The Songbird

by Val Wood

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘But you’ve always been Charlie. I never think of you as anything else.’

  He put his arms round her and pulled her towards him. They were quite alone in his workshop. ‘We’re different people here, Poppy.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’m going to be a successful shoemaker. I shall be well known. I don’t want people calling me Charlie Chandler. Charles Chandler has a much better ring to it.’

  He bent his head and kissed her neck, then ran his hands through her hair and kissed her mouth. ‘You grow lovelier, Poppy. When I think of the child you were; you remember, when you said you loved me?’ He gave a slight smile. ‘That day in Hull down by ’dockside?’ Just for a second, he slipped back into the Hull accent.

  She nodded and licked her lips, disturbed by his wandering hands, yet glad that he’d remembered. But then she recalled that he’d betrayed their secret and told Roger Doyle and Bertie Fletcher that she loved him. ‘How could I forget?’ she said softly. ‘Yet you never said that you loved me.’

  He held her back and looked at her. ‘Of course I did,’ he said jocularly. ‘How could I not love you? But I said that you were too young for love, which you are – for serious commitment, I mean,’ he added quickly. ‘But there’s nothing to stop us . . .’ He kissed her again and ran his hands over her breasts.

  She pulled back. ‘No,’ she breathed, agitated by the wanting of him and the confusion she felt. Did he love her or not? ‘No. We mustn’t, I mean – I love you, Charlie – Charles – but . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I’m afraid!’

  ‘Of what?’ he teased. ‘Not of me?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Of myself.’

  ‘You’re still a child, aren’t you?’ He looked down at her and she thought she saw impatience in his eyes.

  ‘No,’ she answered, gazing back at him. ‘I’m not. I’m growing up.’

  ‘Well!’ He shrugged and said abruptly, ‘I suppose I’ll have to wait.’

  The first six months of lessons had flown past and they were now into September. Poppy could tell that her voice was improving. Her breathing was more controlled, her musical instincts more acute in relation to the lyrics and the composers’ intentions. Mrs Bennett gave her different types of musical scores, some of which she found very challenging yet exhilarating.

  She arrived back at the Marinos’ one evening after a theatre performance and was greeted by huge smiles from Mario. ‘Come. Come!’ he said. ‘We are having a celebration. Anthony is here! He has been away for so long.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely to see you!’ She was very pleased to see him again.

  ‘And you, too, Poppy.’ He rose to greet her. He took her hand and his dark hair flopped over his forehead as he bent to kiss it. He appraised her with his brown eyes. ‘How well you look, Poppy. Are you enjoying life? Was it the right decision to take coaching?’ He looked a little sheepish. ‘I wasn’t interfering when I suggested it to Dan?’

  She kept hold of his hand and gently squeezed it. ‘No! I’m so grateful to you, Anthony. It’s been the very best thing for me.’ She let go of his hand as Mario handed her a glass of wine, insisting that she had just one, for usually she refused.

  ‘She doesn’t drink enough wine,’ Mario said. ‘But tonight is special. Tell her, Anthony!’

  ‘Oh, in a moment, Father,’ Anthony said. ‘I want to know about Poppy first and how she’s progressing with Mrs Bennett.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ she asked eagerly. ‘She’s such a perfectionist. I can’t leave my lessons until she’s satisfied!’

  ‘I know her very well.’ He nodded. ‘She’s Dan’s sister; of course you’ll know that?’ He drew his eyebrows together in a slightly anxious way and Poppy thought there was a flickering questioning glance at his parents.

  Mario had prepared supper, and although it was late, Poppy agreed to stay up and join them.

  ‘How is your friend Charlie?’ Anthony asked. He was sitting next to her at the table. ‘Is he still in London?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘He’s set up in business as a shoemaker. I have to try to remember to call him Charles! He’s very busy, but sometimes he comes to see me at the theatre if he has the time.’

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘You must have a string of admirers by now, Poppy, who would happily find the time?’

  She blushed. It was true there were many men who came to the stage door, both young and middle-aged. But the door keepers at the variety theatres and music halls knew by now that she wouldn’t see anyone but Mr Chandler. ‘There are one or two who are persistent,’ she admitted. ‘They send flowers and chocolates, but I refuse their invitations.’

  ‘So if I came to hear your next performance, would I be turned away if I offered you supper afterwards?’ he asked teasingly.

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ Her cheeks dimpled. ‘I’ll always be pleased to see you.’

  The next evening she was to appear at a small music hall off the Strand and Anthony said he would come to hear her and book a supper.

  ‘Book a supper!’ His father overheard their conversation. ‘You can eat here! I do something special for you and this beautiful young lady!’ He stretched out his hands and looked from one to the other. ‘You want to be alone, yes? It can be arranged. I put a table in the corner, with flowers and candles.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Father!’ Anthony’s manner was slightly crotchety. ‘Poppy and I just want to talk theatre, that’s all.’

  ‘Tch! Too much talk, that is the trouble with young people today.’ He blew an exaggerated kiss with both hands towards Poppy. ‘You must know love, and then you sing and play better.’ He clutched his chest. ‘It come from ’ere.’

  ‘Poppy knows that,’ Anthony said tetchily. ‘We all do!’

  ‘Ah! You not think about the Englishman?’ Mario asked Poppy. ‘Ze one who doesn’t like my food? Ah, he doesn’t know about love. Pah! He is cold, that one. Not for the beautiful Poppy. And Anthony – he needs to know about love again.’

  ‘Sorry, Poppy. My father has had too much wine,’ Anthony said. ‘I told him my news and he started celebrating early.’

  ‘What news?’ She had been so busy answering questions about herself that she hadn’t asked Anthony what he was doing or where he was playing. She knew he hadn’t been home since his tour of the south coast.

  ‘I’ve been invited to tour Europe,’ he told her, a reflective look in his eyes. ‘I leave next week.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘I can’t believe the difference,’ Anthony told her as they ate supper in a small restaurant near the theatre. ‘Your voice is much improved. It was good before, but so much better now! Mrs Bennett is an excellent coach. You’ll soon be ready for the concert hall.’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Bennett said,’ Poppy replied. ‘But never mind about me, tell me about you! I didn’t quite take it in last night. How long will you be away?’

  ‘About a year in total, though I’ll come back for a week in six months, just to check up on the old folks, you know,’ he said with a grin. ‘They’re so pleased for me, mainly because I shall be going to Italy during the tour: to Florence and Pisa, and Siena which is where their families are from.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Poppy clutched her hands beneath her chin. She was thrilled for him. ‘I can’t think of anything more exciting.’

  He leaned across the table and took hold of her hands. ‘Are you happy, Poppy?’ he asked earnestly. ‘Is everything as you hoped it would be?’

  His fingers entwined with hers. ‘More than,’ she whispered. ‘Life in the theatre is so exciting. I love the atmosphere, the applause, the response from the audience.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s food and drink, isn’t it?’ He gazed at her intently. ‘And Charlie? Is he attentive? He must be very proud of you.’

  A small furrow came to her brow and she absent-mindedly toyed with his fingers. In truth, Charlie wasn’t proud of her. She thought, in fact, that he was jus
t a little jealous and irritated by her success. ‘I suppose he is,’ she said softly. ‘But as I said, he’s so busy getting his business under way that he doesn’t often come to the theatre. But that’s all right,’ she said excusingly. ‘I quite understand, and it means I can concentrate much more if he isn’t there.’

  He nodded silently and released her hands. ‘Sometimes love gets in the way, doesn’t it?’

  He looked wistful, she thought, and slightly melancholy. ‘What did Mario mean when he said that you needed to know about love again? Were you crossed in love, Anthony?’ she asked softly. ‘Or shouldn’t I be so forward as to ask?’

  ‘I was,’ he admitted. ‘That’s when I wrote “Forever True”. It was an epilogue, I suppose – an ending!’

  ‘I knew it,’ she breathed. ‘When I first heard the song, I knew that whoever had written it had felt love, and then lost it.’ She searched his face. ‘Did you – did you get over her? Did you find love again?’

  He gave a slow smile, and his brown eyes gleamed. ‘I think I’ve recovered. At last! It’s taken a long time, but I was very young, and so was Jeanette.’ Then his smile disappeared and he said in a slightly bitter tone, ‘But she wasn’t too young to know that she could do better for herself than loving an impoverished pianist. She chose money, position and status rather than love.’

  ‘Jeanette?’ she whispered. ‘Mrs Bennett’s daughter?’

  ‘The same.’ He lifted wistful eyes to hers. ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘No.’ Poppy shook her head. ‘But Dan told me that his sister had married for love and his niece had married for money.’

  ‘Dan was very supportive of me,’ he said. ‘He saw how hard I’d been hit. He kept me so busy with engagements that I hardly had time to think about her.’

  ‘But you still wrote a song for her?’ Poppy said.

  ‘About her,’ he quickly corrected. ‘Not for her. I wrote it for me.’ Then he again gave a sudden smile. ‘But someone has stolen it from me!’

  She thought afterwards that he hadn’t said whether he had loved anyone since Jeanette. Perhaps he’s too bruised, too vulnerable, to fall in love again. She’d said goodbye to him a few days later before he set off on the start of his journey to Europe. ‘Write some more music, Anthony,’ she urged. ‘And let me be the first to sing it!’

  He’d bent and kissed her hand, and the next day when she arrived at the theatre there were flowers waiting for her. There was a card attached. For the beautiful Poppy, bright flower of the field. From your greatest admirer. Anthony. Under his signature he had added a quotation from Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost: When Love speaks, the voice of all the Gods make Heaven drowsy with the harmony.

  ‘Oh! How true,’ she’d murmured, pressing her nose to the bouquet to inhale the sweet perfume of the roses. She found a container and placed them on her dressing table. She kept looking at them and smiling as she prepared her make-up and changed into her stage clothes. They gave her such pleasure. Dearest Anthony, she mused. How kind. How considerate and talented he is. I do hope he succeeds abroad. My goodness, how famous he will be!

  That evening after the show, Charlie knocked on the dressing room door. One of the dancers opened it. ‘It’s for you, dearie,’ she said to Poppy. ‘Your young gentleman. My,’ she commented as she invited Charlie in, for they were all fully dressed, ‘you must be proper smitten to send such gorgeous flowers.’

  Charlie uttered a sardonic quip when he saw the bouquet. He’d seen other flowers that Poppy had received from her admirers and always made a joke of them. This time he idly read the card. ‘The piano player! What’s he mean?’ He tossed the card onto the table. ‘The man’s a fop! Full of jargon and folderol!’

  ‘No,’ she said in dismay. ‘He’s not! It’s a quotation. He was telling me about . . .’ I can’t speak of it, she thought. Not to Charlie. Anthony wouldn’t want me to discuss his lost love. He told me in confidence. ‘We were – we were discussing music and – and song, and how love always plays a part.’ She looked anxiously at him. ‘He was only home for a short time,’ she said. ‘He’s going to tour Europe.’

  ‘What sort of tour?’ he asked grumpily. ‘Has he got time and money enough to travel?’

  ‘A concert tour!’ she explained, and wondered why Charlie always misconstrued everything, and why she should feel so apprehensive as she clarified the matter, not wanting to upset him.

  ‘Oh!’ He bent towards her and whispered, ‘Good riddance! He won’t be sneaking behind my back, then, and running off with you!’

  ‘Of course he won’t.’ She laughed, relief surging through her at his change of manner. Perhaps after all it did Charlie some good to be a mite jealous.

  They went out for supper and he pressed her hand. ‘You know, Poppy, it will be years before I can marry or make a proper commitment. But there’s no reason ’ – he turned her hand over and kissed her palm – ‘why we can’t . . . well, we’re away from our folks; nobody would know . . .’

  ‘What?’ she asked softly. ‘Wouldn’t know what?’

  He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Poppy! You’re no longer a child. The sort of life you’re leading, you know what goes on between couples,’ he whispered. ‘We don’t have to wait!’

  She swallowed. She knew perfectly well what he meant. It would be easy to give in to his urgent demands, she loved him so much. But what if – what if he changed his mind about her? Suppose she became pregnant? What would she do then about a singing career? And whatever would her pa think? He’d trusted her to come away on her own, when his instincts had urged him to keep her under his protection.

  ‘Do you mean that we would live together as man and wife, but not actually get married?’ she parried. ‘Until later?’

  ‘Well, no!’ He looked taken aback. ‘My landlady wouldn’t allow us to live together in my lodgings.’

  ‘Well then – what?’

  ‘Oh!’ Again he seemed exasperated. ‘There are ways and means! A weekend away now and again,’ he said, and added sarcastically, ‘if your career allows it, of course!’

  ‘I want to sing, Charlie,’ she said quietly, though her heart hammered at the thought that he didn’t really respect her if he could suggest such a thing.

  ‘Charles!’ he corrected. Then he said pedantically, ‘If we should ever marry, Poppy, you’d have to give up your singing, you realize that? I couldn’t have my wife careering all over the country. Not once I’m successful, at any rate.’

  Her spirits plummeted. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘You know it’s what I’ve always wanted,’ she said. ‘Just as you wanted to start your own business as a shoemaker!’

  ‘But I’m a man!’ He stared at her in astonishment. ‘I have to earn a living. You’re only playing a game, dressing up and singing to entertain people, just as you did when you were little! You’ve a lovely voice, I admit, but it’s not proper work like a man has to do! Not in the theatre. Not in some grubby little tinpot variety show! I mean, this pianist fellow. You can’t say that he’s doing proper work!’

  Her lips trembled. There were only a few people in the café, but they must have heard his words, which he hadn’t bothered to speak quietly. She felt tears trickle down her cheeks. How could he be so cruel?

  ‘Poppy!’ he said beguilingly, seeing her tears. He pulled his chair nearer to hers. ‘Don’t be upset. You know that I’m right.’

  A few days later she arrived at Mrs Bennett’s for her lesson as usual. She felt very downhearted, and as she had walked from the Marinos’ she had yet again gone over her conversation with Charlie. He would never have made such improper suggestions had they still been living in Hull. And if he really wanted to marry me, he would have spoken to my father. But then to say that I’d have to give up my singing! An image of Mrs Chandler sitting over the sewing machine in her husband’s workshop came to her mind. Is that what would await me? She sighed, feeling troubled and anxious, as she mounted the steps to Mrs Bennett’s front door. I’m s
o confused.

  Mrs Bennett’s maid answered the door. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Mazzini,’ she said, taking Poppy’s coat. ‘Mrs Bennett said would I take you into the sitting room. Her daughter is with her,’ she added, on seeing Poppy’s questioning glance, for she generally showed her straight into the music room.

  Poppy took in a sharp breath. Jeanette! Whom Anthony had loved and lost. I wonder if she is content?

  ‘Poppy, come and meet my daughter, Mrs Herbert Marsden,’ Mrs Bennett said. ‘Jeanette, this is Miss Poppy Mazzini. I’ve told you about her.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Mrs Marsden gazed curiously at Poppy. ‘How do you do? A most unusual name, if I might be permitted to say so. Is it your own or one you have appropriated for the stage?’

  ‘It’s my own,’ Poppy answered. ‘My father’s family were Italian.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Marsden sank back into a chair. She was plump and pretty with a pert upturned nose and dimpled cheeks. Her fair hair, dressed in a pompadour style, was swept under her velvet hat, with a loose fringe of curls on her forehead which emphasized her large blue eyes. Poppy could see why Anthony had been so enchanted by her.

  Jeanette Marsden was dressed to go out; she wore a tiered shoulder cape over a pleated day gown and dangled a silk muff in her hand. ‘I was about to go out visiting,’ she said. ‘But Mama said I should stay and meet you and listen to you sing. I used to sing, you know. I think Mama wants me to know what I could have achieved if I had continued, and hadn’t married Herbert.’ Mrs Bennett protested but Jeanette simply shrugged. ‘I have everything I want,’ she said airily. ‘I have a house in the country and my own cabriolet; I travel abroad, and our children want for nothing.’

  ‘Then it was right for you,’ Poppy said quietly. ‘Music wasn’t your world.’

  Jeanette lowered her long lashes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t! There were other things I wanted more, so I gave it up. But I sing to entertain my husband’s friends. I still have a pleasant voice. And,’ she added, ‘I had a song written for me. Not everyone can say that!’ She rose gracefully from her chair. ‘But, if you don’t think me rude, Miss Mazzini, I really must go out now. Perhaps I could hear you in concert sometime? I spend so little time in London that I have masses of things to do when I’m here. You do understand?’ She looked pleadingly and sweetly from Poppy to Mrs Bennett.