The Songbird (30 page)

‘Come on, old boy,' Roger said to Charlie. ‘Drink up. Are you not having oysters?'

‘Don't care for 'em,' he said sullenly, taking a drink from his glass, and Poppy guessed that he hadn't tried them before either. Oysters were not common to the east Yorkshire coast. Mussels and shrimps were in plentiful supply and she had had them often, but she didn't care for the slippery wet texture of the oyster.

The pianist came over to their table and, giving a short bow to the company in general, addressed Poppy. ‘I do beg your pardon, Miss Mazzini. I saw you come in and couldn't resist playing your music.'

‘It isn't my music,' she said quietly. ‘It was composed by Mr Marino.'

‘Ah, yes, I realize that.' He was a young man and wore a rather shabby black suit. ‘He's a very talented musician and I wish I could play half as well, but you've made that song your own. I heard you sing it tonight at Bradshaw's and couldn't believe it when you came in here.'

‘Yes,' Charlie interrupted brusquely. ‘But Miss Mazzini is now with a private party, so we'd be obliged if she wasn't disturbed further.'

Poppy took in a breath as the pianist apologized and backed away, but she gave him a quick smile of regret, then turned to Charlie. ‘He wasn't disturbing us,' she said. ‘He was only—'

‘We haven't got long,' he said sharply. ‘We've to catch the last train back to London.'

‘Oh, we'll stay the night,' Bertie said airily. ‘We'll find an hotel. Perhaps where you're staying?' he asked Ronny and Ena.

‘No.' They and Poppy answered simultaneously. ‘Not allowed, old thing,' Ena said. ‘Our landlady is inflexible on that.' She smiled sweetly at him. ‘We've asked before – when our brother came to visit.' She shook her head. ‘No male visitors.'

‘Mmm!' Roger eyed them thoughtfully. ‘That's a shame.'

‘Yes, isn't it?' Ronny lit a cheroot and drew on it. ‘What can we do about it?'

‘I need to get back to London,' Charlie said, rising from his chair. ‘I've things to do tomorrow. I'll walk you back, Poppy.'

Roger and Bertie objected loudly, though Ronny and Ena said nothing, but Charlie insisted on leaving there and then, so Poppy said good night and was self-conscious, yet gratified, as people at other tables clapped their hands as she passed.

‘Is it far?' he asked as they went outside. ‘To your lodgings? Should we get a cab?'

‘Not far,' she said. ‘But perhaps we should. Then you can go on to the train station.' She wished that he would stay overnight as Roger and Bertie were going to do, so they could have spent Sunday together, but his face was set and she didn't like to ask him.

Charlie put his hand up for a horse cab and when the driver stopped he handed her in. ‘Look,' he said to her. ‘I might as well walk to the station from here. You'll be all right with this fellow, won't you?'

‘Oh,' she said, surprised. ‘Yes – I suppose so.'

‘Fact is, Poppy,' he said, ‘I can't afford to stay the night like the other fellows. They're very well heeled. Money no object.' He sounded testy and irritable. ‘But they're very well connected, which is why I put up with them.' He leaned into the cab and kissed her cheek. ‘If you bump into them tomorrow, be nice to them, won't you?'

‘What do you mean?' Her voice trembled. She was unbearably disappointed with the way the evening had gone.

‘Well, I want them to help finance me in my new venture. You know!' he said sharply. ‘I told you I was setting up on my own. If you see them, reassure them about my ambition, and tell the Terry Sisters too.'

‘Are we going or not?' the cab driver called down. ‘I haven't got all night!'

‘Yes,' Charlie said hastily. ‘Goodbye, Poppy. I'll see you again soon.' He flashed her a smile and mouthed a kiss. ‘I promise.'

She went straight up to bed, refusing supper from Mrs Johnson. ‘I'm really tired,' she said. ‘It's been such a hectic evening.'

‘Saturday night,' Mrs Johnson said knowingly. ‘My stage folk are always
hexhausted
on a Saturday night. I 'eard' – she nodded her head and pursed her mouth – ‘I 'eard from Miss Jenkinson about your reception tonight. She said how good you were and that the haudience didn't want you to leave! My word,' she said. ‘The Terry Sisters won't like that.'

‘They were all right,' Poppy assured her. ‘They didn't say anything.'

‘No. They wouldn't,' she said sagely. ‘Where are they, anyway? They're generally in by this time.'

‘They – they met some friends,' Poppy said. ‘So they'll probably be late. I'm going up now, Mrs Johnson. I'll say good night.'

‘Good night, my dear. You do look a bit tired. Your first week, ain't it? You'll be glad of a day off tomorrow.'

‘Yes,' Poppy said, feeling her chest tighten as she fought back tears. ‘I will. Good night.'

She screwed her eyes up tight and felt her way upstairs. When she entered her room she took off her bolero and gloves and dropped them to the floor before unbuttoning her dress and letting it slide over her feet. She sat on the bed in her petticoat, and, putting her hands over her eyes, she wept and wept. In the course of the evening, she had gone from being exalted on the stage to being downhearted over Charlie's attitude at the supper bar, and then his leaving her to come back to her diggings alone. She was full of pent-up emotion.

She talked to herself between sobs. ‘What did I do? I don't understand. Did I upset him? Was it something I said?' He had seemed in a strange mood right from the beginning: from the time when he demanded, in front of his friends, to know whether she still loved him, to his odd manner in the supper bar when people had clapped and the pianist had come over to speak to her. Was he resentful that others demanded her attention? Did he begrudge her her popularity?

She blew her nose. No, of course he didn't. He wasn't like that. How could she even think it? He has worries, she thought. Perhaps he had wanted to tell her of his plans and there hadn't been an opportunity. She took the rose from her hair and breathed in its perfume. Dear Anthony. If only he had still been here. I could have discussed it with him. He would have understood.

After rinsing her face and cleaning her teeth she climbed into bed. The refrain of ‘Forever True' ran through her head. ‘You said we must say adieu. Sweet memories are all I have left of you.' She gave a heavy sigh. Did Anthony write those words thinking of someone? It was such a poignant song. But no, she thought. He's a songwriter, after all. He writes emotional words and music to touch the heartstrings. But still, she thought, I'll ask him when I next see him. But then she realized that she might not see him for a long time, and her tears flowed again.

The next few weeks passed fairly quickly. She wrote and received letters from her father who told her of the hostility between Lena and Nan, and that he didn't know how to resolve it. Poppy also wrote several times to Charlie, and was disappointed not to receive a reply. But she put on a brave face and followed a regular routine at the theatre. A violinist now accompanied Miss Jenkinson on the piano, and complemented her light and sensitive touch. Poppy dropped ‘Forever True' from her repertoire and included more popular songs; she learned how to appeal to the audience, dwindling though it was, as the last of the holidaymakers left and the London day-trippers no longer came to Brighton as the weather became colder.

Jack Bradshaw went around with a long face, hunched into the fur collar of his heavy overcoat, chewing on a fat cigar and complaining that the takings were down.

‘Don't even think of asking us to take a cut,' Ena warned him one evening when he had been grumbling about the small audience. ‘We shall be off to London if you so much as mention it!'

‘To where?' he scoffed. ‘You'd not get a booking so near to Christmas!'

‘We'd go home to Mater and Pater,' Ronny said, ‘and rest.'

He'd grunted, but said nothing more and left the theatre. Poppy, Ena and Ronny had started walking back to their lodgings together as the winter nights were dark, and Ena suddenly asked Poppy now, ‘So where's your next gaff, Poppy? Has Dan told you yet?'

‘No.' Poppy shook her head. She was getting worried. This was her last week. Today was Wednesday; she was finishing on Saturday night and hadn't yet heard from Dan Damone.

‘Odd that he hasn't been in touch,' Ronny said. ‘Are you sure he's got you a booking?'

‘No,' Poppy said again. ‘I'm not sure about anything any more.'

‘What's up?' Ronny glanced at her. ‘Fallen out with your shoemaker?'

‘I haven't heard from him for us to fall out,' Poppy said miserably. ‘He's not replied to my letters.'

‘He's probably too busy getting his business up and running,' Ena commented. ‘Roger said he was looking for premises.'

‘Roger said?' Poppy turned to Ena. ‘You've heard from Roger?'

‘Mm,' Ena said casually. ‘Had a note a week ago. He and Bertie are coming down next week.'

Poppy fell silent. Ena and Ronny hadn't mentioned the evening when they had all visited the supper bar, but she hadn't heard them come in that night. They hadn't come down for breakfast the next morning either, and Mrs Johnson had been very grouchy, muttering about inconsiderate people.

Poppy wondered if Charlie would come to Brighton with Roger and Bertie. She had written to say she was leaving at the end of November, but that she didn't have a forwarding address as yet.

‘Roger told me that he's backing Charles,' Ena explained. ‘That's how he knows.'

Ronny tucked her arm into Poppy's. ‘Don't break your heart over him, darlin',' she said. ‘Men in business only have time for themselves. And I think your Charles was jealous over your success that evening.' She gave a wry grimace. ‘We all were.' She gave Poppy's arm a squeeze. ‘But not now. You've got talent. It just needs to be nurtured.'

The next day there was a letter from Dan asking her to come to his office on Monday morning as he had something to discuss with her. Where will I stay on Sunday night? she wondered. Dare I just turn up at the Marinos'? They did ask me to. She decided to ask the advice of Ena and Ronny.

‘You've time to write to the Marinos,' Ronny said. ‘If you post a letter today they'll get it before Saturday. And if they can't take you, then you can go to my ma. You'll have to pay her. She won't put you up for nothing, but if you tell her I've sent you, she'll find you a room.'

Poppy spent Saturday morning emptying drawers and cupboards and packing her trunk. There was a matinee in the afternoon and a performance in the evening. Jack Bradshaw had put up a poster outside the theatre announcing her final performances for the season, and although the audience was scanty at both houses, she received a good ovation.

‘I'll say cheerio now,' Ena said, as they reached Mrs Johnson's after the evening show. ‘I shall have a lie-in tomorrow. Thank Gawd it's Sunday.'

Poppy was quite sorry to leave them. They'd been fairly supportive of her as a newcomer; Ronny in particular had offered suggestions and advice, though Ena had held back. ‘I hope I'll meet you both again,' she said.

‘We only part to meet again, as someone once said,' Ronny quoted. ‘We're sure to catch up with you one of these days. But all the best, anyway, gel. Keep on singing!'

The next morning she said goodbye to Miss Jenkinson, who had been so encouraging and helpful. ‘Think seriously about your career, my dear,' the elderly pianist said. ‘You could do better than Bradshaw's – or at least you could do differently.'

‘What exactly?' Poppy asked. ‘I like doing what I do, though I like to sing more than dance.'

‘Then that is what you must think about,' Miss Jenkinson advised. ‘Be a singer, not a dancer.'

She thought about it as the train steamed towards London and considered that if Anthony should, by a stroke of luck, be staying with his parents that weekend, she would ask him. However, he was unlikely to be in London if he was touring the coastal towns. She hired a cab to take her to St Martin's Lane and directed the driver towards the small street off the main thoroughfare where the Marinos' café was situated.

But the blinds were drawn on the window and a notice hanging on the door said they were closed for a week. ‘I know of a bed and board place,' the cabman called to her, but she declined, remembering the last time she was recommended to the rundown and dirty lodging house.

‘Will you take me to Seven Dials, please?' she asked. That was the area in which Ronny's mother lived.

‘Nuffink much there,' he commented. ‘Used to be the rookeries till they pulled the 'ouses down. But if that's what you want!'

She gave him the address and he stopped outside a shabby terrace of two-storey houses. ‘Will you wait, please?' she asked, and hoped that Ronny's mother would be in and able to accommodate her, for she didn't know where else to go. She knocked on the door and waited, then knocked again. ‘All right, I'm comin',' a female voice called. ‘Keep yer 'air on.'

A plump middle-aged woman in a dark red velvet dress with an apron over it opened the door. She was wearing a brown curly wig with a white lace cap, and had a tobacco pipe in her hand. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘What do you want?'

‘Mrs Trenton?' Poppy asked.

The woman's eyes narrowed. ‘Who wants to know?'

Poppy knew it was Ronny's mother for they looked alike; both had narrow faces and bony noses. ‘Ronny said you might be able to let me have a room for the night.'

‘Did she?' The woman looked Poppy up and down. ‘Did she tell you you'd have to pay rent?'

‘She did. Yes, of course. I – I do hope you can,' she said desperately. ‘I don't know where else to go.'