by Val Wood
‘Yes,’ Poppy breathed nervously. ‘That is what I would like to do. I’ve been sitting for too long.’
She drank a cup of China tea in her room, and then bathed and changed into a gown of white spotted muslin, over an underdress of pale green silk taffeta. The sleeves were also lined in green to the elbow, and fell to a frill of white lace at the wrist. She brushed her hair and pinned it up, leaving a few tendrils around her cheeks, and put on a straw hat adorned with flowers and a short veil.
She knocked on her companion’s door. ‘I’ll perhaps see you at supper, Miss Eloise,’ she said nervously. ‘Or I – I might go to a concert.’
‘Of course.’ Miss Eloise raised her eyebrows. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No, no,’ Poppy hastily assured her. ‘I shall be quite all right; there are so many visitors about. You have your rest,’ and carrying her white parasol, she walked out of the hotel.
Miss Eloise looked out of the bedroom window and watched her; she saw heads turn and gentlemen raise their hats or give small bows. She sighed. Turning away, she slipped off her gown, took off her shoes, unhooked her stays and put on a silk robe; then she poured a glass of wine, and sitting down in a comfortable chair by the window picked up her book, Italian for the Traveller.
Poppy walked steadily towards the street where the concert hall stood. She had studied the map so many times that she was quite sure she knew how to find it. It was, according to the map, close by the church of Santa Croce, which she was approaching now. She stood for a moment and gazed at the poster outside the building. Il concerto, she read, and Antonio Marino’s name was featured at the very top.
People were going in and appeared to have tickets, which they were handing in at the door. She followed them, and going to the desk asked haltingly, ‘Buona sera. Per favore, vorrei un biglietto.’
‘No, signorina,’ the booking clerk said. ‘Non può entrare, lo spettacolo è iniziato.’
Poppy put her hand to her mouth, her eyes open wide. What was he saying? That she couldn’t go in?
‘It ees too late. It ees starting now,’ the clerk explained. ‘You understand, signorina?’
‘But,’ Poppy pointed to the last few stragglers who had just gone in. ‘They—’ She put her hand to her chest. ‘I’m a – sono un amica di – a friend of Signor Marino.’
‘Ah!’ He shrugged and tore off a ticket and counted out the money she held in her hand. ‘La platea!’ He pointed to a door leading into the hall and put his finger to his lips.
‘Grazie. Grazie!’ she said gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’
He nodded and smiled. ‘Prego!’
The concert hadn’t started as he had said; the lights were still on, but the orchestra was tuning up and Poppy was shown to a seat on the back row. She put her parasol on the floor, removed her gloves and sat back in the chair. The hall was full; the audience was well dressed and there was a ripple of muted conversation. Then the lights were dimmed and the orchestra struck up with a medley of music from various operas. Verdi’s stirring Nabucco, dramatic Rigoletto and ‘Musetta’s Waltz’ from Puccini’s La Bohème.
Poppy sat entranced and listened next to an elderly baritone who gave a rendition from The Magic Flute and The Marriage of Figaro. Following him, as the curtains closed, a frock-coated compère came to the front of the stage, gave a voluble speech, none of which Poppy understood, then, standing back as the curtain rose, announced, ‘Signor Antonio Marino!’
A grand piano stood centre stage, and as the audience applauded Anthony strode on. He wore a black frock coat, narrow black trousers and a white high-collared shirt with a white tie. His side-burns were long and his hair, Poppy noticed fondly and with a skip of a heartbeat, still flopped over his forehead. He gave a bow, centre, left, then right, lifted his coat-tails and sat down at the piano.
He had a vast repertoire. Poppy glanced at the programme she had bought, as Anthony played Bellini and Beethoven, and then moved into Rossini’s melodic Barber of Seville, followed by Gounod’s love-music from Romeo et Juliette.
She felt a tear trickle from her eyes. How was it that Anthony’s playing always had the ability to make her cry? There was rousing applause after each piece and she marvelled at the Italian audience’s enthusiasm. Anthony stood up finally to take a bow, and then announced something in Italian and everyone clapped and cheered.
‘For the benefit of those who do not speak our beautiful Italian language,’ he announced in English, ‘I wish to explain that I would now like to play for you some of my own work. It is dedicated to, and was written for, a particular person. Tonight it will be played as music without words, but the words, which are love songs, are already written.’
Poppy put her hand to her cheek. Was he speaking to her? But he doesn’t know I am here! Dan! Has he told him? Or is he . . . he can’t be speaking of someone else? Not Jeanette? Surely not! He said he was over his love for her. She listened as with the orchestra Anthony began to play the melody from ‘In the Town Where I Was Born,’ which she knew he had written for her, and then he began the music from the song sheet she had bought from the costumier in London.
Sweet eyes that smiled but not for me
They smiled for him who was untrue . . .
and with a slight shift of improvisation he worked in the harmony of,
If I could only love again I’d choose to love just you
Listen and hear my silent voice, my words a muted tune
Of some romantic melody
Question not the but or why
I love you now and for evermore until the day I die.
Anthony, she breathed. Why wasn’t I listening?
He slipped easily and elegantly into the music he had written on the scrap of paper that had been wrapped round the rose he had placed on the piano at the Pit Stop. It was a gentle, nostalgic, evocative piece of music, new to her at the time, and which she had kept and puzzled over.
She opened up her velvet bag. Inside was the paper with the words written on it. She began to hum the refrain.
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.
Also inside the bag was the red rose, faded, yet still with its faint sweet perfume. She took it out and, rising from her seat, her green gown rustling as she moved, slowly walked towards the stage. He came to the end of the music, and lifting his head said softly, yet clearly, ‘And to close the performance I would like to play the English “Greensleeves”, written, it is believed, by Henry the Eighth, and introduce to you – la bella Signorina Mazzini.’
Poppy felt a glow of happiness spreading through her, lifting her heart and spirits. She turned to the audience and bowed, then, turning again as the audience broke into spontaneous applause at this unexpected development, she lifted the hem of her skirt and walked up the steps to the stage.
Anthony rose from the piano and went towards her, taking both of her hands in his. He kissed her on both cheeks and then tenderly on her lips, and the audience gasped and then cheered. ‘I love you, is what I said, when you didn’t hear,’ he whispered.
She stood back, her arms outstretched, still holding his hands and gazing at him. ‘And I love you,’ she answered on a gentle breath. ‘So very much.’
He led her towards the piano. He touched his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss and began to play, and she, with another bow to the audience, began to sing.
‘Alas my love you do me wrong
To cast me off discourtesly
For I have loved you oh so long
Delighting in your company
Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight.
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady Greensleeves.’
Poppy gave a deep curtsy to take the enthusiastic applause, but Anthony wasn’t quite finis
hed. As she raised her head, he effortlessly and gently moved into the introduction of the final lyrical piece of music, and if she needed further proof of his lasting love, here it was, for this was the music he had sent to her whilst she was singing in France, which she hadn’t recognized as a love poem written for her.
The musicians, all but the violinist, laid down their instruments. The conductor raised his baton, gave a slight raise of his eyebrows to the violinist, and Poppy, glancing towards Anthony, caught his eyes and smile, and began to sing.
‘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.’
THE END
About the Author
Valerie Wood was born in Yorkshire and now lives in a village near the east coast. She is the author of ten novels, including The Hungry Tide, winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction.
Find out more about Valerie Wood’s novels by visiting her website on www.valeriewood.co.uk
Also by Val Wood
THE HUNGRY TIDE
ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL
EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA’S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY’S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
THE LONG WALK HOME
RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL
HOMECOMING GIRLS
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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
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Copyright © Valerie Wood 2005
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