The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘He’s missing us,’ she murmured. ‘Tommy and I have left him alone and there’s no-one there to love him.’

  She slowly started to undress, then she picked up Charlie’s letter and read it through again. ‘He’s coming on Saturday.’ She couldn’t contain the joy which unfolded within her. ‘He’s coming on Saturday and can’t wait to see me!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After the Friday matinee, Jack Bradshaw called Poppy into his office. ‘I’m making some changes for tonight and tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I want you to open the second half. The juggler will go next, then Tony Marino, and the Terry Sisters will go on before the comic. And don’t forget to spice up your act a bit. That’s what the Friday and Saturday audiences like: a bit of spice. We’ve some competition over at the Alhambra; don’t forget, they’ve got some big names over there.’

  I’m opening the second half! ‘Thank you, Mr Bradshaw,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll catch Miss Jenkinson and discuss it with her.’

  She almost collided with Anthony as she came out of the office. ‘I’m opening the second half,’ she said excitedly. ‘Mr Bradshaw has just asked me!’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘I know. He told me. Want to come for coffee?’

  ‘Dan Damone told me that you’re leaving the show tomorrow,’ she said as they walked along the street towards a coffee house. ‘I didn’t know. I thought – well, I thought you’d be staying longer.’ She glanced up at him. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said shyly. ‘You’ve been so helpful to me.’

  He took her elbow and guided her into a small and steamy café and ordered a pot of coffee.

  ‘I’ll miss you too,’ he said, helping her off with her coat. ‘When Dan asked me if I’d watch out for this new young singer and help her along, I thought I was letting myself in for nerves, tears and tantrums, and—’

  ‘Dan asked you to watch out for me?’ She was astonished. ‘Why did he do that?’

  He shrugged. ‘He’s like that.’ He gave a little frown. ‘I’m not sure if he’d promised your father he’d find someone to keep an eye on you—’

  ‘So when you asked me to visit the Royal Pavilion, it was because Dan had asked you to keep me entertained and not because you wanted to go? You were doing him a favour!’ She felt piqued; she’d thought it was because they were going to be friends.

  ‘No!’ he said earnestly. ‘That wasn’t the reason. Dan wanted me to show you the ropes, to let you know you could come to me if you had any problems.’ His face was set as he realized what she was implying. ‘I asked you to go to the Pavilion because I’ve always wanted to visit it, and because I thought you might like it too. Not because I was asked to. It was nothing to do with Dan.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering her voice and her head. ‘You must have thought me a nuisance to begin with, though? Especially when Mr Bradshaw got my name wrong and we went round changing the posters.’

  ‘I never thought you a nuisance,’ he insisted. ‘We had fun together, didn’t we? Poppy!’ He reached across the table and clutched her hand. ‘I never thought you a nuisance! Honest!’ He gave her a reassuring grin. ‘I’d have found all kinds of excuses not to be with you if I’d thought that!’

  ‘Well, thank you anyway,’ she said, not entirely convinced.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘Just to prove it, shall we have supper at Orlando’s tomorrow night? I’m leaving early on Sunday morning – what?’ he asked, on seeing her expression change.

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘I can’t! A friend . . . a friend of my brother’s – the one I told you about – is coming to the show.’ She bit her lip in frustration, torn between having supper with Anthony on his last night, and wanting, desperately to see Charlie. ‘He’s asked me out to supper.’

  ‘Ah!’ Disappointment showed on his face for a second, but then he gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, never mind. We’ll meet up again, I expect.’ He sipped his coffee and glanced at her over the rim of the cup. ‘Is he, er, special? He’s not just a friend of your brother’s?’

  She was embarrassed and looked down at the tablecloth. It was white with yellow spots. Here and there were tea and coffee stains and she thought that Nan would never have allowed that at Mazzini’s. ‘I’ve known him a long time.’ She traced round one of the stains with her finger. ‘He still thinks I’m a child.’

  He kept his gaze on her face. ‘And you – how do you think of him?’ When she didn’t answer, he said softly, ‘Ah! You love him?’

  She nodded, pressing her lips together. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I always have. I think of him whenever I sing love songs.’

  ‘I see.’ He considered, tapping his lip with his finger. ‘When you sing “Forever True”, do you sing that for him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘But in the song you’re asking do you love me as I love you? It’s a question,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know the answer?’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He still thinks of me as his friend’s little sister, although once—’

  ‘Well, you can’t blame him for that, Poppy,’ he interjected. ‘You are young; though I’m not saying that you’re too young to know what love is.’ He gazed thoughtfully at her. ‘But men have to be careful around vulnerable young women.’ A slight smile hovered about his mouth. ‘Especially the beautiful ones.’

  She blushed. ‘Now you’re embarrassing me,’ she said. ‘I’ve not spoken about Charlie to anyone else before,’ she admitted. ‘But you understand, don’t you?’

  He nodded and pursed his lips. ‘Yes. That’s the romantic in me. I’m a songwriter, don’t forget.’

  She gave a deep sigh. ‘Will you write a song for me?’

  ‘For you?’ he asked. ‘Or for Charlie?’

  ‘It’s the same thing,’ she murmured.

  He drew his fingers through the lock of hair that always seemed to fall over one eye. ‘A love song? Unrequited love? Or reciprocated?’ His brown eyes were soft and gentle as he gazed at her. ‘Music is often more appealing if it speaks of lost love, or of tender feelings that are not mutual or returned.’ He gave a wistful smile and looked away. ‘That’s the trend at the moment, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know then,’ she said. ‘I can only tell you how I feel. How I’ve always felt.’

  He nodded slowly, and then said lightly, ‘Shall I get to meet this paragon? This idol who has stolen your heart?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll introduce you. Charlie’s bringing some of his friends along. After the show?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps so. Come on then, Poppy.’ He called for the bill. ‘I must go and rehearse for an hour.’

  ‘How committed you are,’ she said. ‘You rehearse so often. That’s why your playing is so perfect.’

  ‘Come with me,’ he said impulsively. ‘You can practise too.’

  ‘Oh!’ Poppy put her hand to her mouth. ‘I was supposed to speak to Miss Jenkinson about the change of programme tonight!’

  ‘Naughty girl,’ he admonished. ‘First and foremost you must always be ready for your performance.’ He shook his head at her. ‘Don’t ever leave your rehearsal until the last minute. The musicians can’t guess what you want from them. Perfection is what you must strive for.’

  ‘Yes, Anthony.’ It was a reproof, if a mild one. ‘I won’t forget again.’

  ‘You mustn’t.’ He took her arm as they stepped outside. A wind was blowing off the sea and it buffeted them together. ‘You can be a star, Poppy. Top of the tree. But it’s a hard climb.’ He hung on to his hat and Poppy’s skirt flapped around her calves. He looked down at her. ‘And don’t get waylaid by love.’

  The theatre was empty apart from the stage door keeper who let them in, and a cleaning woman in the auditorium. There was just one light burning on the stage, and Anthony pushed the piano towards it and then lit a single candle in a candelabra and placed it on top. ‘There,’ he said, giving Poppy some song sheets, and sa
t at the keyboard. ‘We’ll set the scene. A romantic evening.’ He pointed to the candelabra. ‘The light of the moon. And a young man or woman in love.’ He ran his fingers gently over the keys. ‘Choose the one you’d like to sing.’

  ‘I don’t know these,’ she said, coming towards the piano. ‘I haven’t heard them before.’

  He didn’t answer, but played a soft refrain, and she started to hum and then sing the words of the first song. ‘Take away this loneliness, take away this aching heart / Wrap your love round me so tight, let your love stay here this night.’

  Then another which began, ‘Once I thought she loved me. Once I had such plans. Now she is contented in some other lover’s hands.’

  She paused and glanced across at him. His head was bent as he fingered the melody. ‘These are your songs, aren’t they, Anthony?’ she said quietly. ‘Your words and music?’ She noticed that all the lyrics were of lost or unrequited love, but there was something else which struck a chord. She didn’t quite know what it was, but it was a nostalgic memory, teasing and tantalizing her.

  He nodded and went on playing snippets of popular themes, improvising with his own personal adaptations.

  ‘“Forever True”!’ she said suddenly. ‘That’s yours! Now I recognize your style!’

  He looked up at her and nodded. ‘Sing it then, Poppy,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never heard anyone else sing it the way you can. You’ve made it your own.’

  And so she did. She took a breath and, sustaining the sweet and appealing harmony, lifted her voice at the last to fill the theatre with a heart-rending emotion and a clear ringing plea. The cleaning woman stopped what she was doing and leaned on her mop. The stage door keeper came and stood with his arms folded, and Jack Bradshaw, coming through the unlocked stage door, chewed on his unlit cigar as he listened.

  For Poppy it was the ultimate triumph, singing the song she loved with the man who had composed it; the man who surely had felt love in the same way as she did. Who had perhaps been too young and had lost that love; unlike her, who was determined to keep it.

  Her eyes were shining as she finished and her lips trembled. She couldn’t speak and neither could Anthony as he gazed at her, before he turned back to the piano and started to play. It was a haunting little melody and he didn’t know where it came from; but a refrain ran through his head and he sang in a husky whisper, ‘The man’s a fool – if he doesn’t love you; the man’s a fool if he doesn’t care / So sweet a face my eyes embrace – la lah, la la lah, hmm, hmm.’

  ‘Will you write a song for me, Anthony?’ Poppy came over to the piano, her voice catching with emotion.

  He smiled up at her and murmured, ‘I rather think I already have.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Sing like that tonight and I’ll be giving you star billing.’ Jack Bradshaw came to the front of the stage. ‘Forget what I said about spicing it up.’ He rolled the cigar around his lips. ‘The Terry Sisters can do that. Here.’ He pulled a newspaper from under his arm and handed it to her. ‘You’ve got a good review. Page four.’

  ‘You were wonderful, darlin’,’ the cleaning woman called up to her. ‘Both of you. You should team up.’

  Jack Bradshaw glared at her. ‘What are you then?’ he bellowed. ‘Some kind of critic?’

  ‘Aye, I am,’ she retaliated. ‘Course I am! Who do you think comes to your the-ayter of a Friday and Saturday night? Me and my pals, that’s who – and we pay,’ she added. ‘Don’t get no free pass even though I work ’ere.’

  ‘Well you’ve just had a free performance,’ he grunted. ‘So get on with doing whatever it is I pay you to do.’ He turned to Poppy. ‘I’m going to telegraph Damone and see if you can stay on over Christmas. I’ll give you top billing. Well’ – he chomped on his cigar again – ‘not top, the comic is top, but you can go on second from top. How does that sound?’

  From the corner of her eye she saw Anthony shake his head. ‘I’ll have to be guided by Mr Damone,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what plans he has.’

  ‘I’ll increase your salary!’

  ‘I can’t make the decision, Mr Bradshaw,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to ask my agent.’

  He grunted but didn’t argue. Anthony gathered his music and he and Poppy walked out of the theatre together. ‘Aren’t you going to look at the review?’ he asked.

  ‘I hardly dare,’ she said, but he gave her a nudge and she turned the news pages until she reached page four. ‘Here we are,’ she murmured, and read: ‘Bradshaw’s Theatre. In his usual manner, Mr Jack Bradshaw has got together a creditable company of popular artistes to entertain and amuse. Top of the bill is Mr Bill Baloney who aroused great mirth and hilarity with his jokes and double entendre. The tenor, Mr Thomas Tearle, though slightly reedy in places, gave a passable performance, whilst the Terry Sisters performed with their usual aplomb. I have to say, and this is purely personal, that in my opinion Miss Nancy Martell should try some new material if she wants to raise a laugh, as we have heard her sketches several times before. Mr Anthony Marino is always welcome in Brighton, and his piano playing was superb as always, and we are honoured to have him during his tour, but the star of the show at last night’s performance was undoubtedly the sixteen-year-old Yorkshire girl, Miss Poppy Mazzini. If her singing didn’t bring a tear to your eye, then you’re either too old or too young for love.’

  ‘Whew!’ Anthony exhaled. ‘How about that, Poppy? Didn’t I say you’d be a star?’

  ‘Goodness,’ she murmured. Then, embarrassed, she said feebly, ‘They’ve got my age wrong.’

  ‘But they got your name right!’ Anthony said playfully. ‘That’s what’s important. Don’t split hairs! I must go,’ he added. ‘We’ve got an hour and then we’re back on stage. Go and gargle or something, but rest your voice.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘Don’t mention the review to the others, not unless they do. Performers can be a bit touchy.’

  ‘But you’re not,’ she said.

  ‘I’m an old hand.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t take too much notice. I know when I’m playing well. I don’t need a newspaper critic to tell me.’

  Poppy took a walk by the sea and then went for a cup of tea and a sandwich. She felt exultant about the review and kept reading it and smiling to herself. I must buy another copy and send it to Pa, she thought. He’ll be so thrilled.

  She walked back to the theatre and carefully folded the paper and put it into her bag. She was again first into the dressing room but Ronny and Ena came in soon after. She could hear them arguing as they came along the corridor. ‘What does he mean?’ Ena said as she opened the door. ‘Their usual aplomb! What’s that supposed to mean? Ah, here she is!’ she said, seeing Poppy. ‘The star of the show.’

  Poppy looked up, a feigned expression of surprise on her face. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t read the review,’ Ena said. ‘Of course you have! Rushed out to buy up half a dozen copies, I expect.’

  ‘N-no. Mr Bradshaw gave me a copy,’ Poppy said in a low voice. ‘I’d forgotten that it was going to be in.’

  ‘And he’ll have offered you top billing, I expect?’ Ena said sarcastically. ‘That’s what he always does with new talent. Puts them top of the bill and they just can’t cope with it.’

  The door crashed open and Nancy Martell rushed in. She had a rolled-up copy of the newspaper in her hand. ‘Have you seen this? Who does he think he is? Jumped up little journalist. What does he know about knockabout comedy? I’ve played this act up and down the coast. If it’s good enough for Bournemouth it’s good enough for Brighton.’

  She didn’t notice Ena and Ronny mouthing a parody of the last sentence, but Poppy did. She stifled a laugh, but Nancy heard it. ‘Think you’re so clever, don’t you?’ she snarled. ‘Well, when you’ve been on the boards as long as I have, you can be called a star. Until then you’re just a flash in the pan! I’ll show ’em fresh material,’ she said fiercely, throwing off her coat and letting it fall on the floor. ‘I
’ll give them something to titter about.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Nance,’ Ronny cut in. ‘It’s only a bleeding little tinpot paper! We’ve all had bad reviews at some time or other. You just have to rise above them.’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ Nancy muttered. ‘I’ll give them something to think about tonight.’

  She took off her skirt and bodice, and stepped into the padded stage costume, buttoning it up over her ample figure. Then she sat down and proceeded to put on her usual dark foundation cream, and stuck on the ginger eyebrows on top of her own dark ones, but instead of putting the hairnet over her scraped back dark hair she peeled off the hair, revealing a completely bald pate. She turned to look at the three of them, and said, in a deep masculine voice, ‘So what about that, ladies? That’ll give them something to write about, won’t it?’ She turned to Poppy. ‘They’ll not be talking about you tonight, darlin’. They’ll be talking about Mr Norman Martell who’s been fooling ’em all these years.’

  Ena stood up. She was wearing only her slip and silk stockings. ‘Get out!’ she shouted, reaching for a wrap. ‘Get out! You perverted vulgar hypocrite! How dare you come in here?’

  ‘Hark at her!’ Nance bawled. ‘You ain’t showing nuffink I ain’t seen before, and besides, I wouldn’t be interested. And if I was,’ he spat out, ‘I wouldn’t look twice at you!’

  Ronny got up from her chair and taking one long stride she smacked Nancy Martell across the face. ‘I don’t care who you are or what you get up to, but you don’t belong in here! This is the female dressing room. Go and tell Bradshaw you want your own room if the men don’t want you in theirs.’

  Martell flushed, but didn’t reply or retaliate. He scooped the make-up, the hairbrush, the pins and the ginger wig into the voluminous apron he wore round his waist and stormed out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

  ‘Well!’ Ronny sat back in her chair. ’I just can’t believe it! Ten years we’ve known that woman and never an inkling!’