by M. C. Beaton
Chapter 9
The interview with Mr. Lewis and Mr. Pettifor was not exactly easy.
“I don’t know why you want to come back,” said Mr. Benjamin Lewis, examining his cuff links. “You’ve gone and turned into a lady, and although we like to pretend to the contrary, we don’t have ladies in the Lewis girls.”
Made courageous by despair, Poppy faced up to him. “I didn’t want to come back as a Lewis girl,” she said.
“Then what?” asked Mr. Pettifor. The theater was dark and quiet. Poppy had caught both men just at the end of rehearsals, and they were standing on the darkened stage, which was lit only by a shaft of dusty sunlight that had filtered somehow through the filthy glass dome on the roof.
“The lead,” said Poppy quietly, “and the money that goes with it.”
“See here,” cried Mr. Pettifor, very much the outraged dormouse. “You ain’t got the training. You got to work your way up. You got—”
Mr. Lewis silenced him with a wave of his hand, his eyes still fixed curiously on Poppy. “Run round to the King’s Arms, Mr. Pettifor,” he said, “and fetch that pianist, Alfred Jones.”
Mr. Pettifor opened his mouth, thought the better of it, and scuttled off into the blackness of the wings.
“There’s a new musical comedy, written by a young Australian fellow called Cyril Mundy. It’s the same mixture as before, some damned mittel-European country that no one’s ever heard of, and some prince masquerading as a student. So the story line’s nothing.” He leaned forward. “But the lyrics are good, and the music’s funny. Sort of haunts you once you’ve heard it. I’m worried about putting it on, ’cause it’s not quite in our usual line, and you have to hear the tunes more than once for them to catch on. That’s risky for us.
“Now, when that there Alfred gets back, I want you to sing one of the numbers for me, Poppy. It’s one about the girl feeling she’s been abandoned by her sweetheart. If you can make me cry, I’ll hire you.”
He walked over to the piano, which had been left in a corner of the stage after rehearsals, and picked up a pile of music and came back with it, kneeling in the center of the stage in the dusty sunlight and flicking through it until he found the right sheet, which he handed mutely to Poppy.
Poppy emptied her mind of every thought and every hurt feeling, and concentrated solely on the music, and all at once she knew she could do it. She was being asked to sing about lost love and rejection, and who better than Poppy to do that?
“All right,” said Benjamin Lewis when Mr. Pettifor arrived back with the pianist. “Mr. Pettifor and I are going to sit right at the back of the pit, and we want to hear every word, and we want to feel our hearts break. I can’t be bothered fiddling around with the lights, so you’ll need to use that bit o’ sunlight. It’s center anyway.”
Poppy had fortunately been taught to read music at her school, and so she knew exactly how the tune should go before Alfred struck the openings bars.
She carefully took out from the back of her mind the colored picture of Freda and the duke, and all its attendant humiliations and rejections, and put it in the front of her mind and sang to it.
She sang with such pathos and intensity and hurt and longing that little Mr. Pettifor gulped, and Mr. Lewis felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck.
“Oh, golden summer, happy days,
To me are lost and gone,
Bring back my sun, bring back my life,
And take this bitter song.”
She had taken off her hat, and her golden hair shone in the dusty sunlight, and her black widow’s weeds cast her face into pale relief against the dusty, greasepaint-smelling shadows behind.
There was a long silence when she had finished. She stood alone, trembling and feeling sick, as if she had taken off her clothes in public.
“Christ!” muttered the pianist, staring at the keys.
Mr. Lewis walked down the aisle and stood below the stage, looking up at her.
“I don’t know what’s been happening to you, Poppy,” he said. “But the part’s all yours. I’ll give you the address of my diggings. Come around there tomorrow and meet this chap, Mundy, who wrote the stuff. Alfred, you be there as well. We’ll put it on in the autumn. Well, Miss Duveen, I think you’re going to be rich.”
“Plummett,” corrected Poppy quietly. “The Honorable Poppy Plummett. That’s how I want to be billed.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Give us a bit of class. Only hope the Duke of Guildham and that lot don’t try to stop their family name appearing on the playbills. The duke’s got a lot of power, Poppy. He could make things rough for you.”
“Make them rough for me,” echoed Poppy with a bitter little laugh. “He already has. There’s nothing more that lot can do to me.”
“Well, whatever it was they did,” said Mr. Lewis heartlessly, “it’s improved your singing no end. You were always a good singer, Poppy. Now you’re an actress.”
“See you tomorrow,” said Poppy, accepting the card handed up to her.
“I don’t know what Elaine Pym is going to say about this,” wailed Mr. Pettifor.
“Who’s she?” demanded Poppy.
“Our current leading lady,” replied Mr. Lewis. “Well, she can play second.”
“Oh, Gawd!” exclaimed Mr. Pettifor, wringing his hands. “She will screech so.”
“Come and have a pint of wet,” said Mr. Lewis comfortingly. “She always did screech, you know.”
Poppy walked out of the stage door and into the heat of the day. She realized she was very hungry indeed, but did not know where ladies ate when they were unescorted. She hailed a cab and gave the man directions to St. John’s Wood, her mind a blank as the cab lurched and swayed out to North London.
As the cab turned into the street where she lived, a tall man was standing at the corner, his back to her, his hat in his hand. His hair shone white in the sunlight. Poppy felt her knees begin to shake.
Then he turned around, revealing a mild, pleasant face like that of an elderly sheep.
But the shock of thinking it might be the duke had unfrozen Poppy’s mind, and she fairly scrambled from the cab, leaving the garden gate swinging on its hinges, running up the mossy path, bolting into the house, and slamming the door behind her.
Sanctuary!
At least, she thought cynically, the house is in my name. They can’t take it away from me.
Her throat felt dry and sore with hurt, but she would not cry. She walked out to the garden and sat quietly on the swing, watching Josie and Emily open their presents, nursing her hurt, fanning her anger, longing for the sun to set so she could escape the cruel world and climb into bed and pull the covers right over her head.
The next day the sun had turned brassy as Poppy once again left St. John’s Wood to reach Mr. Lewis’s home in Chelsea.
As the cab weaved its way through the press of traffic on the King’s Road, Poppy reflected wryly that there was some comfort to the feminine heart in being able to put on new, fresh clothes.
She was wearing a lilac lace blouse, the bertha threaded with a single black silk ribbon. The neckline consisted of a soft rolled collar instead of the usual boned one, and her black linen skirt felt cool and neat, worn over two lilac taffeta petticoats, which rustled enticingly every time she moved. Her hat was a saucy, shady thing of biscuit-colored straw, with a whole garden of violets on its small crown.
The cab turned off the King’s Road and made its way along a shady street, stopping at last at Number Fifteen, which was Mr. Lewis’s diggings. Mr. Lewis, in fact, did not “dig” with anyone, but owned the whole house, a trim little Georgian gem with light, airy rooms and a patch of sunny garden at the back.
Mr. Lewis answered the door himself. He was in his shirt-sleeves and braces, and looked plumper than usual, and Poppy realized that he probably wore corsets when he was at the theater, for his waist had sprung out into one of interesting embonpoint.
He complimented her on her appearan
ce and explained that they were all out in the garden.
The company consisted of Mr. Pettifor, Alfred Jones, a youthful-looking man called Gerald Devere, who was actually forty but had been playing young men for so long that his face had become frozen in a sort of rigid, youthful grin, and Cyril Mundy. And it was Cyril Mundy who made Poppy stand and stare.
He was the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. He glowed with youth and vitality, from his thick head of glossy black curls to his tanned face, white teeth, and slim, muscular body, in striped blazer and white flannels.
She found him immensely attractive, and it was like a balm to her soul. Somewhere at the back of her mind she must have wondered whether she would again find any man attractive at all.
His accent was charming. At first she thought it was vaguely cockney, until Mr. Lewis laughingly told her that all Australians talked that way.
But most charming of all to Poppy, after her humiliations at the hands of the Plummett family, was that the gathering was peculiarly classless. The men were lounging in garden chairs, drinking beer, and there was an easy air of camaraderie about the party.
Somewhere she still had a nagging guilt that she was behaving unfairly to the Plummett family. They had not needed to do anything so splendid as to buy her a house and furnish her with an allowance, although in her heart of hearts she knew it was not really kindness but simply because she now carried the name of Plummett.
When the preliminary conversations were over, Mr. Lewis suggested they retire to the music room and get down to business. Poppy was so enchanted with Cyril Mundy’s company that she wondered if she could summon up the necessary pathos to do justice to the song she had sung at the theater. But no sooner had she taken out that mental picture of the duke and Freda walking in the sunlight, when all her former sadness and bitterness came flooding back, and there was a stunned silence for several moments after she had finished singing.
“I shall be upstaged,” said Gerald Devere gloomily. “I’d rather have Elaine Pym any day.”
“You’re an angel,” breathed Cyril Mundy, reverently taking her hand.
“You’ll do,” said Mr. Lewis.
Poppy smiled and blushed under Cyril’s admiring stare, and the picture of the duke and Freda faded from her mind.
“Well,” said Mr. Lewis, sighing, “we’ve a lot of work ahead of us. This is something new for me. It’s more like an operetta than a musical comedy, if you take my meaning. But I really think it will ‘take.’ But it’s going to be a long, hard summer for all of us. Rehearsals, rehearsals, and more rehearsals. I wanted you to hear her, Cyril, and I’m sure you’ll agree, we couldn’t do better. Right! I thought so. Now, Gerald, it’s your turn.”
Gerald walked pompously up and down the room, hawking and clearing his throat. What an idiot to have to pretend to be in love with, thought Poppy. I wish my leading man was Cyril.
But once Gerald began to sing she forgot about everything else.
He had a light, effortless tenor voice, as golden as the afternoon, and he seemed to grow younger and more relaxed with every line of the song.
Everyone applauded him heartily when he had finished, which he accepted as very much his due.
Cyril professed himself delighted with both leading performers, and retired to a corner of the room with Mr. Pettifor and Mr. Lewis to discuss money for the show and where to find it.
Gerald began to make conversation with Poppy, although it was quite plain he would rather have remained silent. “I don’t know what Miss Pym is going to say,” he said.
“Will she be very angry?” asked Poppy curiously. She remembered Miss Pym as a rather heavy brunette with a gushing manner.
“Mad as things,” said Gerald gloomily. “And mark my words, she’ll blame me.”
“But you had nothing to do with it!”
“I should have protested,” said Gerald.
“Why?” demanded Poppy, growing slightly heated. “Don’t you think I’m good enough?”
“It’s not that, Mrs. Plummett. Elaine and I have worked together for years—”
“You weren’t in the show I was in!”
“No, I was taking a brief vacation. But Elaine and I work very well together, and we are of the same age.”
“And you’re frightened I’ll make you look older?”
“Not at all,” he blustered. “I am not much older than you.”
He was old enough to be Poppy’s father, but Poppy tactfully did not point out this unpalatable truth.
The murmur of voices rose and fell from the other end of the room, where the prices of costumes, scenery, and production in general were being turned over and over.
Poppy tried to forget about Gerald, and looked around the room. Apart from the piano and a few easy chairs, there was little other furniture. Varnished playbills ornamented the walls, and a handsome lacquered screen stood in one corner. A large sycamore grew outside the French windows, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, sending green-and-gold patterns moving across the room.
Green and gold. The car… Freddie at the wheel… flashing through the country lanes… when everything looked as if it might be all right.
She felt a lump rising in her throat, and her eyes felt hot and dry.
All at once the meeting in the corner broke up, and at the same time Poppy decided to go to Cutler’s Fields before going home to St. John’s Wood. She never could quite dismiss a nagging worry about her father from her mind.
Cyril approached her, smiling. “It’s a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Plummett. May I escort you home?”
“I’m not going home,” said Poppy, too startled to tell anything other than the truth. “I’m going down Bermondsey to see my dad.”
“I’ll come with you if you like,” he said. “I’m new to London. Bermondsey’s the East End, isn’t it?”
“You won’t like it,” said Poppy cautiously. “It’s very rough.”
“Australians aren’t snobs, you know,” he said gently. “I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’d like your company.”
Again that handsome face of his seemed to ease some of the pain in Poppy’s heart.
“Very well,” she said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
But as the cab bore them closer and closer to the familiar surroundings of Cutler’s Fields, Poppy felt she had made a mistake. He looked so handsome, so carefree, so elegant, so clean, lounging easily in the corner of the carriage, chatting on about his hopes for the show.
“This is it,” said Poppy in a gloomy little voice as the cab clip-clopped around the corner and into Cutler’s Fields.
“Wotcher, Poppy,” growled Ma Barker, clay pipe, as ever, between her teeth as Poppy was helped down from the carriage.
Poppy effected the introductions. “Where’s Pa?”
“Inside. Sleepin’ it orf,” said Ma with a jerk of her head. “I wouldn’t take your fellah in there.”
Poppy turned to Gerald. “Do you want to wait here with Ma?” she asked. “Pa can be nasty.”
“Then I’d better come with you,” he replied with unimpaired cheerfulness.
Poppy shrugged and walked up to the front door, searching in her reticule for the key. How Cutler’s Fields stank in the heat! That unmistakable stench of poverty; that smell compounded of cabbage water, bad drains, damp baby, vomiting baby, strong tea, welks, and dry rot.
“Pa!” called Poppy, pushing open the door and wrinkling her nose against the sour smell of unwashed milk bottles.
“In ’ere,” called Bert Smith’s voice.
“I wish you’d go,” said Poppy, rounding on Gerald.
He smiled at her wickedly. “You heard your father,” he teased. “‘In ’ere,’ he said, so ‘in ’ere’ we go.”
Bert Smith was crouched over a cup of tea at the kitchen table.
His clothes looked as if he had been sleeping in the gutter for days. He was unshaven, and his eyes were red, fixed with that angry, accusing stare of the perpetual dr
unk.
“Wot’s this?” demanded Bert, staring at Poppy’s new clothes. “You only buried ’im a week ago, and you’re out o’ mourning already and traipsing around with your fancy man.”
“Freddie died ages ago,” snapped Poppy. “I’m going back on the stage. This is Mr. Mundy, who wrote the musical that Mr. Lewis is going to put on. And I’m the leading lady.”
“Tart’s job,” mumbled Bert Smith while Poppy thought she would die from a mixture of anger and despair. “What did you come for anyway?” Bert went on, making bad worse. “I ain’t got no money.”
“I came to give you some,” said Poppy. “My God! Just look at this place. It could do with a good scrub.”
“Ho! Very high and mighty,” sneered her father. “You wasn’t too pertickler when you was one o’ us. Who’s goin’ to do it, then? The bleedin’ maid?”
“I’ll do it,” said Poppy, unpinning her hat and taking down a sackcloth apron from the back of the kitchen door. She turned to Cyril and gave him a brave little smile. “I did warn you,” she said. “If you walk up to London Bridge Station, you should be able to find a cab.”
“Oh, I’ll help you,” said Cyril in high good humor. “My mum always said I was handy about the house.”
Ignoring Poppy’s protests, he walked over to the sink and began to attack the dishes energetically. “’Ere… I’m gettin’ out o’ this. Where’s the money, ducks?” asked Bert in a wheedling tone.
Poppy opened her reticule and drew out a small purse. She extracted a few shillings from it and placed them on the kitchen table.
“Have you paid the rent?” she demanded, covering the money with her hand.
“Yerse, o’ course,” said Bert, his eyes gleaming with impatience. He shoved her hand away rudely, snatched the money, and scuttled out the door.
“Gone to the boozer, I suppose,” remarked Cyril from the sink.
“Oh, stop that,” said Poppy wearily, sitting down suddenly at the kitchen table. “What’s the use? It’ll be like a pigsty again tomorrow.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Plummett,” said Cyril with a smile that removed any insult from the words. Heavy bluebottles buzzed drearily through the stuffy hot air of the kitchen.