The Songbird (19 page)

She waited for about half an hour and cast her gaze round the office. There were posters on the wall and pictures of music hall artistes who had appeared at various venues across the country. She stifled a yawn and looked at the woman at the desk. She was busy writing in a ledger, though she glanced up at Poppy from time to time.

Presently the inner door opened and Dan Damone put his head out. ‘Is there any coffee, Dora? I'm parched.'

Poppy stood up and greeted him. ‘Hello, Mr Damone.'

‘Poppy!' He came towards her and shook her hand. ‘How are you? When did you arrive?' He looked towards the woman at the desk. ‘Better make that two coffees please, Dora. Come along in, Poppy.' He led the way into his inner office, which was furnished with a large wooden desk, which was covered with papers, two comfortable chairs, and a fire burning in the grate.

‘I didn't realize you were here. Have you been waiting long?' he asked anxiously, dropping his voice. ‘Dora doesn't always tell me.'

‘Half an hour,' she said. ‘She told me that you wouldn't see me without an appointment, even though I told her you were expecting me.'

‘I'm sorry,' he apologized. ‘She's not very good with people, especially stage people; she thinks they're all ne'er-do-wells, but she's wonderful with figures and my diary, remembering who's been paid and who hasn't, which is why I keep her.

‘Now,' he said. ‘Are you ready for your stage career? You've got your act worked out? Brighton will be quite different from your home town. The audience want to be entertained. They like to feel happy, so do your polka dance and a few jolly ditties. There are still some holidaymakers there, so you'll need to put on a good show that they'll remember, and tell others about when they get home. It's all word of mouth. Quite a few Londoners go to Brighton; it's a good run on the train. They walk by the sea, take a look at the pier – which still isn't finished – have an ice cream sundae, see a show and then come home.'

Poppy licked her lips. Was she ready? She wasn't sure. ‘I'll do my best, Mr Damone,' she said. ‘But I'm very nervous.'

‘Sure to be nervous, but that's a good sign, and call me Dan, everyone does. Don't they, Dora?' he asked as the dour-looking woman came in with coffee cups on a tray.

‘Yes, Mr Damone,' she replied crisply. ‘They do.'

He gave a wry grin. ‘Any biscuits?'

She sighed and returned a moment later with a plate of biscuits.

‘Everybody but Dora,' he said, when she had left and closed the door behind her. ‘And she would rather I called her Miss Battle, but I don't!'

She's well named, Poppy thought as she sipped her coffee. It was black and bitter and not as nice as the coffee she had had for breakfast with Mario and Rosina. ‘So shall I go to Brighton today?' she asked. ‘I've left my trunk at the Trattoria Mario.'

‘Ah!' he said. ‘The best Italian food in town. Did you stay there?'

‘No.' She told him where she had stayed. ‘But I'll stay with them if I should come back to London.' She suddenly felt grown up, making decisions of her own. ‘So, do I go to Brighton today?' she repeated.

He nodded, fished in a drawer for writing paper and proceeded to write down a name and address. ‘Yes. You'll need to find diggings and settle in before Monday. This is who you should ask for. Bradshaw's is only a small hall, not far from the pier, seats about five hundred,' he said, his dark head bent over the paper. ‘It's round the back of the Alhambra. Very popular and gets some good artists. There you are.' He handed her the address, then wrote again on another piece of paper and passed it to her. ‘Try these diggings – they take theatricals. I don't know the train times but they're fairly regular.'

He got up from his chair and went to the door. ‘Dora! Do you have the train timetable for Brighton?' He nodded and came back into the room. ‘She'll give the train times to you on the way out. Well, good luck.' He held out his hand, her interview over.

‘Thank you.' She stood up and took a breath and looked down at the papers in her hand. There were so many things she had wanted to ask him, but she couldn't now think of a single one.

‘Will you be all right?' It was as if he was just remembering that this was her first venture into the theatre world. ‘Drop me a line if you're worried about anything, and I'll try to come down and see you at the end of the week. If they like you, they'll offer you a contract and I'll negotiate that. All right?'

She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘Yes. Thank you very much.' She walked to the door. So this was it. Anything she did now, she did alone. No Pa to advise her or hold her hand, no brother to ask for an opinion. She was alone in a strange city, and a new world was approaching. She took a deep breath, then put up her chin. She smiled a brave smile and saw him watching her with a small frown wrinkling his eyebrows. ‘Goodbye!'

Mario had sent a young boy to find a hansom cab to take her to the station. She had had to wait only fifteen minutes for a train, the journey was fast and she was now in another hansom, bowling along the streets of Brighton, on her way to one of the lodging houses Dan had told her of. ‘Will you wait a moment, please?' she asked the driver as he pulled up outside a row of terraced houses alongside a narrow court. ‘I have to ask if they have any rooms.'

He nodded and took a pipe out of his pocket whilst she hurried along to find the right address. They were full, the landlady told her. She'd just let the last room. ‘Try Mrs Johnson,' she said, and Poppy looked at her list and saw that was one of the names Dan had given her.

‘I know it,' the driver said, when she went back. ‘She keeps a clean house though she's a bit stingy with food.' He tamped out his pipe and put it in his pocket and Poppy noticed that there were brown burn marks on the cloth. ‘That's what I've been told, at any rate.'

Poppy shivered. It was a cold blustery day and a sharp wind was blowing off the sea. They passed the Alhambra and she took note of where it was, as Dan had said the hall she was playing in was at the back of it. The driver drew up again outside a neat house with a clean front step, a red door, lace curtains at the window and a sign which said
Vacancies
.

She stepped down and said, ‘I won't be long,' and worried about how much the driver was going to charge her for waiting.

Mrs Johnson said she had a room free and asked who had recommended her. When Poppy said Dan Damone, she opened the door and asked her in. ‘My trunk's in the cab,' Poppy said. ‘I'll get the driver to bring it in.'

‘You're new to this life, hain't you?' the landlady said. ‘Don't you want to see the room first?'

‘I'm sure it will be all right,' Poppy answered. ‘If Mr Damone says so.' She gave the landlady a smile. And if it isn't, she thought, then I'll move.

‘How long for?' Mrs Johnson asked. ‘Cos I 'ave my regulars.'

‘The rest of this week and next,' Poppy said, anxious now that Mrs Johnson might change her mind. But she didn't and the driver brought in the trunk and once again she gave a tip on top of the amount she was charged. He touched his hat. ‘Thank you, miss. Where're you appearing?'

When she told him, he nodded. ‘We go there regular, my missus and me. We'll watch out for you. Singer are you? Or dancer?'

‘Both,' she said. ‘But mainly singing.'

‘Sing some of Marie's songs,' he advised. ‘Everybody likes them.'

She nodded. I don't think so, she thought. I couldn't compete with Marie Lloyd, and besides that's not my style. I'm a romantic singer. I like to sing of love. I can feel it in my heart.

‘Fancy a cuppa tea, dearie?' Mrs Johnson called up to her as she started to unpack her trunk. ‘I've just made a pot.'

Poppy ran downstairs to the parlour. Her bedroom was small, with a narrow bed and a washstand with a jug and bowl, a long cupboard for hanging clothes and a single chair. But it's adequate, she decided.

‘There's no 'ot water hupstairs, you realize,' Mrs Johnson said as she poured the tea. ‘But I'll fill your jug with 'ot every morning. If you want more you'll have to come down and get it yourself from the kitchen. There's a proper flush lavatory out the back, though.' She handed Poppy a cup of very weak tea. ‘You're very young.' It sounded like an accusation. ‘'Ave you been on the boards before?'

On the boards, Poppy wondered? ‘On the stage? Yes,' she said. ‘But only at home, in Hull. This is my first professional work.'

‘Mm.' Mrs Johnson settled back in her chair. ‘Right then. Let me tell you the rules of the 'ouse. I'll let you have a key to the door, as you'll be late back from the the-ayter. No young men to visit. Other visitors such as relations by prior harrangement. Breakfast to be finished by 'alf past eight. No dinner, I don't cook dinner, and supper if you want it will be hextra. You can bring your own tea and coffee if you like,' she added, ‘and 'ave use of the kettle at no hextra charge.' She nodded benignly. ‘I like my guests to feel at 'ome.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Johnson.' Poppy felt a giggle running round her chest. ‘I'm sure I'll be very comfortable.'

After she had hung up her clothes and shaken the creases out of her skirts, she took out her red shoes and stuffed them with brown paper to keep them in shape. She put them lovingly against her cheek and thought of Charlie. How debonair he had seemed as he had pointed out the landmarks of London, though he wasn't so confident when he was dining with her at Mario's. I'll write to him, she thought, before putting on her coat to go outside, and tell him not to call here, or if he does, to tell Mrs Johnson he's my cousin!

The sea air was very fresh and the breeze blew her hair round her face. As Dan Damone had said, there were still holidaymakers in Brighton, although the season was drawing to a close. She could tell the visitors from the locals by their free and easy manner. The children were dressed in their best: sailor suits for the boys and pretty pastels and bonnets for the girls. Many of the women wore large hats with feathers, which blew dementedly in the wind, whilst the men strolled nonchalantly in striped trousers, waistcoats and straw boaters, scarves slung around their necks.

As Dan had said, Brighton Palace Pier, which was replacing the old Chain Pier, was not even half finished, but there was a flapping poster which proclaimed that eventually it would contain a music hall and entertainment venues. Poppy wandered down the seafront, admired the four-storey houses in the Royal Crescent, and the old balconied terraced houses, and then went in search of Bradshaw's.

She found the hall, as Dan had said, tucked away in a side street, behind the Alhambra. Her first impression was that it was shabby and needed a lick of paint. Inside it was dim, for there were no lamps lit, but as she entered the auditorium she saw a wide stage, gilt ornamentation and plush red seats to seat at least five hundred, and smelt the reek of smoke and ale.

‘Is anyone there?' she called. ‘Hello!'

‘Hello!' A man's voice answered back. ‘Who is it?'

‘Poppy Mazzini. I've come to see Mr Bradshaw.'

A man carrying a saw appeared at the back of the stage. He wiped his arm across his forehead. ‘He's not here. I'm only the carpenter.' Someone started banging behind him. ‘Can you shut it for a minute, Fred?' The noise stopped and he walked to the front of the stage, which, as Poppy saw when she came closer, was littered with pieces of wood, hammers and a saw bench. ‘He'll be back later this afternoon.'

But it's late afternoon now, Poppy thought, sighing. And I'm hungry. She realized that she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast with Mario and Rosina. ‘I'll come back,' she said. ‘What time do you think?'

The man shrugged. ‘Six? Maybe seven. Don't know. He's doing a band call in the morning if you want to come back then. I'll tell him you've been if you like. Polly did you say?'

‘Poppy,' she called back. ‘Poppy Mazzini. Mr Damone arranged for me to come.'

The man shrugged again. ‘I'm just the carpenter,' he repeated. ‘We've to be finished by Monday,' and he turned back to whatever he had been doing.

She remembered then that Dan had told her there had been a fire in the hall, hence the workmen and the smell of smoke. So now what do I do until tomorrow morning?

The first thing, she decided as she stood outside the hall, was to eat. I'm so hungry! She had a good appetite and no matter what she ate she stayed slender, which, although unfashionable, meant that she could dance without any effort at all, and sing at the same time. Ever since the Terry Sisters had told her she must do both and still breathe, she had practised breathing exercises according to Miss Eloise's instructions.

She glanced back at the door and saw a poster regretting the closure of the theatre due to fire, and announcing that the date of opening was to be Monday. Top of the bill was a comic, Bill Baloney, which she thought was a very silly name, and underneath, returning by popular request of Brighton audiences, were the Terry Sisters.

Oh, how wonderful! She hugged herself with glee. Someone I know! Or at least have met. She ran her finger quickly down the list of performers looking for her name, and saw right at the bottom:
Ballad and descriptive vocalist. Miss Polly Massini
. ‘Oh, no,' she cried out loud in frustration, her joy at having her name on a programme vanishing. ‘They've got my name wrong!'

‘That's not unusual,' a man's voice behind her said. ‘Everybody gets mine wrong!'

Poppy turned round, tears welling in her eyes. She looked into brown eyes fringed with the darkest, longest lashes she had ever seen on a man. She blinked and put her fingers into her pocket for a handkerchief. I know him! How do I know him?