The Songbird

by Val Wood

  She heard the slow clop of a single-horse carriage coming along the road and on a sudden impulse stood up, holding on to the doorframe of the shop. She staggered towards the road and put out her hand to stop the approaching vehicle. It was a staid four-wheeler, a growler, with the driver hunched up on his box seat. ‘Cabby,’ she called in a strained shout, waving at him.

  He slowed the horse, took a pipe out of his mouth and called to her, ‘I’m going home, lady. Not taking any more fares.’

  ‘Oh!’ Poppy gasped. Just when she had made a decision, and it was starting to rain. ‘Which way are you going?’

  He drew up beside her and looked down. ‘Are you in trouble, gel? Somebody after you?’

  ‘I’m in trouble, yes.’ She began to weep. ‘I have to get home.’

  ‘Where’s that then?’ He was an older man from the sound of his voice, though she couldn’t see him properly in the darkness.

  ‘Yorkshire.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Yorkshire!’ He pushed his top hat to the back of his head. ‘I can’t take you all that way, lady. I’ll take you to King’s Cross if you like, since I’m passing that way, but there’ll be no trains running at this time o’ night.’

  She stifled a sob; she was beginning to have second thoughts. If he was off duty, would it be safe to go with him? Some drivers were notoriously regarded as being preyers on young women. She glanced at the carriage to see if he was licensed and saw that he was. He also had his cab number on his coat.

  ‘Are you coming or not, lady?’ he asked impatiently. ‘I’m tired, Dobbin is tired and we both need a bit o’ hay and to get to our beds.’

  ‘Sorry! Yes please.’ She climbed in and they moved off.

  The driver opened the window in the roof and called down to her. ‘I’ll drop you in the station yard,’ he said. ‘The railway company don’t like us private hire men to hang about. They’ve got their own fleet of cabs. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, thankyou.’ She looked up but couldn’t see him. There was just one lantern and that was swinging outside. I’ll wait at the station until morning, she decided, and then catch a train home.

  She scurried across the station concourse. The gas lamps placed high on the walls cast gloomy shadows and she looked anxiously round at the few people who were about. All of them, she thought, seemed furtive and suspicious. Two police constables glanced curiously at her and then at each other. The ticket office was locked and she wondered where she could sit until the morning.

  The constables strolled across to her as she hesitated. ‘Now then, miss,’ said one. ‘What’re you doing ’ere at this time of a morning? Ain’t you got an ’ome to go to?’ He was a big burly fellow with a thick beard and two chevrons on his sleeve.

  The other one, younger and without any stripes, grinned. ‘Hoping for one more customer?’ he asked. ‘You’ll not find any here; we’ve cleared ’em all out.’

  Poppy was confused. What did they mean? ‘I – I want to catch a train,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ll have to wait until morning, I know, but—’

  ‘Well, you can’t wait here,’ the first constable said. ‘Not allowed.’

  ‘But – it’s not long. It will soon be morning,’ she stammered.

  He shook his head. ‘Off you go ’ome, there’s a good gel. Plenty of pickings elsewhere but not on our patch. We’re after a quiet night.’

  With horror she realized what he was implying. They thought she was a prostitute! A street woman! How could they make such a mistake? Then she thought of how she must look. Her eyes were swollen with crying. Her hair, without a hat, would be bedraggled. A young woman on her own. She backed away from them.

  ‘No,’ she cried. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  She saw them both grin and move closer to her. They’re going to lock me up! They’re going to put me in handcuffs! ‘No,’ she screamed. ‘Don’t touch me,’ and turning from them she ran out of the station, out of the yard and into the darkness of the night.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ‘So where is she?’ Dan, called in by Mario, stood and looked at him and then Rosina. ‘She surely can’t have gone far, not without telling you and especially if she’s left all her clothes?’

  ‘She was ’eartbroken, Dan,’ Rosina said. ‘So very upset.’

  ‘Yes, I know she was,’ Dan muttered. ‘But still, to go off without saying! When did you say you last saw her?’

  ‘Yesterday, in the morning, you know – you came and she wouldn’t see anyone, and this morning I take her some coffee, she wasn’t there,’ Rosina said. ‘And now, it is seven o’clock and still she not come back.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘That is why I say to Mario, ’e must send and ask you where she is, is she with Mrs Bennett? And you say no she is not!’

  Dan pursed his lips. ‘Marian hasn’t seen her since we brought her home from the theatre. We thought she was resting. Two days,’ he mused. ‘Should I wire her father?’

  ‘No!’ Mario said. ‘He will be alarmed. Wait a little longer. She will come back soon. She is wounded. The wounded always come back ’ome.’

  ‘Except this isn’t home,’ Dan murmured. ‘I wonder if that’s where she’s gone? I think I’ll take a cab down to King’s Cross. She might have been seen there. With that hair someone would remember her.’

  A station porter directed him to the police hut and he asked the two constables there if they’d seen anything of a young woman with red hair. ‘She’s missing,’ he said. ‘We can’t find her.’ They looked at each other and one of them said, ‘Sorry. Don’t think so,’ but then the other, an older man, said cautiously, ‘There was a young woman in the station last night; well, it was early morning, more like. She had red hair. Said she wanted to catch a train, but we thought – well, we thought she was one of the gels come in for shelter. It was raining, you see.’

  ‘One of the girls?’ Dan boomed. ‘One of the street women, do you mean? Good God, man! Can’t you tell the difference between a woman in distress and a whore! Where did she go?’

  The constable shook his head. ‘We told her she couldn’t wait in the station and she just ran. Scarpered. Took off and ran like a bat out of hell. We were only going to ask her some questions,’ he added. ‘We didn’t mean to frighten her.’

  Dan swore, leaving them in no doubt of his opinion of their intelligence, and went to some of the privileged cab drivers who had a contract to wait in the station yard and questioned them. But most of them had gone home at that time in the morning and so hadn’t seen Poppy, if indeed it had been her. The following morning, when Poppy still hadn’t turned up, Dan went to the post office and sent a telegram to Joshua Mazzini.

  ‘What does he mean? Is Poppy with us?’ Joshua scratched his head as he read the telegram. ‘Nan! What does he mean? Can you understand it?’ He handed the telegram to her.

  Nan carefully read the message. ‘He says that Poppy went off without telling anyone where she was going!’ She glanced up at Joshua. ‘That’s not like Poppy,’ she murmured. ‘Why would she do that?’ She called to Mattie who was in the shop. ‘Have you heard from Poppy? Recently, I mean?’

  Mattie shook her head. ‘No. Not since her last visit. Why? What’s up?’

  Nan explained about the telegram whilst Joshua stood with his hand over his mouth. ‘She’d come here if she was in trouble, wouldn’t she?’ he said to them both.

  ‘Who’s in trouble?’ Tommy came out of the shop into the kitchen to see where everyone was.

  ‘No-one, we hope, Tommy,’ Mattie said. ‘But Poppy seems to have gone missing.’

  Joshua put on his raincoat and went to the post office to send a telegram back to Dan Damone, asking if he should come to London to help look for her.

  ‘Tommy!’ Mattie said when they were alone. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Charlie?’

  ‘No, not a word since he went to London. Fine friend he turned out to be. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered,�
� she answered. ‘You know that Poppy had been seeing him now and again?’

  ‘What about it?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Do you think he might know where she is?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘She was keen on him, you know!’

  He laughed. ‘Since she was a bairn.’ Then he frowned. ‘Come on, Mattie, what are you saying? That they’re together?’ He grabbed her arm and lowered his voice. ‘You don’t mean that she might be in trouble? Not with Charlie?’

  ‘Well, he’s not ’marrying kind, is he? We both know that.’ Mattie’s face flushed.

  ‘I know that! How do you know?’ His eyes searched her face. ‘Has he ever tried anything on with you?’

  ‘Course he has,’ Mattie said. ‘Me and all ’other lasses in Hull.’ She smiled at his shocked expression and patted his cheek. ‘You don’t have to worry, Tom Mazzini,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t succumb to his charms. I was onny ever interested in you.’

  He put his arms round her and nuzzled her neck. ‘And yet you won’t let me near you,’ he said softly.

  She laughed and pulled away. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t. Not until we’re wed.’ Then she kissed him on the mouth. ‘I want you to know for sure that I’ve kept myself only for you. But Poppy might be vulnerable,’ she added. ‘Especially in a place like London where there’s no family to warn her. If she’s seeing Charlie . . .’

  ‘And Charlie isn’t ‘marrying kind – I’ll kill him if he’s got her into trouble,’ Tommy said fiercely.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Mattie said. ‘But it’s a possibility. On the other hand,’ she said slowly, and her eyes opened wide as something else occurred to her, ‘she’s just got back from France. You don’t know what those foreign gents get up to with their fancy ways. Oh, Tommy, it doesn’t bear thinking about!’

  Dan Damone read Joshua’s telegram. Having Poppy’s anxious father here was the last thing he needed. Why, he would probably want to put up posters or print something in the newspapers about her disappearance and that wouldn’t do at all. No, this must be kept quiet at all costs. He sank his chin into his hand as he pondered. I’ll tell anyone who might enquire that she’s resting for a few days. She’ll be back before long, I expect. I know how she feels. It’s terrible to lose someone you love. But she’s a mere child. What can she know of love? Infatuation, that’s what it is. It’s not the same as losing someone when you’re a grown man or woman.

  He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a photograph in a silver frame. He looked down at the serene face in front of him. ‘That’s love, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘That’s real love.’

  Marian Bennett looked up as her daughter came into the room. ‘How lovely to see you, dear,’ she said. ‘I was in need of some company.’

  ‘Why? Where’s Papa?’

  ‘Busy, as always.’ She smiled. ‘But I wanted to talk to you. I need your advice!’

  ‘My advice?’ Jeanette raised her fine eyebrows. ‘Surely not!’

  ‘Yes. You remember Poppy Mazzini? She’s disappeared. But I don’t want you to tell anyone,’ she added hastily. ‘We don’t want it to get out. The poor girl is in love with someone and he’s become engaged to someone else. She’s distraught. Gone to pieces and run away.’

  ‘Well, how can I help with that?’ Her daughter was offhand. ‘I hardly know her.’

  ‘No, but she’s young, and . . .’ Marian Bennett hesitated. Her daughter was so self-assured; perhaps she was the wrong person to ask. ‘Well, you were young when you and Anthony broke up—’

  Jeanette gave a short laugh. ‘Yes, but, Mama, I wasn’t the one with the broken heart! I was the one who chose to end our relationship. I knew who would serve me best and it wasn’t Anthony. Can you see me as the wife of a piano player? No, of course not!’

  She played her fingers around her lips. ‘I’m not saying that I don’t miss his devotion and I was sorry that he was hurt so badly. But we were young and I’m sure he’s got over it; or if he hasn’t, then he will.’ She gave a little shrug and looked at her hands. She wore diamond rings on her fingers and gold bracelets on her wrists. ‘I’m happy enough with what I’ve got, even though my husband probably isn’t always faithful to me.’

  Her mother looked shocked but Jeanette merely smiled. ‘He always comes home,’ she declared. ‘He knows where he is best off. I’m a perfect hostess, the mother of his children. What more could he want?’

  ‘But you don’t love him?’ her mother said slowly. ‘And he doesn’t love you?’

  ‘I love what he’s able to give me.’ Again came the nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s enough. I’m not like you and Papa. I’ve seen you struggle, never having quite enough money. I wanted a life of ease. So, if you want advice on what to do about poor lovesick Miss Mazzini, I’m the wrong person to ask. You’d do better asking Anthony.’

  Rosina dropped the letter to Anthony into the post box. Mario had insisted they write and tell him about Poppy’s disappearance. ‘He is her friend,’ he said. ‘He might guess where she has gone and tell us where to look.’

  Rosina had nodded. She had intended to write and tell Anthony anyway. She needed no second bidding from Mario. But her reasons for writing were different from her husband’s. Mario was concerned for Poppy’s safety, and she was too, of course, but she had plans of her own. Poppy was just the kind of young woman she wanted her son to marry. Warm, loving, beautiful and talented, and she was part Italian. They would be perfect for each other. Not like the cold, hard-hearted Jeanette Bennett with her grandiose ideas. How delighted Rosina had been when she had chosen to marry someone else. Delighted, even though her son had been so devastated.

  ‘Ciao, Antonio,’ she murmured, patting the pillar box as she slipped the letter inside. ‘Scrivi presto!’ He was over Miss Bennett. He was writing his music again. Now he must come home and look for Poppy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Poppy lay on the cold hard bed in the rooming house. She had stumbled out of the railway station and run. Her skirt had flapped round her ankles and she had scrunched it up to her calves to assist her escape. She knew what the policemen had thought of her. They thought she was a street woman. How could they? Surely they could tell? But then, she thought, why would a respectable young woman be wandering the streets of London alone in the middle of the night?

  She shuddered. Suppose they had locked her up? How shameful that would have been. She would never have been able to hold up her head again, and suppose someone had recognized her! Poppy Mazzini, well-known singer, recently returned from a triumphal tour of France, locked up on a charge of immorality! Her head was filled with possible lurid headlines. After Mrs Bennett’s careful protection of her reputation, she had almost ruined it by her stupidity.

  The streets around King’s Cross were unfamiliar to her and it wasn’t long before she had realized that she was quite lost. She had stood for a while in a shop doorway contemplating what to do and where to go next. It was raining quite hard and there was no-one about. The buildings were shrouded in darkness and there were few gas lamps in the vicinity. Her feet ached and she was desperately tired. She walked on a little further and came to a low brick wall with iron railings set into it. In some relief she perched on the edge of it. There was an iron gate in the middle of the wall and half turning she had looked behind her and seen the leaning slabs of gravestones.

  Is this what I’ve come to, she had thought, sharing the night with the dead? And so she had moved off again. Soon it became light, a weak sun filtering through the grey dawn, and she had come to a row of houses, some of which had notices in their windows of rooms to let. All were shabby and rundown but she chose one where a woman was washing her doorstep at that early hour and asked if she had a spare room.

  The woman, who was skinny with a grey complexion, had looked her up and down, then hoisted herself up from her kneeling position and asked bluntly if she was on the game.

  ‘The game?’ Poppy had asked without thinking. ‘Which game do you mean?’
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br />   The woman had laughed and told her to come in. The house smelt of boiled cabbage, old carpets and damp walls, but all Poppy wanted was somewhere to lay down her head and think about what to do. But she didn’t think, not immediately. She was so exhausted by the trauma of the night that she had fallen asleep and slept all through the following day, not waking until seven in the evening. The lodging house keeper had told her there was a pie shop further down the street and she had gone to buy a pie and brought it back to her room in a paper bag. The pastry was dry and the meat tough but she had eaten it because she was hungry. Then she had dozed through the night, her sleep broken by lurid dreams of being chased by men in uniform and trains steaming towards her.

  Now she lay thinking what she should do. If I go back, Dan is sure to say I should start singing again so that I’ll forget Charlie. But I can’t. I can’t! Tears streamed down her cheeks and she searched for a handkerchief to blow her nose. And if I go home, Pa will want to know what has happened, and I don’t want to talk about it. He might even go to see Charlie! And anyway, I can’t face any of them. I feel so foolish. They will all think me so childish and immature. None of them will understand how I feel.

  Someone knocked on the door and Poppy slipped shoeless and stockingless to answer it.

  ‘I just wanted to know ’ow long you’ll be stoppin’,’ the landlady said. ‘This’ll be your second day and you’ve only paid me for one. I want another bob for today. If yer gonna stay fer the rest of the week I’ll knock you a tanner orf on Saturday. If you ain’t stoppin’ then you’ll ’ave to leave now.’

  Poppy’s mouth dropped open. Now? But I haven’t decided, she thought. I still don’t know what to do. ‘I’ll stay today,’ she said impulsively though she thought the rent excessive, and reached for her purse. ‘And I’ll let you know tomorrow if I’m staying any longer.’

  ‘Righty-ho.’ The woman took the shilling that was offered. She gazed at Poppy. ‘Got into trouble, ’ave you?’ she asked. ‘Got in the pudding club?’