The Songbird

by Val Wood

  But she didn’t sleep. She tossed and turned and heard sleeting rain and wind rattling against the window. She got up once and looked out into the small yard below and saw rubbish bowling around. A metal bucket blown over by the wind was rolling and clanging about the yard. She was just drifting off into a doze when she heard the front door bang and a male voice booming and laughing, and then Mrs Johnson’s higher-pitched one joining in, dropping aitches left, right and centre, and adding them in between.

  Poppy sighed. In her room in the eaves at home, she had often heard the din and hullabaloo of carousing people as they passed the shop. But they were familiar sounds and she had always felt secure knowing that her father and Tommy were below. But these were unfamiliar voices in a strange house in an unknown town. ‘It’ll be all right tomorrow, I expect,’ she murmured sleepily, and snuggled further under the covers. ‘Once I’m used to being away from home.’ But she couldn’t control the few tears that slipped down her cheeks or the sense of loneliness that overcame her.

  The guests ate breakfast in the parlour. A folding table had been opened out and a white cloth put upon it and set for three. Poppy was the first down and she had almost finished her breakfast, which was porridge and a kipper, when the door opened and a man in a striped dressing robe and nightcap appeared. He was thickset, though not very tall, and his jowly chin had not yet been shaved. ‘Morning,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t think anybody else’d be down.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Poppy replied, embarrassed to see a strange man in his night attire. She wondered if he was the one making the noise last night. ‘I thought we had to have breakfast finished by half past eight.’

  The man gazed at her from bleary eyes. ‘That’s what she says, but take no notice. I didn’t get in until midnight. I can’t be expected to get up for half past eight.’ He put his head back and bellowed towards the kitchen. ‘Coffee, if you please, Ma!’

  Mrs Johnson scurried in with a pot of coffee and poured it for him as he sat at the table opposite Poppy. She noticed that it was stronger than the one she had been given.

  ‘How are you this morning, Mr Harding? Have you met our new young guest?’ Mrs Johnson fussed around him, bringing him fresh toast and marmalade, which she hadn’t offered to Poppy. ‘She’s going to appear at Mr Bradshaw’s when it opens on Monday.’

  ‘Is she?’ the man muttered. ‘Well good luck to you. Hope you get some money out of him!’ He gazed at Poppy over the rim of his coffee cup. ‘What are you? Dancer? Singer? They’re ten a penny, you know. All you young girls think you can make an easy living on the stage. Don’t realize just how hard it is.’

  Poppy looked back at him. Who was he to speak so rudely? Was he so famous that he thought he could speak in such a manner to someone just starting out? ‘My name is Poppy Mazzini. I’m a singer and dancer. May I ask who you are?’ she asked politely but pointedly.

  ‘This is Tate Harding!’ Mrs Johnson said in a surprised tone of voice, as if Poppy should have known. ‘He’s a very well-known comedian, playing at the Alhambra!’

  Tate Harding’s mouth turned down, but before he could comment Poppy said, ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Harding. I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you, but perhaps you’re better known in the south of England than the north, which is where I come from.’

  She watched as a slow flush came to his already red face. ‘Only been north once,’ he muttered. ‘Went to Bradford. They didn’t understand my humour. I said I’d never go again. Riotous lot!’

  Poppy nodded her head. ‘I believe they know what they like in Bradford,’ she said in an innocent manner, and thought of Ben Thompson’s offer for her to perform at his free-and-easy in Bradford, which Dan had warned her against. I think Mr Tate Harding was probably booed off the stage. That’s why he won’t go back. ‘We have very well-known performers who come to Hull,’ she told him. ‘Will Vane, Norah Conner, Anthony Marino; he’s playing at Bradshaw’s next week,’ she added, anxious to show that she wasn’t just an inexperienced young girl, even if she knew that she really was. ‘And the Terry Sisters.’

  Tate Harding humphed, but didn’t answer. He took a last gulp of coffee and scraped back his chair. ‘Going back to bed for an hour, Mrs J. Don’t be clattering about upstairs until I’m down again.’ He left the room and didn’t even acknowledge Poppy.

  ‘He’s got a sore ’ead this morning,’ Mrs Johnson said as she cleared away his breakfast things. ‘’ad a drop too much last night.’

  ‘He’s a very rude man.’ Poppy was cross and offended. ‘There was no need for him to be so unpleasant. He doesn’t even know me!’

  Mrs Johnson sat down and put her elbows on the table. ‘It’s dog eat dog out there, young lady. You’ll find there’s some who’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you, if they think you’re taking their spotlight. Then there’s others who’ll give you an ’elping ’and. I know,’ she said, nodding her head. ‘I’ve seen it all. And Tate Harding is no better or worse than any of ’em.’

  Poppy swallowed and considered. She’d only known her home town where everyone knew and supported her. She couldn’t expect the same in a strange place. She would be judged only on her performance, not because she was the local grocer’s daughter. ‘Does he always stay here?’ she asked.

  ‘Always, when he’s in Brighton. I’m the honly one who’ll put up with ’im.’ Mrs Johnson settled herself comfortably with her arms across her chest. ‘He came to stay with me when I first started in this business and ’e always paid prompt. He was the one who told me I should ask for money hup front, because he said that there were some who’d disappear at the end of the week without paying.’

  The door opened again and a very small elderly lady with grey hair and a stoop looked round it. ‘Has he gone?’ she whispered. ‘Is it safe to come in?’

  ‘Yes, come in, Miss Jenkinson.’ Mrs Johnson got up from the table and smoothed the tablecloth. Miss Jenkinson took the remaining set place and touched the ornate silver brooch which clasped the silk scarf round her neck.

  ‘He makes me very nervous,’ she confided to Poppy. ‘Mr Harding, I mean. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘No,’ Poppy said. ‘I’m Poppy Mazzini. I only arrived last night.’

  ‘Ah,’ Miss Jenkinson said in a soft vague voice. ‘I see! Then you won’t have met Mr Harding before?’ She fussed again with her scarf and then patted her hair which was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. ‘I’m always pleased when his time is up, but he’s had a season at the Alhambra so we’ve had him for quite a long time this year.’

  Mrs Johnson came in with a pot of tea and a plate of thin bread and butter, which she placed in front of Miss Jenkinson. ‘Miss Jenkinson is a permanent guest,’ she explained to Poppy, ‘so she knows all of my regulars.’

  ‘I’m the pianist, you see.’ Miss Jenkinson stirred the pot vigorously and then picked up the strainer and carefully poured the tea into her cup. ‘At Bradshaw’s. I’m the oldest musician there. I was there even before Mr Bradshaw took over the theatre. So living here suits me very well.’ She took a tiny bite of bread, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘Mrs Johnson looks after me admirably.’

  Poppy felt her spirits sink. That must mean that Miss Jenkinson would be playing for her next week and she surely was too old to play with any vigour. What about the mazurka? What about the waltz? And most important, would she be able to accompany her singing?

  ‘Will you—’ Poppy cleared her throat. ‘Will you be playing at Bradshaw’s next week?’ she asked. ‘I’m appearing there.’

  ‘Are you, my dear? Yes, I will. Well, how very nice.’ Miss Jenkinson gazed at her from bright beady eyes. ‘What will you be doing? You look like a dancer, so slender and light.’

  Poppy warmed to her in spite of her misgivings over her talents as a pianist. ‘Yes, I do dance. But I’m a singer.’

  ‘Really!’ Miss Jenkinson sat back and surveyed Poppy. ‘And what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Poppy. Po
ppy Mazzini.’ She pronounced it clearly so that there was no mistaking the consonants.

  ‘Oh! That means that Mr Bradshaw has made a mistake. He’s put Polly on the bill.’ The old lady shook her head. ‘He’s a little deaf, I fear. He gets names wrong so often: either that or he’s careless! Poor dear Anthony was always telling him how to spell his name. The artistes don’t like it, you know, if their names are wrong.’

  ‘Anthony Marino, do you mean?’ Poppy asked. ‘The pianist?’

  ‘You know of him, do you?’ Miss Jenkinson again patted the side of her mouth with the napkin. She had now taken two bites from her bread and butter. ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled and nodded. ‘I’ve known him since he was a boy. I gave him his very first piano lesson! He was four,’ she added. ‘A wonderful musician. He could go even further than he has if he put his mind to it. I told his parents so, but he is contented with his present life, I think.’

  Poppy considered. If Miss Jenkinson taught Anthony Marino, then perhaps she is a good pianist after all. ‘Will you be playing at the rehearsal today?’ she asked. ‘I have to go to the hall to meet Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘No, Monday morning, when the other performers arrive. They all travel on a Sunday, you know, after they have finished their week elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course,’ Poppy said, having forgotten that players were often booked weekly.

  ‘But go to the theatre by all means,’ Miss Jenkinson advised. ‘Get to know the stage. If they’ve finished it, that is. We had a fire,’ she explained, ‘otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here enjoying myself and eating this enormous breakfast.

  ‘MrsJohnson!’ she called, and rang a little brass bell on the table, which Poppy hadn’t noticed before. ‘I can’t eat another thing,’ she told the landlady. She waved a finger at her. ‘I’ve told you before not to give me too much!’

  Poppy looked at the unfinished bread and butter and wished she dared ask if she could have it. She was still hungry; the porridge had been thin and the kipper very bony. ‘If you will excuse me,’ she said, rising from the table, ‘I think I shall take a walk before going to the theatre.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Miss Jenkinson agreed. ‘You must keep fit. But wrap up warm, my dear. Keep a scarf round your neck. You mustn’t risk getting a sore throat or a chill. Not if you’re a singer!’

  Poppy smiled and said that she would take her advice. She ran upstairs and put on her coat and did as Miss Jenkinson suggested and wrapped a scarf round her neck. Suddenly she was happy and felt like singing. Miss Jenkinson hadn’t questioned her age or her ability, nor had she said that she was one of many, as Mr Harding had implied.

  She looked in the spotted mirror over the washstand and smiled at her reflection. ‘I’m a singer,’ she chanted. ‘I’m a singer!’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘Let’s see what you can do, young lady. Just a verse so I can hear your voice, and then a twirl round the stage.’ Jack Bradshaw was an overweight brusque man with a shaggy moustache and a nasal twang to his voice that Poppy found hard to understand. She sang a few notes and moved around the stage and he nodded. ‘Right, that’ll do. Damone says you’re all right and he’s generally got good judgement. You can play next week and if the audience like you we’ll talk about a contract for what’s left of this season.’

  Poppy gathered up her coat and was preparing to leave when he added, ‘Come in first thing Monday, Miss Massini. The musicians will be here at nine o clock.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Bradshaw,’ she said timidly. ‘My name is Poppy Mazzini, not Polly Massini as you’ve put on the posters. You must have misheard Mr Damone.’

  ‘What?’ He stared at her. ‘How do you spell that?’

  She told him and he grunted that it was too late to change the posters for they were all over the town.

  She was too nervous to argue and as she approached the door it swung open and Anthony Marino entered. He touched his wide-brimmed hat, a black felt trilby. ‘Good morning, Miss Mazzini.’ He smiled and held open the door for her, then he pointed a finger towards the poster outside and raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ll see that I’ve changed it!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But Mr Bradshaw says that the posters are all over town and that it’s too late to change them.’

  He gazed at her for a moment. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘That is unfortunate.’ He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his long hair. ‘Look here, are you in a hurry?’ As she shook her head, he said, ‘Well, if you can hang on until I’ve had a word with Bradshaw, I have an idea.’

  She looked up at him, wondering what he was going to suggest. But she went back inside and waited at the back of the stalls, gazing around the auditorium and scanning the gallery, trying to imagine the empty plush seats filled with people and feeling an apprehensive flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

  Anthony Marino came back up the aisle towards her. He moved swiftly and lithely and he grinned as he approached. ‘I’ve congratulated Bradshaw on getting my name right, and told him that yours is wrong and what we are going to do about it.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’ she asked as he took her arm and ushered her out of the theatre.

  ‘We shall search out those offending posters and change every one of them!’

  ‘Oh!’ She was astonished that he should take the trouble. ‘But where are they?’ She glanced at the one by the door of the theatre and saw that he had indeed changed it with thick black pencil, so that now her name stood out.

  ‘All over town, as he said. But I have a notion where most of them will be. Bradshaw uses the shops, and gives them a free pass for a Monday afternoon, or he has them put on lamp-posts along the seafront.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Cheer up, we’ll find them. Or most of them, anyway.’

  ‘You’re really kind, Mr Marino,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘I’m very grateful. I don’t know why it’s so important, but it is.’

  ‘It’s very important,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s your name; therefore it has to be right. And speaking of which, could we drop the Mr Marino? It makes me feel old and I’m not! Please call me Anthony. And may I call you Poppy?’

  ‘Yes please.’ She laughed. ‘I’d like that. Everybody at home calls me Poppy. I’m not used to being Miss Mazzini.’

  ‘You’ll find that most people will call you Miss Mazzini. That’s how you’ll be billed, as Miss Poppy Mazzini. Unless they get it wrong,’ he joked, and added: ‘Tell them if they do. Make sure that they know how to spell it and that you’ll be angry if they don’t get it right.’

  ‘I don’t think I dare,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s older than me!’

  He took her arm again as a gusty gritty wind propelled them along. ‘That is probably true. But I started as a professional pianist when I was twelve, although I’d been playing in concerts when I was even younger than that, and people do indulge you if they think you have talent.’

  ‘So, if you were playing in concert halls when you were young,’ she asked, ‘how is it you’re playing in a music hall now? I mean, Bradshaw’s is all right, but it’s not terribly grand, is it? Not even like the Hull Assembly Rooms.’

  He hesitated for a moment, and then explained. ‘I want to write and play my own music,’ he said. ‘Playing in big concert halls, I’m expected to play Chopin or Beethoven, Mozart and the rest. Don’t misunderstand me,’ he said emphatically. ‘They are the greatest composers of piano music ever, and I could never aspire to their stature, and even in variety halls I do, of course, play other people’s music. The audience want popular tunes that they can sing to, but I can also include and try out my own compositions.’

  ‘Ah, which is what you did at the Assembly Rooms.’ She smiled. ‘When you made me cry!’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Let’s have a cup of coffee and we’ll discuss our strategy for finding the Polly posters!’ Then he hesitated. ‘Unless you had other plans?’

  ‘None,’ she said. ‘I was wondering how to fill the
time between now and Monday.’

  He steered her into a coffee shop in one of the narrow cobbled lanes, where he was greeted like a lost son by the owner who shook his hand vigorously, but then stepped back in dismay as Anthony playfully grimaced and shook his fingers as if in pain. ‘Always, I forget,’ the owner said. ‘I will ruin your playing! Ah, you must have coffee and biscuits to recover!’

  Anthony laughed and introduced Poppy to him. ‘This is Orlando. He’s a friend of my parents.’

  ‘Mazzini?’ Orlando said. ‘You are Italian too, yes? So, we are all Italians together?’

  Poppy explained about her father and his forebears and how they came to be in Hull. ‘We keep a grocery and coffee shop. But I don’t have much Italian blood in me,’ she confessed. ‘We’re Hull people.’

  ‘You need only a leetle drop.’ Orlando raised his hands. ‘It is enough!’

  ‘My parents have a restaurant too,’ Anthony said. ‘They’re close to the theatre world, off St Martin’s Lane.’

  She gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Not Mario?’ she gasped. ‘And Rosina?’

  ‘Yes! Have you met them?’ he asked incredulously. ‘How amazing!’

  Poppy explained about Dan Damone and the office being closed and how they had found Mario’s by chance after booking in at the lodging house.

  ‘You weren’t alone?’ Anthony asked, a frown wrinkling his brow.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘A friend who works in London – that is, a friend of my brother’s – he came to meet me.’ She blushed slightly as she spoke of Charlie. ‘He’s a shoemaker. He escorted me.’ She sipped the coffee that Orlando had brought, to cover her embarrassment. ‘Your father said I could stay with them the next time I’m in London.’

  Anthony grinned. ‘He would. There is always an open door at Mario’s. I must have just missed you,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I was there too for a short visit. Dan is my agent as well.’

  When they had finished their coffee they left Orlando’s and went looking for Bradshaw’s posters. Anthony knew the shops where they were often displayed and asked the shopkeepers if he could alter them as there had been a printing error. ‘This is Miss Poppy Mazzini,’ he said, introducing Poppy. ‘And Brighton has been chosen as the place for her premier professional performance!’