The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘Nuffink much there,’ he commented. ‘Used to be the rookeries till they pulled the ’ouses down. But if that’s what you want!’

  She gave him the address and he stopped outside a shabby terrace of two-storey houses. ‘Will you wait, please?’ she asked, and hoped that Ronny’s mother would be in and able to accommodate her, for she didn’t know where else to go. She knocked on the door and waited, then knocked again. ‘All right, I’m comin’,’ a female voice called. ‘Keep yer ’air on.’

  A plump middle-aged woman in a dark red velvet dress with an apron over it opened the door. She was wearing a brown curly wig with a white lace cap, and had a tobacco pipe in her hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mrs Trenton?’ Poppy asked.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who wants to know?’

  Poppy knew it was Ronny’s mother for they looked alike; both had narrow faces and bony noses. ‘Ronny said you might be able to let me have a room for the night.’

  ‘Did she?’ The woman looked Poppy up and down. ‘Did she tell you you’d have to pay rent?’

  ‘She did. Yes, of course. I – I do hope you can,’ she said desperately. ‘I don’t know where else to go.’

  Mrs Trenton came closer. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ she whispered, as if the cabbie could hear. ’Cos I’ll not take you if you are.’

  ‘Trouble! No! I just need somewhere to stay tonight. I’ve to see my agent in the morning.’

  ‘Who? Dan, is it? Well, why didn’t you say so? You’d better come in. ’ere,’ she shouted to the cab driver as a stream of steaming urine flowed from the horse into the road. ‘Don’t you let that ’oss mess up my clean front!’

  ‘What d’you expect me to do about it, lady?’ he said, jumping down from his cab to carry Poppy’s trunk into the house and up the rickety stairs. ‘Ask if she can use your privy?’

  Poppy paid him, and as she came into the house she saw that Mrs Trenton’s home had a scrubbed doorstep and clean lace curtains at the window.

  ‘There’s some criminals about,’ Mrs Trenton muttered in front of her. ‘You can’t be too careful about who you invite indoors.’ She took Poppy into her front parlour, which though furnished with cheap furniture had a brightly polished brass fender and fire irons in front of the grate, and on the mantelpiece hung a red embroidered valance, with an ebony clock in the middle of it. The window sill was adorned with green plants; the chairs were covered with cushions, antimacassars and shawls, and pinned to the walls were theatre posters and bills advertising various shows, reviews and comedies. Teddy Trenton was a recurring name as was Dolly London, music hall artiste. There were several photographs of the Terry Sisters and others of young girls and boys in Pierrot and stage costume.

  She asked Poppy to sit down and she sat down opposite her. ‘You on the boards, then?’ she queried. ‘You don’t look the type.’

  ‘I’m a singer,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ve been appearing at Brighton with the Terry Sisters.’

  ‘Is that where they are? Up to no good I’ll be bound, specially that Ena.’ She scratched at her head, knocking the wig and cap sideways over one ear. ‘What do you sing? All the Marie Lloyd songs, I’ll bet? Everybody does. Nobody does their own material any more, not like in my day.’ She eased herself out of the chair and humming a tune took a photograph from the wall. There was a brighter patch on the faded wallpaper where it had been. ‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Or was. Don’t look much like that now, do I?’

  The photograph showed a round-faced buxom young woman with a cheeky grin, wearing a milkmaid costume and carrying a pail in each hand. ‘Fifteen I was, when that was took.’ She bent her head and scrutinized Poppy. ‘About your age, I reckon?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘Were you a singer?’

  ‘Me? No! I was an entertainer. A bit of comedy, bit of knockabout, spoofing, and then I learned to clog dance. I can still do it,’ she said, and lifting her skirts did a few shuffling movements with her slippered feet. ‘Though I get breathless after a few minutes, and it gets your back in the end, you know, cos you’ve to keep it so straight – it’s all legwork, you see. Then me and Teddy, that’s me ’usband, ’im up there in the picture, ’e’s gorn now, God bless ’im, we did a double act. He was a comic and I was his sidekick and we did a song and dance routine.’

  She sighed and sat down in silence for a minute. Then she said, ‘I miss them days. Best days of my life they was, even though it was ’ard, specially when the youngsters came along. Do you want somefink to eat?’ she asked suddenly. ‘It’s extra, o’ course. I ’ave to charge to keep body and soul together.’

  ‘Yes please,’ Poppy said. ‘That would be very nice.’

  ‘Good.’ Mrs Trenton rose to her feet again. ‘I’m just cooking an eel pie. A pal o’ mine comes round on a Sunday and we have a bite to eat together. But there’s plenty. I always do enough for three, just in case.’

  Poppy unpacked what she would need for the rest of that day and the following morning. She lifted the faded coverlet off the bed to check the sheets, but they were clean and smelled as if they had been freshly laundered so she didn’t need to use her own. The marble washstand had a crack in it, but the bowl and jug were clean. The fire in the grate was laid with newspaper curls, sticks and coal and she guessed that Mrs Trenton kept the room constantly ready for any visitors.

  She was called down for supper at six o’clock. Mrs Trenton’s friend, Nelly Gorman, was already seated at the table in the small kitchen with a knife and fork at the ready in her hands. In the middle of the table was a huge crusty pie with dishes of carrots and floury potatoes.

  ‘This is Nelly. She used to play in penny gaffs,’ Mrs Trenton said. ‘She’s a bit deaf so you’ll have to shout up if you want to talk to ’er.’

  Poppy tried to converse, but to no avail as Nelly couldn’t hear her, and eventually she asked Mrs Trenton to explain to her friend that she couldn’t shout in case she damaged her voice. Mrs Trenton passed on the message in a piercing shout and Nelly looked at Poppy, then shouted back at Mrs Trenton. ‘She’ll be no good at the gaffs, then, will she?’

  Mrs Trenton shouted back. ‘She’s a singer. She ain’t going to the penny gaffs; she’s been doing music ’all, like our Ronny.’

  After supper, the two women cleared all the crockery into a deep earthenware sink. Mrs Trenton poured boiling water from the kettle onto it and then the three of them moved into the parlour where a fire had been lit in the grate. ‘We ’ave a little sing-song on a Sunday,’ Mrs Trenton shouted at Poppy, then she gave an apologetic grin. ‘I gets used to shouting at Nelly,’ she said. Poppy really wanted to go out for a walk, but felt it would be rude if she didn’t join them for a while, so she sat down and prepared to be entertained.

  The women pushed back the furniture and lined themselves in front of Poppy. ‘Nice to ’ave an audience, ain’t it?’ Mrs Trenton said, and began a lively song with Nelly joining in, slightly behind the beat and raising her eyebrows, wiggling her hips and lifting her skirts.

  ‘I was going for a walk in the park,

  When this feller calls to me, let’s have a lark,

  Come on pretty miss, let’s ’ave a little kiss

  For you know how much I care for you.

  Says I, if I do, will you marry me and be true?

  He gave a saucy wink and said I’ll have to have a think

  Of what my darlin’ wife might say,

  That I’d never be good enough for you.’

  Poppy sat with a fixed smile on her face. How can I get out without offending them? She sat through another three slightly suggestive songs, and then stood up. ‘I must take a walk before bed,’ she announced. ‘Otherwise I’ll never sleep.’

  ‘It’s raining cats and dogs!’ Mrs Trenton told her. ‘You’ll be soaked. And besides, it’s not safe for a young girl out there on her own.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Poppy assured her. ‘I’ve got an umbrella and I don’t mind the rain. I won’t b
e long, just a turn round the block.’

  She backed out of the parlour and ran upstairs for her rain cape and black umbrella, and then down again and out of the door before they could persuade her not to.

  The rain was torrential, sharp and needle-like, and she huddled beneath the brolly and hurried down the narrow road, keeping her eyes on her feet for the road was cracked and broken in parts. But she hadn’t gone far when she lifted up the umbrella and stopped, realizing she could no longer see where she was going. There had been gaslight outside the row of houses where Mrs Trenton lived, but ahead of her there was none. She seemed to have run into a wall of darkness concealing dilapidated buildings with shadowy low arches and murky passages dividing them, whilst beneath her feet ran a thick stream of putrid water. She took in a quick startled breath and was about to turn back when she heard the rasp of a match. There was a sudden flare of yellow light on a level with her eyes and behind it she saw the features of a man.

  ‘’ello, little lady,’ he said softly, but his voice had a hoarse edge to it, and she was instantly reminded of the comic song which Nelly and Mrs Trenton had been singing. Only now it wasn’t in the least comical, for she saw something sinister in his expression. ‘Where are you off to on this dismal night?’ She flung her umbrella at him and turning swiftly on her heels took flight, picking up her skirts about her knees and sprinting back the way she had come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  She hammered on Mrs Trenton’s door, terrified that the man would come after her. ‘Mrs Trenton. Mrs Trenton. Let me in! Please let me in!’

  She saw a light in the lobby as an inside door was opened and she hammered again. ‘Mrs Trenton!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Poppy. Let me in. Quick. There’s a man—’

  She heard the key turn and the door opened a crack. She saw one eye and Mrs Trenton’s long nose peering through. ‘You’re soon back,’ she said. The chain on the door rattled as she unfastened it. ‘I’ve only just locked it after you. Come in. Come in. What’s up? Somebody chase you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said breathlessly, stepping inside. ‘I walked and then ran out of light and then there was a man! He spoke.’ She suddenly felt foolish for having gone out alone in the dark.

  ‘I told you,’ Mrs Trenton said. ‘But you young women, you don’t listen. It’s not like in the old days when we knew everybody hereabouts. Now all the old streets are changed and there’s all sorts of vagabonds moved in.’

  Nelly Gorman appeared, dressed ready to leave. She had a moth-eaten fur stole round the neck of her black coat and a bent feather in her large hat.

  ‘Don’t go out, Mrs Gorman,’ Poppy pleaded. ‘Tell her, Mrs Trenton,’ for Nelly had obviously not heard her. ‘There’s a man out there!’

  ‘There’s lots o’ men, darlin’,’ Mrs Trenton laughed, ‘but they’ll not bother Nelly. You ain’t ’eard ’er shout, ’ave you? She could fetch a mountain down with her voice. Besides, look at her. She’s wearing black. Nobody’ll see her on a night like this. And another fing – she only lives three doors down. You might think it ain’t worth the effort, but she likes to dress up, just as we used to in the old days when we trod the boards.’

  Nelly stood watching them and nodding her head as if she was making sense of what they were saying. As they stood there, a knock came on the door and Poppy jumped.

  ‘Who is it?’ Mrs Trenton cried out, and then muttered, ‘It’s like the Old Kent Road tonight.’

  ‘Harry!’ a hoarse voice called back. ‘I’ve got somebody’s gamp ’ere.’

  Mrs Trenton turned the key and opened the door and Poppy and Nelly shouldered each other to see who it was. An elderly man stood outside, holding Poppy’s umbrella over his head. ‘Somebody threw it to me,’ he said. ‘Must ’ave thought I was getting wetter than she was. I followed ’er to your door.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Mrs Trenton turned to Poppy. ‘It was only old ’Arry after all. ’e’d not ’arm you. Not that you’d know that. ’e always goes out for a smoke at night, raining or not. ’is wife won’t let him smoke indoors in case he sets the ’ouse on fire.’

  ‘She give me a fright, I can tell you.’ Harry handed over the umbrella. ‘Don’t expect to see anybody down there. I was just sheltering from the rain.’ He touched his cap, and water dripped off it onto his nose. ‘I’ll wish you good night.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ Nelly shouted after him and hurried out. ‘See you same time next Sunday, Dolly. Good night, miss.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to have bothered you,’ Poppy said after they had gone. ‘But I was so frightened.’

  ‘Well, he could have been anybody,’ Mrs Trenton said. ‘But there we are, it was only old ’Arry. Now then, a nice cup o’ cocoa and then I’m off to bed.’

  Poppy lay sleepless for some time. The mattress, though soft and warm, tickled her as feathers poked through the cover, but she kept thinking of old Harry out in the street and what she would have done if he really had been a criminal on the lookout for a victim.

  She awoke to the sound of Mrs Trenton singing. She had a tuneful voice though rather raucous. Then she heard her step on the stairs and her call to say it was seven o’clock and she had brought up hot water.

  ‘There you are, darlin’.’ In her hand she had a copper jug filled with steaming water, with a cloth wrapped round the handle. ‘Piping ’ot. I’ve just drawn it off so don’t scald yourself. Breakfast in quarter ’n hour. Sausage and bacon all right, is it?’

  The morning was dull and when Poppy looked out of the bedroom window she saw yellow fog swirling round the lamp-posts. She washed, then pulled on her grey wool skirt, which had a matching caped jacket, buttoned up her white and green striped shirt, and donned her elastic-sided boots. Then she dipped her comb into the bowl of water and ran it through her hair to tame it. Though large hats were fashionable, she often wore a smaller boater type and she laid on the bed a yellow felt one, which she wore perched on the back of her head and fastened with a ribbon beneath her chin.

  ‘You look nice,’ Mrs Trenton remarked when she went downstairs. ‘Very classy, ain’t you?’ She put her hand on her hip and surveyed her. ‘Mm, you don’t look the type for music ’all. Not showy enough, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ She looked her up and down. ‘I’d say you’re more theatre or concert hall; though I dare say when you’re dolled up in your frippery and gewgaws and with slap on your face, you’ll look quite different.’

  She placed a plate piled high with bacon, sausage and beans on the table and bade Poppy sit down and eat, then she brought another plate with a hunk of bread and a saucer of butter. ‘Fing is, darlin’,’ she said, sitting opposite her and pouring two cups of tea from a huge brown teapot, ‘and you mustn’t mind me giving you a piece of advice, cos I was in this business for a long time; the fing is, you need a bit o’ swank, a bit o’ swagger, you know. And you need somefink – some little dodge to catch the attention of the public.

  ‘You’ve seen that picture o’ me with the milk pails? Well, I ain’t never been near a cow in my life, but one time I used to bring a little lamb on the stage. Bless it, it would keep bleating for its ma whenever I was going through my patter, so I used the milkmaid routine instead, and that lasted for quite a few seasons.’

  She put her elbows on the table and gazed at Poppy as she sipped her tea and Poppy self-consciously continued her breakfast. ‘But surely,’ Poppy murmured, ‘I shouldn’t need to use a novelty if my voice is good enough?’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Dolly Trenton agreed. ‘And is it?’ Without waiting for an answer, she went on, ‘The Terry Sisters can’t sing for toffee, but they can dance and they tart themselves up so’s you’d never know it was them if you saw them out in the street like what they really are; and folks love ’em. They like a bit of vulgarity, you see, so that’s what they get. Have you seen Marie Lloyd?’ she asked. ‘No?’ as Poppy shook her head. ‘Well, she’s saucy, gives them a wink and a bit of how’s
your father.’ She wiggled her eyebrows and flashed her eyes. ‘I’ve seen her and I can tell you, she has ’em eating out of ’er ’and and she’s only young! Now take Vesta Tilley . . .’

  Poppy finished her breakfast. She could tell that Mrs Trenton was in a reminiscent mood and she wondered how she could excuse herself.

  ‘Now she’s a star and a really nice lady,’ Mrs Trenton went on. ‘And Dan Leno, why, you couldn’t wish for a finer feller, and they all have a special somefink.’

  ‘Mrs Trenton,’ Poppy said desperately, ‘I have to go. Mr Damone is expecting me.’

  ‘Lovely feller.’ Mrs Trenton rose from the table. ‘Seems a waste, don’t it, ’andsome chap like him? That Ena sets her cap at him.’ She shook her head. ‘But she don’t stand a chance. Nobody does.’

  It was only a ten-minute walk to St Martin’s Lane from Mrs Trenton’s house and Poppy’s hat bobbed bright and yellow in the grey morning as she set off. She had put her rain cape over her jacket and wore a warm scarf round her neck. In her gloved hand she lightly swung her walking umbrella.

  Miss Battle was in the front office when she arrived at Dan Damone’s, but this time she went into his room to tell him that Miss Mazzini had arrived.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Poppy.’ Dan kissed her cheek. ‘How are you? You’ve had a successful season! I had a request from Bradshaw asking if you could stay on, but I told him that I had other plans for you. Come and sit down.’

  ‘Mr Damone,’ she began.

  ‘Dan!’ He smiled. ‘You’re not a schoolgirl any more, you know, and in this business, privately at any rate, we can be informal.’

  ‘Dan,’ she began again. ‘Am I suited to the music hall?’

  He tipped back in his chair and gazed at her and she thought that Mrs Trenton was quite right. He was handsome, with his smiling blue eyes and mutton chop whiskers. ‘Why do you ask that,’ he said, ‘when you were moved up the bill at Brighton? Bradshaw would have put you in the penultimate spot if you’d stayed on.’

  ‘Well, a few people have said to me that a singer in the music hall needs to be a bit saucy and use double entendre and that kind of thing.’ She took a breath. ‘And I can’t. Don’t want to.’