by Val Wood
‘Not to mention those lovely red curls,’ Eloise, formerly Ella Stanton, agreed. ‘She would look good and she’ll have the trim figure of her mother when she is older. But she also has a voice,’ she added, and sighed. ‘She could go far.’
She too had suffered disappointment. She was set for a career in the concert halls, but constant bouts of laryngitis had caused her to cancel appearances, and eventually ruined her voice. Fortunately her father had left her reasonably secure financially, so she had set up as a singing teacher for the children of aspiring parents who wanted their daughters to charm future suitors with their accomplishments.
‘Just suppose.’ Miss Davina tapped her mouth. ‘Just suppose we train her – only to see what she can do,’ she added. ‘Not with any ulterior motive, you understand. But give her extra coaching, push her a little further than we would normally do. What do you think?’
It would be satisfying, they both agreed, to do something worthwhile. To prepare a child to her full potential. A life in the theatre and the music hall was becoming more acceptable in this last decade of the nineteenth century, though there were some who still considered it to be a degrading and immoral occupation for dissolute people. But Poppy had flair, grace and ability, they decided. She could, they thought, bring her own touch of class and style to the stage if she ever took matters into her own hands.
They opened another bottle of wine and gave a toast to Poppy’s future, linked to their own, for wouldn’t it add to their own esteem, Miss Eloise said, if they were known as the former teachers of a bright and shining star?
‘Your voice is improving, Poppy,’ her mother said. She was lying on the sofa in the parlour with a shawl over her and a pillow beneath her head. It was now September and her health hadn’t improved. She still rose early to do the baking, but Tommy got up too to help her. He lifted the pans and the baking trays into and out of the oven. He kneaded the dough for the bread and carried the trays of finished cakes and pastries into the shop for their early customers whilst his father prepared orders, weighed flour into bags, stacked the shelves with tins and jars and saw to the delivery men who brought in sacks of potatoes and carrots from the market. Nan washed the floor and windows and then cleaned their private rooms.
Poppy had come home from school and her mother had heard her singing as she came through from the shop into the parlour. ‘That sounds lovely,’ she said. ‘Is it something new?’
‘Yes.’ Poppy took off her coat and sat at her mother’s side. ‘Miss Eloise said we should try something different. Are you cold?’ she asked, touching her mother’s hand, which was thin and blue.
‘I am cold,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to be able to get warm, except when I’m baking.’
It was a cosy parlour with pictures on the walls, and ornaments on the overmantel in front of the mirror. A bright fire burned in the tiled fireplace, and because the heavy curtains were partly closed to keep the room warmer, an oil lamp was lit in the centre of a round table, until later when Joshua would come in to light the gas chandelier.
‘Pa said Tommy will have to take over the baking,’ Poppy said, tucking the shawl closer round her mother. ‘If you’re not up to it.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘You are getting better, aren’t you, Mama?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Not much,’ her mother admitted. ‘I don’t seem to have much energy.’ She gazed at Poppy and her eyes misted over. ‘You’ll help your pa if he needs you, won’t you, Poppy? He’ll rely on you and Tommy, though I know that Tommy wants to go to sea. He says he doesn’t want to stop in the shop all his life.’
‘You’re not going to die, are you? I shan’t bear it if you do.’ Poppy started to cry. ‘What will we do?’ She began to sob. ‘What will Pa do?’
Her mother sat up and put her arms about her. ‘Hush, hush. I’m not thinking of dying for a long time. But everyone does, eventually.’ She pushed back Poppy’s red hair and kissed her forehead. ‘We can’t live for ever, you know.’
But I am tired, she thought. So very tired, and I don’t like the way I feel; as if I’m living on borrowed time. But I must make an effort. For the sake of my son and daughter, I must fight this. And for Joshua too, but there will be some woman who’ll come scurrying round if I’m not here. He’s a handsome, prosperous man. But weak. He won’t be able to manage on his own.
‘Sing the song for me,’ she prompted. ‘From the beginning.’
Poppy wiped her eyes. ‘All right.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Miss Eloise said the words were too old for me, but that the music would stretch my vocal cords.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Then let’s hear it.’ She leaned back against her pillow again and closed her eyes as Poppy began. Poppy wasn’t shy of performing in front of anyone; she concentrated always on the words and music, the meaning and feeling behind the words. But this particular song awakened in her something which she didn’t quite understand. It was a song of love, full of pathos and longing.
Her mother opened her eyes in astonishment and watched Poppy, who had crossed her hands lightly across her chest and gazed into space as she sang. A tear trickled down Mary’s cheek. On one of her stolen visits to the theatre when she was young, she had heard this selfsame melody. She had never thought to hear her own daughter sing it.
Poppy finished and gave a bow to her mother, who clasped her hands together and pressed them to her mouth. ‘It’s from an opera,’ Poppy explained. ‘Miss Eloise said it was one of her favourites when she was young. She used to sing it at concerts. It has an Italian name.’
Her mother nodded. ‘ “La Sonnambula”,’ she said. ‘I remember it too. “The Sleepwalker”.’
‘Miss Eloise said it was made famous by Miss Jenny Lind and that she sang here in Hull at the old Theatre Royal when she was very young. When Miss Eloise was very young, I mean!’
‘I believe she did,’ her mother said. ‘Though that was long before I was born.’
‘Miss Eloise must be old then,’ Poppy said. ‘If she can remember her!’
‘Mm,’ her mother murmured. ‘Not that old! Would you like a younger teacher?’ she asked. ‘One who knows more modish music?’
‘No, thank you. I like Miss Eloise. She’s teaching me how to breathe and she tells me of when she used to sing at concerts and how wonderful it was to hear the applause, and how to take a bow and all things like that.’
And filling your head with dreams, I don’t doubt, Mary thought. But then what is life without a dream or two, even if they don’t always come true? ‘Would you like to be a singer?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps your pa wouldn’t mind if you sang at concerts. In the town, I mean, like the Assembly Rooms or the Albion Lecture Hall. Not to travel.’
Poppy’s grey eyes looked green as they widened. ‘But then who would know me, Mama? I’d not be the famous Poppy Mazzini on the posters. You know, like they have on the walls of the Mechanics. I would have to travel.’
Mary watched her daughter’s face fall as she said softly, ‘Then it’s impossible.’
The doctor came every three weeks to see Mary, then every two, and then every week as they came towards Christmas. Tommy was now doing all the baking and although he didn’t have his mother’s light touch at cakes, he made excellent bread and pastry. But though he was unhappy about his mother’s increasing weakness, he felt trapped and didn’t want to end his days in a grocer’s shop like his father.
‘It’s a good business,’ his father told him when Tommy had again done his grumbling. ‘You should be pleased that your future is mapped out for you, as mine was.’
‘But I want to make my own future, Pa,’ Tommy insisted. ‘I want to make my own mistakes and put them right.’
‘Pah!’ his father retorted. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are.’
There was nothing he could do. His mother was dying and it was only a matter of time. Tommy knew that and he wouldn’t upset her last days by leaving home. Her heart was getting weaker and weaker. His father knew it; even Nan knew it. Only Poppy did
n’t and Tommy didn’t think that she even guessed at how ill their mother was.
They closed the shop on Christmas Day and instead of making bread and cakes, Tommy and his father roasted a goose with all the trimmings of stuffing, roast potatoes and sausages, though not in such large quantities as usual for only Poppy had any appetite. Poppy cleaned sprouts and scrubbed parsnips and Nan, who with her daughter Mattie had been invited to eat with them, kept an eye on the Christmas pudding which was simmering gently in a pan, whilst Mary rested on the sofa in the parlour sipping an egg nog made with fresh eggs, honey and rum.
‘Time you learned to bake, Poppy,’ Tommy said, taking the goose out of the oven and carefully basting it. ‘I’ll teach you to bake Yorkshire teacakes, if you like.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Poppy agreed. She loved the rounds of bread, which were baked with currants, eaten warm and spread with thick yellow butter. ‘Ma always used to make Yule cakes. Maybe next Christmas, when she’s better, she’ll make some.’ Yule cakes were similar to teacakes but had extra fruit and candied peel, egg and spices.
Tommy glanced at his father, who looked at Nan, who put her head down to hide the tears which sprang to her eyes.
‘Poppy,’ her father said hoarsely. ‘Go and set ’table in ’parlour. We’ll eat in there, so your ma can stay where she is.’
Poppy looked up. Usually they ate in the kitchen, even at Christmas. It was warm in there with the range glowing and a table big enough for them all to sit comfortably. The table in the parlour was much smaller, though there was a good fire.
‘We’re eating in here, Ma,’ she told her mother cheerfully. ‘Pa said it would be better, and then you don’t have to get up from the sofa. And we can look at the Christmas tree whilst we’re eating. Shall I put your dinner on a tray?’
Her mother nodded. ‘Only a little food, Poppy. Don’t let Tommy pile up my plate. I won’t be able to eat it.’
‘You’ve got to eat, Ma,’ Poppy said anxiously. ‘You won’t get better if you don’t eat!’
I can’t tell her today, her mother thought. Not on Christmas Day. And not on her birthday either. In another week or two, then I’ll tell her, prepare her for the fact that I won’t be getting better.
‘It’s been a very quiet birthday,’ Poppy said to her mother a week later, just before she went upstairs to bed. ‘But I saw the fireworks at midnight and heard the ships’ sirens from the river and the docks.’
‘Yes.’ Her mother gave a gentle smile. ‘I heard them too. Poppy,’ she said softly. ‘It’s time for you to grow up. Time to help your pa and Tommy in the shop . . . and wait on ’customers in the coffee house. Will you do that?’
‘Not go to school, do you mean?’ Poppy hoped her mother didn’t mean that. She liked school and she would miss seeing her friends if she didn’t go. She thought of Mattie, Nan’s daughter. She didn’t go to school. But then Mattie was older than her. She was almost fourteen.
‘No, we don’t want you to finish at school. Not just yet, perhaps in another year . . . but you’ll have to help before and . . . after school. It’s only right that you should.’ Mary was breathless with talking.
‘Don’t tire yourself, Ma,’ Poppy said, leaning forward to give her mother a kiss. ‘You should be in bed.’
‘I’m just waiting for your pa to take me up. Poppy!’ She clutched her hand, her resolve fading. Keeping the detail of her illness from her was not a choice any more. ‘I – I might not be coming downstairs again. We didn’t tell you before but – I won’t get any better. My heart is very weak. It’s an effort . . . even to talk. Every . . . step . . . every breath makes me . . . weaker.’
Poppy felt her heart hammering and her ears drumming. ‘Then – then don’t talk. We’ll talk to you. Ma!’ Her mouth trembled and she felt sick. What was her mother telling her? That she was going to die?
‘Life . . . has to be . . . worth living, Poppy,’ her mother murmured on a breath. ‘Mine has been . . . a good one. I have been so very . . . lucky . . . having your father . . . and you and Tommy. I couldn’t have wanted more.’
Poppy couldn’t speak. It couldn’t be true. They must bring the doctor in again. He must give her mother some more medicine to make her get better.
‘Give me a kiss, darling,’ her mother whispered. ‘Don’t be unhappy. You know that I love you. All of you. Keep singing, Poppy, my little songbird. Sing of love. Love makes everything worthwhile.’
CHAPTER FOUR
On Poppy’s twelfth birthday, she thought dismally that it would always be a day of sadness. She would for ever remember last year when her mother had told her that she wouldn’t get better. When she had woken the following morning, she had wondered if she had had a bad dream, and had raced into her parents’ room. Her father was already up and her mother asleep. Poppy had gently touched her cheek and her mother had opened her eyes and smiled at her. ‘I’m still here, Poppy,’ she had said softly. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
She slipped away a month later, in the cold days of February. There was a fortnight of hard frost followed by blizzards and Poppy couldn’t stop shivering. She hadn’t wanted to go to school but her father had helped her into her coat, wrapped a warm scarf around her neck and ushered her off. ‘It’s what your ma would have wanted,’ he told her. ‘She said life must go on.’
But that was then and the life that was now wasn’t the one that Poppy wanted. For a start, her father was employing a woman, Lena, to help in the shop and serve the tea and coffee to the customers. Lena had told him that she was a first-class cook and baker, but Joshua had said that they could manage for now, as Tommy was able to do all that. But neither Poppy nor Tommy liked her. She smiled and simpered at their father and couldn’t do enough to please him, but although she was civil towards Poppy and Tommy they both felt an undercurrent of dislike directed towards them.
She was a big-bosomed woman with plump arms and a mass of brassy fair hair which she covered with a lace snood. Her clothes were too fashionable and fussy for shop work, and she spoke with a penetrating booming voice.
‘Why her, Pa?’ Tommy asked his father one day after he had had a heated discussion with Lena. ‘You could have asked Nan to come into the shop more often, and she needs the money!’
‘Nan is fine at what she does,’ his father said. ‘She keeps ’house and shop clean and she does ’laundry and ironing. She can’t do any more. Lena can help out with ’baking if need be. She’s all right,’ he added. ‘She’s better for knowing.’
Tommy muttered something under his breath, for he was worldly wise, now that he had turned sixteen.
‘And she knew your ma,’ Joshua said. ‘She was one of ’first to come and see if she could help after your mother died.’
Poppy frowned. She couldn’t recall her mother ever mentioning Lena Rogers. She lived somewhere off Whitefriargate, Hull’s main shopping street, but Poppy was convinced that she was new to Hull.
‘She’s a widow woman,’ Joshua said. ‘There’s just her and her son. She needs to work too.’
‘So why doesn’t her son work?’ Tommy grumbled. ‘How old is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ his father snapped. ‘I didn’t ask!’
Poppy was going to her dance class a few days later, after school. She came into the shop fastening up her jacket and looking for her father to tell him she wouldn’t be late. ‘Where’s Pa?’ she asked Lena. ‘I’m just off.’
‘Going gadding, eh?’ Lena said with a cynical smile. ‘You and your brother both!’
‘What do you mean? Where’s Tommy?’
‘Gone out. Same as you’re going to.’
‘I’m going to my dancing class!’ Poppy said. ‘I go every Tuesday and every Wednesday I go for singing lessons.’
‘Ooh, dancing and singing! What a lucky girl. Your poor pa struggling to keep you in such luxuries.’
Poppy had been taught never to answer back to adults, but she badly wanted to answer back now. She stared at Lena, then turned round and went to th
e door. ‘You’ll tell Pa where I’ve gone, won’t you?’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Please,’ she added. ‘He worries otherwise.’
Lena shrugged and raised her eyebrows and Poppy just knew that she wouldn’t, not unless her father asked.
She walked sullenly down the street, kicking any pebble that was in her path, and had turned into George Street when she realized that she had forgotten her dancing pumps. She turned about and hurried back towards the shop.
The doorbell rang as she went in and Lena looked up. She was in conversation with a heavily built youth of about eighteen, who was putting something into his pocket. Poppy saw his sudden furtive glance at Lena, and the way he bit his lip as if he’d been apprehended.
‘I forgot my shoes,’ Poppy murmured, hesitating.
‘Better fetch them then, hadn’t you?’ Lena said acidly. ‘Don’t keep Miss Davina waiting.’
‘Do you know her?’ Poppy asked. She couldn’t recall ever telling Lena her teacher’s name.
‘Of her,’ Lena muttered, and the youth continued to stand there, his eyes shifting between Lena and Poppy.
Poppy stood her ground looking at them both, until Lena blurted, ‘This is my son, Albert. He’s just popped in with a message for me.’
‘Oh!’ Poppy said. ‘Hello! I didn’t realize you were grown up. I thought you’d be young, like me!’
‘You’re gone twelve, that is grown up,’ Lena said sharply. ‘Some folk start work when they’re younger than you are.’
‘I know,’ Poppy replied. ‘I’m very lucky. I’ve got friends who’ve started work already. So what do you do – Albert?’ she asked. ‘Where do you work?’
Albert hesitated for a second, then said, ‘I’m looking for work at present.’
‘He’s in the shop trade,’ Lena said. ‘He’s very good with figures, aren’t you, Albert?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, folding his arms in front of him and looking at Poppy. ‘I am. I just need the right opportunity.’
I don’t like him, Poppy considered. I don’t like him any more than I do his mother. She moved towards the door at the back of the shop. ‘Have you lived in Hull for very long?’ she asked. ‘You don’t sound like a Hull person. You haven’t got ’Hull accent.’
