The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Just for the young lady,’ Charlie repeated. ‘I won’t be staying.’

  The woman grunted and with swaying hips led Poppy up the uncarpeted stairs. ‘A shilling,’ she said. ‘Including breakfast. Payment in advance. You’ll not get better than that anywhere round here. Rooms are at a premium on account of its being theatre province. I’ve had famous people stay at my diggings and never a grumble.’

  Poppy looked round the small room with its narrow bed. It smelt damp but seemed reasonably clean, though she was thankful that she had brought her own sheets. ‘Could I have a fire?’ she asked. ‘It feels cold. If I can, I’ll take it.’

  The woman, Fanny, eyed her. ‘Are you an actress? Or on the music halls?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m a singer. And I must keep warm. The cold affects my voice,’ she lied.

  ‘All right,’ the landlady agreed. ‘I’ll get the girl to light a fire and no extra. How old are you? Fifteen, sixteen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy lied again as she wondered if the woman would take her if she thought she was younger. ‘Nearly.’ She unfastened her purse. ‘A shilling, you said? Could I have a key? My friend is taking me out to supper but I won’t be late. I’m tired after my journey.’

  ‘I don’t provide keys.’ Fanny led the way downstairs again. ‘But I’ll be up. I like to know who’s coming in and out.’

  The cab driver carried Poppy’s trunk upstairs, she paid him and gave him a tip and he drove off.

  ‘Come on,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ll take a walk, and then see if we can catch an omnibus. We’ll do a bit of sightseeing before dark, then have supper.’

  ‘Charlie,’ she said, stepping out of the lodging house door, ‘it’s really kind of you, but if you don’t mind I’d like supper first. I’m hungry and tired and I’d rather go straight back to the lodgings and get to bed.’

  ‘Would you? Oh!’ He seemed a little put out. ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘But it’s been a tiring day. All the travelling, you know!’

  ‘Of course.’ He was at once solicitous. ‘I’m forgetting that you’re not used to travelling. In London, of course, people are moving about all the time, getting on and off omnibuses, taking the underground train and so forth.’

  ‘Oh, the Underground! I’d like to see that. I don’t know if I dare travel on it, though. But not tonight, I don’t mean. Perhaps some other time.’

  ‘It’s a great way of getting around,’ Charlie enthused, ‘and not dark or smelly as you might expect. I use it quite often.’

  Once again, Poppy gazed at him wide-eyed. How experienced he was already; would she ever get used to this hustle of people and the clatter and rumble of traffic? She lifted the hem of her skirt as they crossed the road. There was horse dung everywhere and she wrinkled her nose. The street sweeper had obviously not been out today.

  Charlie laughed as he saw her disapproval. ‘Young lads come and clear it up every night, then they sell it to gardeners,’ he said. ‘Apparently it’s very good for roses!’

  Quite by chance they came across a small Italian restaurant, Trattoria Mario, just off St Martin’s Lane. Charlie was dubious about it, but Poppy looked through the window and saw the gleaming white tiles and the bright cloths on the tables. ‘Let’s try it,’ she said. ‘It’s small but it’s very neat and clean, and oh, the smell!’

  On a Sunday evening when Mazzini’s was closed, Poppy’s father sometimes cooked an Italian meal for them from recipes handed down from his family. He cooked veal or beef in Chianti, or ravioli which he made with flour and eggs then cut into squares and filled with spinach and ricotta cheese. Now the smell coming from the restaurant as they went inside made her feel quite homesick for her father. ‘Buon giorno, signor. Buon giorno, signorina.’ Mario, plump, short, with dark curly hair, greeted them. There were only five tables, and two of them were occupied.

  Poppy replied in the little Italian that she knew, and he smiled and said, ‘You are Italian, si?’ and led them to a table.

  ‘My father’s family,’ she said, sitting down as he held back a chair. ‘So I have a drop of Italian blood. But not very much. Non parlo Italiano!’ she explained.

  ‘And your red hair comes from your mama, si?’

  ‘Si.’ She laughed, her mood lightening, and glanced at Charlie, who was moodily picking up the menu.

  ‘You not want that.’ Mario took it from him. ‘That is for the English. I bring you proper Italian food. From Tuscany, yes? You are a little tired, I think, signorina? You have had a journey?’ At Poppy’s acknowledgement he went on, ‘I bring you pappa al pomodoro, si? And then crostini di fegatini. That is good for you, not too heavy in the evening before you sleep.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Poppy smiled. ‘That sounds delicious.’

  ‘I’d like a steak,’ Charlie said briskly. ‘Then I know what I’m eating.’

  ‘He only suggested tomato and bread soup,’ Poppy whispered as Mario dashed away towards the kitchen. ‘Zuppa, and then chicken livers on toast. My father told my mother about the soup, and she used to make it for Tommy and me when we were little.’ She was silent for a moment, then gave a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ she said sadly, and choked back tears. ‘I should be at home with Pa.’

  Charlie reached across and patted her hand, then gently squeezed her fingers. ‘You’re in a game of chance,’ he said. ‘Seeking fame and fortune, just like me. You’d never find it in a backwater like Hull.’

  She looked miserably at him. ‘But I’ve left Pa behind and all those I care for, like Nan and Mattie, and I don’t even know where Tommy is! Have you heard from him, Charlie?’

  ‘No, but then he doesn’t know where I am. We left about the same time, remember?’ He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. ‘Don’t worry, Poppy. Things will work out all right, and I’m so pleased to see you again.’

  She felt her heart beating fast and she flushed at him kissing her fingers in such a public place. He really must love me, she thought. He wouldn’t do that otherwise. She took a breath. If only he would say it.

  Mario brought Poppy’s soup and placed a plate bearing a small pancake filled with mushrooms and dressed with tomatoes in front of Charlie. ‘What’s this?’ Charlie asked abruptly. ‘I asked for steak.’

  ‘Si. Si. Your steak he is coming,’ Mario said. ‘This is – eh – gratis – and for the young lady a glass of red wine.’ He took a wine glass from his tray and placed it in front of her. ‘You like, yes? It make you sleep good.’

  Poppy raised her eyebrows. She didn’t normally drink wine, though she had tried it with water. She took a sip. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at Mario. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘I can’t stand mushrooms!’ Charlie grumbled, pushing the pancake around his plate.

  ‘Just eat the pancake, then,’ Poppy whispered, not wanting to offend Mario. ‘I suppose he didn’t want to leave you waiting without food whilst he’s cooking your steak.’ She wondered about Charlie. Why was he so grumpy? Was it because she was getting the attention and knew a little Italian, when he did not?

  As they were eating their main course, and Charlie was reluctantly conceding that the steak was tender, Mario came to their table. ‘Everything is good, yes?’ He nodded his head as he spoke and his curls bounced. ‘You live here in London?’ he asked. ‘I not see you before.’

  ‘I live in London,’ Charlie told him. ‘On the Pentonville Road.’

  ‘And I’m passing through,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m going to Brighton tomorrow.’

  ‘So where you stay?’ Mario asked. ‘In hotel?’

  She told him where she was staying and he pulled a face. ‘Not good for young lady on her own.’ He turned to Charlie. ‘You must see her to the door. It is not safe for her.’

  ‘Well of course,’ Charlie said huffily. ‘Of course I will!’

  ‘Next time you come to London,’ Mario said to Poppy. ‘You stay ’ere.’ He pointed above his head. ‘I h
ave good room upstairs and you eat ’ere, good food. You come for breakfast in the morning and I show you. My wife she is ’ere. You see it is nice place.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Poppy said, and thought it would be very comforting to have somewhere like this to return to if she should have to stay in London again.

  She insisted that she should pay half of the bill, as Charlie fumbled in his pocket book at the end of the meal. She realized that he was probably not earning much money yet, and her father had given her sufficient to tide her over for the first few weeks.

  As they left the restaurant, Mario kissed her hand. ‘Buona notte. You come back again,’ he said. ‘You come for breakfast. We open at seven o’clock.’

  She said she would and said goodbye as Charlie held the door for her. She felt grown up and confident, her homesickness dissipated by the food and wine.

  ‘Of course you won’t go, will you?’ Charlie said as they neared the lodging house. ‘For breakfast, I mean?’

  ‘Yes!’ She looked up at him. ‘I said that I would! I’m sure his breakfast will be better than anything they’ll cook here.’ She was starting to dread the thought of being in a strange bed. I hope there aren’t cockroaches. She shivered. Or bedbugs.

  Charlie shrugged and his mouth turned down. ‘Not ’best place I’ve eaten at,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I care for Italian food all that much. Well, here we are.’ They reached the lodging house door. ‘Delivered safe and sound. Such insolence for that fellow to suggest I’d let you come back alone!’

  ‘I think he meant well, Charlie,’ she said quietly. ‘He must know the area.’

  Charlie took hold of both her hands. ‘Never mind him,’ he said softly. ‘It’s just so good to see you, Poppy.’ He kissed her hands. ‘So good.’

  She swallowed. Was this dangerous territory? The unaccustomed wine had made her feel light-headed. She moistened her lips. ‘It’s nice to see you too, Charlie,’ she whispered.

  He leaned forward and kissed her mouth. ‘Do you still love me, Poppy? Or have you fallen in love with someone else since I left?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she breathed. ‘I’ll never do that. I’ll always love you. I told you that.’ She looked up into his eyes and thought she saw pleasure, but indulgence too. He still thinks me too young, she realized. And I’m not.

  ‘Good night, Poppy.’ He smiled. ‘Send me your address in Brighton and I’ll try to come down. I can get the train.’

  She nodded, and reached for the knocker on the door. She watched him walk away and sighed. He never said he loved me in return.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The bed was hard and lumpy and Poppy was glad of her own sheets for the ones on the bed were grey and stained. She lay very still, trying to keep warm, for although the landlady had lit the fire it burned low and smokily. She slept only fitfully and woke the following morning feeling tired and aching. Perhaps this is a taste of how my life will be, she thought, sleeping in strange beds in seedy neighbourhoods.

  She put on warmer clothing when she dressed, for a wind had sprung up and leaves and rubbish were blowing along the street outside. ‘I won’t have breakfast, thank you,’ she said to the landlady when she went downstairs. ‘I’m going for a walk.’ She refrained from telling her that she was going elsewhere to eat. There was a smell of fatty sausages and burnt toast coming from the kitchen at the bottom of the hall.

  ‘I don’t knock anything off for meals not taken,’ Fanny grunted. ‘And you’ll have to move out by ten.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll be back before then to collect my trunk.’ She had repacked her sheets and towel, and locked the trunk so that she was ready to go as soon as she had breakfasted and hailed a cab.

  Mario greeted her cordially and introduced her to his wife, Rosina. ‘You have some of my olive bread and coffee?’ she said. ‘And an omelette?’

  ‘Just the bread and coffee please.’ Poppy warmed to her. ‘I could smell the coffee as I came down the street. My father has a grocer shop and coffee house,’ she told them. ‘And my mother used to make the bread for the shop.’

  ‘And now she does not?’ Rosina asked.

  ‘She died,’ Poppy explained. ‘Someone else does it for us.’

  ‘Aah!’ Rosina made sympathetic tutting noises. ‘You are so young to lose your mama!’

  ‘I was eleven,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll be fourteen in January.’

  ‘And now, why you in London?’ she asked. ‘Why you not home with your papa?’

  ‘I’m going to be a singer,’ she said. ‘In the music hall. I’m going to see my agent, Dan Damone, this morning.’ She hesitated. ‘I have to get my trunk to his office. Where could I hire a cab?’ There had been very few hire vehicles in the street, mostly waggons or private gigs.

  ‘We fetch it for you,’ Mario said. ‘I have a cart. When you finish your breakfast we fetch it here. I know Dan; he’s good man. You go see him, then come back here for your trunk.’

  Poppy could have cried with relief. It was all very well coming to London, but getting about with a massive trunk seemed impossible.

  After she had finished breakfast, with Mario pushing the handcart, they walked back to the lodging house. She told him her father’s story of his grandfather pushing a cart all the way from London to Hull.

  ‘It is true,’ he said seriously, not understanding the humour of the tale. ‘There isa no worka here at that time. My own grandfather he say the same. Now is better, si? Though not for everyone.’

  After depositing her trunk at Mario’s and inspecting the room upstairs, which was clean and neat with a patchwork quilt on the bed and a breeze blowing through the open window, Poppy walked along to Dan Damone’s office and knocked on the door. The same woman opened the door. ‘Yes?’ she enquired.

  ‘I – I came last night,’ Poppy said. ‘Poppy Mazzini. Mr Damone is expecting me.’

  ‘He’s busy just now.’ The woman looked in a large diary on her desk. ‘He hasn’t got you down. I’ll make you an appointment for tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow is too late,’ Poppy told her, and sat down on a wooden chair, one in a line of others. ‘I’ll wait until he’s free.’

  The woman looked down her nose at Poppy. ‘You might have to wait for a considerable time, and he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment!’

  Poppy stared stubbornly at her. I’ll remember you when I’m famous, she thought. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.

  She waited for about half an hour and cast her gaze round the office. There were posters on the wall and pictures of music hall artistes who had appeared at various venues across the country. She stifled a yawn and looked at the woman at the desk. She was busy writing in a ledger, though she glanced up at Poppy from time to time.

  Presently the inner door opened and Dan Damone put his head out. ‘Is there any coffee, Dora? I’m parched.’

  Poppy stood up and greeted him. ‘Hello, Mr Damone.’

  ‘Poppy!’ He came towards her and shook her hand. ‘How are you? When did you arrive?’ He looked towards the woman at the desk. ‘Better make that two coffees please, Dora. Come along in, Poppy.’ He led the way into his inner office, which was furnished with a large wooden desk, which was covered with papers, two comfortable chairs, and a fire burning in the grate.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were here. Have you been waiting long?’ he asked anxiously, dropping his voice. ‘Dora doesn’t always tell me.’

  ‘Half an hour,’ she said. ‘She told me that you wouldn’t see me without an appointment, even though I told her you were expecting me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘She’s not very good with people, especially stage people; she thinks they’re all ne’er-do-wells, but she’s wonderful with figures and my diary, remembering who’s been paid and who hasn’t, which is why I keep her.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for your stage career? You’ve got your act worked out? Brighton will be quite different from your home town. The audience want to be ente
rtained. They like to feel happy, so do your polka dance and a few jolly ditties. There are still some holidaymakers there, so you’ll need to put on a good show that they’ll remember, and tell others about when they get home. It’s all word of mouth. Quite a few Londoners go to Brighton; it’s a good run on the train. They walk by the sea, take a look at the pier – which still isn’t finished – have an ice cream sundae, see a show and then come home.’

  Poppy licked her lips. Was she ready? She wasn’t sure. ‘I’ll do my best, Mr Damone,’ she said. ‘But I’m very nervous.’

  ‘Sure to be nervous, but that’s a good sign, and call me Dan, everyone does. Don’t they, Dora?’ he asked as the dour-looking woman came in with coffee cups on a tray.

  ‘Yes, Mr Damone,’ she replied crisply. ‘They do.’

  He gave a wry grin. ‘Any biscuits?’

  She sighed and returned a moment later with a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Everybody but Dora,’ he said, when she had left and closed the door behind her. ‘And she would rather I called her Miss Battle, but I don’t!’

  She’s well named, Poppy thought as she sipped her coffee. It was black and bitter and not as nice as the coffee she had had for breakfast with Mario and Rosina. ‘So shall I go to Brighton today?’ she asked. ‘I’ve left my trunk at the Trattoria Mario.’

  ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘The best Italian food in town. Did you stay there?’

  ‘No.’ She told him where she had stayed. ‘But I’ll stay with them if I should come back to London.’ She suddenly felt grown up, making decisions of her own. ‘So, do I go to Brighton today?’ she repeated.

  He nodded, fished in a drawer for writing paper and proceeded to write down a name and address. ‘Yes. You’ll need to find diggings and settle in before Monday. This is who you should ask for. Bradshaw’s is only a small hall, not far from the pier, seats about five hundred,’ he said, his dark head bent over the paper. ‘It’s round the back of the Alhambra. Very popular and gets some good artists. There you are.’ He handed her the address, then wrote again on another piece of paper and passed it to her. ‘Try these diggings – they take theatricals. I don’t know the train times but they’re fairly regular.’