The Songbird

by Val Wood

  He got up from his chair and went to the door. ‘Dora! Do you have the train timetable for Brighton?’ He nodded and came back into the room. ‘She’ll give the train times to you on the way out. Well, good luck.’ He held out his hand, her interview over.

  ‘Thank you.’ She stood up and took a breath and looked down at the papers in her hand. There were so many things she had wanted to ask him, but she couldn’t now think of a single one.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ It was as if he was just remembering that this was her first venture into the theatre world. ‘Drop me a line if you’re worried about anything, and I’ll try to come down and see you at the end of the week. If they like you, they’ll offer you a contract and I’ll negotiate that. All right?’

  She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Yes. Thank you very much.’ She walked to the door. So this was it. Anything she did now, she did alone. No Pa to advise her or hold her hand, no brother to ask for an opinion. She was alone in a strange city, and a new world was approaching. She took a deep breath, then put up her chin. She smiled a brave smile and saw him watching her with a small frown wrinkling his eyebrows. ‘Goodbye!’

  Mario had sent a young boy to find a hansom cab to take her to the station. She had had to wait only fifteen minutes for a train, the journey was fast and she was now in another hansom, bowling along the streets of Brighton, on her way to one of the lodging houses Dan had told her of. ‘Will you wait a moment, please?’ she asked the driver as he pulled up outside a row of terraced houses alongside a narrow court. ‘I have to ask if they have any rooms.’

  He nodded and took a pipe out of his pocket whilst she hurried along to find the right address. They were full, the landlady told her. She’d just let the last room. ‘Try Mrs Johnson,’ she said, and Poppy looked at her list and saw that was one of the names Dan had given her.

  ‘I know it,’ the driver said, when she went back. ‘She keeps a clean house though she’s a bit stingy with food.’ He tamped out his pipe and put it in his pocket and Poppy noticed that there were brown burn marks on the cloth. ‘That’s what I’ve been told, at any rate.’

  Poppy shivered. It was a cold blustery day and a sharp wind was blowing off the sea. They passed the Alhambra and she took note of where it was, as Dan had said the hall she was playing in was at the back of it. The driver drew up again outside a neat house with a clean front step, a red door, lace curtains at the window and a sign which said Vacancies.

  She stepped down and said, ‘I won’t be long,’ and worried about how much the driver was going to charge her for waiting.

  Mrs Johnson said she had a room free and asked who had recommended her. When Poppy said Dan Damone, she opened the door and asked her in. ‘My trunk’s in the cab,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ll get the driver to bring it in.’

  ‘You’re new to this life, hain’t you?’ the landlady said. ‘Don’t you want to see the room first?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be all right,’ Poppy answered. ‘If Mr Damone says so.’ She gave the landlady a smile. And if it isn’t, she thought, then I’ll move.

  ‘How long for?’ Mrs Johnson asked. ‘Cos I ’ave my regulars.’

  ‘The rest of this week and next,’ Poppy said, anxious now that Mrs Johnson might change her mind. But she didn’t and the driver brought in the trunk and once again she gave a tip on top of the amount she was charged. He touched his hat. ‘Thank you, miss. Where’re you appearing?’

  When she told him, he nodded. ‘We go there regular, my missus and me. We’ll watch out for you. Singer are you? Or dancer?’

  ‘Both,’ she said. ‘But mainly singing.’

  ‘Sing some of Marie’s songs,’ he advised. ‘Everybody likes them.’

  She nodded. I don’t think so, she thought. I couldn’t compete with Marie Lloyd, and besides that’s not my style. I’m a romantic singer. I like to sing of love. I can feel it in my heart.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa tea, dearie?’ Mrs Johnson called up to her as she started to unpack her trunk. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’

  Poppy ran downstairs to the parlour. Her bedroom was small, with a narrow bed and a washstand with a jug and bowl, a long cupboard for hanging clothes and a single chair. But it’s adequate, she decided.

  ‘There’s no ’ot water hupstairs, you realize,’ Mrs Johnson said as she poured the tea. ‘But I’ll fill your jug with ’ot every morning. If you want more you’ll have to come down and get it yourself from the kitchen. There’s a proper flush lavatory out the back, though.’ She handed Poppy a cup of very weak tea. ‘You’re very young.’ It sounded like an accusation. ‘’Ave you been on the boards before?’

  On the boards, Poppy wondered? ‘On the stage? Yes,’ she said. ‘But only at home, in Hull. This is my first professional work.’

  ‘Mm.’ Mrs Johnson settled back in her chair. ‘Right then. Let me tell you the rules of the ’ouse. I’ll let you have a key to the door, as you’ll be late back from the the-ayter. No young men to visit. Other visitors such as relations by prior harrangement. Breakfast to be finished by ’alf past eight. No dinner, I don’t cook dinner, and supper if you want it will be hextra. You can bring your own tea and coffee if you like,’ she added, ‘and ’ave use of the kettle at no hextra charge.’ She nodded benignly. ‘I like my guests to feel at ’ome.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Johnson.’ Poppy felt a giggle running round her chest. ‘I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.’

  After she had hung up her clothes and shaken the creases out of her skirts, she took out her red shoes and stuffed them with brown paper to keep them in shape. She put them lovingly against her cheek and thought of Charlie. How debonair he had seemed as he had pointed out the landmarks of London, though he wasn’t so confident when he was dining with her at Mario’s. I’ll write to him, she thought, before putting on her coat to go outside, and tell him not to call here, or if he does, to tell Mrs Johnson he’s my cousin!

  The sea air was very fresh and the breeze blew her hair round her face. As Dan Damone had said, there were still holidaymakers in Brighton, although the season was drawing to a close. She could tell the visitors from the locals by their free and easy manner. The children were dressed in their best: sailor suits for the boys and pretty pastels and bonnets for the girls. Many of the women wore large hats with feathers, which blew dementedly in the wind, whilst the men strolled nonchalantly in striped trousers, waistcoats and straw boaters, scarves slung around their necks.

  As Dan had said, Brighton Palace Pier, which was replacing the old Chain Pier, was not even half finished, but there was a flapping poster which proclaimed that eventually it would contain a music hall and entertainment venues. Poppy wandered down the seafront, admired the four-storey houses in the Royal Crescent, and the old balconied terraced houses, and then went in search of Bradshaw’s.

  She found the hall, as Dan had said, tucked away in a side street, behind the Alhambra. Her first impression was that it was shabby and needed a lick of paint. Inside it was dim, for there were no lamps lit, but as she entered the auditorium she saw a wide stage, gilt ornamentation and plush red seats to seat at least five hundred, and smelt the reek of smoke and ale.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ she called. ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello!’ A man’s voice answered back. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Poppy Mazzini. I’ve come to see Mr Bradshaw.’

  A man carrying a saw appeared at the back of the stage. He wiped his arm across his forehead. ‘He’s not here. I’m only the carpenter.’ Someone started banging behind him. ‘Can you shut it for a minute, Fred?’ The noise stopped and he walked to the front of the stage, which, as Poppy saw when she came closer, was littered with pieces of wood, hammers and a saw bench. ‘He’ll be back later this afternoon.’

  But it’s late afternoon now, Poppy thought, sighing. And I’m hungry. She realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast with Mario and Rosina. ‘I’ll come back,’ she said. ‘What time do you think?’

  The man shru
gged. ‘Six? Maybe seven. Don’t know. He’s doing a band call in the morning if you want to come back then. I’ll tell him you’ve been if you like. Polly did you say?’

  ‘Poppy,’ she called back. ‘Poppy Mazzini. Mr Damone arranged for me to come.’

  The man shrugged again. ‘I’m just the carpenter,’ he repeated. ‘We’ve to be finished by Monday,’ and he turned back to whatever he had been doing.

  She remembered then that Dan had told her there had been a fire in the hall, hence the workmen and the smell of smoke. So now what do I do until tomorrow morning?

  The first thing, she decided as she stood outside the hall, was to eat. I’m so hungry! She had a good appetite and no matter what she ate she stayed slender, which, although unfashionable, meant that she could dance without any effort at all, and sing at the same time. Ever since the Terry Sisters had told her she must do both and still breathe, she had practised breathing exercises according to Miss Eloise’s instructions.

  She glanced back at the door and saw a poster regretting the closure of the theatre due to fire, and announcing that the date of opening was to be Monday. Top of the bill was a comic, Bill Baloney, which she thought was a very silly name, and underneath, returning by popular request of Brighton audiences, were the Terry Sisters.

  Oh, how wonderful! She hugged herself with glee. Someone I know! Or at least have met. She ran her finger quickly down the list of performers looking for her name, and saw right at the bottom: Ballad and descriptive vocalist. Miss Polly Massini. ‘Oh, no,’ she cried out loud in frustration, her joy at having her name on a programme vanishing. ‘They’ve got my name wrong!’

  ‘That’s not unusual,’ a man’s voice behind her said. ‘Everybody gets mine wrong!’

  Poppy turned round, tears welling in her eyes. She looked into brown eyes fringed with the darkest, longest lashes she had ever seen on a man. She blinked and put her fingers into her pocket for a handkerchief. I know him! How do I know him?

  The young man in front of her with a teasing smile on his lips was tall and slim and had long dark hair which flopped over his forehead and collar. ‘Show me,’ he said. ‘Show me how your name should be and we’ll see if we can’t change it.’

  She pressed her lips together anxiously and pointed to the bottom of the poster. ‘It should be Poppy Mazzini.’

  He scrutinized the name. ‘Well, Miss Mazzini. I think that will be easy enough to change.’ He turned to her. He was in his mid-twenties, she thought, and very amiable and good-mannered. ‘I’ll bring a black pencil when I return and alter the Is to ps and the ss to zs, and there we will have Poppy Mazzini.’ He glanced at the poster again. ‘And what about my name? Have they spelt it right this time?’ He too ran his finger down the list. ‘Ah, yes, here we are.’ He stopped halfway down and Poppy knew then why she had recognized him. ‘Anthony Marino.’ He gave a small bow to Poppy. ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mazzini.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘How do you do,’ Poppy said shyly, and wished that she hadn’t been so foolish as to cry. She delicately wiped her nose with her handkerchief. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’re Anthony Marino, the pianist. I came to hear you play at the Assembly Rooms in Hull.’

  He seemed astonished. ‘Did you? And you remembered me?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I thought you were wonderful! Your music made me cry. I think my pa cried too.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, dear.’ He frowned. ‘That wasn’t my intention, I assure you. I want to make people happy, not sad!’

  ‘It didn’t make me sad,’ she explained. ‘It made me feel . . . well, just feel, really. The music touched me, somehow, especially your own music.’ She gave him a shy smile, wondering if he would think her silly and childish. ‘I wished at the time that you’d write a song for me.’

  He gave her a wide beaming grin. ‘Well, perhaps I might one day. What kind of songs do you sing?’ The carpenter coming through the doors with a ladder over his shoulder interrupted her reply. ‘I say,’ Anthony Marino called to him. ‘Is Jack Bradshaw in, by any chance?’

  ‘No he ain’t,’ the man said, ‘and I’m going to put a notice up to say so, for if I’ve been asked once today, I’ve been asked half a dozen times. There’ll be a band call in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Anthony replied politely. ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  The carpenter nodded, then looked at him in recognition. ‘Ain’t you that fellow what plays the joanna? My old lady loves to hear you play. Makes her cry, she says. She’ll want to come and see you, I expect.’

  Poppy laughed as he went off whistling. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘So it’s not just me!’

  Anthony Marino shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Do people like to cry, do you think?’ he asked. ‘Maybe they do. I hadn’t thought of that before.’

  ‘I don’t think they like to,’ Poppy said. ‘But sometimes they have to.’ She gave a shiver. A strong breeze was rushing up the street as if being drawn up a funnel. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Marino,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again tomorrow at rehearsal?’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ he said, ‘though it won’t be a full rehearsal. The other performers won’t arrive until Sunday night. But I promise to bring a pencil with me so that we can change your name,’ he added. ‘Such a lovely name. We would want people to remember it.’

  She said goodbye and went off in the direction of the Alhambra and the seafront, looking for somewhere she could have her supper. Although Mrs Johnson had said she could have supper there, Poppy didn’t want to go back to the lodging house yet as the evening, she was sure, would loom long and lonely.

  She found a small café, empty of customers, where she ordered a meat and potato pie. When it came, the pastry was soggy and the meat unchewable. She picked around the potatoes, which were hard, then pushed the plate to one side and ordered a steamed pudding and a cup of coffee. But the pudding was leaden and although the coffee was hot it was very weak.

  She sat cradling the cup in her hands as she looked out of the window and watched the waves lashing on the shore. She felt terribly homesick and as she thought of home and her father, she reminded herself that she must write immediately and tell him that she had arrived safely in Brighton.

  Her pen and ink were in her trunk back at Mrs Johnson’s, so she paid the bill to the rather surly woman who had served her and left. The wind was blowing wild and sharp sand spattered her face. By the time she had walked back to her diggings she was frozen through and feeling thoroughly miserable.

  ‘Mrs Johnson, could I possibly have hot water for a bath?’ she asked when she went in. She’d realized there was no separate bathroom in the house when she’d seen a tin hip-bath hanging from a nail on the wall near the lavatory.

  ‘Oh, no, dear. Not tonight.’ Mrs Johnson was sitting beside her parlour fire and seemed quite taken aback by Poppy’s request. ‘Sunday you can have ’ot water for bathing, after the other guests have gone and afore new ones arrive, or else you can go to the public baths, which is what some of my guests do. Next year, landlord says I can ’ave one o’ them newfangled geysers and then I’ll turn one of the little bedrooms into a proper bathroom. You can have a kettle of ’ot water if you like,’ she finished, relenting.

  Gas geysers were hardly newfangled, Poppy thought, as she carried the steaming kettle upstairs to her room. At home they had had one over the bath for years, and her father had talked of having hot water piped upstairs to replace it. She put cold water into the earthenware bowl so that it wouldn’t crack, poured in the hot, then took the kettle down again, refilled it from the tap over the sink and put it back on the hook over the fire. ‘I can see you’re used to doing things for yourself,’ Mrs Johnson pronounced. ‘You’ve not had servants to run after you?’

  ‘You’re quite right, I haven’t,’ Poppy replied, though she thought of Nan who did the washing and made sure there were always clean towels for when they had
their baths. ‘I’ll say good night now, Mrs Johnson. I shall go to bed when I’ve finished unpacking.’

  Mrs Johnson nodded. ‘Good night then. I’m expecting another guest to come in after the the-ayter. ’e’ll want supper, I expect. ’e usually does.’

  Poppy undressed and washed in the meagre amount of water, put on her nightgown and her robe, then, wrapping herself in a blanket off the bed, sat by the low fire to write to her father.

  ‘Dearest Pa,’ she wrote. ‘I’m missing you more than I can say. I’m in Brighton now and have lodgings with a Mrs Johnson.’ She put in the address and told him of her meeting with Dan Damone, and then added that Charlie had met her at King’s Cross railway station and escorted her to her first lodgings in London. ‘Even though it was a very long way from his own,’ she added, lest he should think the worst. ‘It wasn’t a nice place,’ she wrote, ‘but we’ – she bit her lip. Should I have put I? No, that would be deceitful – ‘had a very good supper in an Italian café,’ she continued. ‘And the people there said I could stay with them when I’m next in London.

  ‘I feel very homesick,’ she went on, ‘and Brighton is quite different from Hull. But I’m sure I’ll be all right once I start at the theatre on Monday. One very nice thing that has happened,’ she told him, ‘is that I’ve met Anthony Marino, the pianist, who we heard at the Assembly Rooms. He’ll be playing in Bradshaw’s too, so I feel very proud to be appearing with him. He’s very pleasant and kind,’ she continued, ‘as well as being accomplished.’

  She finished the letter by saying she would go to bed early and look forward to exploring Brighton the next day. She folded the letter into an envelope, and put it by her door so that she wouldn’t forget to post it the next morning. Then, keeping the blanket wrapped round her for comfort as well as warmth, she climbed into bed.