The Songbird (54 page)

I'm imagining it, she told herself the following day as she went about her business of cleaning the tables, sweeping and washing the floor, and throwing out tobacco ash, and yet a prickle ran down the back of her neck. There had been someone. She paused with the broom in her hand and concentrated. There was a man, tall and thin, who always stood in the same place across from her, yet when she had finished singing he had gone. A memory eluded her. Who did he remind her of? Someone!

She continued with her tasks, humming a little. Last evening's audience had been very appreciative; they were a lively crowd, not afraid to show that they had enjoyed her performance. They were not polite in their applause, but robust and enthusiastic. I enjoy singing for them, she mused, wielding the broom, and— She stopped as she remembered who the man in the shadows was. He threw the rose at the Savoy, she recalled. He waited for me to come out of the theatre, and— She caught her breath; it was the night Charlie told me he had become engaged to Miss Burchfield. He asked if I was unwell, and I had the rose in my hair.

He knows who I am! Her eyes grew wide at the discovery. She leaned against the piano as she absorbed the implications. Will he betray me? Will he announce to the audience who I am? Am I ready to be revealed? She was unnerved and distressed.

I'll have to leave, she decided. I'll move on. But where to? Am I ready to go back? I don't hurt as much as I did when I think of Charlie. It's more that I feel empty and humiliated and wonder if I was just a foolish child with an infatuation. Yet he seemed to be fond of me, she thought wistfully. He shouldn't have encouraged me if he really didn't care. I wanted him to love me, but I also wanted to sing and it seemed that with Charlie I couldn't have both. He wanted me to love him and pander to his desires. To look after his needs, his wants and comforts. I would be expected to be happy just because he was pleased with me. He didn't want a wife who had dreams of her own.

I'm missing my pa, she reflected. His love has no conditions. And I'm missing Nan too; she would give me a hug like my mother used to do if ever I felt sad, and that's what I want, someone to hold me close and say that everything will be all right. And yet . . . She took a deep, sighing breath. I can't seem to find the courage to go back. I've let so many people down: Mrs Bennett, Dan . . . and whatever will Anthony think of me, sending out that hasty, impulsive,
imprudent
letter, telling him of my heartbreak? Will he have really understood?

‘Come on, gel.' Henry Black's strident voice broke into her brooding. ‘I don't pay you to hang about daydreaming. There's jobs to be done before folks start coming in.' He peered at her. ‘Dreaming of fame and fortune, ain't yer? Well, I'll tell yer, gel, them things only comes to a few, and not to folks like us, though I'll admit you've got a good warble; but it ain't going to fetch you riches. Only hard work can do that.'

‘Yes, Mr Black,' she said quietly, and thought to herself, I'll sing tonight, collect my wages and leave in the morning. Then she added, ‘There's a man who always comes to hear me sing; he's tall and stands over by the wall opposite the piano. Do you know the one I mean?'

‘Thin, is he? As a beanpole?' He nodded as she agreed he was. ‘He only ever has one drink and then he leaves.' He pursed his mouth to a downward sneer. ‘He doesn't come for the ale. He only comes to hear you. Not one of my regulars! Works round here somewhere. Why? Does he bother you?'

‘N-no,' she lied. ‘I just wondered who he was.'

‘Mm,' Black murmured, frowning at her. ‘Well, if he's a nuisance, tell me and I'll throw him out. Don't want hangers-on causing trouble. I'll not 'ave that!'

I won't tell him I'm leaving until the morning, Poppy decided. Then he can look for someone else, though I'm sorry to disappoint the customers. Some had become very friendly towards her and would greet her with a cheery wave if they saw her out in the streets.

That evening as she served the ale she looked round for the tall thin man, but he wasn't there. He comes late, I think. She couldn't remember ever having served him. As Mr Black says, he doesn't come for the ale, he only comes to hear me. The knowledge didn't bring her pleasure. Rather it made her feel anxious and wary, as if she was being observed or spied upon. She went upstairs to her room to wash her hands and make sure her wig was secure, and brushed a little carmine onto her cheeks. The black wig doesn't suit my complexion, she thought. It drains my face of colour.

She went downstairs again, signalled to Henry Black that she was ready, and waited for him to announce her. She felt nervous tonight and glanced towards the corner where the man usually stood. I'm being stupid, she thought. He's an admirer, he doesn't mean me any harm, and besides, what could he do with all of these people around?

The landlord's voice rang out and she entered the saloon. She bowed her head at the applause and gave a smile and made her way to the piano. She turned again to the audience and said, ‘Thank you so much. Welcome to my world of song.' She smoothed down the back of her skirt as she was about to sit down, and then hesitated. On top of the upright piano lay a single red rose. Oh! she thought, her senses reeling. Is it from him? What does he want from me?

Anthony spent the day at the piano in his parents' rooms behind the restaurant. His mother spent the day trying to persuade him to eat. ‘
Niente. Non ancora
,' he told her. ‘Only espresso. I work better when I'm hungry, you know that.'

Grumbling slightly, she brought the coffee as he had asked but brought him a plate of biscuits too. ‘Why you sit 'ere?' she chided. ‘Why you not out looking for Poppy?'

‘I've found her,' he answered absent-mindedly. ‘But I need to leave her a message. I don't want to frighten her away.'

His mother raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Thank God!' she exclaimed. ‘
Molte grazie
.' She clasped her hands together. ‘Where? You must bring her back 'ere.'

‘
Madre!
' he said impatiently. He held a notepad on his knee and had a pencil behind his ear. ‘Will you please go away and leave me alone! Go.
Arrivederci.
Vamoose!'

What am I to say? How am I to say it? She's been hurt and will probably think that she'll never love again. He ran his fingers over the keys, picking out a poignant refrain. I could write a song without words, but would she understand it? Or I could say . . . he hummed softly.

I've used some of the words before, he thought, as he scribbled them down on his pad, with a notation of symbols to remind him of the melody and rhythm. Then he sighed and tore it out and pushed it into his pocket. He glanced at his pocket watch and jumped up. He was going to be late. He grabbed his coat and dashed out, calling to his mother not to keep supper for him.

‘Will you come back with Poppy?' she called back.

‘Don't know!'

He ran towards St Martin's Lane and hailed a horse cab. The first one was occupied but the second one stopped. ‘Fetter Lane, please, and could you hurry?'

He was dropped off on a corner, for he felt that he would find his way better on foot. He hoped that he could remember the turnings to get him to the Pit Stop. He stopped at a flower shop to ascertain if he was going in the right direction and bought a red rose. The woman gave it to him wrapped in a thin piece of paper. He felt in his pocket and drew out the notepaper he had been scribbling on and as he walked he folded it into a cone and wrapped it round the stem.

‘Mr Martin!' A voice startled him and Anthony turned abruptly to see Mr Fisher bearing down on him.

He stopped. ‘Yes?'

‘You're going to hear Miss Mason, ain't you?'

‘I am.' Anthony looked keenly at Mr Fisher's face. ‘Is that where you're going? I thought you said you didn't know the way!'

‘I . . .' The man's face was grim, though it was difficult to see properly in the gloom. ‘What do you want wiv her?' he asked, a hostile note in his voice. ‘She's all right where she is. She's safe there!'

‘Safe! What do you mean, safe?' Anthony was irate. ‘Do you think I mean her harm?'

‘Somefink happened,' Fisher muttered. ‘She's hiding from somebody. I'm taking care of her.'

‘Taking care of her?' Anthony repeated. ‘How? What gives you the right? Does she know?'

‘I know who she really is.' Fisher dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘That's why I didn't tell you where she was. Now go away. Leave her alone.'

‘She's a friend of mine,' Anthony protested. ‘I know who she is, and her family and friends are all anxious about her.'

‘She don't want to go back,' Fisher mumbled. ‘It's too much of a strain for her, singing for them society folk. She belongs here. We look after our own round here.'

Anthony shook his head. The fellow was plainly besotted by Poppy. ‘Her father is worried about her,' he said quietly. ‘We all are, but Miss Mazzini must make up her own mind about who she sings for. That decision is for her.'

‘She's chosen already, ain't she?' Fisher sneered. ‘She's come to live along of us.'

‘Then she can stay, or come back if she wants to; but first I must tell her that her father and brother and friends just want to know that she's all right. Now, please excuse me.'

Fisher put his hand on Anthony's chest. ‘I'm warning you,' he said menacingly. ‘If you harm her – I'll kill you.'

‘I won't harm her.' Anthony shuffled back half a step. ‘I've told you, I'm a friend.'

‘What's your name then?' Fisher demanded. ‘It ain't Martin, like you told the old man!'

‘No, it isn't,' Anthony admitted. ‘It's Marino. Anthony Marino.'

He saw the startled look in the man's eyes. He clearly knew his musicians. Then Fisher frowned. ‘No you're not,' he said. ‘Anthony Marino is out of the country.'

‘I was,' Anthony declared. ‘I was touring Europe. I've come back especially from Italy to look for Miss Mazzini.'

‘Oh!' Fisher was clearly shaken. ‘Well – well, it still stands, if she don't want to go with you and you try to force her—'

‘I won't,' Anthony insisted. ‘I have only her best interests at heart.'

Fisher stood back. ‘Go on then.' He indicated with his head that Anthony should continue on his way. ‘But I'll be waiting and watching, so don't try anything.'

‘I understand. Really I do.' He felt sorry for this inadequate man with a fixation on Poppy: yet he also felt disturbed by him. How far would he go to protect her? Why did he think she was in danger, and would he take it upon himself to spirit her away so that she was hidden from everyone but himself?

‘You know,' he said, ‘with Miss Mazzini's talent, she doesn't belong to any one of us. She belongs to the world. But most of all she belongs to herself. She has to make the decisions about her own life. We can't make them for her.'

There was no answer from Fisher and Anthony turned away leaving him standing in the dusk, a forlorn and lonely figure.

He slipped into the Pit Stop as the customers were topping up their glasses and shuffling about on the benches, preparing themselves for the entertainment. He moved towards the crowd at the bar counter and surreptitiously placed the rose on the piano. Then without buying a drink he eased his way back to the place by the door. The landlord exhorted everyone to be quiet and then in a stentorian voice announced, ‘Miss
Paula Mason.
'

Anthony saw her give a smile and glance round as if looking for someone and he pulled back into the shadows. She walked to the piano, greeting people as if she knew them, spoke a few words of welcome and prepared to sit down. He thought there was a brief shadow of distress on her face as she noticed the rose, but she picked it up, inhaled the perfume and then slowly unwrapped it.

Anthony saw her lips move as she read the words and there was a bewildered confusion on her face, but she put both the note and the rose back on the top of the piano and began to play and sing. A true professional, he thought. Give the audience what they have paid for and never mind the turmoil you are in. He listened as she sang the audience's favourite melodies and observed them as they joined in with her, and then they hushed and settled as she began a poignant melody. They were obviously aware that she was about to perform her own personal favourites. She sang ‘Greensleeves', and then ‘Forever True', followed by ‘In the Town Where I Was Born'. Then he watched as she picked up the rose and looked round the smoky room.

‘Someone has sent me a rose,' she told the audience, and asked them as a whole: ‘Was it you?'

‘Yers!' they all chanted.

She smiled and picking up the note, asked, ‘And did you write this song for me?'

There was silence, followed by a murmuring and shaking of heads. ‘We ain't clever enough fer that, Miss Mason!' a voice called.

‘Well, someone did. Shall I sing it?'

‘Yers,' they shouted. ‘Is it a new one?'

Poppy nodded. ‘Quite new, I think, but the words are long established and recognizable.'

In his corner, Anthony folded his arms over his chest as she began to sing his words and music. Would she understand that he had thought of her when he was composing, or would she think that he had just written a melody and put lyrics to it? It isn't good enough, he thought. There wasn't enough time to do justice to what I feel.

He heard the last lines – ‘And come to me, for forever faithful I will be' – and slowly moved towards the piano as she rose to take her bow. He stood silently waiting, and then gave a gentle smile as she turned and saw him. He saw the relief on her face and she closed her eyes for a second, then she held out both hands to him.