The Songbird

by Val Wood

  Welcome home, Poppy Mazzini, the banner proclaimed, and as she neared the gate there came a loud ‘Hurrah’.

  Her father stood there, his arms open wide to greet her and his eyes glistening. ‘Here she is!’ he shouted, as if no-one else could see her. Nan stood beside him, clapping her hands and beaming. ‘Welcome home, Poppy. Welcome home!’

  The crowd gathered round her, calling to her and thrusting theatre programmes towards her that she might sign her name. Her father gathered up her luggage and propelled her towards the exit. There was a hired cab waiting to take them home and as she stepped out at the shop in Savile Street she saw another banner over the shop window. Welcome home, Poppy. International Singing Star.

  She laughed. ‘I’m not quite international, Pa! I’ve been to France!’

  ‘It’s all ’same to me,’ he said. ‘France is onny ’stepping stone. It’ll be America next, you mark my words.’

  The door to the shop was open and Tommy and Mattie were waiting to greet her. Mattie was all smiles, her eyes sparkling. She looked very well and had put on weight since Poppy had seen her last, as had Nan. They were both wearing neat plain gowns and not the shabby garments they used to wear. Tommy had a huge grin on his face as he gave her a hug. ‘Been waiting for you to come,’ he said. ‘We’re going to shut up early, and have a celebratory supper.’

  But that was easier said than done, as customers old and new kept coming in to greet Poppy and say how they had kept up with her progress. Finally, her father shooed everyone out and said to come back in the morning, when Poppy would talk to them.

  ‘I’m not supposed to talk too much,’ she said huskily. ‘I’ve got to save my voice.’

  ‘Well, we’ll do ’talking,’ Tommy said. ‘But first we’ll pull ’blinds down, and then we’ll set a table and eat.’

  Poppy admired the new décor. The grocery side had been painted cream with brown doors and window frames, and there was a new glass counter. The coffee shop side had been decorated in green, with simulated stage drapes round the walls and windows, a dark green palm tree painted on one wall, and high up in the corners white clown masks depicting smiles and despair. Theatre posters, day bills and photographs of Poppy adorned the walls.

  ‘Can we eat in the kitchen?’ she asked. ‘The way we always used to do.’

  ‘Aye, if you like.’ Tommy was buoyant and merry, whilst Mattie, although smiling as she glanced at Poppy, wasn’t quite as chatty as usual, which was unlike her.

  She went up to her old room. Nan had obviously cleaned it, for it looked fresh and cosy. There was a posy of winter jasmine on the window sill and a fire burning in the grate. She sat on the bed and gave a sigh. How good it was to come home. She had missed everybody so much.

  After washing and changing out of her travelling clothes, she went downstairs. A bright fire burned in the range, the table was set and there was a smell of cooking beef. Her father was already seated at the table.

  ‘Come and sit next to me, Poppy. You don’t have to talk; I just want you by me. How long can you stay?’ he asked.

  She was grateful to him for realizing that she would be going back, that she would be continuing with her career. She smiled. ‘I can stay for Christmas, maybe one week, maybe longer,’ she said softly. ‘I have to rest my voice, but I will sing at just one performance in London. Then I shall take some time off.’

  ‘Then why sing at one performance?’ He frowned. ‘Why not wait?’

  ‘It’s so that the theatre managers know I’ll be available later. They need to see and hear that I’m back in England.’

  ‘Supper’s ready.’ Tommy put the joint of beef on a platter, and Nan and Mattie placed the dishes of vegetables and a jug of gravy on the table.

  ‘I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘I can see that you’ve not been eating,’ Tommy declared. ‘Just look at you – nowt on you.’

  ‘She was always slender,’ Mattie said. ‘She’s not meant to be fat.’

  ‘Not like you, eh?’ Tommy grinned. ‘Don’t you think our Mattie looks bonny, Poppy? That’s what good food does for you!’

  Poppy nodded, noting the our Mattie. ‘You do look well, Mattie, and so does Nan.’ She smiled at Nan who had taken the seat at the other side of Joshua. ‘You all do,’ she added. ‘You too, Pa.’

  ‘Aye, well I’m a lot easier in my mind now that I’ve got folks I can trust about me.’

  Tommy stood poised with the carving knife and glanced down at Mattie, who smiled up at him. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Well, on that subject I’ve summat to say.’ He chewed on his lip and looked at his father. ‘I have to ask your permission, Pa, as I’ve not yet reached my majority, but – well, Mattie and me are going to get wed.’ He put down the knife and rested his hand on Mattie’s shoulder. ‘She’s been ’best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I know we’re both young, but we’re prepared to wait if we have to. There’s no rush, nobody need think there is, but it’s what we both want.’

  Poppy and her father both stood up, Poppy to kiss Mattie and give Tommy a hug, Joshua to shake his son’s hand and offer congratulations and give Mattie a kiss. Nan sat smiling, and Poppy realized that she already knew when she saw her and Mattie exchanging glances.

  ‘Well, Nan.’ Joshua bent down and patted her shoulder. ‘So what about that, eh? I suppose you knew all along, did you?’

  Nan blushed. She admitted that Mattie had confided in her, and that they had decided to wait until Poppy came home before breaking the news.

  Poppy squeezed Mattie’s hand during supper. ‘I’m so pleased, Mattie,’ she said. ‘You’re just right for Tommy.’

  Mattie pressed her lips together. ‘Are you? Really?’ she said. ‘I’ve been so worried. I was afraid that you might have come back so – grand . . .’ She blinked her eyes. ‘I should have known better. I should’ve known that you’d be just ’same. It’s just that we’re nobody, Ma and me, but we’re so fond of you and your pa, and I’ve always loved Tommy.’

  ‘Mattie! How can you say that you’re nobody? You and Nan have always been special people. You’ve always been like family.’ She squeezed her hand again. ‘And now I’ve got a sister.’

  She glanced across at Nan who was in a quiet conversation with her father and at the same time helping him to a slice of beef and vegetables. She turned to Mattie and raised her eyebrows. Mattie gave a grin and Poppy turned again to look at Joshua and Nan. She took a deep breath. How lovely that would be, if Nan and Pa— And then, she thought wistfully, there’d just be me.

  Poppy visited Mr and Mrs Chandler in the vain hope that they would know whether Charlie had moved premises, but they told her in their usual disgruntled manner that they hadn’t had a letter from him for months. ‘We heard you were back in Hull,’ Mrs Chandler said. ‘We’d hoped that you’d know where he was.’

  Poppy said she was sorry that she didn’t but once she discovered his whereabouts she would let them know.

  Nan and Mattie were still living at the house in Stewart’s Yard, and Mattie told her that the rent had been paid in advance. ‘Your pa’s been so generous,’ she said. ‘He’s paid ’rent up front for us so that we’d feel secure and has promised that he’ll increase our wages as soon as he can, though when Tommy and me get wed he won’t have to pay me and I’ll be living above ’shop.’

  ‘But what about Nan?’ Poppy asked. ‘She won’t want to live there alone. I wouldn’t mind her having my room.’

  ‘She won’t move in, not like Lena did. She said it wouldn’t be proper. She won’t let me either, not until Tommy and me are wed.’

  The five of them spent a quiet Christmas, and on the day following her birthday she received a telegram from Dan. The message read that he could secure a performance for one night only at the Savoy Theatre in three weeks’ time. ‘Shall I say yes or no?’ he queried.

  The Savoy Theatre, she pondered, where D’Oyly Carte staged the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. She wasn’t an opera singer by any means, but she knew that
she could sing light operetta. The idea excited her, but she would need to make sure that she didn’t strain her voice. For the last week she had spoken only in whispers, but now she felt stronger and more rested and ready to go back. She telegraphed ‘Yes’.

  Dan met her at King’s Cross station. ‘The Savoy have put up posters outside the theatre and an advertisement in the Illustrated London News. “Special performance”,’ he quoted, ‘“for one night only, the celebrated Poppy Mazzini!”’

  ‘Really?’ She was astounded. Everything was happening so fast.

  ‘Yes, really! Though Marian says you should have been given more time.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘I feel really well and although I haven’t sung properly I’ve been going over some of my songs on the piano at home.’

  She moved back in with the Marinos who were pleased to see her again and gave her news of Anthony, who was still in Italy, and she travelled each day to see Mrs Bennett.

  Her tutor asked her to concentrate on the breathing exercises she had given her, and to learn the words and music of the songs she had chosen to sing. ‘Concentrate on the essence of what you are singing about,’ she reminded her. ‘Think of the emotion of the words and what it might mean to the listener: let them smell the roses in the arbour, hear the rustle of the trees when the breeze blows through them; let them hear the ripple of the stream, and feel the heartbreak or joy of love. Listen also to what the music is telling you.’

  For two weeks they practised and then Mrs Bennett sat down at the piano and asked her to sing. When she had finished she clapped her hands. ‘Tremendous, Poppy,’ she said. ‘Your voice is much improved. It will get even better,’ she declared. ‘After this performance, you must take time off again for a few weeks, and then come to me for some more coaching. Your voice will become more mature. You are using variations of tone and expression already, but you have a young voice, and we must be careful not to overdo it. Now,’ she smiled, ‘I’ll meet you at the Savoy tomorrow as arranged for a rehearsal with the musicians. Try not to talk too much and then in three days we’ll be ready.’

  Poppy was desperate to find Charlie, yet something held her back. After the concert I’ll look for him, she decided. She knew how important it was that she concentrated only on her debut at the Savoy. Marian Bennett was to be her pianoforte accompanist, with a harpist and a violinist, and they spent the next three days arranging the order of the music.

  On the day of the performance she arrived early at the theatre to change and put on her make-up. She dressed herself in her green gown. She was to sing ‘Greensleeves’ as part of the programme. One day, she thought, as she pinned back her hair and pulled some curls down around her face, I might be famous enough to have my own wardrobe mistress and a dresser to attend my hair, for it is always so unruly.

  Someone knocked on the door. ‘Flowers for Miss Mazzini!’ a voice called.

  She jumped up. From Pa? From Dan? Not from Anthony, for he wouldn’t know where she was or what she was doing. She opened the door to receive them. The bouquet was immense: chrysanthemums, lilies, roses, wisps of fern. ‘Goodness,’ she murmured. ‘Whoever has sent these?’

  She opened the card and her lips parted as she read the message. ‘From Charles.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘Charlie!’ she whispered. Tears gathered in her eyes and she fought to control them. She mustn’t become too emotional. She must save that for her singing. But she felt joy rushing through her, making her heart beat faster. ‘He came,’ she murmured breathlessly. ‘He cares after all. He’ll be out there in the audience listening to me!’

  The musicians were grouped on the stage as Poppy made her entrance. She felt exhilarated and it showed as she swept towards the front of the stage and sank into a deep curtsy. There was a murmuring from the well-dressed audience in the stalls, the gentlemen in formal suits and the ladies in glittering gowns. Most of them were hearing Poppy for the first time. From the gallery came the sound of loud clapping and cheering and she guessed that this was from people who had heard and seen her at lesser theatres before she went abroad.

  She turned towards the piano and stood beside it. The harpist began to play with evocative gentle notes. Marian Bennett caressed the keys as she developed the melodic phrasing, the violinist put his bow to the wood and Poppy began to sing.

  She barely knew where she was. She only felt sheer joy coursing through her as she sang. Her voice, sweet and touching, ardent with passion, captivating and dulcet, ranged over all the emotions in its intensity. She took sips of water during the interval but spoke to no-one and came back on the stage to tremendous acclaim. At last she sang her final song and the audience rose to its feet in acknowledgement.

  Mrs Bennett clapped softly, her eyes on Poppy. The harpist smiled and nodded, the violinist tapped his bow, whilst the audience went wild. Poppy seemed to wake up. She bowed low, her hand on her breast, then came to the front of the stage and gave another deep curtsy. She backed away, caught Marian Bennett’s eye and in answer to her raised eyebrows and unasked question gave a slight shake of her head. She did not have the energy or the voice to sing an encore as the audience were requesting.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed. ‘Thank you.’

  Someone threw a white rose, and smiling she bent to collect it and threaded it into her hair. She smiled again, mouthed ‘thank you’ once more, and left the stage with the chants of the audience ringing in her ears.

  Someone opened the door into the dressing room for her and she swept in and sank into her chair, absolutely spent, yet full of excitement as if she could soar like a bird above the treetops. She took several more sips of water and then Marian Bennett tapped on the open door and asked if she could come in.

  ‘That was wonderful, Poppy,’ she said. She too was exultant. ‘Truly wonderful! I have never heard you sing so well. Dan is in the audience; he’s going to want to make more bookings for you.’ She held up a warning finger. ‘But you can be choosy. Don’t let him rush you into anything. He is my brother, but I have your best interests at heart and we must look after your voice.’ She caught sight of the flowers. ‘My goodness! What a huge bouquet! That must be from a very special admirer?’

  ‘From Charlie.’ Poppy gave a delighted smile. ‘He must be out there in the audience.’

  There was another tap on the door. This time it was Dan, and behind him the harpist and the violinist, waiting to add their congratulations.

  Where was Charlie, she wondered. I want to see him so much.

  ‘There’s a queue of admirers waiting outside the stage door, Poppy,’ Dan told her. ‘Will you see them? Or shall I tell them no?’

  ‘I shall be a little while,’ Poppy hedged. ‘I must change, and – well, I don’t want to rush.’

  ‘I’ll tell them you’ll be at least an hour; that’ll put off all but the most determined.’ He gave her a grin as he turned to go. ‘You were just perfect tonight,’ he said. ‘You’ve been drinking champagne, I can tell! You just sparkled.’

  She laughed and denied it, but it was true; she had felt vitalized and elated, and it had shown in her voice.

  The stage door keeper tapped. ‘Gentleman for you, Miss Mazzini.’ He handed her a card. ‘He said as you would see him.’

  She took the card, which was of good quality with embossed lettering, and read, ‘Charles Chandler. Prestigious Shoemaker.’ The address was in an arcade off Piccadilly.

  She raised her eyes to Marian Bennett. ‘It’s Charlie,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then I’ll leave you,’ she said. ‘But we’ll wait, Dan and I, and see you home.’

  ‘No,’ she replied urgently. ‘I shall be all right.’ She smiled happily, joyfully. ‘We might go out for supper!’

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Bennett murmured. ‘Yes, of course, but – you’re well known, Poppy. You must take care. Think of France.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘But this isn’t France, this is London!’

  Marian Bennett left, leaving the d
oor open. Poppy quickly looked in the mirror and touched her cheek and hair. The white flower she left in place. She rose from her chair as someone tapped on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called. ‘Charlie! Do come in.’

  She would hardly have recognized him as he entered, so debonair had he become. His sideburns were long, down to his jawbone, and his hair cut to just below the ear, but it was his dress that astounded her. He wore a formal black overcoat with a silk collar. The buttons were unfastened and beneath she saw a black evening suit, and white collar and tie. He carried a silk top hat, white gloves and a silver-topped cane.

  ‘Charlie,’ she breathed and held out both hands. ‘I’m so glad to see you. My word! What a swell you are!’

  He put down his hat, gloves and cane on a chair and bending very formally he took one hand and kissed it. ‘Indeed!’ He gave a suave smile and murmured, ‘We must move on, Poppy. We must show the world that we are successful. You know that.’

  She kept hold of his hand and drew closer. ‘And are you, Charlie? Is business so good? I’ve tried to get in touch with you,’ she added quickly, in case he thought that she had been too bound up with her own affairs to think of him. ‘My letters were never answered.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been very busy,’ he said. ‘I’ve moved premises. Lots of orders.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came tonight,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve been longing to see you. I was going to search you out if you hadn’t come. I was anxious about you.’

  His manner was reserved, yet touched with tension as he answered. ‘Well, of course I would come, Poppy. I’ve read so much about you – how successful your French tour was – how could I not come to see you?’