The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Honest? What do you mean?’ Joshua stood up, frowning. ‘Are you implying that somebody here isn’t?’

  ‘I don’t trust Albert,’ she said, but didn’t tell him about his finger on the scales.

  ‘Oh!’ Her father flapped his hand, dismissing her fears. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against him. He’s very useful to me. He can lift boxes and take out orders. Mattie couldn’t do that. Don’t you worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll manage all right.’

  For the next few days, Poppy rose early each morning, even before Nan arrived to do the cleaning. She took out the flour and fats, mixing bowls and tins and helped Lena with the baking when she came down from Tommy’s room, which she had now appropriated. Lena was not an early riser and Poppy suspected that she tumbled straight out of bed and into her clothes without getting washed, for she was flushed and sweaty and her hands were hot, which Poppy knew, for her mother had told her, was not good for kneading bread, which required cool hands.

  Albert came in at half past six. He was sour and uncommunicative. Not that Poppy wanted to talk to him, but when she asked him to help her bring in the trays of fresh bread, cakes and scones, he merely grunted. Her father, on the other hand, was energetic and talkative in the morning as he filled the shelves and checked his stock, and would sing refrains from music hall songs. Poppy would join in, and they would laugh when customers made comments about the singing duo.

  When she had spare time during the day, in the lull between customers, she would escape to her attic room and practise her lyrics and dance steps, opening the window and letting her voice soar. People passing by would look up and smile and, when they next saw her, wished her good luck for the following week’s performance. Already word had gone out that Poppy Mazzini was going to appear at the Mechanics Music Hall and was on her way to stardom.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Poppy dressed carefully, putting extra petticoats beneath the red skirt she had bought especially with money her father had given her. She brushed her hair and arranged her curls around her cheeks, for tonight she was going to appear winsome and charming and play on her youth and innocence. She had chosen a popular medley of songs that the musicians, who played regularly at the venue, would know.

  The doors were opened to the public at six o’clock in time for them to buy their drinks at the bar and claim their favourite seats. Today being Monday was bound to be quiet, though many of the older citizens preferred Monday above all other evenings as they could sit in comfort without being hassled by the rowdier patrons at the end of the week.

  Poppy was intentionally early. It was barely five o’clock, but she wanted to rehearse her routine on the stage, and if the musicians were there to go over the pieces of music she had chosen.

  But there was someone on the stage already, a comic, dressed in a large suit and bowler hat, who was shouting out his patter to an empty auditorium. He stopped when he saw Poppy and fumbled his lines. ‘I’ve lost ’thread of what I was saying now,’ he grumbled. ‘I came in ’specially so I could practise.’

  A violinist with his instrument case under his arm had just walked in the door. He laughed at the comment. ‘You’ll get a few interruptions on Friday and Saturday night,’ he said. ‘So you’d better practise a bit more!’ He turned to Poppy. ‘You the singer that was here for ’audition?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I came in good time too, so that I could rehearse.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘Pianist will be here in a minute. I’ve just seen him up ’street. Have you brought some music?’

  ‘Yes.’ She showed him the sheaf of songbooks. She was beginning to feel nervous. ‘I’ve marked the two I’m going to sing.’

  ‘Been given two slots, have you? They must think you’re all right.’ He looked over the music. ‘That’s fine. We can manage those.’ He looked up at the stage, where the comic was still muttering his patter under his breath, his lips hardly moving. ‘Right then, Jack,’ the musician called to him. ‘We need ’stage now. You can go to ’back of ’stalls and practise. ’Patrons won’t be coming in just yet.’

  The comic glared at Poppy, then at the musician. ‘Me name’s Billy,’ he mumbled. ‘Billy Toke. ’Chap with a joke.’

  Poppy smiled. That was the funniest thing he had said so far. ‘Sorry, Mr Toke,’ she said. ‘But I need the stage and the music.’

  ‘You didn’t have music for ’audition,’ he grumbled as he climbed down the steps.

  ‘No.’ She eased out a breath. ‘But this is the real thing, isn’t it? I really want to get it right.’

  He stopped in front of her. ‘Not going professional, are you?’ and when she said she was hoping to, he replied, ‘I suppose your da will help you out wi’ finances? I tried it for a bit, but I barely made enough for food and lodgings.’

  ‘So why are you here now?’ Poppy took off her coat and outdoor shoes and slipped on her dancing shoes.

  He shrugged. ‘Can’t stop! I just like performing. I enter these competitions and hope that somebody will come along and offer me a good contract; one that’d allow me to eat now and again.’

  The pianist had arrived and was running his fingers along the keys. The violinist nodded to Poppy and she ran up the steps to the stage and began.

  She didn’t notice Dan Damone and Ben Thompson come into the theatre and stand at the rear of the stalls and she went through one song with the musicians without stopping. Then, after consulting with them, she began the second.

  ‘She needs spicing up a bit,’ Ben Thompson muttered, chewing on his cigar. ‘This little girl thing is all well and good for a Monday night in Hull, but it won’t do for my places up north on a Saturday night. She could be another Marie Lloyd if she put her mind to it.’

  Dan Damone didn’t answer. He thought he knew why Poppy Mazzini was putting on her sweet demure act. She was a Hull girl, a theatregoer. She had probably seen the queue of elderly ladies outside the theatre on a Monday night, and knew what they would like. He’d see how she performed the rest of the week. One thing a performer should know was how to judge an audience, and if Poppy Mazzini was aware of that already at thirteen years old, then he’d be happy to offer her a contract; but as her agent, he would decide on the towns and music halls where she would sing, and, he thought, it won’t be in Ben Thompson’s seedy flea caves and smoky concert halls.

  On the Tuesday night, Poppy included more dancing. She sang a witty ditty, then tied a kerchief on her head, carried a scarf in her hand and danced a lively mazurka, the music in triple time which taxed the musicians but set the audience clapping their hands and calling for more. On Wednesday and Thursday she sang popular melodies and on Friday night she danced and sang to a waltz from sheet music that Miss Eloise had given her. She held up her arms to an imaginary partner and hummed, ‘La la, la la, la la-ah, hold me close forever more. La la, la la, la la-ah.’ She danced dreamily round the stage; the music was soft, her handkerchief skirt drifted about her ankles, and there was a hush in the auditorium. She thought of Charlie. Did he really love her, as she loved him? ‘Do you love me as I love you?’ she sang, ‘Will you be forever true?’ With her arms held high, she clasped her hands together as if she was circling her partner’s neck. She swayed her body in time to the music, humming the melody, then stepping back a pace she opened her arms, held up her head and with arms spread wide swept around the stage as if searching for someone.

  ‘You said we must say adieu,’ she sang, and came to the front of the stage, her hands held out imploringly to the audience.

  ‘Sweet memories are all I have left of you.

  Of sunny hours, shady bowers and secret kisses.

  Of vows of love and hopes we whispered.

  But now you say you must depart

  And have taken with you my tender heart.

  Gone on the silent breath of night.’

  She gave a low bow, keeping her head down for a moment and breathing deeply. Then, as she rose, she was stunned by the sound of the audience appla
uding and whistling. She bowed again. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed. ‘Thank you.’

  From the corner of her eye she could see stagehands in the wings and the next performer clapping. She smiled at the audience, bowing once more before backing away, and as she did so she saw a woman stand up in one of the front rows. ‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about him, darlin’,’ the woman called out. ‘He’s not worth it. Plenty more fish in ’sea.’ The people sitting near her laughed, then told her to sit down, and continued applauding and shouting for more, but Poppy backed away, bowing her head and disappearing into the wings.

  ‘Well done, Poppy!’ Dan Damone stood behind the acrobat who was on next. ‘Wonderful. You’re going to be a shining star. No doubt about it.’ He smiled. ‘All we have to do now is persuade your father to part with you.’

  She was given a rousing round of applause as the whole troupe came on the stage at the end of the show and felt flushed and exhilarated as the audience called out her name. Would Pa agree to her wishes? Was she being selfish in leaving him? As she changed into her outdoor clothes in the dressing room she shared with the other female performers, some of whom didn’t speak to her and kept their heads turned away, she heard her name being called. ‘Poppy Mazzini! Poppy Mazzini! Gen’leman for you!’

  ‘Huh,’ said one of the dancers. ‘Started already and her only just out of baby clouts. Watch out,’ she said as Poppy passed her. ‘He’ll have his hand up your skirt. That’s what happens if you become a professional.’

  Poppy glanced at her. She was a dancer and singer too, older than Poppy, but her nose had been pushed out of joint by Poppy’s success. ‘It won’t happen to me,’ she replied. ‘I won’t allow it.’

  ‘That’s what everybody says, but I know different.’

  ‘Has it happened to you?’ Poppy asked.

  ‘Fat chance!’ a young clog dancer called out. ‘She’s never been propositioned in her life! Take no notice,’ the girl went on. ‘She doesn’t know. All she does is these competitions. Nobody has ever offered her anything, nor’s likely to.’

  Poppy left them squabbling and went towards the door. What if it was someone bringing her flowers, as her father had warned? Suppose someone followed her home? But, silly, she told herself. I can run home, it’s not far.

  There was someone waiting with flowers. It was her father, looking pleased and proud, and behind him were Nan and Mattie, both wreathed in smiles and offering congratulations.

  ‘You were wonderful!’ Her father swung her into his arms and gave her a great bear-hug. ‘Just wonderful. How proud your ma would have been!’

  At his words, Poppy burst into tears. She had expended so much emotion in her singing and dancing and thinking of Charlie that now, at the mention of her mother’s name, it all became too much to bear. ‘I won’t leave you, Pa,’ she sobbed. ‘How could I? It isn’t fair.’

  ‘We’ll go now,’ Nan said, and Mattie hovered behind her. They both gave her a kiss. ‘We’ve to get back to work and you and your pa have a lot to think over,’ Nan said. ‘You’ve got great talent.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mattie whispered to her. ‘Don’t let it go to waste. Your pa’ll be all right. We’ll see that he is.’ She squeezed Poppy’s arm. ‘You go and look for fame and fortune. You deserve it.’

  As they left the hall, Dan Damone appeared. ‘Mr Mazzini,’ he said, ‘may I call on you later? At your coffee house? There’s something I’d like to discuss. And Poppy,’ he went on, ‘I need to talk about tomorrow night. It’s the last night of the show and I’d like you to be top of the bill.

  ‘Just one other thing, Mr Mazzini,’ he added, as Poppy took in a sudden breath. ‘There were people in the theatre tonight who might make offers for Poppy before I can get to you. Could I ask you to sign nothing until I’ve spoken to you?’

  ‘Why should I trust you above anyone else?’ Joshua said shrewdly.

  ‘Because Poppy needs to be nurtured,’ Damone answered. ‘She has a talent beyond her years. We don’t want her burning out by over-playing her.’

  Joshua nodded. ‘I see. However, I must find out first what Poppy wants. She’s my prime concern. But yes,’ he added. ‘We’ll wait for you.

  ‘Is it really what you want, Poppy?’ he asked as they walked home, Joshua looking at his pocket watch and hurrying his steps. ‘It won’t always be as easy as it’s been here this week. Folks know you round here; you’ve had plenty of support. Going to other towns where they’ve never heard of you, they might be more critical.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about that, Pa,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m more bothered about leaving you on your own, especially now that you haven’t got Tommy to help you.’

  ‘Just supposing you were a few years older,’ he murmured. ‘Say eighteen or so and someone wanted to marry you. Would you say to your suitor, I can’t marry you cos my pa will be lonely?’

  She gave a little smile and tucked her arm into his. ‘That would be different,’ she said. ‘If I was getting married, I’d probably live near you.’ Then her smile faded. Though I only want to marry Charlie, she thought, and he won’t come back here. ‘Are you trying to persuade me to sign up with Mr Damone?’ she joked. ‘Wanting rid of me after all?’

  ‘You know that’s not true, Poppy,’ he said seriously. ‘I only want what’s best for you and for you to be happy.’

  They were busy in the coffee house and Poppy put on her apron and served the customers. ‘Give us a song, Poppy,’ one of the regulars said. ‘Just so’s we can boast that we heard you first before you were famous.’

  She laughed. ‘Only if you join in, Mr Thomas. What shall I sing?’

  ‘One of them popular numbers,’ he said. ‘Nothing soppy.’

  ‘No,’ said his wife. ‘Sing that one you sang tonight, about ’lass whose lover left her. Fair broke my heart that did. It was as if it had happened to you and I know it can’t have, cos you’re far too young and lovely for anyone to have loved you and left you.’

  ‘I can’t sing that, Mrs Thomas,’ Poppy replied lightly. ‘Not now. Everybody would be weeping and going home and then what would my pa say?’

  ‘Sing one of Marie Lloyd’s songs,’ someone else called. ‘Something lively.’

  ‘All right.’ Poppy laughed. She knew all of the popular music hall star’s songs, or most of them, but she knew she hadn’t got Marie Lloyd’s cheeky manner or turn of phrase. She sang, putting on cockney airs and intonations and giving her listeners a wink and saucy smile, and as she was strutting around the room Ben Thompson came in. He took off his top hat and sat down at a vacant table.

  ‘I’d like to sign her up,’ he whispered to Joshua when he came to bring him coffee. ‘She can start next Monday at my free-and-easy in Bradford. Twice a night for the whole season. A pound a week and no agent to pay.’ He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘If you just sign here,’ he said, through clenched teeth as he chomped on his cigar. ‘You are her guardian, I take it? Then she’s on her way to stardom. I’ll make her into the next Marie Lloyd!’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Joshua took the paper from him. ‘I’ll need to read it first. Leave it with me and I’ll let you know.’

  The cigar dropped from Ben Thompson’s open mouth. ‘Can’t do that,’ he blustered. ‘I’m only here for tonight. I’ve got a big show on tomorrow. It’s now or never!’

  ‘Then it’s never.’ Joshua gave him back his contract. ‘I’m not willing to sign away my daughter’s rights without reading the terms first. I don’t even know who you are!’

  ‘Don’t you? I’m astonished! Everybody knows Ben Thompson. Here.’ He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. ‘There’s my card.’ He quickly drank down his coffee. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’ And with that he was gone, out of the door, leaving Joshua staring after him.

  ‘Would you believe that?’ he said to Poppy as she finished her song. ‘He didn’t even pay for his coffee!’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Joshua carefully read the contract that
Dan Damone had brought with him. It didn’t make promises, apart from those which said he would endeavour to find suitable engagements with reputable managers and proprietors of theatres and music hall, and would take 10 per cent of any fee.

  ‘Seems fair enough,’ he said.

  ‘Read it through, Mr Mazzini, and let me know tomorrow.’ Dan Damone looked at Poppy, reading over her father’s shoulder. ‘I’m not promising that it will be easy,’ he said. ‘There’ll be days when you’ll wish you’d never come into this business. Nights when the halls are empty of patrons, and you can’t sleep because the beds are lumpy and the landlady is a harridan. I’ll try to put you with people who can show you the ropes, and keep an eye out for you. But this is a hard life. Everybody is seeking stardom, and you won’t always get applause like you’ve had this week.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I said, Poppy?’ her father commented. ‘My very words.’

  Poppy nodded. She felt frightened and apprehensive, but also exhilarated, so filled with pent-up joy and excitement that she felt she could fly.

  ‘If you do decide to sign,’ Dan Damone went on, ‘I might have an engagement for you the week after next. There’s a hall in Brighton with a vacancy for a singer. I’ve other auditions next week, but if they’re not suitable, well . . .’ He left the suggestion floating in the air.

  Brighton! Poppy gulped. That was miles away. She glanced at her father, who was pursing his lips. ‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘We’ll let you know tomorrow.’

  He walked to the door with Dan Damone. All the other customers had left, as had Albert, and Lena had said she was going up to bed. ‘I, erm, there’s something I need to ask you, Mr Damone,’ he said, opening the door as the agent called good night to Poppy.

  ‘Call me Dan,’ he replied. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘Well, it’s like this. Poppy’s only thirteen. I, erm, she’s got no mother to advise her.’ Joshua looked anxious. ‘I wouldn’t want her to get into any kind of trouble – you know – with young men, I mean. I know how they hang around stage doors, waiting.’