by Val Wood
‘I’ve always thought there was something odd about her!’ Ena scowled and wrinkled her nose. ‘But I don’t understand. There are plenty of men dressing up as dames. Nobody doubts who they are. Why would he pass himself off as a woman acting a woman, and an ugly one at that?’ She shivered and pulled her wrap round her. ‘He’s in the wrong box, isn’t he? Do you think the men know? My Gawd,’ she choked. ‘Can’t you see the headlines?’
‘Yes, I can,’ Ronny said quietly. ‘And it won’t do for it to get out that we’ve been sharing a dressing room with a man! Heaven knows, our reputations are fragile enough.’
Poppy stared at them. The incident, raw and ugly, had unnerved her. Thank goodness she had always been changed into her stage clothes by the time Nance Martell came into the dressing room. She – he – was always late and now Poppy wondered whether he was giving everyone the chance to be fully dressed before he came in. He didn’t look like a man, she thought. In his ordinary clothes with his wig on, he looked like a woman, if a rather broad-shouldered one. His skin was soft and pale. Suddenly she felt sorry for him and she thought of what her father had said about meeting people who were not run of the mill like them. Well, Nancy Martell was certainly not like anyone she had met before.
The evening show went on as usual, except that Nancy Martell didn’t appear, being ‘indisposed’, Jack Bradshaw announced to the audience. Poppy opened the second half and sang an extra song, and the Terry Sisters did another dance routine to make up for the comedian’s absence.
Bradshaw told them later that he had persuaded Martell not to disclose his secret, as the last thing they wanted at the theatre was the police descending on them, tracing the scent of a scandal. ‘They won’t think it amusing that we thought Martell was a woman,’ he told the assembled company. ‘This has got to be kept quiet.’
‘Where’s he gone?’ Bill Baloney asked. ‘Is he coming back?’
‘No,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I’ve suggested he changes his name and starts again as a character comedian.’ He drew on his cigar. ‘But he’ll not be coming back here.’
They were all subdued. The discovery that Martell was really a man masquerading as a woman could have closed down the theatre and they would all have been looking for other bookings; but Bradshaw was sharp and, immediately after asking Martell to leave, he took on a local youth who could whistle like a bird and was available for the Saturday performances.
‘Who’ll take your place, Anthony?’ Poppy asked him after the Saturday matinee. The posters hadn’t yet been changed and wouldn’t be until Sunday morning.
‘Some fellow with performing dogs,’ he said. ‘Apparently they can count and sing.’ He grinned. ‘Though I don’t think they can play the piano.’
‘I feel as if I’ve been here for ever,’ Poppy said. ‘I can’t believe it’s only been a week. So much has happened. And I feel as if I’ve known you such a long time. I wish you were staying,’ she said wistfully.
They were leaning over the rails, gazing at the sea. Poppy’s hair was blowing across her face, and Anthony brushed it back to look at her as he answered. ‘You’ll be all right. And the time will pass quickly enough to the end of November, and maybe we’ll meet up again when you’re next in London?’
She nodded thoughtfully. Dan must have told him he’d asked her to stay at Bradshaw’s until the end of November, because she hadn’t.
‘Poppy?’ He bent his head to look at her. ‘What?’
‘Did Dan tell you I was leaving in November?’ She pouted. ‘Did you know before I did?’
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘So I’m found out!’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Confession time! I’ve known Dan a lot of years,’ he said, ‘and because I don’t stay in one place for very long I get to see other performers. Dan uses me as a sort of scout, and I let him know who’s doing well.’
He put his finger under her chin so that she would look at him, for she’d turned her head away. ‘Don’t sulk,’ he admonished. ‘I’m not a spy! I telegraphed him after your performance on Monday evening and told him how good you were and that Bradshaw would probably ask you to stay on. I also told him,’ he added, ‘that you deserved somewhere better.’
‘Oh,’ she said, mollified. ‘I’m so green, aren’t I? I don’t know how things are done.’
‘After only a week, I think you’ve learned a lot.’ He smiled. ‘Think how much more confident you were for today’s matinee than you were on Monday!’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I am.’ Then she gave a great sigh of pleasure. ‘And then tonight,’ she said, ‘Charlie is coming to see the show!’
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Yes. Charlie!’ His expression became serious. ‘Don’t let him influence you, Poppy. Remember you’re now a professional. You’re not just singing to impress him. There’s the rest of the audience too!’
It was a reproof and for a moment she was annoyed that he thought she might forget everyone else but Charlie. But I might have done, she considered. I might have. She looked up at him. ‘I won’t forget.’
‘Good girl,’ he said, and bent to kiss her cheek and smiled at her surprise. ‘That’s in case I don’t have a chance to say goodbye.’
She was nervous again before the evening performance. It was a full house and a rowdy one. She went into the wings to watch part of the first half and could hear the banter of the audience. They whistled along with the young whistler, though he wasn’t deterred, and they called out encouragement to the tumbler as he performed his routine. The tenor was heckled and quite put off his music.
At the interval Poppy went back to the dressing room and changed her slippers for the red shoes and pinned a flower in her hair. The Terry Sisters were dressed and sitting smoking, making a thick fug in the room. Both had a glass of wine in their hands. A knock came on the door. ‘Flowers for Miss Mazzini,’ the door keeper called out.
‘Ooh!’ Ronny and Ena exclaimed, sitting up. ‘An admirer!’
Poppy went to the door and took the bouquet of red and cream roses, sweet peas and carnations. A card was slipped inside. She took a trembling breath. It had to be from Charlie.
‘With best wishes for tonight,’ she read. ‘With love from Anthony.’
‘Oh!’ Tears sprang to her eyes. Anthony! How sweet and kind. Her mouth trembled. But nothing from Charlie.
She rushed back to the door. ‘Wait,’ she called to the door keeper. ‘Is there anything else? A note or anything?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing else, miss. Sorry.’
‘Not what you were expecting, dearie?’ Ena drew lazily on her cigar. ‘Think yourself lucky to get anything at all.’
‘We used to,’ Ronny declared. ‘When we were first starting out. Who’re they from then?’ she asked. ‘Not the gentleman who makes the shoes?’
‘No,’ she said softly. ‘They’re from Anthony Marino. He’s leaving the show tonight.’
They both raised their eyebrows. ‘Very nice too,’ Ronny said. ‘He’s taken a shine to you, obviously. He usually keeps himself to himself. A bit aloof, you know.’
‘That’s because he’s not really one of us.’ Ena looked at herself in the mirror and tapped the corners of her mouth with a fingertip. ‘He’s concert hall, isn’t he? Not music hall like we are.’
Poppy buried her face in the bouquet to hide her disappointment. It smelt sweet and heady. The flowers were beautiful, even if they weren’t from Charlie.
‘Five minutes, Miss Mazzini!’ A rap on the door and the muffled tones of the callboy alerted her.
‘Thank you,’ she called back.
‘This is your first Saturday night, isn’t it?’ Ronny asked, cupping her chin in her hand. Her fingernails were long and red. ‘Well, all the best. They’re in a merry old mood out there.’
Poppy walked towards the wings. The stagehands were in position to open the fire curtain. Jack Bradshaw, in a silk top hat, tailcoat and a white cravat, stood waiting. She had told Miss Jenkinson that she wouldn’t dance the mazurka, but would save her breath and e
nergy for the songs. She would start with ‘Come Pretty May’, then the popular sweetheart song, and finally ‘Forever True’. Miss Jenkinson had told her that next week she had asked the violinist to accompany her.
She heard the opening bars of the first song and the stagehands, looking in her direction, began to open the curtain. Jack Bradshaw stepped forward and the audience whooped. He bowed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. We have many fine performers entertaining you this evening, and none finer than the talented – Miss – Poppy – Mazzini.’
He held out his hand and as Poppy ran onto the stage he backed away behind the curtains. The audience cheered, the most noise coming from the gallery. ‘Poppy – Poppy! Come on, give us a love song!’ They were men’s voices and she had to raise her own voice to be heard. ‘Shh,’ some of the audience admonished, but Poppy smiled and smiled and continued with the song.
There was tremendous applause as she finished, and again she could hear voices from the gallery. ‘She’s a friend of ours, ain’t you, Poppy?’ someone called and again they were shushed. She sang the second song and they were quieter until she was finished, then applause and cheers broke out again. She took a bow. ‘For my final song,’ she began, and by the piano in the orchestra pit she detected some movement, ‘I would like to sing “Forever True”, composed by Anthony Marino.’
She heard the familiar opening notes, but she was now attuned to Miss Jenkinson’s playing, and it wasn’t hers. She looked down and saw Anthony sitting at the piano. He half rose and gave her a slight bow. She took a breath. He was going to play for her! What a compliment!
He ran his fingers over the keys, playing the opening bars, waiting for her to begin. She closed her eyes. ‘La la, la la, la la-ah, hold me close forever more.’ She floated round the stage. ‘La la, la la, la la-ah. Do you love me as I love you . . .’
There was a hush as she sang and Anthony, glancing up, kept in perfect tempo with her. They came to the end of the song and for a second there was silence. Then a great whoosh of applause rang out, as the audience stamped their feet and stood up and cheered. Poppy bowed and backed away, then came forward and bowed again and this time held up her hands for them to be quiet.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ With a graceful flourish she held out her arm towards Anthony, who rose from the piano. ‘Mr Anthony – Marino!’
To tumultuous applause, Anthony bowed to the audience, and the applause grew to wild cheers as he turned to Poppy, bowed, then, smiling, lifted the tips of his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Poppy was flushed and excited as she came off stage. Never, not in her most wishful moments, had she ever expected such an ovation. And it’s because of Anthony! What a performer! And blowing that kiss, that was the final flourish. The audience would read so much into that, not realizing that he is the ultimate professional and knows what they want!
She could still hear the house chanting, and the next act, the juggler, was refusing to go on until they had quietened down. Bradshaw was dashing around rearranging the acts. He followed Poppy to the dressing room and asked the Terry Sisters to go on after the juggler, and then he would put Anthony Marino on after them, just before the final act, Bill Baloney.
Ena objected vehemently. ‘We’re booked for next to the top,’ she said. ‘Why should we change?’
‘It’s just for tonight,’ Bradshaw wheedled. ‘This is Marino’s final performance. Next week we’ll be back to normal, I promise. If I put him on before you, they’ll be shouting out for Poppy and we’ll never get you on. We’ll overrun.’
‘Just for tonight?’ Ronny asked. She too was annoyed at the change-round, though she saw the sense of it.
‘Just for tonight. You know you’ll please them.’ He cracked his face into a thin smile. ‘Give them a bit of sauce,’ he said. ‘You know, tease them a bit, a few wiggles. You know what they like. Then you’re a complete contrast to Marino.’
Poppy slunk to her chair by the mirror and watched as Ena and Ronny made final adjustments to their headdresses, looked at themselves in the mirror, then walked out of the room. Neither of them spoke to her and she felt disappointed. But then, she thought, they have to concentrate on their own act, not bother about me.
There was a knock on the open door and Anthony stood there. ‘Well, Miss Mazzini,’ he crowed jubilantly. ‘Did we knock them cold?’
She jumped up and running to the door she flung her arms round him. ‘Thank you,’ she cried. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’
‘Miss Mazzini.’ The stage door keeper interrupted them. ‘Here’s a gen’leman to see you. Mr Charles Chandler with friends. Did I do right bringing ’em?’
‘Oh!’ she said, and Anthony backed away as Charlie and behind him two other men came up along the corridor.
‘Charlie! Oh, how wonderful to see you.’ Her face was wreathed in smiles. ‘No, Anthony – please don’t go for a moment. I want you to meet Charlie. I’ve told you about him.’
‘Indeed. How do you do?’ Anthony said formally, and stretched out his hand to Charlie. ‘Very nice to meet you, Chandler. As Miss Mazzini says, she has spoken of you.’ He turned to Poppy. ‘I’m on next. I must go.’ He gave her a smile, which didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Anthony!’ she said. ‘Will I see you before you leave—?’ But he was gone, giving a final wave of his hand as he walked down the corridor.
‘My word, Poppy!’ At her invitation, Charlie and his friends followed her into the dressing room. He put his arm round her. ‘What a star! I had no idea.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I told my friends here – this is Bertie Fletcher, and Roger Doyle – I told them we were going to see some talent tonight, and . . .’
‘. . . my word, we have.’ Roger Doyle took her hand and kissed it. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’
Bertie Fletcher, whom she thought seemed a little worse for drink, also leaned over her hand, but she drew it away before it reached his wet lips. ‘Beautiful,’ he slurred. ‘Ab-sholu-shly beautiful!’
‘But who’s the fellow on the piano?’ Charlie mockingly frowned at her. ‘You didn’t tell me about him!’ He put his finger under her chin and looked into her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me that you don’t love me any more, Poppy? That you’ve found somebody else?’
‘Don’t be silly, Charlie.’ Embarrassed in front of his friends, she turned her head away. ‘That’s Anthony Marino. It’s his final night at the show so he very kindly played for me. The song is his. He’s a songwriter as well as a pianist, and he’s a friend.’
‘Ooh!’ Bertie sighed. ‘Sing a song of sixpence!’
‘Shut up, Bertie,’ Charlie said rudely. ‘I’m trying to have a conversation with Poppy.’ He smiled down at her and whispered, ‘But you do still love me? You haven’t had your head turned by all this adoration?’
‘Hello! What’s this? A party?’ Ena, followed by Ronny, came into the room. They were both flushed by their exertions on stage, but Poppy could tell that they were over their ill humour. Obviously they had had a receptive audience.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Ronny, in her high-heeled shoes, towered over Bertie and Roger. She sat down and unfastened the straps on her shoes and kicked them under the dressing table. ‘So which of you is the shoemaker?’
‘I am.’ Charlie gave her a bow. ‘Charles Chandler at your service.’
Ronny eyed him. ‘Hmm. Will you make me a pair?’ She wiggled a foot in front of him, and then waved a finger across at Ena. ‘And a pair for my sister, of course. We always do things together.’
‘Well, not always together.’ Ena smiled seductively at Roger. ‘Some things we do separately!’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Roger pawed over her hand and kissed it. ‘Roger Doyle, Miss Terry. Delighted to meet you.’
‘We thought we’d go out for supper,’ Charlie announced. ‘Shall we all go? Are you ladies free?’
‘Not free,’ Ena and Ronny cried in unison. ‘But we ain’t expensive!’
She stepped back into the corridor as the men left, and walked towards the stage where Anthony was coming to the end of his performance and playing the final piece of music. It was his own composition and Poppy recognized it from when he had played in Hull. Tears came to her eyes, as they had then, and she wished he had played something merry to finish rather than something that touched her emotions.
He stood up and bowed and the audience, having been told that this was his final performance at Bradshaw’s, stood up and applauded heartily, though not noisily as they had previously. He bowed again and turned to come off stage. He saw Poppy watching him and held out his hand.
She shook her head; tears were running down her cheeks. She wouldn’t go on. This was his performance. Not hers. She had had her ovation. But he still stood there, and then began to clap his hands. Again he put out his hand for her to join him. The audience, sensing something, began to murmur, ‘Poppy . . . Poppy . . .’
She lifted her head and blinked away her tears, then ran lightly to join him. He took her by the hand and kissed her cheek and the audience cheered. ‘Give a bow, Poppy,’ he murmured, smiling at the audience as he spoke. ‘Now brush away your tears with your fingers. That’s it. Another bow. Back away. Wave. Throw a kiss.’ They left the stage and he squeezed her hand. ‘Always leave them wanting more.’ He gazed at her. ‘I’m going now. Have a wonderful evening with your friend Charlie. And I’ll hope to see you again in the not too distant future. Goodbye.’
‘Anthony!’ she said, but he’d turned away. ‘Thank you,’ she called. ‘For everything.’
‘So you’re the little lady who loves Charles!’ Roger put his face close to hers as they walked away from the theatre. Somehow, Charlie had been ensnared in front between Ena and Ronny, and Poppy was between Roger and Bertie. Both were hanging on to her arms. ‘Lucky old Charles.’
