The Songbird (50 page)

‘
Ciao, Antonio
,' she murmured, patting the pillar box as she slipped the letter inside. ‘
Scrivi
presto!
' He was over Miss Bennett. He was writing his music again. Now he must come home and look for Poppy.

Poppy lay on the cold hard bed in the rooming house. She had stumbled out of the railway station and run. Her skirt had flapped round her ankles and she had scrunched it up to her calves to assist her escape. She knew what the policemen had thought of her. They thought she was a street woman. How could they? Surely they could tell? But then, she thought, why would a respectable young woman be wandering the streets of London alone in the middle of the night?

She shuddered. Suppose they had locked her up? How shameful that would have been. She would never have been able to hold up her head again, and suppose someone had recognized her! Poppy Mazzini, well-known singer, recently returned from a triumphal tour of France, locked up on a charge of immorality! Her head was filled with possible lurid headlines. After Mrs Bennett's careful protection of her reputation, she had almost ruined it by her stupidity.

The streets around King's Cross were unfamiliar to her and it wasn't long before she had realized that she was quite lost. She had stood for a while in a shop doorway contemplating what to do and where to go next. It was raining quite hard and there was no-one about. The buildings were shrouded in darkness and there were few gas lamps in the vicinity. Her feet ached and she was desperately tired. She walked on a little further and came to a low brick wall with iron railings set into it. In some relief she perched on the edge of it. There was an iron gate in the middle of the wall and half turning she had looked behind her and seen the leaning slabs of gravestones.

Is this what I've come to, she had thought, sharing the night with the dead? And so she had moved off again. Soon it became light, a weak sun filtering through the grey dawn, and she had come to a row of houses, some of which had notices in their windows of rooms to let. All were shabby and rundown but she chose one where a woman was washing her doorstep at that early hour and asked if she had a spare room.

The woman, who was skinny with a grey complexion, had looked her up and down, then hoisted herself up from her kneeling position and asked bluntly if she was on the game.

‘The game?' Poppy had asked without thinking. ‘Which game do you mean?'

The woman had laughed and told her to come in. The house smelt of boiled cabbage, old carpets and damp walls, but all Poppy wanted was somewhere to lay down her head and think about what to do. But she didn't think, not immediately. She was so exhausted by the trauma of the night that she had fallen asleep and slept all through the following day, not waking until seven in the evening. The lodging house keeper had told her there was a pie shop further down the street and she had gone to buy a pie and brought it back to her room in a paper bag. The pastry was dry and the meat tough but she had eaten it because she was hungry. Then she had dozed through the night, her sleep broken by lurid dreams of being chased by men in uniform and trains steaming towards her.

Now she lay thinking what she should do. If I go back, Dan is sure to say I should start singing again so that I'll forget Charlie. But I can't. I can't! Tears streamed down her cheeks and she searched for a handkerchief to blow her nose. And if I go home, Pa will want to know what has happened, and I don't want to talk about it. He might even go to see Charlie! And anyway, I can't face any of them. I feel so foolish. They will all think me so childish and immature. None of them will understand how I feel.

Someone knocked on the door and Poppy slipped shoeless and stockingless to answer it.

‘I just wanted to know 'ow long you'll be stoppin',' the landlady said. ‘This'll be your second day and you've only paid me for one. I want another bob for today. If yer gonna stay fer the rest of the week I'll knock you a tanner orf on Saturday. If you ain't stoppin' then you'll 'ave to leave now.'

Poppy's mouth dropped open. Now? But I haven't decided, she thought. I still don't know what to do. ‘I'll stay today,' she said impulsively though she thought the rent excessive, and reached for her purse. ‘And I'll let you know tomorrow if I'm staying any longer.'

‘Righty-ho.' The woman took the shilling that was offered. She gazed at Poppy. ‘Got into trouble, 'ave you?' she asked. ‘Got in the pudding club?'

Poppy blushed scarlet. ‘No,' she gasped. ‘No, I haven't. I'm – I'm seeking work, that's all. I've just come from Yorkshire,' she lied. ‘And I got lost coming from the railway station. Someone was supposed to meet me and didn't turn up.'

The woman's face told her she didn't believe a word, and no wonder when Poppy had arrived without luggage, but she turned away. ‘Not much work round 'ere,' she said. ‘You'll 'ave to go up west if you want anyfink decent. What do you do? I thought your face looked familiar. On the stage, are you?'

‘N-no,' Poppy stammered. ‘I – I'm a seamstress. Thought I'd try my luck in London.'

The woman nodded and went downstairs, leaving Poppy wondering if she really had recognized her or if she was only fishing for information.

When she had given the shilling for the extra rent, Poppy had realized that she hadn't much money left, only enough to last until the end of the week if she should stay. She pondered. Do I go back with my tail between my legs? Everyone will be worrying about me. She stifled a sob, and her mouth trembled. But go back to what? I always had the hope that Charlie would love me and I suppose that kept my spirits high. But now I know that he does not, and I feel so low, so depressed, how can I sing when I have no happiness left in me?

She poured the tepid water that stood in the earthenware jug into the bowl and rinsed her hands and face. There was no soap, and she looked into the cracked and spotted mirror that hung above the marble washstand. Her eyelids were swollen, her eyes like slits, her cheeks were puffy and her nose was red. ‘What a mess I look,' she snivelled. ‘How can I go back looking like this? What will everyone think?'

I'll go out for a walk, she decided. I can think better when I'm outside. The small room was beginning to feel oppressive and she felt as if she was in prison. She wrapped her scarf round her head to hide her hair, picked up her purse and went out.

She walked aimlessly, glancing now and again to look in shop windows, which were mostly selling old clothes or second-hand furniture. She crossed the street on seeing a confectioner's and bought a slab of chocolate, for she hadn't eaten, apart from the stale meat pie. She ate the chocolate and huddled into her coat, wondering what she should do. I have no option, she thought. I must go back, yet I'm reluctant. I'm so ashamed at having come away without telling anyone.

She passed a shop with a revolving rack containing postcards outside the door, and she stopped to look. Most were coloured views of London; others were comic cards of hen-pecked husbands, or cats and dogs dressed up in hats and scarves. There were also some of theatre personalities: Marie Lloyd, Vesta Tilley and George Robey.

The shop doorbell tinkled as she went inside holding four postcards, all of them showing a view of London that would tell her father, Mario and Rosina, Dan, and Mrs Bennett that she was still in the capital. She bought stamps from the shopkeeper, determining that she would go back to the room and write them, explaining that she needed some time to herself but that she was perfectly well.

She stood for a moment outside the shop. It stood on the corner of a crossroads. But which way had she come to it? She looked up and down the four streets. They all looked the same, dark redbrick buildings containing offices, houses and shops. Poppy bit on her lip and frowned. She had walked aimlessly, crossing and recrossing roads, turning corners into narrow streets, and now once again she was lost. What's more, she couldn't recall the name of the road where the rooming house stood.

She took the road on her left but she couldn't remember having walked along it, so she turned back, crossed over and walked the other way. She didn't remember anything on that road either, but she continued, hoping for recognition of some landmark. There were horse-buses going past, hackneys and growlers, and she wondered whether to hold out her hand for one and ask to be taken to King's Cross station where she could start again.

But I don't remember the name of the street and I don't think I could find it again, she thought miserably. What am I to do? She put her hands to her face and wept. I'm so stupid! Stupid and wretched. I want to go home and I haven't enough money for a ticket!

‘Now then, dearie, what's all this?' A smiling, florid-cheeked man stood near her. ‘Lost your way, 'ave you?' he said unctuously. ‘Tell me where you want to be and I'll take you.'

She stared at him. He wore a shabby greatcoat, and a bowler hat which had turned green with age. His beard was dark and stubbly and he had a twisted grin on his face. ‘Go away!' she shouted and started to run. ‘Leave me alone!'

Now she was totally lost. She found herself in a road of model houses built for the working classes, with inns and taverns tucked away in small courts. She looked up as she heard the clatter of hooves and saw a horse-bus trundling towards her. There were three men sitting on top; she couldn't see if there was anyone inside but she ran towards it, putting out her hand for the driver to stop.

A conductor in a buttoned jacket, striped trousers and top hat stood on the step at the rear and he jumped down to let her on. ‘Where to, miss?' he asked, and she glanced at the side of the bus. Sloane Street, Piccadilly and Strand was written on the side.

‘Strand, please,' she said breathlessly and in some relief. At least I shall be in familiar territory, she thought as she took a seat inside. Then I can make up my mind what to do. If I decide to go back I can walk to St Martin's Lane from there.

The route was busy with traffic: horse-buses, cable-drawn trams, private carriages, hackneys and wooden drays. People spilled out of the Underground exits adding to the masses: working men, men of the law, gentlewomen with their escorts and beggar women with children at their feet. As the bus clattered into the Strand and continued on towards Chancery Lane, Poppy remembered her triumph and then the blow she had received at the Savoy Theatre just a few days before.

The thought of it made her weep again and hurriedly she rose from the seat and made to get off. I can't go back, she wept. I can't face anyone! She ran down a street off the main thoroughfare, turned down narrow lanes in an attempt to get away from the crowds, then leaned against a wall and wept. She wiped her cheeks and blew her nose, and then put her hand to her throbbing head. I don't know where to go!

She heard the sound of shouting, a man's voice and a woman's. The man was berating the woman, telling her to get out and not come back. Poppy turned to where the commotion was coming from, and saw a woman emerging from a passageway close to where she was standing. She was stout and poorly clad, with ruddy cheeks and straw-coloured hair. She picked up a stone and threw it at whoever was rebuking her. ‘Keep your bleedin' job,' she shouted. ‘I can find work anywhere in London town.'

She passed Poppy and muttered, ‘Finks I need to work in that fleapit! I'm not that 'ard up.' She glanced at Poppy. ‘'e'll miss me, I can tell you. 'e'll not get anybody else working for 'im in an 'urry. They all know 'im too well. Black by name, black by nature, that's what 'e is.'

Poppy stared after her, still wiping her reddened eyes, and then peered down the alley. It opened up into a courtyard and at the bottom was a tavern with beer barrels standing outside. An irate, middle-aged barn door of a man in a landlord's leather apron was gesticulating to two elderly men with tankards in their fists, who were silently nodding their heads.

‘I'll soon find somebody else,' she heard him shout. ‘Bitch! Needn't think she can come back 'ere.'

Poppy nibbled on her fingernails. I wonder what the woman did? A saloon maid? Charwoman? Then she shrugged and looked round to find her way out. Nothing to do with me, she thought; I have troubles of my own. Nevertheless, something niggled at her mind. I need some money if I'm not going back straight away, and I'm not ready to, not just yet. I will, of course, she told herself. When I'm ready. She sniffed and gave a heaving sigh. I just need to gather myself together. Put my thoughts into perspective and try to think of living a life without love or music.

She was in the middle of theatreland where hundreds of theatres catered for those who loved melodrama, opera or serious plays. The music halls had developed from the singing rooms of inns and taverns for those whose tastes were less subtle and who liked to join in a sing-song whilst enjoying a glass of ale. Some of these singing halls still remained.

This was theatreland, and on her way back to the Strand Poppy paused outside a shop selling second-hand theatrical clothing. It had in its window elaborate satin gowns, red military uniforms that had never seen service, false moustaches and beards, daggers and rifles, shiny tin medals and a selection of tawdry looking wigs. ‘Used only twice,' a notice above a scarlet flounced gown pronounced in misspelled letters, ‘by the Selebrated Madam Brissini.'

Shall I go in? Only to look, not to buy. She pulled her scarf round her head and pushed open the door, for an idea was emerging. The shopkeeper was attending to a customer and merely glanced at Poppy as she pinned a waistcoat round the waist of a stout man who was wearing a full periwig and knee breeches. Poppy headed toward the counter where there were piles of sheet music, and wig stands where a curly red wig and a black wig were displayed. She looked round. A cubicle with a curtain was in the corner of the shop.