Authors: Val Wood
âHe makes me very nervous,' she confided to Poppy. âMr Harding, I mean. I'm so sorry,' she said. âHave we met?'
âNo,' Poppy said. âI'm Poppy Mazzini. I only arrived last night.'
âAh,' Miss Jenkinson said in a soft vague voice. âI see! Then you won't have met Mr Harding before?' She fussed again with her scarf and then patted her hair which was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. âI'm always pleased when his time is up, but he's had a season at the Alhambra so we've had him for quite a long time this year.'
Mrs Johnson came in with a pot of tea and a plate of thin bread and butter, which she placed in front of Miss Jenkinson. âMiss Jenkinson is a permanent guest,' she explained to Poppy, âso she knows all of my regulars.'
âI'm the pianist, you see.' Miss Jenkinson stirred the pot vigorously and then picked up the strainer and carefully poured the tea into her cup. âAt Bradshaw's. I'm the oldest musician there. I was there even before Mr Bradshaw took over the theatre. So living here suits me very well.' She took a tiny bite of bread, then wiped her mouth with a napkin. âMrs Johnson looks after me admirably.'
Poppy felt her spirits sink. That must mean that Miss Jenkinson would be playing for her next week and she surely was too old to play with any vigour. What about the mazurka? What about the waltz? And most important, would she be able to accompany her singing?
âWill youâ' Poppy cleared her throat. âWill you be playing at Bradshaw's next week?' she asked. âI'm appearing there.'
âAre you, my dear? Yes, I will. Well, how very nice.' Miss Jenkinson gazed at her from bright beady eyes. âWhat will you be doing? You look like a dancer, so slender and light.'
Poppy warmed to her in spite of her misgivings over her talents as a pianist. âYes, I do dance. But I'm a singer.'
âReally!' Miss Jenkinson sat back and surveyed Poppy. âAnd what did you say your name was?'
âPoppy. Poppy Mazzini.' She pronounced it clearly so that there was no mistaking the consonants.
âOh! That means that Mr Bradshaw has made a mistake. He's put Polly on the bill.' The old lady shook her head. âHe's a little deaf, I fear. He gets names wrong so often: either that or he's careless! Poor dear Anthony was always telling him how to spell his name. The artistes don't like it, you know, if their names are wrong.'
âAnthony Marino, do you mean?' Poppy asked. âThe pianist?'
âYou know of him, do you?' Miss Jenkinson again patted the side of her mouth with the napkin. She had now taken two bites from her bread and butter. âOh, yes.' She smiled and nodded. âI've known him since he was a boy. I gave him his very first piano lesson! He was four,' she added. âA wonderful musician. He could go even further than he has if he put his mind to it. I told his parents so, but he is contented with his present life, I think.'
Poppy considered. If Miss Jenkinson taught Anthony Marino, then perhaps she is a good pianist after all. âWill you be playing at the rehearsal today?' she asked. âI have to go to the hall to meet Mr Bradshaw.'
âNo, Monday morning, when the other performers arrive. They all travel on a Sunday, you know, after they have finished their week elsewhere.'
âOf course,' Poppy said, having forgotten that players were often booked weekly.
âBut go to the theatre by all means,' Miss Jenkinson advised. âGet to know the stage. If they've finished it, that is. We had a fire,' she explained, âotherwise I wouldn't be sitting here enjoying myself and eating this enormous breakfast.
âMrsJohnson!' she called, and rang a little brass bell on the table, which Poppy hadn't noticed before. âI can't eat another thing,' she told the landlady. She waved a finger at her. âI've told you before not to give me too much!'
Poppy looked at the unfinished bread and butter and wished she dared ask if she could have it. She was still hungry; the porridge had been thin and the kipper very bony. âIf you will excuse me,' she said, rising from the table, âI think I shall take a walk before going to the theatre.'
âQuite right,' Miss Jenkinson agreed. âYou must keep fit. But wrap up warm, my dear. Keep a scarf round your neck. You mustn't risk getting a sore throat or a chill. Not if you're a singer!'
Poppy smiled and said that she would take her advice. She ran upstairs and put on her coat and did as Miss Jenkinson suggested and wrapped a scarf round her neck. Suddenly she was happy and felt like singing. Miss Jenkinson hadn't questioned her age or her ability, nor had she said that she was one of many, as Mr Harding had implied.
She looked in the spotted mirror over the washstand and smiled at her reflection. âI'm a singer,' she chanted. âI'm a singer!'
âLet's see what you can do, young lady. Just a verse so I can hear your voice, and then a twirl round the stage.' Jack Bradshaw was an overweight brusque man with a shaggy moustache and a nasal twang to his voice that Poppy found hard to understand. She sang a few notes and moved around the stage and he nodded. âRight, that'll do. Damone says you're all right and he's generally got good judgement. You can play next week and if the audience like you we'll talk about a contract for what's left of this season.'
Poppy gathered up her coat and was preparing to leave when he added, âCome in first thing Monday, Miss Massini. The musicians will be here at nine o clock.'
âExcuse me, Mr Bradshaw,' she said timidly. âMy name is Poppy Mazzini, not Polly Massini as you've put on the posters. You must have misheard Mr Damone.'
âWhat?' He stared at her. âHow do you spell that?'
She told him and he grunted that it was too late to change the posters for they were all over the town.
She was too nervous to argue and as she approached the door it swung open and Anthony Marino entered. He touched his wide-brimmed hat, a black felt trilby. âGood morning, Miss Mazzini.' He smiled and held open the door for her, then he pointed a finger towards the poster outside and raised his eyebrows. âYou'll see that I've changed it!'
âThank you,' she murmured. âBut Mr Bradshaw says that the posters are all over town and that it's too late to change them.'
He gazed at her for a moment. âOh!' he said. âThat is unfortunate.' He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his long hair. âLook here, are you in a hurry?' As she shook her head, he said, âWell, if you can hang on until I've had a word with Bradshaw, I have an idea.'
She looked up at him, wondering what he was going to suggest. But she went back inside and waited at the back of the stalls, gazing around the auditorium and scanning the gallery, trying to imagine the empty plush seats filled with people and feeling an apprehensive flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach.
Anthony Marino came back up the aisle towards her. He moved swiftly and lithely and he grinned as he approached. âI've congratulated Bradshaw on getting my name right, and told him that yours is wrong and what we are going to do about it.'
âWhat are we going to do about it?' she asked as he took her arm and ushered her out of the theatre.
âWe shall search out those offending posters and change every one of them!'
âOh!' She was astonished that he should take the trouble. âBut where are they?' She glanced at the one by the door of the theatre and saw that he had indeed changed it with thick black pencil, so that now her name stood out.
âAll over town, as he said. But I have a notion where most of them will be. Bradshaw uses the shops, and gives them a free pass for a Monday afternoon, or he has them put on lamp-posts along the seafront.' He smiled down at her. âCheer up, we'll find them. Or most of them, anyway.'
âYou're really kind, Mr Marino,' she said, swallowing hard. âI'm very grateful. I don't know why it's so important, but it is.'
âIt's very important,' he said gravely. âIt's your name; therefore it has to be right. And speaking of which, could we drop the Mr Marino? It makes me feel old and I'm not! Please call me Anthony. And may I call you Poppy?'
âYes please.' She laughed. âI'd like that. Everybody at home calls me Poppy. I'm not used to being Miss Mazzini.'
âYou'll find that most people will call you Miss Mazzini. That's how you'll be billed, as
Miss Poppy Mazzini
. Unless they get it wrong,' he joked, and added: âTell them if they do. Make sure that they know how to spell it and that you'll be angry if they don't get it right.'
âI don't think I dare,' she said. âEverybody's older than me!'
He took her arm again as a gusty gritty wind propelled them along. âThat is probably true. But I started as a professional pianist when I was twelve, although I'd been playing in concerts when I was even younger than that, and people do indulge you if they think you have talent.'
âSo, if you were playing in concert halls when you were young,' she asked, âhow is it you're playing in a music hall now? I mean, Bradshaw's is all right, but it's not terribly grand, is it? Not even like the Hull Assembly Rooms.'
He hesitated for a moment, and then explained. âI want to write and play my own music,' he said. âPlaying in big concert halls, I'm expected to play Chopin or Beethoven, Mozart and the rest. Don't misunderstand me,' he said emphatically. âThey are the greatest composers of piano music ever, and I could never aspire to their stature, and even in variety halls I do, of course, play other people's music. The audience want popular tunes that they can sing to, but I can also include and try out my own compositions.'
âAh, which is what you did at the Assembly Rooms.' She smiled. âWhen you made me cry!'
âCome on,' he said, changing the subject. âLet's have a cup of coffee and we'll discuss our strategy for finding the Polly posters!' Then he hesitated. âUnless you had other plans?'
âNone,' she said. âI was wondering how to fill the time between now and Monday.'
He steered her into a coffee shop in one of the narrow cobbled lanes, where he was greeted like a lost son by the owner who shook his hand vigorously, but then stepped back in dismay as Anthony playfully grimaced and shook his fingers as if in pain. âAlways, I forget,' the owner said. âI will ruin your playing! Ah, you must have coffee and biscuits to recover!'
Anthony laughed and introduced Poppy to him. âThis is Orlando. He's a friend of my parents.'
âMazzini?' Orlando said. âYou are Italian too, yes? So, we are all Italians together?'
Poppy explained about her father and his forebears and how they came to be in Hull. âWe keep a grocery and coffee shop. But I don't have much Italian blood in me,' she confessed. âWe're Hull people.'
âYou need only a
leetle
drop.' Orlando raised his hands. âIt is enough!'
âMy parents have a restaurant too,' Anthony said. âThey're close to the theatre world, off St Martin's Lane.'
She gazed at him in astonishment. âNot Mario?' she gasped. âAnd Rosina?'
âYes! Have you met them?' he asked incredulously. âHow amazing!'
Poppy explained about Dan Damone and the office being closed and how they had found Mario's by chance after booking in at the lodging house.
âYou weren't alone?' Anthony asked, a frown wrinkling his brow.
âNo,' she said. âA friend who works in London â that is, a friend of my brother's â he came to meet me.' She blushed slightly as she spoke of Charlie. âHe's a shoemaker. He escorted me.' She sipped the coffee that Orlando had brought, to cover her embarrassment. âYour father said I could stay with them the next time I'm in London.'
Anthony grinned. âHe would. There is always an open door at Mario's. I must have just missed you,' he said thoughtfully. âI was there too for a short visit. Dan is my agent as well.'
When they had finished their coffee they left Orlando's and went looking for Bradshaw's posters. Anthony knew the shops where they were often displayed and asked the shopkeepers if he could alter them as there had been a printing error. âThis is Miss Poppy Mazzini,' he said, introducing Poppy. âAnd Brighton has been chosen as the place for her premier professional performance!'
Eyebrows were raised and mouths shaped into round Os as this news was given and several shop pwners said they would come along to see her and bring their friends. âWe know you, of course, Mr Marino,' some of them said. âWe always look forward to hearing you play.'
âSo there we are, Poppy,' Anthony said as they left a confectioner's shop. âWe shall be sure of an audience on Monday at least!'
âLook, there's another.' Poppy pointed to a lamp-post with a poster on it. They dashed across and Anthony carefully altered the name of Polly Massini to Poppy Mazzini.
âWell, at least I shall never forget your name,' he commented. âIt is etched into my mind for ever. Nor will I ever forget how to spell it!'
âI've really enjoyed this morning,' Poppy told him. âI don't know what I would have done with myself if you hadn't been here, not knowing anyone or knowing where to go. I've always had someone with me,' she confessed. âMy father always wanted to know where I was, and my brother Tommy always looked out for me. I've been pampered and spoiled, I suppose, and now I have to manage on my own.'
He nodded and perused her with his dark eyes. âYou seem quite self-assured to me. You're probably feeling a little homesick, are you? After all, you're starting on a brand new career in a strange place far from home.'
At his words, to her horror, she started to cry. âYes,' she snuffled. âI miss my pa, and I miss my ma. I should never have left.'
He patted her shoulder. âYou'll be all right, Poppy. Don't worry. After Monday you'll feel differently. Once you see the audience file into the theatre and hear the music strike up, you'll get that frisson of excitement and everything will be all right.' He handed her a clean white handkerchief. âCome on. Dry your tears. You're a performer and everyone gets down at some time.' He peered at her anxiously. âHow old are you? Sixteen?'