Honeyville (10 page)

Philippa McCulloch might not have resembled her niece in any physical way, but I wondered who got the first word in edgeways at dinner. She didn’t wait to hear my answer: not that I would have given it to her, anyway. I hated the opera house. The opera house was what had brought me to Trinidad in the first place, and seven years on, I couldn’t walk past it without a shudder.

We had been the Martin Whitworth Troupe (not opera, but vaudeville) and doing the ‘Western Tour’, spending a week or so at every town with a decent-sized theatre through the Middle West, and on to California. Except the week we were in Trinidad, the troupe went on without me and I was left behind. My husband was the eponymous Martin Whitworth. He founded the troupe; he was its star performer. When he left, he took everything but the clothes I was sleeping in. One morning in Trinidad I woke up – and he had gone. The whole troupe had moved on. He had fallen in love with our co-star – my best friend. They ran off and left me behind.

Was I familiar with the opera house? Seven years on, I could never walk past without remembering that final night. The three of us, on stage together as usual. We were singing to a packed house. It was one of our best nights since we left Chicago, and as we took our bows the applause was almost deafening. The people of Trinidad adored us! The cheers were ringing in our ears, and the three of us caught one another’s eye. My husband winked at us both. We were happy! No. No,
they
were happy. I was the fool.

Was I familiar with the opera house? I surely was. And now Philippa McCulloch was pushing a plate of cheese pastries into my chest. Did I want to begin with a small introduction from herself, she was asking me? Or would I prefer a few words from Inez, who would do it so much better? Aside from which, she reminded me, public speaking was not terribly recommended, not with her heart condition. But of course I should eat something first. A small cheese pastry or some honeycake? I felt a wave of nausea. Also, quite suddenly, a tremendous urge to weep.

I looked around the room. There were twenty or more ladies scattered about, sipping tea and trilling pleasantly, awaiting their turn either to fuss over Inez, or to be introduced to me. This was Trinidad’s richest and smartest, Inez had assured me. I knew it anyway. I knew plenty of their husbands, too.

Mrs McCulloch’s parlour looked as plush and as fashionable as any I had seen in any magazine. It was a large room with high ceilings, furnished in the heaviest mahogany. There were drapes at the windows, too thick in the heat of the late summer, but a welcome comfort, no doubt, when the long winter came and the snow lay thick. This afternoon the drapes were pulled back, the windows were thrown open to the hot, dry street, and thick shafts of dust-dappled sunlight poured into the room.

Aunt Philippa saw me glancing up at the glass chandelier above our heads. It was the largest I had ever laid eyes on outside of a theatre. She clapped her hands with glee: ‘It’s from Italy!’ she cried. ‘I’m so glad you have spotted it! I simply
knew
you would spot it. Being an Italian. I bought it in Denver but it was put together all the way back in Italy! Can you believe it? I gaze at that chandelier every single day, Mrs di Lelpeodi … And I say to myself: how in the heck – if you’ll excuse my language – how in ding’s name did they get that great big thing all the way across the ocean and all the way across to this great land of ours – and not a break or a chip in it anywhere to be found?’ She shook her head at the wonder of it. ‘Anyhow,’ she continued, ‘I just knew you’d appreciate it. Being from Italy and all. I only hope it won’t make you too homesick.’

Aunt Philippa dragged me around the room, introducing me carefully, slowly, and differently to each one of the ladies. This then, was the cream of Trinidad. If not quite Mrs Astor’s Four Hundred, then Mrs McCulloch’s Twenty-Five: old and young, tall and short, fat and thin, and yet somehow uncannily similar. One or two of them, I was certain, looked at me strangely, as if they felt they had seen my face before. But I stuck to the plan. Talked in my Italian accent, looked them full in the eye and silently dared them to voice their doubts.

They didn’t. They had other matters on their minds. The perfection of the McCullough honeycake, the evil of the Unions: above all, the naughtiness of Inez for failing to find a husband and settle down.

‘She needs a man with a strong will,’ they said between mouthfuls of pastry, as if it was something that had been said so often, and for so long, there was no need to wait until she was out of earshot to say it again. ‘Someone who can take her in hand,’ they agreed. ‘Mrs McCulloch has spoiled her. That’s the problem. And now it’s hardly a surprise poor Mrs McCulloch has a weak heart – who knows how long she’ll be here to look out for her headstrong niece. And naughty Inez, almost an old maid.’

‘Mrs Butterworth!’ Inez smiled affectionately. ‘You are too old fashioned! I am a long way from being an old maid, and in any case I don’t need a man to look after me. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!’

‘Every woman needs a man, dear. And every man needs a good wife.’

But Inez, glowing from her secret affair, only shook her head and smiled.

The conversation moved on. From the unseemliness of Inez to the lawlessness on the streets. Somebody said, ‘Anyone remotely associated to those horrible Unions should be shot. Pure and simple.’ And somebody else said: ‘Starve them to death, I say. Save yourself the cost of bullets.’

Inez said: ‘I think the miners have a great deal to complain about. Somebody has to fight for them.’

But beyond Aunt Philippa’s playful swat – an affectionate, ‘
Oh Inez you silly-billy-goat. You know you haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about!
’, nobody seemed to hear her. They certainly paid no attention. At length, Mrs McCulloch cleared her throat, and tinged teaspoon onto teacup until the ladies fell silent.

I took my place by the finest piano in Trinidad. Chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle around it. I waited for the ladies to be seated.

‘Ladies,’ began Inez, standing before them, her back to me. ‘Until two weeks ago I had never met Signora Maria di Leopaldi. I was lucky enough to encounter her leafing through our outstanding music section at the library. When I asked her if there was anything I might be able to help her locate, she told me she was in search of a transcript of
La Traviata
, that memorable opera written by the great Italian composer, Giuseppe Verdi …’

At this point, encouraged by extreme nervousness, I began to feel bubbles of laughter rising from the pit of my stomach. From the sound of her voice, I wondered if Inez was similarly struggling.

‘Ladies, not only was Mrs di Leopaldi
looking
at opera books, I have to tell you that, although she was quite unaware of it at the time, she was actually
singing
opera too! Quietly:
oh so quietly.
Under her
oh-so-Italian
breath.’

I bit the inside of my cheeks.

‘And I declare,
that voice
! Never before have I been so privileged to hear such a sound!’

I coughed.

In front of me, I could hear her for certain now, swallowing back her own laughter.

‘An angel’s voice!’ she declared confidently. (She had never heard me sing.) ‘Well – knowing how well our own little music club would appreciate such a wonder, I accosted her
at once
! And here she is! It is with real pride that I present to you: Mrs Leopaldi of Verona!’

Daintily, they began to applaud me. But then Inez held up her hand for silence.

‘Before I leave my friend to transport you all to Italy with her fine music – and trust me, she will! – I must warn you
now
that this extraordinarily talented lady is currently only intending to spend a single week in Trinidad before climbing back onto that train and heading on West to Hollywood, where –
listen to this! –
it is her intention to set up a small singing school for ladies …
Ladies!
Do you hear me? It is up to us to prevent her! She has taken rooms for a single week at the Columbia Hotel, where she has a piano at her disposal. I urge you to approach her, before it’s too late. Take your first lesson with her there at the Columbia and, if she satisfies, well then, book her until Christmas! She has taken a great shine to our small town and she has assured me that if, between us all, we can provide her with enough work to remain here in Trinidad, then remain here in Trinidad she certainly will! I’m convinced there’s not a soul among us who wouldn’t benefit from some outstanding singing tuition … And then, ladies, who knows? Perhaps, with Mrs Leopaldi’s help, we can bring some much-needed music to these troubled streets of ours!’

‘Here, here!’ the ladies chirruped. ‘Bravo!’

‘We need you Mrs Lepodarri! Don’t you dare to abandon us!’

I sang to the johns from time to time, but it had been seven years since I’d sung before an audience of more than one. I had forgotten how alarming it was. I fumbled the first chord, and then the next. But then, somehow – just as they always used to – my fears washed away and everything fell into place.

It wasn’t Inez and her storytelling which was my undoing. It was me, who kept singing for far too long. I was only meant to sing three songs, and then our plan had been for me to break for further tea and pastries, so that Inez and I could canvas for students. But the ladies kept asking for more songs and I was so flattered, and was having such a wonderful time, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.

Midway through the sixth or seventh ditty, the drawing-room door opened softly and somebody joined us, a fact I was only dimly aware of until I finished singing and the applause had started to fade.

‘Cedric Hitchens!’ cried Mrs McCulloch, fluttering up to greet him. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Don’t you know this is a
ladies’
event!’ She tapped him playfully – or perhaps, to get his attention, since his eyes were fixed on me: ‘It’s a
Ladies’
Music Club, Mr Hitchens!’

‘I heard the music from the street,’ he said. ‘I could hardly believe my ears – such a beautiful, individual singing voice, right here in the middle of Trinidad. I just couldn’t resist coming in.’

‘Well, honey, now that you’re here, you had better meet the wonderful Mrs di Lepodi of Ronoma, Italy. She’s an opera singer, and she’s written a book, if you please, and she’s come all the way from
Italy
!Inez found her in the library and positively dragged her here to see us! And now she’s going to teach us all to sing, if only we can persuade her to stay right here in Trinidad, and bring some music to our troubled streets, and absolutely agree not to climb back on that train to California.’

‘Bravo!’ cried the ladies. ‘Hoorah for Mrs Lappolli!’

He said: ‘Well, and ain’t
that
something? … All the way from Italy, you say?’

He smelled of tobacco and uncooked offal. It’s just about all I could ever remember about him. And my borrowed soap (but they all smell of that). And he asked me to sing for him whenever he visited and his prick was as thin and bent as a half-snapped pencil.

11

He leaned against the doorframe to watch as I took my leave. He didn’t say anything to expose me. Why would he? I might have been tempted to repay the favour.

‘Don’t forget,’ Inez called out over the hubbub, ‘you will find Mrs di Leopaldi at the Columbia for one week only! Hurry now! Or we may miss the chance …’

She followed me to the front door.

‘Oh God Dora. Is it …?’ she whispered, her face crestfallen, ‘Is it what I think?’

I nodded, too disappointed to look at her. ‘It was crazy of me ever to think it might work.’

I stepped out into the bright sunlight, onto the high stone McCulloch porch. Inez tugged my sleeve. ‘Do you suppose he’ll say something?’ she asked. ‘Are we … Am I … to be exposed?’

‘Not you,’ I said. ‘Just stick to your story. They will assume I lied to you.’

‘All right, but—’

But I couldn’t bear to linger a moment longer. I thanked her for trying to help me, detached her hand from my clothing and turned away. I heard her calling my name but in my haste to return to the part of town where I belonged, I had already broken into a run.

I nursed my disappointment quietly, with well-practised skill. Nobody could have guessed at my wretchedness, and of course I’d not mentioned my plans – or their failure – to anyone in Plum Street. They were my secret.

Nevertheless, when Phoebe sidled up to me a few evenings later and invited me for tea in her private rooms, I feared the worst.

‘Are you unhappy, Dora?’ she asked, her beady eyes on my face.

‘What? Not in the least!’ I replied.

‘It’s what I thought. We are a
happy
family, aren’t we, Dora? Here in Plum Street.’ She gave a heartless tinkle of laughter, and offered me cake. ‘Only I’ve been hearing the oddest stories!’

‘What kind of stories?’

She bit into her cake. ‘Try some!’ she said. ‘It’s delicious.’ There were crumbs at the sides of her mouth and I stared at her, unable to look away. The sight of them there made me queasy.

‘What kind of stories?’ I said again.

I denied everything as convincingly as I needed to. Not all her details were correct, in any case, but she had grasped the nub of the thing: namely that I was trying to leave the house, and to set up a separate existence right under her nose here in Trinidad, and in between the heartless tinkles and my denials, and the mouthfuls of cake, she succeeded in putting the fear of God into me. She made it quite clear: as long as I lived in Trinidad, I would be at Plum Street; and I would be at Plum Street until such a time as she decided I should leave.

‘I look after my girls,’ she said, brushing the crumbs from her lilac silk lap. ‘And my girls look after me.’

I didn’t go near the Columbia Hotel after that, but Inez did. She told me she dropped in several times to find out if there were any enquiries. There were not. The rooms – and the piano – remained silent the entire week. I saw Cedric Hitchens, motoring up Sante Fe Avenue with his smiling wife beside him, and a picnic hamper in the trunk. I had no wish to be Mrs Cedric Hitchens. None whatsoever. And yet, just for that moment, her bovine complacency, her dumb comfort, left me breathless with lonesomeness.