The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Yes, Mr Black,’ she said quietly, and thought to herself, I’ll sing tonight, collect my wages and leave in the morning. Then she added, ‘There’s a man who always comes to hear me sing; he’s tall and stands over by the wall opposite the piano. Do you know the one I mean?’

  ‘Thin, is he? As a beanpole?’ He nodded as she agreed he was. ‘He only ever has one drink and then he leaves.’ He pursed his mouth to a downward sneer. ‘He doesn’t come for the ale. He only comes to hear you. Not one of my regulars! Works round here somewhere. Why? Does he bother you?’

  ‘N-no,’ she lied. ‘I just wondered who he was.’

  ‘Mm,’ Black murmured, frowning at her. ‘Well, if he’s a nuisance, tell me and I’ll throw him out. Don’t want hangers-on causing trouble. I’ll not ’ave that!’

  I won’t tell him I’m leaving until the morning, Poppy decided. Then he can look for someone else, though I’m sorry to disappoint the customers. Some had become very friendly towards her and would greet her with a cheery wave if they saw her out in the streets.

  That evening as she served the ale she looked round for the tall thin man, but he wasn’t there. He comes late, I think. She couldn’t remember ever having served him. As Mr Black says, he doesn’t come for the ale, he only comes to hear me. The knowledge didn’t bring her pleasure. Rather it made her feel anxious and wary, as if she was being observed or spied upon. She went upstairs to her room to wash her hands and make sure her wig was secure, and brushed a little carmine onto her cheeks. The black wig doesn’t suit my complexion, she thought. It drains my face of colour.

  She went downstairs again, signalled to Henry Black that she was ready, and waited for him to announce her. She felt nervous tonight and glanced towards the corner where the man usually stood. I’m being stupid, she thought. He’s an admirer, he doesn’t mean me any harm, and besides, what could he do with all of these people around?

  The landlord’s voice rang out and she entered the saloon. She bowed her head at the applause and gave a smile and made her way to the piano. She turned again to the audience and said, ‘Thank you so much. Welcome to my world of song.’ She smoothed down the back of her skirt as she was about to sit down, and then hesitated. On top of the upright piano lay a single red rose. Oh! she thought, her senses reeling. Is it from him? What does he want from me?

  Anthony spent the day at the piano in his parents’ rooms behind the restaurant. His mother spent the day trying to persuade him to eat. ‘Niente. Non ancora,’ he told her. ‘Only espresso. I work better when I’m hungry, you know that.’

  Grumbling slightly, she brought the coffee as he had asked but brought him a plate of biscuits too. ‘Why you sit ’ere?’ she chided. ‘Why you not out looking for Poppy?’

  ‘I’ve found her,’ he answered absent-mindedly. ‘But I need to leave her a message. I don’t want to frighten her away.’

  His mother raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Molte grazie.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Where? You must bring her back ’ere.’

  ‘Madre!’ he said impatiently. He held a notepad on his knee and had a pencil behind his ear. ‘Will you please go away and leave me alone! Go. Arrivederci. Vamoose!’

  What am I to say? How am I to say it? She’s been hurt and will probably think that she’ll never love again. He ran his fingers over the keys, picking out a poignant refrain. I could write a song without words, but would she understand it? Or I could say . . . he hummed softly.

  Think no more of the lonely tears

  Mourn no more the wasted years

  Dear heart forget him, let his memory dim

  And come to me

  For forever faithful I will be.

  I’ve used some of the words before, he thought, as he scribbled them down on his pad, with a notation of symbols to remind him of the melody and rhythm. Then he sighed and tore it out and pushed it into his pocket. He glanced at his pocket watch and jumped up. He was going to be late. He grabbed his coat and dashed out, calling to his mother not to keep supper for him.

  ‘Will you come back with Poppy?’ she called back.

  ‘Don’t know!’

  He ran towards St Martin’s Lane and hailed a horse cab. The first one was occupied but the second one stopped. ‘Fetter Lane, please, and could you hurry?’

  He was dropped off on a corner, for he felt that he would find his way better on foot. He hoped that he could remember the turnings to get him to the Pit Stop. He stopped at a flower shop to ascertain if he was going in the right direction and bought a red rose. The woman gave it to him wrapped in a thin piece of paper. He felt in his pocket and drew out the notepaper he had been scribbling on and as he walked he folded it into a cone and wrapped it round the stem.

  ‘Mr Martin!’ A voice startled him and Anthony turned abruptly to see Mr Fisher bearing down on him.

  He stopped. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re going to hear Miss Mason, ain’t you?’

  ‘I am.’ Anthony looked keenly at Mr Fisher’s face. ‘Is that where you’re going? I thought you said you didn’t know the way!’

  ‘I . . .’ The man’s face was grim, though it was difficult to see properly in the gloom. ‘What do you want wiv her?’ he asked, a hostile note in his voice. ‘She’s all right where she is. She’s safe there!’

  ‘Safe! What do you mean, safe?’ Anthony was irate. ‘Do you think I mean her harm?’

  ‘Somefink happened,’ Fisher muttered. ‘She’s hiding from somebody. I’m taking care of her.’

  ‘Taking care of her?’ Anthony repeated. ‘How? What gives you the right? Does she know?’

  ‘I know who she really is.’ Fisher dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you where she was. Now go away. Leave her alone.’

  ‘She’s a friend of mine,’ Anthony protested. ‘I know who she is, and her family and friends are all anxious about her.’

  ‘She don’t want to go back,’ Fisher mumbled. ‘It’s too much of a strain for her, singing for them society folk. She belongs here. We look after our own round here.’

  Anthony shook his head. The fellow was plainly besotted by Poppy. ‘Her father is worried about her,’ he said quietly. ‘We all are, but Miss Mazzini must make up her own mind about who she sings for. That decision is for her.’

  ‘She’s chosen already, ain’t she?’ Fisher sneered. ‘She’s come to live along of us.’

  ‘Then she can stay, or come back if she wants to; but first I must tell her that her father and brother and friends just want to know that she’s all right. Now, please excuse me.’

  Fisher put his hand on Anthony’s chest. ‘I’m warning you,’ he said menacingly. ‘If you harm her – I’ll kill you.’

  ‘I won’t harm her.’ Anthony shuffled back half a step. ‘I’ve told you, I’m a friend.’

  ‘What’s your name then?’ Fisher demanded. ‘It ain’t Martin, like you told the old man!’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Anthony admitted. ‘It’s Marino. Anthony Marino.’

  He saw the startled look in the man’s eyes. He clearly knew his musicians. Then Fisher frowned. ‘No you’re not,’ he said. ‘Anthony Marino is out of the country.’

  ‘I was,’ Anthony declared. ‘I was touring Europe. I’ve come back especially from Italy to look for Miss Mazzini.’

  ‘Oh!’ Fisher was clearly shaken. ‘Well – well, it still stands, if she don’t want to go with you and you try to force her—’

  ‘I won’t,’ Anthony insisted. ‘I have only her best interests at heart.’

  Fisher stood back. ‘Go on then.’ He indicated with his head that Anthony should continue on his way. ‘But I’ll be waiting and watching, so don’t try anything.’

  ‘I understand. Really I do.’ He felt sorry for this inadequate man with a fixation on Poppy: yet he also felt disturbed by him. How far would he go to protect her? Why did he think she was in danger, and would he take it upon himself to spirit her away so that she was hidden from e
veryone but himself?

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘with Miss Mazzini’s talent, she doesn’t belong to any one of us. She belongs to the world. But most of all she belongs to herself. She has to make the decisions about her own life. We can’t make them for her.’

  There was no answer from Fisher and Anthony turned away leaving him standing in the dusk, a forlorn and lonely figure.

  He slipped into the Pit Stop as the customers were topping up their glasses and shuffling about on the benches, preparing themselves for the entertainment. He moved towards the crowd at the bar counter and surreptitiously placed the rose on the piano. Then without buying a drink he eased his way back to the place by the door. The landlord exhorted everyone to be quiet and then in a stentorian voice announced, ‘Miss Paula Mason.’

  Anthony saw her give a smile and glance round as if looking for someone and he pulled back into the shadows. She walked to the piano, greeting people as if she knew them, spoke a few words of welcome and prepared to sit down. He thought there was a brief shadow of distress on her face as she noticed the rose, but she picked it up, inhaled the perfume and then slowly unwrapped it.

  Anthony saw her lips move as she read the words and there was a bewildered confusion on her face, but she put both the note and the rose back on the top of the piano and began to play and sing. A true professional, he thought. Give the audience what they have paid for and never mind the turmoil you are in. He listened as she sang the audience’s favourite melodies and observed them as they joined in with her, and then they hushed and settled as she began a poignant melody. They were obviously aware that she was about to perform her own personal favourites. She sang ‘Greensleeves’, and then ‘Forever True’, followed by ‘In the Town Where I Was Born’. Then he watched as she picked up the rose and looked round the smoky room.

  ‘Someone has sent me a rose,’ she told the audience, and asked them as a whole: ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Yers!’ they all chanted.

  She smiled and picking up the note, asked, ‘And did you write this song for me?’

  There was silence, followed by a murmuring and shaking of heads. ‘We ain’t clever enough fer that, Miss Mason!’ a voice called.

  ‘Well, someone did. Shall I sing it?’

  ‘Yers,’ they shouted. ‘Is it a new one?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Quite new, I think, but the words are long established and recognizable.’

  In his corner, Anthony folded his arms over his chest as she began to sing his words and music. Would she understand that he had thought of her when he was composing, or would she think that he had just written a melody and put lyrics to it? It isn’t good enough, he thought. There wasn’t enough time to do justice to what I feel.

  He heard the last lines – ‘And come to me, for forever faithful I will be’ – and slowly moved towards the piano as she rose to take her bow. He stood silently waiting, and then gave a gentle smile as she turned and saw him. He saw the relief on her face and she closed her eyes for a second, then she held out both hands to him.

  ‘Anthony!’ she breathed huskily. ‘Will you take me home?’

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Anthony took her first of all to his parents’ house, for her clothing and trunk and personal belongings were there, and she told them tearfully and sincerely how sorry she was for having caused them distress by her disappearance. Rosina murmured and clucked, bringing her hot drinks and sweet cake as if she had been starving and lost in the desert, and although it was almost midnight Anthony took it upon himself to go to Dan’s house and tell him that she was safe.

  Dan arrived early the next morning and put his arms round her in a great bear-hug. ‘Don’t think,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘that just because I’m an ancient old fogey I don’t understand,’ and she managed a laugh, for he certainly wasn’t that. He looked solemnly at her and began to say something, but became overcome with emotion. ‘Anthony will tell you,’ he choked. ‘Go home to your papa,’ he advised, and blew his nose. ‘I’ve wired him to say you’re safe. Anthony will take you. And come back when you’re ready. We’ll be waiting for you.’

  ‘Anthony,’ she said, on the journey to King’s Cross station, ‘I feel terrible. I’m being such a nuisance. You’re supposed to be in Italy.’

  ‘My arrangements were fluid,’ he assured her. ‘I can pick up again when I know that you’re safely home.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘You’re so good to me. I do appreciate it. I was going to move on, you know! I’d decided that that was going to be my last performance at the Pit Stop. The only thing I didn’t know was where I would go. I was scared of coming back. Afraid of what you would all think of me.’

  ‘Only good things,’ he assured her. ‘That’s what we think of you.’

  She slept for a good deal of the train journey. Her relief at being discovered and having the decision about where to go next taken from her had allowed her to relax at last, and follow the advice of those who knew what was best for her.

  ‘Anthony!’ She jerked awake, her head having rested on his shoulder. ‘There was a man at the Pit Stop! He – it probably seems strange for me to say it, but I thought that he had recognized me. He was constantly watching me. He – I think it was he – he threw a flower when I performed at the Savoy. And he was waiting outside when I came out.’ She took a breath. ‘And when I saw the rose on the piano, I thought it was from him, and I don’t know why, but I was just a bit afraid.’

  ‘He did know you,’ Anthony told her. ‘I met him. He works in a music shop. His name is Fisher,’ he said, and, by giving the stranger a name, diminished her fears. ‘He told me that he was watching over you, making sure that you were all right. He’s an admirer, that’s all. He’s heard you often. Your black wig didn’t prevent him from recognizing you.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Have I been so very foolish? Such a lovesick child?’

  ‘Not foolish at all,’ he said softly, for another passenger had got into their compartment at the last station. Then he whispered. ‘Are you over Charlie? Is it too soon to say?’

  She gazed out of the window. A plume of smoke obscured her view of the passing countryside. ‘He’s going to marry someone else,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It didn’t take him long to decide. I don’t think he considered me in the least.’

  ‘And . . .’ He hesitated, for she hadn’t answered the question. ‘Do you think you would have married him if he’d asked you?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘He once said that if ever we were to marry, I would have to give up the stage.’ She bit on her lip as she remembered. ‘He was quite cross and I did worry about what my answer would be, for I could never give up singing.’

  Anthony sat back and suppressed a stinging comment on the idiocy of Charles Chandler, who couldn’t hear or see such prodigious talent when it was standing in front of him. Nor, he mused as the train rattled and clacked on its way towards Hull, did he appear to see her sweet innocence. She was his friend’s sister and perhaps, he thought darkly, Chandler didn’t want an independent though unworldly young woman in his life, but preferred a more compliant companion. But, he nodded along with the swaying and lurching of the train, I am more inclined to believe that he was jealous! Jealous of her success and of the obvious fact that one day she will be more famous than he will ever be with his fancy footwear! And as his thoughts gathered speed, he realized that he too had been guilty of jealousy, and still was. Jealousy of Charles Chandler.

  Poppy’s father met them at the Paragon railway station and lifted Poppy into his arms. ‘You’ve given us some heartache, lass,’ he blurted out as he hugged her. ‘Whatever were you thinking of, not coming home to them that cares for you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pa.’ She burst into tears. ‘So very sorry.’

  ‘Well, never mind, you’re safe home now, and is this the hero who rescued you?’ He shook Anthony warmly by the hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you at last, Mr Marino. Poppy has spoken of you often and of cour
se we heard you play when you were in Hull. You are very welcome indeed and we’re most grateful. Most grateful for your consideration.’

  Poppy saw that her father too was becoming very emotional as he spoke, and he put his arms round both of them as they followed the porter out of the station.

  ‘By ’look of all that luggage you’ve come home for a longish stay, Poppy,’ he said huskily.

  ‘Come home to lick her wounds, sir,’ Anthony said in a low voice. ‘She has been under considerable strain.’

  ‘Ah!’ Joshua nodded and asked no more questions as they took a cab for the short journey to Savile Street.

  ‘We live behind and above ’shop,’ he told Anthony, as they neared their destination. ‘We’re just simple folk, but you are very welcome to our home, Mr Marino.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Anthony said. ‘That’s exactly the same situation as my parents. Poppy might have told you they have a small restaurant in London.’

  ‘She did. She did.’ Joshua gave his hand to Poppy to assist her down. ‘And Italian too, just like us?’

  He continued with small talk as he helped the driver with the luggage, and then Poppy put out her hand for Anthony to follow her inside. ‘Come and meet my brother, and Mattie and – oh, Nan!’ She flung her arms round Nan who stood smiling in the middle of the shop whilst Tommy and Mattie stood behind the counter. ‘Oh, Nan,’ she wept, ‘I’ve missed you so!’

  Anthony sidestepped them and leaned over the counter to shake hands with Tommy and then Mattie. ‘How do you do?’ He laughed. ‘I’m Anthony Marino!’

  Poppy told Nan and Mattie that Charlie was going to be married and discovered that they had already heard. He had at last written to his parents to inform them of his engagement and tell them how well his business was progressing. ‘I saw his ma,’ Mattie said, upstairs in Poppy’s bedroom, where she was helping her unpack her trunk. ‘She told me that he’s making shoes for society people and stage folk too. She was quite proud of that, but sniffy about his engagement. Seemed to think that they’d never see him if he’s marrying somebody out of ’top drawer.’