurings from the auditorium and as Mrs Bennett began the introduction, emphasizing the phrasing of the melody, Poppy took a breath, clasped her hands against her breast and began.
The audience was hushed as Poppy’s voice, soft and low, expressing all the tenderness of unrecognized love, wistfully caressed the poignant passages of the first verse. She charmed them with the evocative chorus, and in the second verse sang lyrically and joyfully of the fulfilment of romantic rapture.
As she finished and bowed her head there was a sudden silence in which Poppy could hear the beating of her own heart. Then, as one, the audience rose to its feet and began to applaud. ‘Bravo! Encore! Encore!’
She stood startled for a moment and then a smile lifted the corners of her lips. What was it Anthony had said? That to perform and hear the applause of the audience was food and drink to an artiste. He is quite right! She came to the front of the stage and gave a deep curtsy. I feel as if I have dined on heady sweet wine. She bowed again and held out her hand to invite Mrs Bennett to take an acknowledgement, and backed away. She remembered something else that Anthony had said, the time he had invited her to join him on the stage at Brighton. Always leave them wanting more. There was no time for an encore in any case. The other singers were waiting. She touc
hed her hands to her lips, threw the audience a kiss and left the stage.
Reviews were ecstatic and hailed her enchanting performance. Flowers and champagne, the speciality of the region, were sent to her at every appearance and offers flooded in. Michel Auber travelled to Reims himself to discuss them and they then journeyed on to spend a week in the industrial city of Dijon, followed by the long journey on to Lyon.
In Lyon Poppy saw for the first time, and was invited to ride in, a petrol-driven motor car. It was, she thought, one of the strangest contraptions she had ever seen. ‘It travels as fast as two horses,’ she said excitedly to Mrs Bennett. ‘It bangs and spits and sets off with such a jerk that I had to hold on to my hat.’ She remembered being with her father at the theatre in Hull when they saw the trick cyclists on stage with their motorized bicycle.
‘I miss my pa,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s such a long time since I saw him.’ She didn’t know why she felt so homesick. She was having a wonderful time, but she was getting tired. They had been travelling abroad for six weeks and she had been singing several times a week at theatres or salons during that time.
‘I miss my husband too,’ Mrs Bennett confessed. ‘We have never been apart for so long during the whole of our married life. But your voice needs a rest, Poppy. I thought you sounded a little husky at your last performance.’
Poppy nodded. It was true, her voice felt strained and reaching the higher notes was no longer as easy as it had been at the beginning of the tour. ‘Should we make Lyon our last stop?’ she said. ‘And then go home? We could be home for Christmas.’
She was longing too to see Charlie. She had sent him several letters and topographical postcards of Paris, including some picturing the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower, but hadn’t received a reply, even though she had included a forwarding address. In Reims she had posed in her green gown, with her red hair flowing to her shoulders, for hand-coloured photographs for cartes de visite, which she distributed to admirers, and one of these she had placed in an envelope and posted to Charlie, being careful to address it to Charles Chandler. But still no reply.
Perhaps he has moved to new premises and hasn’t received them, she pondered, prepared to forgive his laxity. And I expect he will be so busy he won’t have had time to enquire of Dan Damone or my father as to my whereabouts. Nevertheless, she felt rather hurt that she hadn’t heard from him.
‘Yes, I think we should return,’ Marian Bennett said in reply to her question. ‘There are no forward bookings after Lyon, but you must honour those that are already made.’ She smiled. ‘It will be good to go home, though I have really enjoyed being here. It’s been such a pleasure to play. Going back to teaching my pupils will seem very dull in comparison.’
Poppy gazed at her. ‘Does that mean that you won’t be able to come with me again, if I should return to Europe?’ Mrs Bennett had been the perfect companion as well as coach and accompanist.
‘Oh, my dear,’ Mrs Bennett said wistfully. ‘I don’t know if I can leave my husband again for so long.’ She seemed almost shy as she added, ‘We have a good marriage. I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Poppy said quietly. ‘I do understand. Mr Bennett will want you with him.’
She sighed inwardly. How wonderful to inspire such devotion. Then she pondered. So if I want to continue travelling abroad, I must find another companion. Not necessarily one who played the piano, for wherever they had been there was always a pianist, violinist or ensemble able to play, and indeed the other singers hadn’t had their own accompanists.
But I realize now that I must travel with an older married female or with a theatre party. She had seen for herself when gentlemen had arrived at the theatres and halls, bringing flowers and chocolates and invitations to supper, how easy it would be for a young single woman to give the wrong impression. Whom would I ask? Whom do I know? There was no-one she could think of. I won’t worry about it now, she decided. There will surely be someone.
She sent a carte de visite to Anthony to tell him that they would be returning to England after she had completed the engagements in Lyon, and he had written back to say how pleased he was to receive it. ‘I see that you are no longer a child,’ he’d put, ‘but a charming and beautiful young woman.’ He also expressed regret that their paths wouldn’t cross in Europe, and hoped that they would meet up again when he returned to London in the New Year.
He says I’m a beautiful young woman, she mused, smiling as she read his letter. Many of the reviewers in the newspapers had declared their astonishment at such a pure clear voice in one so young, and at her command of range and tone. Her age, according to the critics, ranged from thirteen to eighteen.
The last two weeks were very tiring, for Michel Auber, having been told that she was returning to England, had pleaded to be allowed to book several more engagements, and she was forced to sing less taxing roles in order to save her voice. Nevertheless she was applauded wherever she went, though she always refused to sing an encore on the advice of Mrs Bennett.
‘Your voice is still immature,’ she warned her. ‘Don’t overstrain it.’
She took her final bow at a theatre in Lyon after singing Anthony’s song, ‘Beneath the Greenwood Tree’, and once more was given rapturous applause. Flowers were thrown onto the stage, and she took one rose from a bouquet and threw it into the audience. A young man in the second row reached high above everyone else’s head and caught it.
He was waiting at the door of the theatre as she left with Mrs Bennett and the other members of their party. ‘Mademoiselle!’ He bowed and spoke to her in fractured English. ‘Please, you will come back to France one day?’
She said that she hoped so, and he pressed the rose to his lips and declared he would keep the flower for ever.
‘You’ve made several conquests during your time here,’ Mrs Bennett drily remarked as they were driven away in the brougham. ‘But you are a sensible young woman and I can’t see such adoration going to your head!’
‘It’s very flattering,’ Poppy said softly. ‘But my heart is already spoken for.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Poppy was tense with nervous exhilaration when she arrived back in England. She chattered animatedly to Mrs Bennett about what to do first as they boarded the train to London. ‘Do I go first to see Dan? Should I stay with the Marinos? I must go home for Christmas. And I want to get in touch with Charlie! How will I find him if he’s moved premises?’ Mrs Bennett had met Charlie when he had visited Poppy at her house before their departure for France. Reading between the lines she had realized there was an attraction, on Poppy’s part at any rate.
But Poppy was also extremely tired. Her voice was croaky and although she had dashed to buy some refreshments and magazines for the journey, when she sat down in the ladies’ compartment she put back her head and closed her eyes and tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘What is it, Poppy?’ Mrs Bennett leaned across from her seat and touched her arm. ‘Why are you crying? You’ve had a great success. You can go back, you know. When you’ve rested, that is.’ She looked anxiously at her as Poppy opened her eyes and she saw the glistening tears.
‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ Poppy choked. ‘I just—’ she swallowed. ‘I just feel that I want to. I’m not unhappy or anything. It’s all been just wonderful!’
‘I think you’re overtired,’ Marian Bennett said. ‘You’ve had a great deal of excitement, and then all the travelling too. I must admit that I feel quite exhausted, and I haven’t been on show as you have.’
Poppy nodded. Right now she longed for her own little bed above the shop. She wanted her father to give her a hug the way he used to when she was a child, but more than anything else she wanted Charlie to be waiting for her at the barrier when they arrived in London. She had sent one last letter to his old address, telling him of her arrival, and had written on the envelope a request that the Post Office forward the letter if necessary.
> But he wasn’t there, and Mrs Bennett, seeing her obvious disappointment, insisted that she went home with her to rest that evening and then think about what to do the following day. ‘Dan will want to see you, of course. I will send a first class letter to him in the morning, asking him to call.’
He came the next evening, bearing flowers, chocolates and champagne. He also brought newspapers with reviews and articles saying that Poppy Mazzini had returned to England from a triumphal tour of Europe. Charlie will surely see these, she thought, as she scanned the reports, even if he hasn’t received my letter. Surely someone will tell him? The uncertainty was making her feel quite dizzy.
Dan saw how tired she was. ‘I’m putting you on the first train home tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘You need peace and quiet. I’ve had letters from your father. He’s most anxious to see you after so long.’ He looked steadily at her. ‘You are a very lucky young woman to have such a supportive father, concerned for your well-being.’ Then he added, ‘Will a week be enough? I can get bookings for you whenever you’re ready.’
‘Two weeks at the minimum,’ Mrs Bennett insisted, ‘and then only one performance, just to let people know that she’s back in England. Then she needs to give her voice and herself a complete rest.’
‘Well, that’s fine,’ Dan agreed. ‘You’ve made sufficient money to be able to take time off if you want to, Poppy.’
Part of her wanted to say she’d keep on singing. But another part of her knew that she would have to rest or her voice would fail her. ‘I’ll see,’ she said. ‘When I get back from visiting my father.’
She dozed on and off during the whole journey to Hull, only waking when she heard the shout of the guard to change trains. She gathered her personal belongings together as the train reached Hull, and realized that she hadn’t even opened the magazine that she had bought to read. The porter carried her luggage; she had brought only hand baggage, having left her trunk at Mrs Bennett’s, and as she followed him to the gate she saw a crowd of people carrying a banner and heard the sound of a brass band playing.