The Songbird (48 page)

There came a soft tap on the door. Mrs Bennett stood there. ‘Miss Mazzini has to change now, Mr Chandler,' she said coldly. ‘If you will excuse us?'

‘Of course. Of course.' Charles backed away, and picking up his possessions he gave a brief bow. ‘I hope I shall see you again, Poppy. We – I really enjoyed tonight – you were wonderful. I wish you' – he swallowed, barely looking at her – ‘further success.' He glanced at Mrs Bennett's stony expression and turned for the door. ‘Good night!'

Poppy stared after him. She felt empty, from the top of her head to her toes. I can't believe this is happening! How could he? How could he come tonight of all nights and bring her with him? Did he think I would be pleased for him? Did he think that my love for him was only a childish infatuation?

Mrs Bennett busied herself by the dressing table and then handed her a small silver container. ‘I always keep a phial of brandy and water in my purse,' she said softly. ‘For any occasion when I might feel unwell.'

Poppy sipped the liquid. Her mouth was dry and the spirit, though weakened with water, burned her throat.

‘I don't know what has happened, Poppy, and I don't need to know,' Mrs Bennett murmured. ‘But when I saw the young lady waiting outside as Mr Chandler came in to see you, I – I felt I should come back, that perhaps – things were not as you had hoped.'

Poppy licked her lips; she was trembling as she croaked, ‘His fiancée! They – they're going to be married.' Tears appeared in her eyes and ran unchecked down her face, down her nose and onto her lips. She could taste the salt blending with the brandy. ‘He said – he told me . . .' Did he ever say those words, she anguished, or did I only think that he did? ‘He told me that he would wait for me!' Her grief was threatening to overwhelm her. He did say those words! But he wasn't true. He has found someone else that he loves more.

‘But he
hasn't
. He
didn't
.' She lifted her eyes, appealing, and the tears began to flow again. She wiped them away with a towel, and took a deep breath. ‘What am I going to do?' she pleaded. ‘What am I going to do?'

Marian Bennett and Dan took her back to the Marinos' house. Mrs Bennett wanted her to go home with her, but Poppy said no, she'd rather stay with Mario and Rosina, using the excuse that her belongings were there. She knew that Mrs Bennett would be kind and solicitous, but the small room above the Trattoria Mario reminded her of her own room at home and she felt comfortable and safe there.

‘Take tomorrow off,' Mrs Bennett said, as they left her. ‘Don't come for your lesson. Come the day after. You must continue with your life, my dear,' she said anxiously. ‘You have taken a blow and you think that you will never recover, but she will, won't she, Dan?'

He looked very wistful as he nodded. ‘Yes, you are young enough to love again. But just now you'll feel that there will never be anyone else deserving of your love.'

Words, words, she thought as she stumbled up the stairs. What do they know? Marian Bennett has a lasting marriage and hasn't felt the loss of love. Dan? He's a single middle-aged man. He's probably never felt such a love as I have just lost.

She lay fully dressed on her bed and wept. How could he? How could he not write to tell me? How could he just arrive like that? And sending flowers! Did he think that such an ostentatious,
extravagant
bouquet would soften his treachery? She gave a sob. Why, this one white rose means more to me than his
poisonous
lilies! He can keep them and put them on his grave, for I wish him
dead
and myself as well!

As she'd come out of the theatre, supported on either side by Mrs Bennett and Dan, a solitary figure had been waiting to greet her. It was the young man who had thrown a rose to her tonight. The one she had retrieved from the stage.

‘Miss Mazzini,' he'd said passionately. ‘You was wonderful tonight.'

‘Thank you,' she began in a whisper, but Dan interrupted, saying, ‘Miss Mazzini is extremely tired. I'm so sorry. Thank you for waiting, but we must get her home.'

The man clasped his hands together. ‘You're not ill, Miss Mazzini? Say that you ain't? I'd be devastated if you couldn't sing!'

She'd shaken her head. ‘Just very tired,' she croaked. ‘Please excuse me.' She'd managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you for the rose. It was you, wasn't it?'

He'd smiled gratefully at her awareness, and bowing reverently and in worship stood back to let them pass. She'd looked over her shoulder as she stepped into the hackney cab and had seen him standing under the stage door lamp, gazing adoringly at her.

She fell asleep, worn out by crying, and when Rosina awakened her the next morning with a piping hot cup of coffee, she knew that her whole world had collapsed.

‘Pah!' Rosina said, for Mrs Bennett had told her what had happened. ‘He is not worthy of you, that young man! He 'as no passion, no fire.'

‘But I love him, Rosina. I've always loved him.' Tears began to flow again and she wiped them away with the bed sheet. She took a deep breath and picked up the crumpled rose which had fallen out of her hair. She put it to her nose, the perfume still sweet, and began to cry. ‘I'll never
ever
love anyone again. It's too painful to contemplate.'

She looked in the mirror after Rosina had left her and saw her bedraggled hair, her swollen eyes and lips, and her crumpled gown, which she had slept in. She undressed, slid down her garters and stockings, washed her hands and face and clad only in her under-drawers and cambric bodice climbed back into bed. I shan't go out, she thought. I shall stay here in my room and wait to die. Then he'll be sorry! I shall be on his conscience for ever.

Throughout the day, first Rosina and then Mario tapped on her door, trying to tempt her with food, but to no avail. She refused to come down and spent the day crying, and finally dropped asleep through sheer exhaustion. When night came she was wide awake and walking the floor, unable to comprehend that Charlie loved someone else and not her.

‘He can't love her,' she muttered, and then came the thought that perhaps Charlie wanted to marry Miss Burchfield for her money. ‘He said that her father was a self-made man.' She wondered how Charlie had been able to move premises so quickly, when the last time she had seen him he was only speaking of taking on an apprentice. She climbed back onto the bed. ‘Mr Burchfield is helping to finance him! That's why Charlie wants to marry her. He doesn't love her.' She clung desperately to the idea. ‘He loves me but must marry her!'

The thought made her weep again. So his love for me isn't strong enough. He's weak and self-centred! Yet I love him still. What can I do? Whom can I ask for advice? Who would understand? No-one, she cried again. There is no-one at all.

She felt even worse the next day. Without food or drink apart from water, her spirits and energy dropped even lower. Rosina knocked on her door and said that Dan Damone was here. Would she see him, or could Rosina give him a message? Through the closed door, Poppy said no, she didn't want to see anyone. She spent the whole of that day in bed just gazing into space, going over the past and knowing that she had no future.

She fell asleep, and woke with a start when she heard the sound of Mario's voice bidding someone ‘
Grazie mille. Buona notte
' as they left the restaurant. She glanced at the clock on her table. Eleven o'clock. She had the whole of the night to get through. She felt weary, hot and tired. I'd go for a walk, but Mario would want to come with me. I'll wait, she thought. I'll wait until they've gone to bed and then go out. I need some air.

As she sat propped up on her pillows waiting for the clattering of crockery to subside and listening for the sound of Rosina's and Mario's footsteps on the stairs, the fog in her head started to clear. Anthony! she thought. He'll understand how I feel. He was crossed in love by Mrs Bennett's daughter. He'll understand the torment I'm going through.

She climbed out of bed and took her writing paper and pen from the drawer and started to write. She poured out her heartache and told him how she would never love again, and wondered if she would ever sing again, for, she said, ‘how can I sing of love when I have lost it? I need to get away,' she wrote. ‘I know that Dan is very well intentioned and that he and Mrs Bennett will want me to perform again soon, but I know that I can't. Something inside me has died and I want to go away to where no-one knows me, to hide in some small corner like a sick animal and lick my wounds. I'm writing to you, Anthony, because I know that you'll understand how I am suffering. I don't know what to do to take away this ache and sorrow. I am unbelievably sad and have been given a mortal blow.

‘Forgive me if I should remind you of your loss, but I could think of no-one else who would understand. Yours in friendship, Poppy.'

She scrabbled to find an envelope and stamp and directed it to the last address she had for him. She slipped it into her purse and put that on the bed, then she dressed in a wool skirt and a high-necked blouse and took her outdoor coat from the mahogany wardrobe and laid it on the bed beside the purse.

As she sat waiting, an idea came to her. Perhaps I will go away for a few days. Right away where I don't have to answer questions on how I am feeling, or sing when I'm not yet ready. But where? Not home to Hull, for Pa would be angry and would want to write to Charlie and give him a tongue-lashing over his treatment of me; and then Mr and Mrs Chandler would hear about it, and Tommy would say I told you so.

Brighton then? But no. Ronny and Ena might still be there, or I might run into Mrs Johnson or Miss Jenkinson or Mr Bradshaw from the theatre. My hair stands out like a beacon, she thought. The colour of her hair had always pleased her, but now she knew it meant that she would be easily recognized.

It was almost midnight when she heard Rosina and Mario come upstairs to bed. She waited another half hour and then put on her coat, wrapped a scarf round her neck and picked up her purse. She opened the door cautiously and listened. No sound. They must be asleep. She crept downstairs and unlocked the side door with her own key and slid back the bolt. It worried her that she would have to leave it unbolted, so she moved a wooden chair as near to the door as possible, so that if by chance anyone should try to break in, then the door would clatter against the chair. She stepped outside and carefully locked the door again.

It was bitterly cold and she huddled into her scarf, pulling it up about her ears, then set off at a brisk pace down the street towards St Martin's Lane where it was better lit. She knew there was a posting box there into which she could drop Anthony's letter.

She came to Dan's office, which was in darkness, but she could see the posters, bills and photographs in the window. One of them was of her, taken in France. It had been tinted to show her red hair and green dress. She stared at it. It was like looking at someone totally unrelated. How happy I was then, just a few weeks ago. Her mouth trembled. I shall never be happy again.

Her feet took her onwards to Drury Lane and then to Piccadilly. Her intention hadn't been to go to Charlie's new premises, but curiosity led her on. The address on his business card had indicated an arcade off Piccadilly, but she had no idea whereabouts it would be. Some of the streets off were in darkness and she hesitated about going down them. There were some well-dressed people about, leaving hotels or clubs, but there were others who leered at her or turned to watch her progress.

Finally she saw the name of the arcade on a wall. It was a small courtyard of shops and businesses. A light gleamed from halfway down and, taking courage, she hurried towards it. The window was bow-fronted and freshly painted, and through the glass she saw the back of a fair-haired man. He turned, and she retreated into the shadows when she saw that it was Charlie.

He had an unfinished red shoe in one hand and in the other a flat brush and a length of hemp. He sat down at his bench in the window and she saw from the pucker of his lips that he was whistling.

She gazed, her mouth parted. Whistling! How can he whistle when I am here, distraught at his betrayal? Charlie! A sob shook her. He doesn't care. He has no thought for me! She took a breath. Shall I confront him? Tell him how he has ruined my life? She was about to step out of the darkness and tap on the window when he raised his head and his mouth moved. He pointed with his finger as if telling someone something and she saw a glimpse of another figure, a young boy, behind him.

‘The apprentice,' she breathed. ‘He said he was taking one on.' She heard a clock strike two o'clock and she wondered at his working so late. Lots of orders, he'd said, so he has to work into the night to complete them. I wonder if his ladylove objects to that, she thought bitterly and turned away, out of the arcade and into Piccadilly.

She walked she knew not where, her mind dulled and her feet moving mechanically. Men spoke to her but she walked on, ignoring their jeers and shouts. A hansom cab drew up beside her, but she lowered her head and didn't respond to the occupant and it went away. Another clock struck three. She looked round her and had no idea where she was, though she thought that she wasn't so far from Bloomsbury where Mrs Bennett lived. She had passed grand hotels, elegant houses, a large area of green which looked like a park and the emporium of Fortnum and Mason whose windows displayed cut glass, clocks, and food of all kinds packaged in tin, glass and china containers. She had walked by bookshops, umbrella shops, tobacco shops and shops selling perfume which she could smell as she went by the closed doors.

Charlie is doing well if he can afford to have a workshop in this area, she considered. All the richest and most affluent people must shop here. Was it Miss Burchfield's idea and her father's money? He advised me to stay in London and not go abroad, she remembered. Would he still have been influenced by Miss Burchfield if I had stayed? She gave a sob. I shall never know.