The Songbird (25 page)

Poppy watched her through the windows of the swinging doors. She has paid me such a compliment, she mused. So why do I feel so sad?

Poppy stepped outside and was about to walk back to her diggings for an hour's rest before the evening show when a voice hailed her from the stage door at the side of the building. It was Anthony.

‘Jack Bradshaw's looking for you,' he called, coming towards her. He was dressed again in his warm jumper and an overcoat, with woollen gloves on his hands. ‘He wants to see you about tonight's show.'

‘Oh!' Immediately she was anxious and it must have shown in her face because Anthony smiled. ‘Don't be scared,' he said. ‘It won't be anything to worry about.'

‘Well, he does scare me,' she said. ‘His voice is so loud.'

‘That's because he's deaf. He doesn't know he's shouting. I'm just off for a walk by the sea,' he said. ‘Want to come?'

‘I'd better see what he wants,' she said reluctantly. ‘I'll catch you up.'

She walked down the narrow passage from the stage door vestibule towards Jack Bradshaw's small office. She saw him through the open door. He was sitting at his desk smoking a cigar and coughing. She called out, ‘Did you want a word, Mr Bradshaw?'

He jumped and looked up. ‘Didn't hear you,' he spluttered. ‘You girls will creep about!'

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Did you want me?' Behind her, towards the stage, she could hear voices and laughter as Bill Baloney concluded his act, and then applause and the orchestra playing the finale as the audience prepared to depart.

‘I just wanted to say, will you swap a couple of numbers round for tonight? Put that love song in the middle and finish with something merry. A bit cheeky, maybe?' He narrowed his eyes as he drew on the cigar. ‘That's what they like of an evening. Have a word with Miss Jenkinson and arrange it.'

‘Yes.' She was relieved it was nothing more than that. ‘Was I all right?' she asked.

‘What?' He seemed puzzled by the question.

‘My act! Was it all right?' I've obviously made a huge impression on him, she thought.

‘Oh! Yes. Fine. Fine.' He looked her over. ‘But tonight is the telling time. We've two charabanc parties coming in. We'll see how they like you. That's why I say make it a bit saucy!'

And so she didn't try to catch up with Anthony but stayed behind to rehearse another song with Miss Jenkinson, who pursed her lips when she heard what Mr Bradshaw had said. ‘Well, I suppose he knows what his audiences want,' she said primly. ‘But I would have thought we had sauce enough with the Terry Sisters and Mr Baloney, and that dreadful Nancy Martell, without its coming from the mouth of a sweet young thing like you.'

A sweet young thing. That was how Miss Jenkinson saw her, and probably how the old lady who had spoken to her a little earlier saw her too. And she didn't want to appear brash or bold. She had never sung songs with a double meaning. In fact, she thought ruefully, I've only recently discovered what they mean. She came to a decision.

‘You're right, Miss Jenkinson,' she said. ‘So I won't do it. I'll sing two love songs, and finish with the mazurka, and I won't do the sauce.' She smiled. ‘I'll leave that to the others.'

She was first into the dressing room that evening and sat alone in front of the spotted mirror, looking dispassionately at her face. Her skin was a creamy colour toning with her red hair, and the usual summer freckles on her nose had faded. Ronny's right: my features won't be seen from the back of the theatre. So, foundation cream to give me colour, and then I'll darken my eyebrows, she thought, picking up a pencil. And what colour for my eyes? Green – it's got to be green.

She glanced up as Ronny came in. ‘Hello,' she said through the mirror. ‘I'm putting on more make-up as you suggested.'

Ronny nodded. She looked glum. ‘Good girl.' She sat down and put her feet up on the dressing shelf, her skirt falling around her calves. She gazed at Poppy. ‘Did nobody tell you anything about stage life before you came to Brighton?'

Poppy paused in the act of outlining her eyes. ‘No. I don't really know anyone from the theatre. I had my dance and singing teachers, but that's what they taught me – to dance and sing, and how to stand and how to breathe, but not about appearing in a production.'

‘I can't believe that Dan took you on without any experience and sent you here to Brighton!' Ronny said. ‘To sink or swim! It's so unlike him.'

‘Perhaps he's just trying me out?' Poppy suggested.

Ronny shook her head. ‘No, he wouldn't do that. He has his reputation to think of.' She gave a deep sigh. ‘He must have great faith in you. Expectations! Here.' She swung her feet down and stood up. ‘Let me show you how to do that.' She opened up her own make-up box and brought out a small container and brush. ‘This is what you need for your eyes. Now keep very still so that it doesn't smudge.'

Poppy did as she was told and felt Ronny's light touch around her eyes.

‘Try not to blink for a minute,' Ronny said, stepping back to view the effect. ‘This is called kohl. Arab women use it to darken their eyes and stage people do too.'

Poppy looked in the mirror. Her eyes looked enormous.

‘Now do your lashes if you haven't any false ones.' She peered closer at Poppy's face. ‘Mmm. Perhaps you don't need them. Your lashes are long enough anyway.'

Ronny sat down again, opened her bag and drew out a cheroot. Poppy hadn't seen her smoke before. Ronny lit it and drew until the tip glowed. ‘Want one?' she asked, seeing Poppy watching her.

‘Oh, no, thank you. I don't – at least – I've never—'

‘No?' Ronny's eyebrows rose. ‘Well, no doubt you will before long. Still.' She knitted her eyebrows into a frown and sighed. ‘Stay as sweet as you are for as long as you can.'

Poppy turned back to the mirror. She had half an hour to finish her make-up and get changed. ‘Where's Ena?' she said, brushing rouge onto her cheeks. ‘Isn't it getting late?'

‘Probably.' Ronny drew again on the cheroot, then with it tight between her lips started to peel off her shoes and stockings. ‘As for Ena,' she muttered. ‘I neither know or care.'

‘Oh.' Poppy drew the outline of her mouth with a red pencil, and then filled it in with scarlet. ‘Have you had a row? My brother and I were always falling out when we were little, and we had arguments all the time until—'

‘She's not my sister.' Ronny unfastened the buttons on her dress and let it slip to the floor. Then she picked it up and threw it over a chair. She put her hands on her hips and, clad only in her silk slip, surveyed her reflection in the mirror. She ran her hands over her flat stomach and turned to look at herself sideways. Then she sighed and turned to the rail where their dresses were hanging with a white sheet over them. ‘We're not related.'

‘You're not related?' Poppy stared. ‘But you said that your parents were stage people!'

Ronny shook out her dress, teasing out the feathers. ‘They are. Hers and mine.' She hung the dress at the end of the rail and came to sit in front of the mirror. ‘We met when we were youngsters, about ten or eleven, and just starting out. We were in a dance troupe. Our parents knew each other and they put their heads together and suggested we join up as a double act.' She gave a shrug. ‘We became the Terry Sisters. The public don't know we're not sisters,' she added. ‘Only the stage folk do.'

‘And now you've fallen out,' Poppy said anxiously. ‘Is it serious?'

‘Heavens no,' Ronny said. ‘We argue all the time. We live in each other's pocket, that's the trouble. We've nothing in common. We wouldn't even be friends if it weren't for the act.'

‘I see.' Poppy stepped into her dress and buttoned it up, then fastened on her red shoes. ‘I hope she turns up in time.'

‘She will.' Ronny stubbed out the cheroot. ‘She has to. Nice shoes,' she commented. ‘Very classy.'

‘Handmade!' Poppy beamed and was gratified when Ronny gave a whistle. ‘A friend made them. He's a shoemaker. He's just come to London to work.'

‘I'm impressed!' Ronny said. ‘An admirer?'

‘Mm – yes!' she answered, but before she could explain the door burst open and Ena rushed in, followed by Nancy Martell who pushed past her, saying, ‘I'm on before you. Outa my way.'

Ena dug her elbow into the other woman. ‘Don't you push me, you old hag!'

‘Who you calling an old hag?' Nancy lifted her hand and for a moment Poppy thought she was going to strike out at Ena.

‘That's enough,' Ronny said sharply. ‘There's a show starting in fifteen minutes. Fight outside if you want, but not in here, and not before the show.' She glanced at Poppy who had gasped. ‘Take no notice, darling. Nance is always late and always blames everybody else for it. It's never her fault.'

Nancy transferred her glare to Ronny but didn't speak and took off her outdoor coat, skirt and blouse and sat in front of the mirror. She had pale fleshy shoulders and a thick neck. She covered her dark hair with a hairnet, rubbed foundation cream on her face, stuck on false ginger eyebrows and rouged her cheeks, then put lipstick on her top lip to make a bright cupid's bow. Then she carefully placed a curly ginger wig on her head before stepping into her costume. Ronny and Ena glanced at each other, raised their eyebrows at a common enemy and continued to prepare themselves for the evening performance.

Poppy stood waiting in the wings once more. She wasn't as nervous as she had been for the matinee; rather she was taut with pent-up excitement. She could hear the buzz from the audience and the occasional guffaws and shrieks of raucous laughter. The charabancs have arrived, she thought. Everybody's come for a good time. The tumbler, who was again going on first, and stretching his toes and limbs as before, gave her a grin. ‘House full,' he said, peeping round the edge of the curtain.

Poppy took a breath. She hoped that Mr Bradshaw wouldn't be angry that she wasn't putting in any saucy songs, and mentally rehearsed what she would say to him if he was.

The orchestra began to play, the curtain rose and the show began. Poppy glanced over her shoulder when she heard soft footsteps, thinking it was Anthony, but it was Bill Baloney, the comic and top of the bill. He was a short, plump man, made plumper with padding under his large checked trousers. He stood with his thumbs tucked under his red braces, and with a sombre expression watched the tumbler perform.

‘So who are you?' he asked in a low voice. ‘A dancer?'

Everybody asks if I'm a dancer, Poppy thought; nobody ever asks if I'm a singer. ‘Poppy Mazzini,' she said. ‘I'm a singer and dancer.'

‘Oh,' he muttered, his manner scornful, and moved back towards the dressing rooms.

Poppy blinked and a stagehand standing near shook his head. ‘Take no notice,' he mouthed. ‘He thinks he's a star!'

Jack Bradshaw again announced her as a rising star come fresh from northern England especially to entertain them, and Poppy ran onto the stage, her skirts fluttering. She gave a twirl round the stage and then broke into a song about sweethearts pledging their love beneath a silver moon. She followed with a romantic rendition of a popular love song, and finished with the mazurka, during which the audience clapped and stamped their feet and shouted ‘
Hoy!
'

She bowed and ran off, but was urged on again by Jack Bradshaw to take another bow. ‘Good girl,' he said, as she ran back to the wings. ‘They really liked that.' He seemed to have forgotten that he had asked her to sing something saucy.

She followed the same routine on Tuesday and Wednesday and on Thursday, shortly before the evening performance, someone tapped sharply on the dressing room door. ‘Are you decent, ladies?' a man's voice called. The Terry Sisters both grinned and called in unison, ‘When were we ever decent ladies?' whilst Nancy shouted, ‘Wait,' and pulled a robe round her bare shoulders.

Poppy rose from her stool. She was dressed and ready for the stage. She opened the door and greeted Dan Damone who was standing with three bouquets of flowers in his hands. ‘For my darling girls,' he said extravagantly, giving a bouquet to Poppy and one to each of the Terry Sisters, who both put up their cheeks to be kissed. Poppy blushed and thanked him.

‘I've been getting wonderful reports,' he said. ‘About all of you. And I shall take you all out to supper after the show, so don't go dashing away to your digs.' He turned to Poppy, and patted her under the chin with his hand, then winked and spoke softly. ‘I need to talk to you, Poppy. Don't discuss any future plans with Bradshaw. I've things in mind for you.' He turned to leave, putting his hand on the door. ‘I'll see you a little later. Good evening, Miss Martell.' He nodded politely to Nancy who looked at him with distaste and didn't answer.

Poppy felt elated. Dan had heard about her! How? Who had been to see her at the theatre who knew Dan? I know so little about what goes on. I'm as green as grass. But, she thought as a few minutes later she waited in the wings once more, I must do my very best tonight for he'll be out there watching me. He'll want to know whether I've forgotten that I'm a grocer's daughter, and am now a music hall performer.

Dan had booked a supper table at Orlando's for the four of them. By the smell of the coffee, Poppy was transported back to the time when Dan, Ronny and Ena had come to her father's coffee shop in Hull, though Orlando's was an intimate restaurant and not a grocery. Now wasn't the time to mention it, however, as she realized that this was to be a business meeting. She looked round at the other diners, and hoped that Anthony might be there. But he wasn't and she reflected that it was odd that Dan hadn't wanted to see him as well. After all, he was Anthony's agent too.