The Songbird

by Val Wood

  Anthony nodded. ‘But some songs are meant to be about enduring love, like yours for your wife,’ he said seriously. ‘And others are about loving for a second time.’

  Dan laughed, though his voice cracked, and he rose to his feet. ‘Then go away and find her, you romantic young swain, and bring her back here! There’s a whole world waiting for her.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Dan had told Anthony that Poppy hadn’t been paid for her time in France, that her fees and expenses were sitting in the bank waiting for her. His parents had told him that she had gone out at night and taken nothing with her as far as they could tell, for they didn’t want to look through her belongings. So, he had deliberated, she might only have her purse with her, and he pushed to the back of his mind how near breaking point she might have been, as he remembered how he had once stood distraught by the river Thames, when Jeanette had coldly told him she was marrying another. And if she hasn’t any money she’ll have to earn some in order to eat and sleep.

  He had already enquired at music halls and theatres, though not giving her name; had pored over programmes and examined posters. He had scoured the obvious places around Leicester Square, Oxford Street, Drury Lane, the Haymarket and Covent Garden, and enquired at music shops, selling his song sheets at a pittance as he asked if anyone had seen or heard of a red-haired singer looking for work.

  Now he was about to try the meaner streets where clubs, hostelries, smoking halls and beer taverns often had singing rooms to entertain their customers. But where to start? London teemed with such places. He opened a map that he’d bought, looked at it, and then folded it and put it back in his pocket, pondering that Poppy, who didn’t know London all that well, might have stayed within a sphere that she was familiar with. She’s somewhere within the theatre area, he thought. I just know that she is. He walked down St Martin’s Lane towards the Strand, and as he stood undecided, a tram trundled towards him. He put out his hand and, grabbing the rail, hopped on.

  ‘Only going as far as Fleet Street,’ the conductor told him. ‘We’re taking the tram out of commission.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Anthony handed him a copper. ‘That’s as far as I want to go.’ Off the main thoroughfare were narrow entries and small squares and here Dr Johnson had made his home in the previous century, dining well at the Cheshire Cheese with his literary fellows. Here, by the Law Courts and Chancery Lane, was the discreet abode of legal London, the Inns of Court, and a warren of courtyards, dark passageways and chambers which housed the frock-coated lawyers and their legal students.

  Anthony jumped off the tram as they reached Fleet Street and headed towards Fetter Lane. Fleet Street was one of the most famous and ancient streets of London, famous for its mighty printing presses, including those which serviced The Times and other newspapers; infamous for the dank and stinking sewer, the Fleet channel, which ran beneath it to Bridewell, once the dreaded place of correction.

  Hidden away off the noisy street which teemed with dashing crowds, rattling trams, and horse-drawn vehicles, and away from the inky fingers of journalists and newspaper men, were coffee houses, inns and taverns, and this is where Anthony’s feet took him. He had been here before when he had called at music shops and costumiers, for these streets also held small theatres, concert halls and singing rooms.

  He stood for a moment, wondering which direction to take. There was a fine drizzle falling and it was very cold; no sign yet of an early spring. He hunched into his coat collar and sighed. Where are you, Poppy? Where are you hiding? He headed towards a music shop which he had visited before. It sold song sheets and second-hand violins, and advertised ‘Tuning of Pianoforte and other Instruments’.

  Anthony pushed open the door and stepped inside, glad to be out of the rain. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said to the old man who was sitting on a wooden chair restringing a violin. ‘I called previously and brought in some song sheets.’

  The old man looked at him over his round wire spectacles. ‘Indeed you did,’ he said, adding, ‘I don’t need any more at the moment.’

  Anthony inclined his head. ‘No? Erm – I was wondering, have they been selling? Is it the right kind of music? It’s not music hall, I realize, but I am interested to know what is popular just now!’

  ‘Well,’ the shopkeeper deliberated. ‘Had you asked a few months ago, I would have told you that my customers only wanted music hall songs. You know, “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter” or “Polly Perkins”, “Burlington Bertie”, that kind of thing, but tastes seem to be changing, thank goodness, and I have sold some of yours. They are yours, presumably?’

  Anthony admitted that they were.

  ‘You’re very good,’ the shopkeeper commented. ‘You are a musician, are you not, as well as a lyricist?’ and when Anthony nodded he said, ‘Yes, I thought so. Well, I can tell you, young man, that you will go far.’

  ‘But I need a singer,’ Anthony butted in. ‘Someone who can interpret my songs.’

  ‘Exactly!’ The old man shook a finger. ‘Just what I was going to say. You need someone to popularize them. Now let me tell you, Mr – Martin, isn’t it?’

  ‘Erm, yes. Tony Martin.’

  ‘I’m led to believe that there’s a young woman round here with a very fine voice. I haven’t heard her as I don’t frequent the type of venue where she performs, but apparently she’s singing your songs and there isn’t a dry eye in the place.’

  ‘Oh!’ Anthony’s spirits shot up. ‘Where?’ he said. ‘Do you know where, sir? Do you know the name of the concert hall?’

  A frown creased the old man’s forehead. ‘Not a concert hall,’ he corrected, ‘otherwise I might have gone along to hear her myself. No, this whereabouts, so I hear, is not for a decent body to visit. There’s drinking and rowdyism and a very rough landlord.’

  ‘So, an inn then, or a tavern?’ Anthony said, muttering more to himself than the shopkeeper. ‘There are so many.’

  ‘Just a moment!’ The old man got up from his chair and with bent spine slowly wended his way to the back of the shop. ‘Mr Fisher,’ he called through a passageway. ‘Can you come here a moment, if you please?’

  A tall, angular young man came through the door into the shop. ‘Yes, Mr Cord?’

  ‘The name of the hostelry where that young woman sings? You’ve frequented the place, I believe? You said that you’d heard her.’

  ‘I have, sir.’ Mr Fisher cast a suspicious eye over Anthony. ‘I, er, I’m sorry I don’t know the name of it, or its vicinity. Some friends took me along. It was dark; I didn’t know where I was.’ He looked down at his feet.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Anthony asked. ‘Was she young? I’m looking for a singer for my songs,’ he added, feeling the man’s antagonism towards him and wondering why.

  ‘Black hair!’ Mr Fisher blurted out. ‘No, not young! Sorry, I can’t help you further. Excuse me, please,’ and he retreated away back into his cubby hole.

  ‘Mm!’ Mr Cord murmured. ‘How very odd! I could have sworn he’d been more than once. He came back very agitated after the first time.’ He ran his fingers over his grey beard. ‘I was sure he’d been again. Quite het up, he was.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, sir,’ Anthony said. ‘I’ll ask about and try to find her.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Mr Cord warned. ‘Young women who work in such low places are not of the best kind. Not the kind you would take home to Mother.’ Again he looked at Anthony over his spectacles. Then he sighed. ‘Of course, I’m very old-fashioned. It’s not all that long ago that ladies wouldn’t have been seen in theatres, but our dear queen has changed all that. I understand that she is very fond of Gilbert and Sullivan.’ He shook his head sagely. ‘But I’m quite sure she wouldn’t approve of young women singing in taverns.’

  Anthony walked on. He was sure that Mr Fisher knew where the tavern was, but for some reason didn’t want to tell him. Now why? He stopped outside a costumier’s. The light was fading fast and the woman inside was lighting a lam
p. She looked up and smiled at him through the window. He went in and she greeted him by name.

  ‘Mr Martin!’ she said. ‘Your songs are going very well. There’s a new singer come to work round here and she’s bought quite a few.’

  ‘Where is she singing?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard good reports of her already. I’d like to hear her.’

  ‘She’s at the Pit Stop,’ she said. ‘It’s not far from here, but difficult to find, it’s so tucked away.’ She looked at him, her head on one side. ‘It’s not a very salubrious area,’ she advised. ‘But the landlord doesn’t stand any trouble.’

  Two points of view, he thought. Mr Cord said it was rowdy, but then he hasn’t been.

  ‘Have you heard her?’ he asked. ‘Is she any good?’

  ‘I’ve not heard her sing, but she’s been in a few times to buy song sheets.’

  ‘What does she look like?’ he asked. ‘Fair, dark, young . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, very young, and pretty,’ she said. ‘And dark.’ She frowned a little. ‘I think she’s dark, but I can’t be sure – she’s like someone else who came . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve got people coming and going all the time.’

  She gave him directions for the Pit Stop, but in just a few minutes he had lost his way. The area was full of passageways, courts and dead ends; not all were lit and it was now quite dark. He thought that he would be better going back to the costumier’s to start again, and stood for a moment to reassess his bearings. Had there been anyone about, he would have asked directions, but there was a lull in the passage of people. Either they were safely in their houses or they had not yet left their offices.

  As he was about to turn back, a man came out of the darkness towards him. I’ll ask, he decided, but realizing there was something familiar about the tall thin figure he melted back against the wall instead. Mr Fisher! He watched as the man took a right turn out of the street into a narrower lane. He followed him and considered that at the sure pace he was walking, Mr Fisher certainly knew where he was going. There were some gas lamps lit along here so he was able to keep him in view without getting too close, but suddenly he disappeared.

  Anthony would have walked past the entrance to the courtyard if he hadn’t been looking carefully to see where Mr Fisher had gone, and if he hadn’t also seen other people coming towards him and slipping down the same opening. He stopped and looked down it and saw the hostelry with its lighted lamp outside the door and another in the window. He stepped back as other people, men and women, came past him, hurrying as if they had an urgent appointment or a train to catch.

  ‘Come on, Jim,’ he heard one woman say to her lagging husband. ‘Don’t dawdle. I want to sit near to pianner, then I can hear ’er.’

  This is the place, he thought with mounting excitement, though he couldn’t see a name above the inn door. This must be it! He waited a while longer as more and more people streamed in. He didn’t want to look conspicuous, and he guessed that the sale of ale or gin would be the first priority for the innkeeper, before the entertainment began. He heard the sound of laughter and loud voices and went to the window to peer in. The glass was steamed up inside, but he could see the flicker of firelight and customers, mainly women, sitting at long tables, whilst men stood at the bar counter at the far end of the room. The landlord, a big man, was standing behind it, a woman was helping him, and a girl carrying a jug was serving at the tables.

  I hope this is it. His confidence was diminishing. I’d better go in and take a look.

  Inside the hostelry were far more people than had passed him so he guessed that this was a very popular drinking venue. They stood against the walls and fireplace and round the piano, which was on the opposite wall, to the left as he had come in. The tables were full and the area at the counter was packed with customers. The landlord was drawing ale from a pump into jugs and tankards and pouring gin into glasses.

  I’ll wait awhile, Anthony thought and stood back in the crowd nearest the door. He looked round for Mr Fisher and saw him across the room in a corner where he would have a full view of the piano. I wonder why he didn’t want to tell me, he thought. Why did he want to keep Poppy, if it is she, secret?

  He would have bought a glass of ale, for the room was hot, but the serving maid had gone and the landlord and the woman with him were busy. The people at the tables had full glasses and several jugs of ale in front of them. If I go to the counter, he mused, I risk drawing attention to myself, for even in my everyday coat I’m better dressed than this down-at-heel crowd.

  The landlord banged on the counter with a gavel and raised his voice to a bellow. ‘Has everybody got their ale? Get it now if you want a fill-up, for there’ll be no ale served during the entertainment.’

  How very odd, Anthony thought. Why is that, I wonder? Does he sell more after the entertainment? But then he saw the rush towards the counter and how the jugs of ale on the tables were poured into extra glasses and handed back empty over the tops of heads to be refilled.

  After about ten minutes, the landlord wiped his hands on a towel and bellowed again. ‘Quiet please! A round of applause for Miss Paula Mason!’

  It was almost a command, but everyone enthusiastically cheered and clapped and Anthony cast his eyes round the room for the entertainer. Paula Mason? The same initials. Poppy was upset when Bradshaw had spelt her name wrong in Brighton. But she wouldn’t want to use her own name here. Is it her or not? He saw that Mr Fisher had his eyes glued to the door nearest the piano.

  The door opened and another cheer went up as a young woman came through. Poppy? Was it her? She was dark-haired with a pale face and none of the exuberance which always lit up Poppy’s expression when she was about to perform. But she gave a smile and an acknowledgement as she sat down at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys. She’s not a pianist, that much is certain, Anthony mused and wished that he had placed himself nearer, for he could now only see the back of her head, unlike Mr Fisher who was gazing adoringly at her face.

  ‘Welcome to my world of song,’ she announced, and when she began to sing, in a soft, husky and wistful tone, Anthony knew for certain it was Poppy. Her voice was expressive and emotional, yet the singer was keeping it strictly under control, saving it perhaps for something more.

  She began with ‘Greensleeves’, which appeared to be popular with both men and women for he could see heads swinging gently from side to side and lips moving as if their owners were singing, and then she began the song he had written for her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Poppy had felt all eyes on her as she sat down at the piano. She wasn’t self-conscious as a rule, but the last few nights she had been uneasy. She was sure there was a shadowy figure watching her. She had felt a presence looking only at her, whereas usually the crowd who had come to hear her sing would take their eyes away to glance at or whisper to their companions, or take a drink. These watching eyes upon her were for her alone and they made her uncomfortable, yet when she glanced up at the end of her performance she only saw the smiling, clapping crowd, some of whom were recognizable to her now as regulars at the Pit Stop.

  I’m imagining it, she told herself the following day as she went about her business of cleaning the tables, sweeping and washing the floor, and throwing out tobacco ash, and yet a prickle ran down the back of her neck. There had been someone. She paused with the broom in her hand and concentrated. There was a man, tall and thin, who always stood in the same place across from her, yet when she had finished singing he had gone. A memory eluded her. Who did he remind her of? Someone!

  She continued with her tasks, humming a little. Last evening’s audience had been very appreciative; they were a lively crowd, not afraid to show that they had enjoyed her performance. They were not polite in their applause, but robust and enthusiastic. I enjoy singing for them, she mused, wielding the broom, and— She stopped as she remembered who the man in the shadows was. He threw the rose at the Savoy, she recalled. He waited for me to come out of the theatre, and�
�� She caught her breath; it was the night Charlie told me he had become engaged to Miss Burchfield. He asked if I was unwell, and I had the rose in my hair.

  He knows who I am! Her eyes grew wide at the discovery. She leaned against the piano as she absorbed the implications. Will he betray me? Will he announce to the audience who I am? Am I ready to be revealed? She was unnerved and distressed.

  I’ll have to leave, she decided. I’ll move on. But where to? Am I ready to go back? I don’t hurt as much as I did when I think of Charlie. It’s more that I feel empty and humiliated and wonder if I was just a foolish child with an infatuation. Yet he seemed to be fond of me, she thought wistfully. He shouldn’t have encouraged me if he really didn’t care. I wanted him to love me, but I also wanted to sing and it seemed that with Charlie I couldn’t have both. He wanted me to love him and pander to his desires. To look after his needs, his wants and comforts. I would be expected to be happy just because he was pleased with me. He didn’t want a wife who had dreams of her own.

  I’m missing my pa, she reflected. His love has no conditions. And I’m missing Nan too; she would give me a hug like my mother used to do if ever I felt sad, and that’s what I want, someone to hold me close and say that everything will be all right. And yet . . . She took a deep, sighing breath. I can’t seem to find the courage to go back. I’ve let so many people down: Mrs Bennett, Dan . . . and whatever will Anthony think of me, sending out that hasty, impulsive, imprudent letter, telling him of my heartbreak? Will he have really understood?

  ‘Come on, gel.’ Henry Black’s strident voice broke into her brooding. ‘I don’t pay you to hang about daydreaming. There’s jobs to be done before folks start coming in.’ He peered at her. ‘Dreaming of fame and fortune, ain’t yer? Well, I’ll tell yer, gel, them things only comes to a few, and not to folks like us, though I’ll admit you’ve got a good warble; but it ain’t going to fetch you riches. Only hard work can do that.’