Read The Songbird Online

Authors: Val Wood

The Songbird (57 page)

‘Ah!' He shrugged and tore off a ticket and counted out the money she held in her hand. ‘
La platea!
' He pointed to a door leading into the hall and put his finger to his lips.

‘
Grazie. Grazie!
' she said gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.'

He nodded and smiled. ‘
Prego!
'

The concert hadn't started as he had said; the lights were still on, but the orchestra was tuning up and Poppy was shown to a seat on the back row. She put her parasol on the floor, removed her gloves and sat back in the chair. The hall was full; the audience was well dressed and there was a ripple of muted conversation. Then the lights were dimmed and the orchestra struck up with a medley of music from various operas. Verdi's stirring
Nabucco
, dramatic
Rigoletto
and ‘Musetta's Waltz' from Puccini's
La Bohème
.

Poppy sat entranced and listened next to an elderly baritone who gave a rendition from
The Magic Flute
and
The Marriage of Figaro
. Following him, as the curtains closed, a frock-coated compère came to the front of the stage, gave a voluble speech, none of which Poppy understood, then, standing back as the curtain rose, announced, ‘Signor
Antonio Marino
!'

A grand piano stood centre stage, and as the audience applauded Anthony strode on. He wore a black frock coat, narrow black trousers and a white high-collared shirt with a white tie. His side-burns were long and his hair, Poppy noticed fondly and with a skip of a heartbeat, still flopped over his forehead. He gave a bow, centre, left, then right, lifted his coat-tails and sat down at the piano.

He had a vast repertoire. Poppy glanced at the programme she had bought, as Anthony played Bellini and Beethoven, and then moved into Rossini's melodic
Barber of Seville
, followed by Gounod's love-music from
Romeo et Juliette
.

She felt a tear trickle from her eyes. How was it that Anthony's playing always had the ability to make her cry? There was rousing applause after each piece and she marvelled at the Italian audience's enthusiasm. Anthony stood up finally to take a bow, and then announced something in Italian and everyone clapped and cheered.

‘For the benefit of those who do not speak our beautiful Italian language,' he announced in English, ‘I wish to explain that I would now like to play for you some of my own work. It is dedicated to, and was written for, a particular person. Tonight it will be played as music without words, but the words, which are love songs, are already written.'

Poppy put her hand to her cheek. Was he speaking to her? But he doesn't know I am here! Dan! Has he told him? Or is he . . . he can't be speaking of someone else? Not Jeanette? Surely not! He said he was over his love for her. She listened as with the orchestra Anthony began to play the melody from ‘In the Town Where I Was Born,' which she knew he had written for her, and then he began the music from the song sheet she had bought from the costumier in London.

Sweet eyes that smiled but not for me

They smiled for him who was untrue . . .

and with a slight shift of improvisation he worked in the harmony of,

If I could only love again I'd choose to love just you

Listen and hear my silent voice, my words a muted tune

Of some romantic melody

Question not the but or why

I love you now and for evermore until the day I die.

Anthony, she breathed. Why wasn't I listening?

He slipped easily and elegantly into the music he had written on the scrap of paper that had been wrapped round the rose he had placed on the piano at the Pit Stop. It was a gentle, nostalgic, evocative piece of music, new to her at the time, and which she had kept and puzzled over.

She opened up her velvet bag. Inside was the paper with the words written on it. She began to hum the refrain.

Think no more of the lonely tears

Mourn no more the wasted years

Dear heart forget him, let his memory dim

And come to me

For forever faithful I will be.

Also inside the bag was the red rose, faded, yet still with its faint sweet perfume. She took it out and, rising from her seat, her green gown rustling as she moved, slowly walked towards the stage. He came to the end of the music, and lifting his head said softly, yet clearly, ‘And to close the performance I would like to play the English “Greensleeves”, written, it is believed, by Henry the Eighth, and introduce to you – la bella
Signorina Mazzini
.'

Poppy felt a glow of happiness spreading through her, lifting her heart and spirits. She turned to the audience and bowed, then, turning again as the audience broke into spontaneous applause at this unexpected development, she lifted the hem of her skirt and walked up the steps to the stage.

Anthony rose from the piano and went towards her, taking both of her hands in his. He kissed her on both cheeks and then tenderly on her lips, and the audience gasped and then cheered. ‘I love you, is what I said, when you didn't hear,' he whispered.

She stood back, her arms outstretched, still holding his hands and gazing at him. ‘And I love you,' she answered on a gentle breath. ‘So very much.'

He led her towards the piano. He touched his fingers to his lips and blew her a kiss and began to play, and she, with another bow to the audience, began to sing.

‘Alas my love you do me wrong

To cast me off discourtesly

For I have loved you oh so long

Delighting in your company

Greensleeves was all my joy

Greensleeves was my delight.

Greensleeves was my heart of gold

And who but my lady Greensleeves.'

Poppy gave a deep curtsy to take the enthusiastic applause, but Anthony wasn't quite finished. As she raised her head, he effortlessly and gently moved into the introduction of the final lyrical piece of music, and if she needed further proof of his lasting love, here it was, for this was the music he had sent to her whilst she was singing in France, which she hadn't recognized as a love poem written for her.

The musicians, all but the violinist, laid down their instruments. The conductor raised his baton, gave a slight raise of his eyebrows to the violinist, and Poppy, glancing towards Anthony, caught his eyes and smile, and began to sing.

‘My love she sits a-weeping beneath the greenwood tree

My love she sits a-weeping – but not for me.

Her tears flow for another, to me she was not true

For though I love those pale pink cheeks and starry eyes so blue

The tender lips I fain would kiss their nectar sweet to claim

Love only him who cares not and whisper on his name.

My love she sits a-weeping beneath the greenwood tree

My love she sits a-weeping – but not for me.

I wait for her as the year doth pass when winter turns to spring

When fresh green grows on the greenwood tree, my dearest love will turn to me, to bring her comfort still.

And when I look upon her face the light of love to see

And with my arms I do embrace her wounded gentle heart

I'll claim it for my very own and tell her soft, my dearest one,

I'll never part from thee.

My love she sits a-smiling beneath the greenwood tree

My love she sits a-smiling – she smiles for me.'

 

THE END

About the Author

Valerie Wood was born in Yorkshire and now lives in a village near the east coast. She is the author of ten novels, including
The Hungry Tide
, winner of the Catherine Cookson Prize for Fiction.

Find out more about Valerie Wood's novels by visiting her website on
www.valeriewood.co.uk

Also by Val Wood

 

THE HUNGRY TIDE
ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL
EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA'S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY'S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
THE LONG WALK HOME
RICH GIRL, POOR GIRL
HOMECOMING GIRLS

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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at
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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Valerie Wood 2005

Valerie Wood has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446436356
ISBN 9780552152204

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