The Christmas Songbird

by Emma Hardwick

  Monique gasped in fake humility and sincere delight.

  “Choose your songs carefully. It goes without saying, you should add several soprano solos to your set to make the best impression you can,” Max instructed them. “I am thrilled. I cannot think of a better way to begin my retirement.”

  “I can’t wait to start planning my act,” chirruped the starlet.

  With all of Monique’s experience and crowd-pleasing talent, Max was confident that the diva would win. Nevertheless, he thought it was kinder to give his loyal assistant Suzanna her moment in the limelight instead of sourcing another celebrity singer on the variety circuit. It will be good for her soul and give her confidence in the future. And she can always take over from Monique when she leaves. Motionless, Suzanna was still stunned.

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Max. Please excuse me, I have lots of errands to attend to.”

  The young girl scuttled away, glad to be free of the daunting peacocking presence of Monique.

  “Oh, Max, this is excellent, oui!” Monique enthused. “I have waited for this moment since I was a child. I had started to believe that I may never have the opportunity to join such a prestigious institution. I have dreamed of working on the continent for years.”

  “Good luck, my dear. You have served me well over the years, and I wanted to repay you in some way before I hand the business over to David and Thomas. I hope your wish will come true at last. Of course, it will be a great loss to The Songbird—”

  “—and it will be a great loss to the Florence opera if they do not choose me,” mused Monique in her own selfish little world.

  “Of course, dear,” muttered Max, looking crestfallen at her display of ingratitude.

  “Oh, Max! You are making me feel guilty, oui! Still, it is time to follow my dream, and it will be such a compliment to be recognised for my outstanding talent.”

  Max listened to Monique, hoping that Suzanna had the same confidence. Even if Monique was rude and impetuous, she could afford to be. She had an incredible voice that lifted the roof off the theatre, and the necessary beauty and stage presence that accompanied successful starlets.

  “Well done, Monique, you deserve it. But don’t take it for granted that you will be chosen. You still need to triumph over Suzanna on the night.”

  “Of course I will,” she replied haughtily, “very few singers can compete with Mademoiselle de la Marre.”

  *

  Browsing his burgeoning to-do list, Thomas decided to take a cab to St. Giles to look for Lee Ting-Chong, the fireworks specialist. Max had given him some vague directions to a Chinese laundry in the roughest part of the city. After searching street after street, a weary Thomas finally reached his destination. He opened the door and could hear the nattering of Chinese women standing beside large bubbling cauldrons of murky grey water with clouds of steam billowing from them. The heat and humidity were beyond unbearable, and Thomas wondered how people could work in that environment all day.

  “Lee no here,” said the eldest of the ladies.

  Thomas frowned at the thought of his fraught, wasted journey.

  “Lee gone tea loom,” she added with a smile.

  “Where is the tearoom?” he asked.

  “Tea loom in Whitechapel,” she said, smiling and nodding away but not really helping since Whitechapel was awash with tea rooms.

  A young lady came over. She spoke better English, so Thomas asked her the same question.

  “No, no. Mister. Not Whitechapel. He gone tearoom Westminster.”

  “Do you have a name of the street?”

  “No. Very sorry, Mister.”

  Thomas had no choice but to take a cab to Westminster and take potluck. After trudging up and down almost every street, he spotted the tiniest tea shop that might fit the bill. Above the door, a red sign wafted on its wrought iron hanging. The establishment’s name was written in gold Chinese lettering. For all, he knew it could have said ‘Down with British Government!’ but he hoped it said ‘tea shop’.

  Thomas darted to the tiny entrance, opened the faded black door, stooped down and stepped into a dark room lit by a mass of red paper lanterns hanging from the low ceiling. They swung at the same height as his head, forcing him to dodge them as he tried to find his way to a promising-looking table where six Chinese men played Mahjong.

  “You look for Lee Ting-Chong?”

  He nodded.

  “Lee not here. He go to Wapping. Look for Red Dragon.”

  Thomas sighed, hailed a cab and proceeded back towards to the docks, not that far from where he first began his search.

  “Red Dragon,” Thomas instructed the coachman as he yanked the cab door open.

  “Bloody hell, mate! What is a nice geezer like you wanting with a dive like the Red Dragon?”

  “Why?” asked Thomas, “I’ve never been to the place. Is it dangerous?”

  “You could say that,” answered the cabbie. “It’s a Chinese brothel.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Thomas woefully as he climbed inside.

  The Red Dragon would have provided a thorough education for many a young man who did not know his way about the female anatomy. Thomas had to do his best to ignore the naked and semi-naked women milling about the rooms and corridors. The brothel stood in a derelict building beside the most rundown dockyard in the area. Before he was allowed into the house, Thomas had to convince the Chinese bouncer lingering by the entrance steps that he was not a policeman.

  Max’s harassed aide climbed a winding staircase and eventually popped up on a landing that had more red Chinese lanterns hanging from every rafter. They created a soft warm glow in the corridors adjoining the rooms where the bawdy entertainment took place. The low diffused light also disguised the dilapidated condition of the venue.

  Thomas’ search stopped abruptly when a no-nonsense Chinese man approached.

  “You want girl? We have lovely girl. Cheap.”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “I’m looking for Lee Ting Chong.”

  “Why you look for Lee? Who your boss now?”

  “Max Liebowitz,” Thomas replied.

  “Aaah! Yes, Mr Max. I know Max, good man. Come, I take you to Lee.”

  “Lee,” the Chinaman called out. “Here man from Mr Max,” and as he began to prattle off in Mandarin, Thomas’s eyes glazed over.

  Lee stood up and walked to greet his visitor. He had been sitting around a table drinking whisky out of a tiny porcelain teacup with dainty pagodas in blue and black hand painted on it. Lee looked at the design and then smiled as he revealed his motive for using it.

  “Aaah, when police come, we say we only drink tea. Nothing to see here. We good boys,” Lee said earnestly.

  Thomas chortled to himself thinking it wouldn’t fool a copper for a minute.

  “Why Mr Max want me come to him?”

  “He’s looking for fireworks. Don’t ask me what he has in mind though,” Thomas explained wearily. “They are for our Christmas shows.”

  “Ah-ha,” said Lee with a smile. “We make fireworks—big fireworks. Much bang—bang—bang! And lots of light! Process not easy though. It takes much skill. We can help make big success for Mr Max. People will ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’, I promise!”

  “Do you need anything from us?” asked Thomas.

  “Gunpowder. Mr Max must give us much gunpowder, then we make.”

  “Heavens!” exclaimed Thomas, “Where the hell do I find gunpowder?”

  “Velly simple. Mr Max must ask army man. Then we make for you at Singing Bird.”

  “You mean 'The Songbird.’” corrected Thomas with a frown.

  “Yes, that’s it, Singing Bird.”

  Thomas did not have the energy to correct Lee a second time.

  “I bring family. We work in attic. Many hands work velly quick. We do good job for Mr Max.”

  The aide could not believe what he was hearing. David is never going to agree to Lee’s plan to do the manufacturing on the premises. Wh
at if Lee and his family blow up the theatre during their preparations? What is Max getting us into this time? Not wanting to disappoint his employer, against his better judgement, Thomas nodded at the cheerful little Chinese man, confirming his acceptance of the offer.

  “Yes, please do bring all your household. You will be most welcome. Max needs the fireworks as soon as possible.”

  Two days later, Lee arrived at The Songbird with his sizeable family in toe. Thomas counted twenty-six people. More than half of them were children. At the tail end of the queue of people, there was a hunched up old woman with hands so gnarled and swollen from arthritis that Thomas wondered if she had any dexterity for work at all.

  “What are the children going to do all day?” asked Thomas, having terrible visions of them running around the place.

  “They work,” said Lee merrily.

  “Yes, but doing what?”

  “They make firework. We all make firework. Not granny, though. She cook.”

  “We will provide food for you. There’s no need to worry about that,” Thomas volunteered worried that open cooking flames and barrels of gunpowder were not a good mix.

  “We not like your English food. Granny Chong will cook in your kitchen, Mr Thomas”

  “Erm—yes, alright.”

  As the strange collection of workers trouped along the corridors and up to their rooms in the attic, Thomas laughed loudly and the absurdity of it all. David was right about The Songbird being a circus—especially now.

  “Mr Thomas? Why you laugh? What funny?”

  “Oh, nothing, Mr Lee. You carry on, my good fellow.”

  8

  Habanera

  Monique began practising her operatic repertoire from the moment she heard about the competition. Her powerful voice wafted through the building. Even though she could be a selfish shrew at times, Suzanna could not deny that the woman was a consummate professional who worked hard to progress her career and deserved all her success. The feisty diva’s commitment, years of experience, and legions of loyal fans began to cast deep shadows in the young girl’s mind.

  “David, I am not up to this competition. I am bound to be humiliated. They need to find another singer to compete to make it a fair fight. Only a few weeks ago, the audience threw pint glasses at my head to get me to leave the stage!”

  “How many times do I have to say the debacle at The Crown and Cushion was not a reflection of your ability. Do you really want to give someone else the opportunity and then spend the rest of your life regretting that you never even tried?” he quizzed. “The last time you trod the boards here your act was well-received. You know that. It’s time to forget your nerves and put your heart and soul into your performance. Do you not think the whole audience will be rooting for the underdog? It’s so terribly British—unlike Monique,” he said with a chuckle.

  Suzanna smiled at the joke hoping she looked more positive, even if she didn’t feel it. Monique was a formidable opponent in every way imaginable.

  Several times during her morning practice, Monique had lost her temper with the orchestra and yelled at the conductor.

  “Amateurs!” she screamed. “You are all amateurs, oui! You are not fit to perform in the sewers of Paris.”

  “Mademoiselle,” ordered Hoffman, “please take five minutes to calm down. Have a drink, perhaps. We will begin again when your temper has subsided.”

  Monique stomped off like a self-interested toddler. Hoffman had been mistreated for months, and he was close to throwing down his baton and taking the orchestra with him. When Max came to see what the commotion was, Hoffman voiced his concerns.

  “I am telling you, Max, Monique is impossible. If I did not respect you, I would leave this instant. She can sing accompanied by a honky-tonk pianist for all I care—if there is one stupid enough to work with her.”

  “I know she is difficult,” Max agreed, “but she will be leaving us as soon as she wins this competition. Her profile is on the up, you know that. You have to admit that she has brought us fame and fortune,” Max reasoned diplomatically. “We owe her this opportunity.”

  “I suppose making her look good at the gala will be the same as writing her a glowing reference to tempt a foolish employer to take her off our hands,” he mused.

  “You are a professional, Mr Hoffman, and Monique is a diva. That is the hand we have been dealt. Please have as much patience with her as you can. We need the gala to be a success to raise the maximum amount of money. If Monique pulls out, those hungry bellies at Christmas Day will be on your conscience.”

  “The woman is a selfish ungrateful French shrew. The sooner she leaves for Italy the better. I am warning you, Max, everyone has had enough of her petulant antics. Either she goes, or we go. I am sure The Canterbury Theatre will want our services.”

  At times like this, Max wished David was there to witness the day-to-day challenges that he faced. The old man’s naturally empathetic outlook meant he was left to reconcile the warring factions. Max was under a constant barrage of pressure to compliment, console, manipulate and encourage an endless string of over-emotional performers who believed that the world revolved around them.

  He had enjoyed a long theatrical career, and he loved his life, yet as the years went by, he found he had less patience left for the selfish people that surrounded him and sapped him of his energy. Although he was a wealthy and generous man, for many years now, he never had time for a woman. He wanted to escape the chaos and find someone whom he could enjoy life with, a woman who would spoil him in his twilight years. I’ve been alone for far too long now.

  In a rare moment of calm, Mr Hoffman spotted Suzanna sitting in the gallery.

  “Err—Miss Stratton! Why are you up there? Come here at once.”

  She glided down the stairs, her simple linen dress flowing behind her, skipped through the foyer and across to the empty auditorium. As she walked down the left aisle, the conductor questioned her.

  “Wouldn’t you like to practise a little? The competition is only a few days away,” reminded Mr Hoffman. “What were you doing up there anyway?”

  Suzanna climbed the wooden steps to the side of the stage and took up a central position above the orchestra pit, then turned to face the conductor.

  “I was watching Monique perform. She is magnificent,” Suzanna eulogised politely.

  Despairing sighs emanated from the orchestra pit.

  “What are you singing at the gala night? We have not discussed it yet. Have you chosen something?”

  “Yes, Mr Hoffman,” she answered shyly.

  “Well spit it out, Suzanna. We cannot help you if you do not tell us.”

  “I am going to sing Habanera, from Bizet’s Carmen.”

  Mr Hoffman’s mouth opened and then shut again. It had been on the tip of his tongue to refuse her and ask her to choose something less ambitious, but on reflection, he thought she should at least try.

  “Do you believe that you have the tonality and the vocal range?”

  “Yes, I have been practising.”

  “How so? Where did you get the sheet music? Can you read music?”

  “I went to Denmark Street and bought the sheet music with my earnings. I have practised the piano since I was a child. I seldom mention it, but there have been many musicians who taught me through the years.”

  Mr Hoffman stared at her in pride and wonderment. A working-class girl who has the drive to teach herself the piano definitely needs this opportunity to prove herself.

  “Bring me the music and meet me here in thirty minutes once the orchestra has had a run-through of it,” he instructed her.

  “Yes, Sir. But what about Monique? Has she finished practising yet?”

  “Monique can wait until tomorrow. I have had enough of her antics for one day.”

  “I presume you’re not expecting me to break the news to her!” said Suzanna in a panic.

  “I’ll deal with the situation,” sighed the battle-weary musician.

  Monique
stood in the wings, eavesdropping on the conversation between the conductor and Suzanna. She was furious. How dare that man speak about me in that manner. Still, as arrogant as she was, she realised that if she annoyed the conductor any further, he would refuse to work with her. Although it was a fractious relationship, they had worked together for countless performances. Changing to a new conductor now could ruin her Italian adventure.

  From what Monique overheard, her first challenge would be to salvage the relationship with the musicians. She hatched a plan. She would return to the stage and charm Mr Hoffman and his orchestra until she was once again the ‘darling of the theatre’. I’ll tell them a little white lie that they can work with me on an all-expenses-paid tour of the continent too, just to be sure I win them over. Her second challenge was to find a position in the shadows where she could hear Suzanna make a fool of herself as she warbled her way through ‘Habanera’. With a smug grin, Monique decided both challenges were easy to achieve.

  Monique made her way up to the balcony. Her strategic position was well-chosen. She chose the door closest to the stage and placed herself in the shadows. From there, she could look down on the orchestra and watch closely Suzanna as well. This delicate English rose will never manage to do justice to the gritty anthem of a passionate Spaniard like Carmen.

  The orchestra began to play a few bars into the introduction, and Suzanna began to sing. A hush fell over the entire building. Stagehands, costume designers, cleaners and cooks arrived in dribs and drabs to watch the young woman perform the song of Carmen the Gypsy, hoping they would not get called back to work. The song seemed as if it were written for Suzanna. She reached all of the high notes and pronounced the words perfectly, even though they were not in her mother tongue.

  Monique was so distracted by Suzanna’s delivery that she did not see the staff slipping into the auditorium one at a time. Even Lee Ting-Chong ’s family were amazed. David stood watching from the wings, wholly absorbed in the song. Everyone saw Suzanna and yet they didn’t. Her committed performance had transformed her into the embodiment of Bizet’s Carmen. It was clear, once again, she had the ability to capture the heart and soul of her audience.