Poppy (15 page)

His accent was charming. At first she thought it was vaguely cockney, until Mr. Lewis laughingly told her that all Australians talked that way.

But most charming of all to Poppy, after her humiliations at the hands of the Plummett family, was that the gathering was peculiarly classless. The men were lounging in garden chairs, drinking beer, and there was an easy air of camaraderie about the party.

Somewhere she still had a nagging guilt that she was behaving unfairly to the Plummett family. They had not needed to do anything so splendid as to buy her a house and furnish her with an allowance, although in her heart of hearts she knew it was not really kindness but simply because she now carried the name of Plummett.

When the preliminary conversations were over, Mr. Lewis suggested they retire to the music room and get down to business. Poppy was so enchanted with Cyril Mundy’s company that she wondered if she could summon up the necessary pathos to do justice to the song she had sung at the theater. But no sooner had she taken out that mental picture of the duke and Freda walking in the sunlight, when all her former sadness and bitterness came flooding back, and there was a stunned silence for several moments after she had finished singing.

“I shall be upstaged,” said Gerald Devere gloomily. “I’d rather have Elaine Pym any day.”

“You’re an angel,” breathed Cyril Mundy, reverently taking her hand.

“You’ll do,” said Mr. Lewis.

Poppy smiled and blushed under Cyril’s admiring stare, and the picture of the duke and Freda faded from her mind.

“Well,” said Mr. Lewis, sighing, “we’ve a lot of work ahead of us. This is something new for me. It’s more like an operetta than a musical comedy, if you take my meaning. But I really think it will ‘take.’ But it’s going to be a long, hard summer for all of us. Rehearsals, rehearsals, and more rehearsals. I wanted you to hear her, Cyril, and I’m sure you’ll agree, we couldn’t do better. Right! I thought so. Now, Gerald, it’s your turn.”

Gerald walked pompously up and down the room, hawking and clearing his throat.
What an idiot to have to pretend to be in love with
, thought Poppy.
I wish my leading man was Cyril
.

But once Gerald began to sing she forgot about everything else.

He had a light, effortless tenor voice, as golden as the afternoon, and he seemed to grow younger and more relaxed with every line of the song.

Everyone applauded him heartily when he had finished, which he accepted as very much his due.

Cyril professed himself delighted with both leading performers, and retired to a corner of the room with Mr. Pettifor and Mr. Lewis to discuss money for the show and where to find it.

Gerald began to make conversation with Poppy, although it was quite plain he would rather have remained silent. “I don’t know what Miss Pym is going to say,” he said.

“Will she be very angry?” asked Poppy curiously. She remembered Miss Pym as a rather heavy brunette with a gushing manner.

“Mad as things,” said Gerald gloomily. “And mark my words, she’ll blame me.”

“But you had nothing to do with it!”

“I should have protested,” said Gerald.

“Why?” demanded Poppy, growing slightly heated. “Don’t you think I’m good enough?”

“It’s not that, Mrs. Plummett. Elaine and I have worked together for years—”

“You weren’t in the show I was in!”

“No, I was taking a brief vacation. But Elaine and I work very well together, and we are of the same age.”

“And you’re frightened I’ll make you look older?”

“Not at all,” he blustered. “I am not much older than you.”

He was old enough to be Poppy’s father, but Poppy tactfully did not point out this unpalatable truth.

The murmur of voices rose and fell from the other end of the room, where the prices of costumes, scenery, and production in general were being turned over and over.

Poppy tried to forget about Gerald, and looked around the room. Apart from the piano and a few easy chairs, there was little other furniture. Varnished playbills ornamented the walls, and a handsome lacquered screen stood in one corner. A large sycamore grew outside the French windows, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, sending green-and-gold patterns moving across the room.

Green and gold. The car… Freddie at the wheel… flashing through the country lanes… when everything looked as if it might be all right.

She felt a lump rising in her throat, and her eyes felt hot and dry.

All at once the meeting in the corner broke up, and at the same time Poppy decided to go to Cutler’s Fields before going home to St. John’s Wood. She never could quite dismiss a nagging worry about her father from her mind.

Cyril approached her, smiling. “It’s a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Plummett. May I escort you home?”

“I’m not going home,” said Poppy, too startled to tell anything other than the truth. “I’m going down Bermondsey to see my dad.”

“I’ll come with you if you like,” he said. “I’m new to London. Bermondsey’s the East End, isn’t it?”

“You won’t like it,” said Poppy cautiously. “It’s very rough.”

“Australians aren’t snobs, you know,” he said gently. “I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’d like your company.”

Again that handsome face of his seemed to ease some of the pain in Poppy’s heart.

“Very well,” she said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

But as the cab bore them closer and closer to the familiar surroundings of Cutler’s Fields, Poppy felt she had made a mistake. He looked so handsome, so carefree, so elegant, so
clean
, lounging easily in the corner of the carriage, chatting on about his hopes for the show.

“This is it,” said Poppy in a gloomy little voice as the cab clip-clopped around the corner and into Cutler’s Fields.

“Wotcher, Poppy,” growled Ma Barker, clay pipe, as ever, between her teeth as Poppy was helped down from the carriage.

Poppy effected the introductions. “Where’s Pa?”

“Inside. Sleepin’ it orf,” said Ma with a jerk of her head. “I wouldn’t take your fellah in there.”

Poppy turned to Gerald. “Do you want to wait here with Ma?” she asked. “Pa can be nasty.”

“Then I’d better come with you,” he replied with unimpaired cheerfulness.

Poppy shrugged and walked up to the front door, searching in her reticule for the key. How Cutler’s Fields stank in the heat! That unmistakable stench of poverty; that smell compounded of cabbage water, bad drains, damp baby, vomiting baby, strong tea, welks, and dry rot.

“Pa!” called Poppy, pushing open the door and wrinkling her nose against the sour smell of unwashed milk bottles.

“In ’ere,” called Bert Smith’s voice.

“I wish you’d go,” said Poppy, rounding on Gerald.

He smiled at her wickedly. “You heard your father,” he teased. “‘In ’ere,’ he said, so ‘in ’ere’ we go.”

Bert Smith was crouched over a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

His clothes looked as if he had been sleeping in the gutter for days. He was unshaven, and his eyes were red, fixed with that angry, accusing stare of the perpetual drunk.

“Wot’s this?” demanded Bert, staring at Poppy’s new clothes. “You only buried ’im a week ago, and you’re out o’ mourning already and traipsing around with your fancy man.”

“Freddie died
ages
ago,” snapped Poppy. “I’m going back on the stage. This is Mr. Mundy, who wrote the musical that Mr. Lewis is going to put on. And I’m the leading lady.”

“Tart’s job,” mumbled Bert Smith while Poppy thought she would die from a mixture of anger and despair. “What did you come for anyway?” Bert went on, making bad worse. “I ain’t got no money.”

“I came to give you some,” said Poppy. “My God! Just look at this place. It could do with a good scrub.”

“Ho! Very high and mighty,” sneered her father. “You wasn’t too pertickler when you was one o’ us. Who’s goin’ to do it, then? The bleedin’ maid?”

“I’ll do it,” said Poppy, unpinning her hat and taking down a sackcloth apron from the back of the kitchen door. She turned to Cyril and gave him a brave little smile. “I did warn you,” she said. “If you walk up to London Bridge Station, you should be able to find a cab.”

“Oh, I’ll help you,” said Cyril in high good humor. “My mum always said I was handy about the house.”

Ignoring Poppy’s protests, he walked over to the sink and began to attack the dishes energetically. “’Ere… I’m gettin’ out o’ this. Where’s the money, ducks?” asked Bert in a wheedling tone.

Poppy opened her reticule and drew out a small purse. She extracted a few shillings from it and placed them on the kitchen table.

“Have you paid the rent?” she demanded, covering the money with her hand.

“Yerse, o’ course,” said Bert, his eyes gleaming with impatience. He shoved her hand away rudely, snatched the money, and scuttled out the door.

“Gone to the boozer, I suppose,” remarked Cyril from the sink.

“Oh, stop that,” said Poppy wearily, sitting down suddenly at the kitchen table. “What’s the use? It’ll be like a pigsty again tomorrow.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Plummett,” said Cyril with a smile that removed any insult from the words. Heavy bluebottles buzzed drearily through the stuffy hot air of the kitchen.

“Look,” said Cyril. “You shouldn’t have come. There’s nothing you can do, is there? I bet you’ve tried since the day you were born. Are you the only one?”

“No,” said Poppy. “I’ve two little sisters. They live with me in St. John’s Wood.”

“Is it nice there?”

“I’ve a lovely house,” said Poppy proudly. “It’s even got a garden… with an apple tree.”

“Then let’s go,” said Cyril, wiping his hands fastidiously on his handkerchief.

“Don’t none of this bother you, then?” asked Poppy, horrified to hear the old cockney speech creeping back.

“Not a bit,” he said. “I lived on my wits in Sydney. My parents were pretty poor.”

“Are they dead?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But not now.”

Poppy felt lighthearted. He had seen the squalor of her home, this beautiful young man, and he had not cared one bit, and he was still looking at her with admiration.

At least she was proud of her new home. It was lovely to descend from the carriage in the quiet, tree-lined street, and to push open the garden gate and be met by the flying figures of Josie and Emily. Cyril was startled by the contrast of this pretty villa, the neat, little governess, and the plump housekeeper bobbing a curtsy on the step and promising to serve tea in the garden, but he managed to conceal it.

Cyril not only stayed for tea but for supper as well. He accepted Poppy’s suggestion that they take their coffee cups out into the garden, since the house was warm after the heat of the day.

Cyril sat at a small white iron table, while Poppy sat on the swing and rocked gently back and forth. Both her little sisters were in bed.

The evening was going down in a blaze of smoky rose and gold. The air was very still and sweet.

Poppy felt at peace with the world. Cyril’s easy acceptance of her background and his undemanding company had done wonders for her. She had changed for dinner into a soft blond lace tea gown—part of the duchess’s wardrobe—and the lace of her gown trailed backward and forward across the grass as she moved gently on the swing.

Cyril had chattered and talked at length over dinner about his life in Sydney and his struggle for recognition in the theater. “You must come there with me one day,” he had said. In another man that would have been tantamount to a proposal of marriage, but coming as it did from Cyril, it had only seemed like a further offer of friendship.

The sky changed to pale green, and somewhere in the bushes a blackbird began to sing.

“His Grace, The Duke of Guildham,” announced Mrs. Abberley from the top of the steps leading to the garden.

Poppy stopped swinging and sat very still. Cyril remained rigid at the table, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

The Duke of Guildham surveyed the scene, his face a careful blank. He had called to make amends to Poppy for having cut her dead in St. James’s Park. His motives in calling, he had persuaded himself, had been entirely those of a gentleman.

He could not understand his burning anger as he surveyed the idyllic scene in front of him, the blond girl on the swing, the lace of her gown trailing on the grass, and the beautiful young man at the table.

The duke was in evening dress, since he had been to the opera. His red silk-lined cloak was thrown over his shoulders, and he carried his hat and cane in his hand.

He walked slowly down the steps. Poppy was not quite sure what was going on. She rose to her feet at the same time the duke began his descent, and Cyril rose as well. Cyril’s profile was turned toward her, but as the duke approached, Cyril flashed him a strange smile, half winsome, half malicious.

The duke surveyed Cyril, his dark eyes holding a flicker of something that Poppy did not recognize, but it made her feel acutely uncomfortable.

Then she found herself saying in her best hostess manner, “Your Grace! How kind of you to call. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Plummett,” said the duke. “In a minute. I have some business I wish to discuss with you.…”

He let his voice trail away and looked pointedly at Cyril.

“Oh, not wanted, am I?” said Cyril cheerfully. “It’s all right, Poppy dear, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Poppy flushed slightly, and the duke’s face froze with disapproval. What on earth had possessed Cyril to use her first name? thought Poppy wildly.

But Cyril was bending then, kissing both her hands. He flashed a look at the duke from under his long lashes, and then he was gone.

The duke pulled forward a seat for Poppy at the table, and then sat down opposite her. He studied her thoughtfully for a long moment, and then asked, “Who was that young man?”

“Oh—didn’t I introduce you?” faltered Poppy. “He’s a young Australian friend of mine, Mr. Cyril Mundy.”

“And what does he do?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” retorted Poppy hotly. God forbid the duke should find out Cyril was in the theater or he might put two and two together. She did not want any member of the Plummett family finding out about her theatrical career beforehand. But she realized she had been suspiciously rude, so she added hurriedly, “I don’t think he does anything.”