Poppy (4 page)

Meanwhile Poppy had removed her shabby cloak to reveal a trim black velvet dress, decorated with jet. Black was the one thing that could be easily had on the secondhand-clothes market. Everyone who had worn mourning for the death of Queen Victoria was now getting rid of it as quickly as possible, and since everyone was heartily tired of black, quite good gowns could be bought for a few shillings.

The duke eyed Poppy appreciatively. The black of her gown highlighted the creamy pallor of her skin and the intense blue of her large eyes. She was hatless, and her gold hair sparkled with raindrops.

He forgot about his impatience to leave and settled down beside Freda at the edge of the crowd, leaning on his gold-topped cane, and waited for Poppy to sing.

Mrs. Smithers, the church organist and musician, seated herself at the piano and struck up the opening bars.

In a pure, sweet voice Poppy began to sing “Goodbye Dolly Gray,” that song so associated with the Boer War. Then she sang “The Boys of the Old Brigade” with a rousing accompaniment from the audience.

“Let’s go,” hissed Freda, tugging at the duke’s arm. But Poppy had begun to sing again:

The duke was fascinated by the girl’s clear voice and by the energy and pathos she brought to the sentimental song. Her audience was silent, rapt. “Let’s go,” pleaded Freda again, but the duke, with the typical single-mindedness of the aristocrat, had focused his whole attention on Miss Poppy Duveen and would not be distracted.

“Bravo!” he called loudly when Poppy had finished. He felt a warmth beginning to emanate toward him from the shabby crowd and found himself wishing that Freda were not there.

He finally surrendered to her impatient tugs and made his way through the cluttered stalls and relentlessly pouring rain to his carriage at the end of Cutler’s Fields. He helped Freda in and turned and looked back at the jumble of colors of the fair, which seemed to run in the rain as if made from cheaply dyed cloth. Above a bobbing crowd of cloth-capped and shawled heads, he could make out the pale gold aureole of Poppy’s hair.

He gave a little shrug, ducked his head, and climbed in after Freda. By the time the horses were steaming over London Bridge, the duke had forgotten all about Miss Poppy Duveen.

After all, it was unlikely he would ever see her again.

“Where did the tall toff and his missus go?” asked Poppy.

“Gone in a carridge,” said Alf. “Good riddance. Can’t abide slummers.”

“Oh, I dunno…” said Poppy slowly. She could not seem to get the duke’s handsome face out of her mind. She was plagued with a sad feeling of anticlimax. She did not want to go out to dinner with Freddie that night and resolved to try another one of her gallants.

But somehow throughout her performance that evening, try as she wished, Poppy had not rid herself of a nagging feeling of unease… and… and
loss
, as if someone very dear to her had died. She was reprimanded severely by Mr. Lewis, who did not like to see any of his promising young girls dim their sparkle.

Then thoroughly upset because she had begun to take her profession very seriously indeed, Poppy ignored Freddie’s hangdog expression and went off for supper with he of the fat white face, who turned out to be Lord Frank Bissett, a Scotsman, who was married and made no bones about it, and no bones about where he expected Poppy to fit into his dissolute life.

He took her to a small, discreet restaurant that supplied private rooms for its customers, and there Poppy battled for her virginity for the first time. Like most of the folks in Cutler’s Fields, her morals were not of the strongest, but she was damned if she would lose her maidenhead to this pawing Highland satyr.

The fact that he almost succeeded in his goal frightened Poppy nearly out of her wits. Although she was normally a sturdy, healthy girl, she had to combat a sudden attack of faintness. She did not know it was engendered by the high-boned collar of her gown—that dreadful fashion that stops the flow of blood to the brain and is responsible for more fainting fits than tight lacing—until he wrenched at the fastenings at the back of her gown. The collar sprang loose, hot blood flowed freely again, and Poppy socked Lord Frank on the nose, which was quite easy to do, since his fat face was only inches from her own, Lord Frank having forced her body back over the table until she could feel the contents of the soup tureen beginning to soak into her dress.

He fell back in surprise, glaring at her wrathfully. “Don’t you know who I am?” he screamed. “I’ll have you ruined! I’ll have you horsewhipped! I’ll—” But whatever else he was about to say was silenced by a smart crack as his starched shirtfront, released from its moorings by all the exertion, flew up like a window blind and smacked him across the face.

The last sound he heard of Poppy Duveen was her robust cockney laughter as she made her escape.

Poppy felt she had learned a useful lesson, but she was reluctant to return so soon to Freddie. She did not, on the other hand, wish to forego her suppers, and so she carried an oilskin bag concealed in her large reticule, into which she would slip goodies for Josie and little Emily.

And so on the next night she again ignored Freddie because the intensity of his courtship was beginning to embarrass her as did the courtship of Alf, the bread delivery boy. She selected a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair, not knowing it was as near as she could get to the image of that man with the white hair whose face continued to haunt her dreams.

Her new beau was called Jeremy Bartholomew, and he was quiet and polite and morose. He took her to the Cavendish Hotel and made a great fuss over her in a sort of cold, calculating way, which puzzled Poppy until Mrs. Bartholomew appeared with the pudding and just as flambé. At first Poppy was alarmed and guilty, but then, noticing the smirk of satisfaction on Jeremy Bartholomew’s face, Poppy realized she had been “set up” to act the part of the Other Woman. While the Bartholomews were happily engaged in a marital row of quite stupendous proportions, and obviously enjoying every bit of it, Poppy quietly stacked up her oilskin bag and made her escape.

I shan’t go out with any of ’em again
, she thought sadly.
’T’ain’t worth it. I don’t care if all the girls do it. I’ve got used to all them posh places, and it ain’t no fun nohow
.

With that she entered her home quietly so as not to wake the sleeping girls… and landed into chaos.

Ma Barker stood in the kitchen, looking in a towering rage, and Emily and Josie sat crouched by the fire, their skinny arms tightly around one another for comfort, while thumps and bumps and groans came from upstairs.

“Wot’s all this?” demanded Poppy, roused like a tigress by the sight of her little sisters’ distress. “Why ain’t the girls in bed, Ma?”

“It’s ’im,” said Ma Barker, pointing to the ceiling with her clay pipe. “Had to tie ’im down. S’awful. ’E broke open yer savings box—I dunno when—and ’e’s bin at the dogs and then the Pig and Crumpet, and it’s all gone.”

“Gawd!” said Poppy in a low voice. “I’ll kill ’im.”

“Better kill the landlord too,” sniffed Ma. “Mr. Rides ’as bin round for the rent. ’E ’asn’t bin paid in six month, and yer out tomorrer if yer can’t find the money.”

Poppy sat down heavily, her face grim. Then she looked at her small sisters and her face softened. “Come here, ducks,” she said gently. “You’ll have some sugarplums, and then Poppy will sing you to sleep.”

“What’ll ’appen to us?” wailed Josie. “Will us go to work’ouse?”

“Not while there’s breath in my body,” swore Poppy. But she was frightened. She had had to borrow her next week’s pay in advance to pay for new dancing shoes, stockings, and greasepaint. No other landlord would take them in without the rent in advance.

Still, she fought down her fears until the little girls had at last fallen asleep, their white faces looking sticky and content, lulled by songs and sweets.

Poppy returned to the kitchen and faced Ma Barker. “Well,” she said grimly, “wot on earth ’ave I got to sell?”

“Nuthin’ but yerself,” said Ma Barker. “Don’t one o’ them fellows want for to marry you?”

“Freddie does,” replied Poppy, her mind racing.

“You’ll ’ave to take ’im,” said Ma Barker. “’Ere now, ducks. You’ve got tears in yer eyes. You ain’t in love with nobody, are ye?”

Poppy squared her shoulders, recalled the image of a handsome face topped with white hair, staring over the crowd as she sang at the fair, and threw it firmly out of her mind.

“No, Ma,” she said. “Freddie it’ll ’ave to be.”

Mr. Benjamin Lewis was in a towering rage when Miss Poppy Duveen announced that she was leaving the stage to marry the Honorable Freddie Plummett.

“You’re throwing yourself away,” he thundered at the bewildered Poppy, “on a penniless fool.” But Poppy only shook her head in bewilderment. For how could such a well-dressed man who “talked proper,” who had stumped up the rent, who had just bought a new motorcar, be penniless? She refused to listen to the rest of the tirade and therefore missed hearing a lot of useful facts about her husband-to-be. She thought instead of Freddie’s happiness and kindness. At least she had been honest with him, she told herself. She had said fair and square that she only liked him, was not in love with him, and was marrying him to provide a home for Emily and Josie.

Poppy was still quite dazzled by her good fortune. She was sad that the wedding would not take place in church, Freddie hinting at all sorts of angry relatives, especially his uncle, the formidable Duke of Guildham. They were to be married the next day at Chelsea registry office as quietly as possible. Emily and Josie were to be bridesmaids. Pa Barker was to give Poppy away, since she did not trust her father to stand upright for the short ceremony. Freddie had seemed strangely reluctant to supply a best man for himself, saying he had no friends and was a quiet chap who liked to be by himself. Alf, the bread delivery boy, had therefore been pressed into service, muttering dire imprecations.

And so they were married on a blustery March day, with Ma Barker sobbing loudly through the service, which seemed indecently short.

Poppy was not dressed in white, since she considered that regalia only fitting for church and since she could not afford it anyway. She wore instead one of her stage costumes, presented by a much softened Mr. Lewis.

She was Mrs. Freddie Plummett all too quickly. Poppy hugged Emily and Josie and commended them to the care of Ma Barker until she could send for them just as soon as the couple’s week’s honeymoon in Brighton was over.

They drove off in Freddie’s shining new motorcar, Poppy craning her head back to catch a last glimpse of Emily and Josie.

Mrs. Freddie Plummett
… she thought wonderingly as she settled back and studied her new husband’s somewhat weak profile. The car was an open one, however, and she soon had to concentrate on holding on to her hat.

She was grateful to Freddie for his easy acceptance of her family at the wedding, for he had been singularly sweet to Josie and Emily. He had paid the rent without question and had given Poppy some money for her trousseau. She was so grateful, in fact, that she did not pause to think it strange that such a young man-about-town should have had no friends to see him off.

As they rolled down the Lewes Road into Brighton, Poppy caught her breath and forgot about anything and everything else as she stared at the panorama spread out in front of her.

Poppy had never seen the sea before. As they approached the town the clouds parted, and yellow, watery sunlight flooded down across the choppy water. “Oh, lumme!” muttered Poppy, clasping her hands tightly in her lap and blinking the sudden rush of tears from her eyes. Her mind began to weave rosy fantasies. Surely they could live here by the sea, she and Freddie. She pictured Josie and Emily, running on the beach, their cheeks plumped out with good food and rosy from the fresh air.

Her wondering eyes took in the Kubla Khan splendor of the Royal Pavilion, the flags snapping in the stiff breeze, the long pier, and the tall hotels.

Freddie rolled to a stop in front of the most imposing one called the Brighton Palace, and Poppy sat very still, suddenly nervous as a liveried porter ran out to fetch their luggage.

Walking just a little pace behind Freddie, as if seeking protection from the shadow of his thin shoulders, Poppy crept nervously into the entrance hall of the hotel and felt they had wandered into Buckingham Palace by mistake.

Her boots sank into the thick carpet. White-and-gold columns soared off into infinity, and somewhere near at hand an orchestra was playing selections from
Die Fledermaus
.

In that moment, she admired Freddie as never before. With what ease he signed the register with a breezy word for the desk clerk, who looked as grand as a bishop! With what unconcern and bravery did he lead her into the little glass-and-gilt elevator, as if it were an everyday thing to be borne silently heavenward.

Thoroughly intimidated, Poppy stood silently in all the glory of one of the hotel’s best suites while Freddie tossed a coin to the page who had deposited their meager luggage. Only when the servant had gone did she let out her breath in a slow gasp of wonder. She stared in delight at the reproduction Louis XV furniture, at the enormous bowls of hothouse flowers, and at the cheerful fire blazing under the canopy of a marble fireplace.

Freddie led her into the bedroom and pointed to a door at the far side. “That’s the bathroom if you want to freshen up,” he said, stroking the ends of his mustache, his pale blue eyes suddenly nervous. “Thought we might take a stroll.”

“Oooh, yes,” breathed Poppy, seeing nothing strange in this. After all, no girl worth her salt made love in the afternoon, even Poppy knew that.

She pushed open the door of the bathroom and clapped her hands in delight. Imagine having a porcelain bath. Imagine just turning a tap and hot water coming steaming out. No heating up kettles on the fire at the Palace!