The Songbird
Page 13
‘I’ll lock ’door and put a padlock on it,’ he said placatingly. ‘Though why you think they would want to come in, I don’t understand. What about Nan? Can she come in to clean or is she banned as well?’
‘Nan’s all right. I know she won’t go nosing around.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know I’m being unreasonable. It’s just that . . .’ She sighed. ‘Well, when I come back I want everything to be exactly as it is now.’
He smiled pensively and stroked her hair. ‘But it won’t be, Poppy,’ he said quietly. ‘And you’ll be different too.’
There was nothing in the post from Dan Damone all the week, and when the Friday post came and still there was nothing, Poppy was filled with disappointment. ‘They must have taken someone else on in Brighton,’ she said dismally to Mattie when she met her out in the street during the afternoon. ‘Mr Damone said they wanted a singer by next week, by which I suppose he meant Monday, so it’s too late now.’
‘There’ll be other places,’ Mattie said, ‘or there might be all kinds of reasons why he hasn’t written. Maybe you’ll hear tomorrow,’ she added. ‘Don’t give up hope.’
‘But it will still be too late,’ Poppy groaned. ‘I couldn’t get to London and then Brighton for Monday.’
‘I’ll come and see you off when you do go,’ Mattie promised. ‘I think you’re ever so brave travelling alone.’
‘I’m not brave at all,’ Poppy replied. ‘I feel sick when I think about it. I’ve to change trains twice, and Pa has made me promise that I’ll only travel in a ladies-only carriage.’
Saturday morning a letter came. ‘Dear Poppy,’ Dan Damone wrote. ‘I travelled straight to Brighton to enquire about the booking on your behalf, only to find that there had been a small fire in the hall and next week’s performances have been cancelled. The management are hoping to have everything ready for opening the following Monday and are willing to take you, act unseen, on my recommendation, for the first week. If you’ll travel down to my office next Wednesday or Thursday, I’ll give you all the details and that will give you enough time to get to Brighton and arrange lodgings. In haste, Dan Damone.’
‘Oh, Pa,’ she whispered. ‘It’s come. I’m to go to Brighton.’ And as she well knew, Brighton was at the ends of the earth.
She’d never been to London and whenever she had travelled by train to the seaside, as sometimes they used to, her parents had always been with her. But she hadn’t been out of Hull since her mother’s death.
Charlie’s in London, she thought as yet again she checked the contents of the trunk. How wonderful it would be if he could meet me. But I haven’t got his address. Should I, dare I, ask Mr Chandler for it? She decided that she dared. Charlie is Tommy’s friend too, she mused, and it would be natural for us to write to him. She had been cast down that she hadn’t received a letter from Charlie since he went away, but then, she sighed, men don’t write letters very often. They had received only one communication from Tommy and that was a brief note saying that he had arrived in Rotterdam and had been sick for the whole of the voyage.
She called on the Chandlers the next day and Mrs Chandler, who was a dour woman and hardly ever seemed to smile, gave her Charlie’s address. She archly asked Poppy to remind him that he had parents who would be glad to hear from him sometime. ‘Though I don’t know why I worry,’ she said. ‘Your father’s letting you go to London and you’re onny a young girl!’
Poppy hastily wrote to Charlie telling him that she would be arriving in London late afternoon on Wednesday and gave him the approximate time of arrival. ‘I don’t expect you to be there, of course,’ she wrote, ‘but I can be contacted via my agent, Dan Damone of St Martin’s Lane, which I understand is near Covent Garden.’
She read the letter through and felt a singular pang of pride and excitement at the words ‘my agent’.
‘I shall be appearing in Brighton,’ she added, ‘on the first step of my stage career. I do hope that we might meet. Your friend, Poppy.’
There, it’s done, she breathed as she dropped the letter into the postbox. Am I being forward? But he knows that I love him for I’ve told him so already, so it can’t do any harm. Then she pondered. But I will be so upset if he doesn’t come, or at least write to me.
Her father had ordered a horse cab to pick them up early on Wednesday morning and take them to the Paragon railway station. She said goodbye to Nan who was there early every morning to clean before Lena started the baking. Nan hugged her and told her to take good care of herself and to let them know how she was getting on. Poppy felt quite emotional. She would miss Nan, who had always been kind to her, and especially since her mother had died.
Lena just nodded as she said goodbye, busying herself with flour and baking tins, and Albert, in the shop, stared and then said, ‘London, eh? Better watch yourself. Lot of foreigners in London.’
‘Are there?’ she said. ‘Have you been, Albert?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes, I have. Lena and me—’
‘Albert!’ Lena called to him through the open door. ‘Can you come here and help me? Don’t stand there gossiping; she’ll miss the train!’
The cab arrived and Joshua helped the driver heave the trunk in, then he and Poppy climbed in for the short drive to the railway station, which was bustling with travellers even though it was still so early.
‘Poppy! Poppy!’ Mattie called to her from the concourse. ‘Good luck!’
‘Mattie! Shouldn’t you be at work?’ Poppy was thrilled to see her.
‘Aye, I should be, but I told ’foreman I had to see someone important onto ’train, and when he asked me who it was and I said Poppy Mazzini, she’s going to be a star, he said in that case all right, but don’t be too long!’
‘Well, cabby’s waiting, Mattie,’ Joshua said. ‘So you can ride part of ’way back with me.’
They walked through the barrier, following the uniformed porter who was trundling Poppy’s trunk on a trolley. ‘Just ’young lady, is it, sir?’ The porter touched his hat as Joshua tipped him a threepenny bit. ‘Come into this carriage, miss. These other two ladies are travelling to London.’
Poppy leaned out of the carriage window. There were two very genteel-looking elderly women already seated, and although she was glad not to be travelling alone, they didn’t appear to be the kind who would approve of her chosen career. She pressed her lips together, then took a deep breath. ‘This is it, then!’ she said nervously.
‘Have you brought some dinner with you, Poppy?’ Mattie asked. ‘It’ll be late before you get there, won’t it?’
Poppy nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve packed up some bread and beef, and a piece of cake, and I’ll be able to get a drink from one of the station trolleys when we stop.’
‘We should have bought you a magazine or a newspaper,’ Joshua said. He seemed to be as nervous as she was.
She nodded. ‘I’ll buy one from W. H. Smith’s news stalls when I change trains, Pa. Don’t worry about me,’ she said. ‘I’ll be all right, really I will.’
Joshua took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and blew his nose. ‘Aye, I know. I know.’
There was a screeching whistle of steam and the booming shout of the guard warning, ‘Mind the doors! Stand back! Mind the doors please!’
‘She’s off!’ Her father leaned forward to give her one last hug and Mattie waved vigorously as the guard signalled with his green flag. ‘Take care, Poppy. Send me a note or a telegram when you get to Brighton!’
‘I will, Pa.’ Poppy’s eyes flooded with tears. ‘Take care of yourself. You too, Mattie.’
She waved until the train curved away from the station and her last glance was of Mattie taking her father’s arm, and of them walking away. That’s it, then, she thought. Now I really am on my own.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A porter at King’s Cross station, his boots polished and the buttons on his heavy worsted jacket gleaming, took her trunk from the luggage van and loaded it onto
a trolley. ‘Do you need a cab, miss?’ He pushed his peaked cap to the back of his head and scratched his sweaty forehead. ‘Or is somebody meeting you?’
‘No,’ she said, worriedly wondering what she would do if Mr Damone had gone home and his office was shut. Rather unwisely, she had thought that when she arrived he would direct her to lodgings for tonight, but it was getting late. ‘I need to get to St Martin’s Lane.’
‘Righty-ho,’ he said. ‘We’ll see if we can hail a cab, though it’s busy this time of night.’ He turned to her and grinned. ‘Going to St Martin’s? You on the stage then? That’s where the theatres are.’
‘Oh, are they? I didn’t know. Yes.’ She was flustered. ‘Or, at least, I’m going to be. I’m going to Brighton. To a music hall. I’m a singer.’
‘Are you now?’ he chatted as he pushed the trolley. ‘Love a bit of a sing-song myself. Our Marie, she’s my favourite. She’s a darlin’. Saw George Robey in Islington not so long since. He’s on the up and up is George.’
She swallowed, feeling proud and exhilarated to be associated with such famous names. ‘I’ve never seen them,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they’ve ever been to Hull which is where I come from.’
‘Long way from ’ome then, miss!’ The porter pushed his way through the crowd, calling out, ’Mind your backs if you please. Mind your backs, sorry sir, beg pardon, ma’am,’ and Poppy hurried after him, overwhelmed by the mass of people and fearful of losing sight of her luggage. They reached the exit and the porter put up his hand to signal to the driver of a four-wheel growler, but someone else dashed towards it and climbed aboard. Poppy felt she had never seen so many vehicles at any one time. There were gigs and dog-carts, and a welter of hire vehicles, as well as private carriages. There was a smell of horses and dung, a cacophony of cracking whips and shouts from the cabbies, whilst across the busy road people were dashing to catch waiting horse-buses.
‘Poppy! Poppy!’
She turned in astonishment at hearing her name.
‘Poppy! Over here!’
She looked round. There were so many people milling about, but there, with his hand held up above a crowd of travellers, and waving to her, she saw Charlie.
‘Got a lift after all, ’ave you, miss?’ The porter took stock of Charlie as he came towards her. ‘Know ’im, do you? Can’t be too careful, you know!’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her voice breaking in delight. ‘He’s my brother’s best friend.’
‘Shall I leave you, then, miss? Otherwise we’ll be some time, trying to get a cab.’
‘Poppy!’ Charlie greeted her. ‘Yes, thank you, porter. I’ll look after her.’
‘Thank you so much.’ Poppy took out a coin to give the porter. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
He touched his cap. ‘Thank you, miss. I’ll look out for you on the stage. Good luck!’ He dashed off, whistling, towards the trains.
‘Poppy!’ Charlie said again. ‘How nice to see you.’
‘It’s lovely to see you, Charlie. It’s good of you to come and meet me.’ She cast her eyes up to his face. He looked different. He had grown a neat moustache, which made him look older. His hair was longer too, and parted down the centre; he was, she thought, even more handsome than before. In his hand he carried a bowler hat.
‘I work not far from here,’ he told her, ‘so I came as soon as I was finished.’ He took hold of her hand and gazed at her. ‘It’s good to see you, Poppy. You look so – grown up, even after only a few short weeks.’
She blushed; it was just what she wanted to hear. ‘I was hoping that we could meet,’ she said, ‘though I didn’t really expect—’
‘Let’s see if we can get a cab,’ he said. ‘Where are you off to? To see your agent?’
‘Yes, in St Martin’s Lane. Do you know it?’
‘Fairly well,’ he said airily. ‘The theatres are in that area, and variety houses and tavern concert rooms too. There’s such a lot to do in London, Poppy. So much entertainment, but one needs a large pocket book to pay for everything.’
He’s very confident, she mused as Charlie put up his arm and whistled for a cab. He even speaks differently. ‘How is your work?’ she asked diffidently as Charlie kept on trying to attract the drivers’ attention.
‘Mmm? Oh, it’s fine, for the moment – here’s one! Good fellow,’ he said to the cabby who clattered his cab towards them. ‘Give me a hand with this, will you?’ and the driver, with only a little help from Charlie, hoisted her trunk aboard and they climbed in. ‘St Martin’s Lane, if you please.
‘That’s a very large trunk,’ he commented, dusting off his hands. ‘You must be planning to stay a while?’
‘I have my stage costumes in there as well as my ordinary clothes. And Nan insisted I brought my own sheets, in case the ones in the lodgings weren’t clean.’
‘How droll.’ He laughed. ‘Typically provincial!’
‘She was only thinking of me!’ Poppy said in Nan’s defence. ‘She was bothered about bedbugs!’
There had been a good deal of demolition in the area round St Martin’s Lane, as the capital, unable to accommodate the mass of population and horse-drawn traffic which had proliferated in the last decade of the nineteenth century, turned itself topsy-turvy, chopped and widened in an attempt to modernize the London thoroughfares. The Lane itself was narrow, with ancient shopfronts, inns and coffee houses, taverns and theatres, and old courts and alleyways leading off it, providing domestic housing within the Regency exterior.
Poppy could feel excitement growing as she peered out of the cab window, though the springs were sagging and she was jolted around. Charlie smiled indulgently. ‘I found it most interesting when I first came here,’ he said, as Poppy made several gasping sounds as she noticed music shops and clubs, and windows full of paintings.
She turned to him. ‘But is it not still? You’ve not been here very long, only a few weeks!’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve found my way around,’ he said smoothly. ‘Yes, I like it here. I’ll not go back to Hull. London is ’capital of the world, you know.’
He’s so knowledgeable and experienced, Poppy thought, even though he’s only just come to London. It’s as if the air has rubbed onto him like a second skin. But I hope he doesn’t forget those who cared for him. ‘When your mother gave me your address,’ she said, ‘she asked me to say they’d like a letter from you.’
‘Oh, yes. I must write,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been so busy, you know, settling in and so on. Oh, here we are.’ He leaned forward as the cab came to a halt at a shopfront. ‘This must be it.’
Dan Damone. Agent was engraved on the glass, and in the window were framed photographs of music hall performers, and yellowing theatre programmes. Charlie helped Poppy out but she turned to the cab driver. ‘Would you wait a moment, please, whilst I find out if anyone is there?’
‘The door’s locked,’ Charlie said, and put his forehead against the glass to look through. He put his hand up to shield the reflection. ‘I can see a light at the back.’ He knocked loudly. ‘There’s someone in there.’
Poppy peered through. ‘It’s a woman,’ she said. ‘Knock again.’
A woman in a black skirt and blouse, with her hair tied neatly in a chignon, came towards the door. ‘We’re closed,’ she called. ‘Mr Damone isn’t in. Come back in the morning.’
Poppy took in a breath. ‘But he’s expecting me. Poppy Mazzini! He said for me to come today.’
‘Well, he’s not here,’ the woman replied. ‘You’re too late. Come in the morning.’
‘But I’ve nowhere to stay!’ Poppy could have cried. How could things go so wrong so soon?
‘This isn’t an hotel!’ The woman glared at her through the glass door. ‘Plenty of lodging places hereabouts. Come again in the morning.’
‘Excuse me, sir!’ the cab driver called down. ‘If you’re looking for a place to stay, I know of a lodging ’ouse just up the road. My sister-in-law runs it. I can take you if you like?’
Charlie pursed his lips, then called up to the driver. ‘Is it respectable?’
‘Yes sir, it is. Will you be wanting it just for the one night?’
‘It’s only for me!’ Poppy interrupted quickly. How dreadful. The cabby thought it was for her and Charlie!
The driver touched his hat. ‘Beg pardon, miss. But I can still take you if you want. Might not be what you’re used to, but . . .’
Beggars can’t be choosers, she pondered and looked again at Charlie.
‘I could take you back to my lodgings, I suppose, but—’ he started.
‘No!’ she said. ‘Thank you. It wouldn’t be right.’ Whatever would Pa think, she thought? He’d be mortified.
‘I was going to say that it was a long way to come back in the morning,’ he finished. He chewed on his lip for a second, then suggested, ‘Let’s go and look at this place, and if it’s all right you can leave your trunk and I’ll take you out for supper; show you the sights.’
She agreed and they climbed back into the cab, which took them less than half a mile before stopping outside a rundown clothing shop. ‘Oh! Is this it?’ Poppy murmured dismally. ‘It doesn’t look very clean!’
‘It’s only for one night,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s take a look.’
The cabbie hammered on the door, and as a bolt rattled inside he called out, ‘It’s Jack, Fanny. Got a customer for you.’
A woman with matted grey hair opened the door a crack and peered out. She narrowed her eyes at Poppy and Charlie. ‘Two customers by the look of it!’
‘Just for me,’ Poppy said, feeling hot and embarrassed. ‘May I look at the rooms, please?’
The woman shrugged and opened the door wider. ‘No visitors allowed after ten,’ she said, looking up at Charlie. ‘Not unless you’re staying and paying. This is a respectable house!’