The Songbird (28 page)

‘Goodness,' she murmured. Then, embarrassed, she said feebly, ‘They've got my age wrong.'

‘But they got your name right!' Anthony said playfully. ‘That's what's important. Don't split hairs! I must go,' he added. ‘We've got an hour and then we're back on stage. Go and gargle or something, but rest your voice.' He hesitated, and then said, ‘Don't mention the review to the others, not unless they do. Performers can be a bit touchy.'

‘But you're not,' she said.

‘I'm an old hand.' He smiled. ‘I don't take too much notice. I know when I'm playing well. I don't need a newspaper critic to tell me.'

Poppy took a walk by the sea and then went for a cup of tea and a sandwich. She felt exultant about the review and kept reading it and smiling to herself. I must buy another copy and send it to Pa, she thought. He'll be so thrilled.

She walked back to the theatre and carefully folded the paper and put it into her bag. She was again first into the dressing room but Ronny and Ena came in soon after. She could hear them arguing as they came along the corridor. ‘What does he mean?' Ena said as she opened the door. ‘Their usual aplomb! What's that supposed to mean? Ah, here she is!' she said, seeing Poppy. ‘The star of the show.'

Poppy looked up, a feigned expression of surprise on her face. ‘What?'

‘Don't tell me you haven't read the review,' Ena said. ‘Of course you have! Rushed out to buy up half a dozen copies, I expect.'

‘N-no. Mr Bradshaw gave me a copy,' Poppy said in a low voice. ‘I'd forgotten that it was going to be in.'

‘And he'll have offered you top billing, I expect?' Ena said sarcastically. ‘That's what he always does with new talent. Puts them top of the bill and they just can't cope with it.'

The door crashed open and Nancy Martell rushed in. She had a rolled-up copy of the newspaper in her hand. ‘Have you seen this? Who does he think he is? Jumped up little journalist. What does he know about knockabout comedy? I've played this act up and down the coast. If it's good enough for Bournemouth it's good enough for Brighton.'

She didn't notice Ena and Ronny mouthing a parody of the last sentence, but Poppy did. She stifled a laugh, but Nancy heard it. ‘Think you're so clever, don't you?' she snarled. ‘Well, when you've been on the boards as long as I have, you can be called a star. Until then you're just a flash in the pan! I'll show 'em fresh material,' she said fiercely, throwing off her coat and letting it fall on the floor. ‘I'll give them something to titter about.'

‘For heaven's sake, Nance,' Ronny cut in. ‘It's only a bleeding little tinpot paper! We've all had bad reviews at some time or other. You just have to rise above them.'

‘That's what I'm going to do,' Nancy muttered. ‘I'll give them something to think about tonight.'

She took off her skirt and bodice, and stepped into the padded stage costume, buttoning it up over her ample figure. Then she sat down and proceeded to put on her usual dark foundation cream, and stuck on the ginger eyebrows on top of her own dark ones, but instead of putting the hairnet over her scraped back dark hair she peeled off the hair, revealing a completely bald pate. She turned to look at the three of them, and said, in a deep masculine voice, ‘So what about that, ladies? That'll give them something to write about, won't it?' She turned to Poppy. ‘They'll not be talking about you tonight, darlin'. They'll be talking about Mr Norman Martell who's been fooling 'em all these years.'

Ena stood up. She was wearing only her slip and silk stockings. ‘Get out!' she shouted, reaching for a wrap. ‘Get out! You perverted vulgar hypocrite! How dare you come in here?'

‘Hark at her!' Nance bawled. ‘You ain't showing nuffink I ain't seen before, and besides, I wouldn't be interested. And if I was,' he spat out, ‘I wouldn't look twice at you!'

Ronny got up from her chair and taking one long stride she smacked Nancy Martell across the face. ‘I don't care who you are or what you get up to, but you don't belong in here! This is the female dressing room. Go and tell Bradshaw you want your own room if the men don't want you in theirs.'

Martell flushed, but didn't reply or retaliate. He scooped the make-up, the hairbrush, the pins and the ginger wig into the voluminous apron he wore round his waist and stormed out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

‘Well!' Ronny sat back in her chair. 'I just can't believe it! Ten years we've known that woman and never an inkling!'

‘I've always thought there was something odd about her!' Ena scowled and wrinkled her nose. ‘But I don't understand. There are plenty of men dressing up as dames. Nobody doubts who they are. Why would he pass himself off as a woman acting a woman, and an ugly one at that?' She shivered and pulled her wrap round her. ‘He's in the wrong box, isn't he? Do you think the men know? My Gawd,' she choked. ‘Can't you see the headlines?'

‘Yes, I can,' Ronny said quietly. ‘And it won't do for it to get out that we've been sharing a dressing room with a man! Heaven knows, our reputations are fragile enough.'

Poppy stared at them. The incident, raw and ugly, had unnerved her. Thank goodness she had always been changed into her stage clothes by the time Nance Martell came into the dressing room. She – he – was always late and now Poppy wondered whether he was giving everyone the chance to be fully dressed before he came in. He didn't look like a man, she thought. In his ordinary clothes with his wig on, he looked like a woman, if a rather broad-shouldered one. His skin was soft and pale. Suddenly she felt sorry for him and she thought of what her father had said about meeting people who were not run of the mill like them. Well, Nancy Martell was certainly not like anyone she had met before.

The evening show went on as usual, except that Nancy Martell didn't appear, being ‘indisposed', Jack Bradshaw announced to the audience. Poppy opened the second half and sang an extra song, and the Terry Sisters did another dance routine to make up for the comedian's absence.

Bradshaw told them later that he had persuaded Martell not to disclose his secret, as the last thing they wanted at the theatre was the police descending on them, tracing the scent of a scandal. ‘They won't think it amusing that we thought Martell was a woman,' he told the assembled company. ‘This has got to be kept quiet.'

‘Where's he gone?' Bill Baloney asked. ‘Is he coming back?'

‘No,' Bradshaw said. ‘I've suggested he changes his name and starts again as a character comedian.' He drew on his cigar. ‘But he'll not be coming back here.'

They were all subdued. The discovery that Martell was really a man masquerading as a woman could have closed down the theatre and they would all have been looking for other bookings; but Bradshaw was sharp and, immediately after asking Martell to leave, he took on a local youth who could whistle like a bird and was available for the Saturday performances.

‘Who'll take your place, Anthony?' Poppy asked him after the Saturday matinee. The posters hadn't yet been changed and wouldn't be until Sunday morning.

‘Some fellow with performing dogs,' he said. ‘Apparently they can count and sing.' He grinned. ‘Though I don't think they can play the piano.'

‘I feel as if I've been here for ever,' Poppy said. ‘I can't believe it's only been a week. So much has happened. And I feel as if I've known you such a long time. I wish you were staying,' she said wistfully.

They were leaning over the rails, gazing at the sea. Poppy's hair was blowing across her face, and Anthony brushed it back to look at her as he answered. ‘You'll be all right. And the time will pass quickly enough to the end of November, and maybe we'll meet up again when you're next in London?'

She nodded thoughtfully. Dan must have told him he'd asked her to stay at Bradshaw's until the end of November, because she hadn't.

‘Poppy?' He bent his head to look at her. ‘What?'

‘Did Dan tell you I was leaving in November?' She pouted. ‘Did you know before I did?'

‘Ah!' he said. ‘So I'm found out!' He rubbed his chin. ‘Confession time! I've known Dan a lot of years,' he said, ‘and because I don't stay in one place for very long I get to see other performers. Dan uses me as a sort of scout, and I let him know who's doing well.'

He put his finger under her chin so that she would look at him, for she'd turned her head away. ‘Don't sulk,' he admonished. ‘I'm not a spy! I telegraphed him after your performance on Monday evening and told him how good you were and that Bradshaw would probably ask you to stay on. I also told him,' he added, ‘that you deserved somewhere better.'

‘Oh,' she said, mollified. ‘I'm so green, aren't I? I don't know how things are done.'

‘After only a week, I think you've learned a lot.' He smiled. ‘Think how much more confident you were for today's matinee than you were on Monday!'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘I am.' Then she gave a great sigh of pleasure. ‘And then tonight,' she said, ‘Charlie is coming to see the show!'

‘Ah!' he said. ‘Yes. Charlie!' His expression became serious. ‘Don't let him influence you, Poppy. Remember you're now a professional. You're not just singing to impress him. There's the rest of the audience too!'

It was a reproof and for a moment she was annoyed that he thought she might forget everyone else but Charlie. But I might have done, she considered. I might have. She looked up at him. ‘I won't forget.'

‘Good girl,' he said, and bent to kiss her cheek and smiled at her surprise. ‘That's in case I don't have a chance to say goodbye.'

She was nervous again before the evening performance. It was a full house and a rowdy one. She went into the wings to watch part of the first half and could hear the banter of the audience. They whistled along with the young whistler, though he wasn't deterred, and they called out encouragement to the tumbler as he performed his routine. The tenor was heckled and quite put off his music.

At the interval Poppy went back to the dressing room and changed her slippers for the red shoes and pinned a flower in her hair. The Terry Sisters were dressed and sitting smoking, making a thick fug in the room. Both had a glass of wine in their hands. A knock came on the door. ‘Flowers for Miss Mazzini,' the door keeper called out.

‘Ooh!' Ronny and Ena exclaimed, sitting up. ‘An admirer!'

Poppy went to the door and took the bouquet of red and cream roses, sweet peas and carnations. A card was slipped inside. She took a trembling breath. It had to be from Charlie.

‘With best wishes for tonight,' she read. ‘With love from Anthony.'

‘Oh!' Tears sprang to her eyes. Anthony! How sweet and kind. Her mouth trembled. But nothing from Charlie.

She rushed back to the door. ‘Wait,' she called to the door keeper. ‘Is there anything else? A note or anything?'

He shook his head. ‘Nothing else, miss. Sorry.'

‘Not what you were expecting, dearie?' Ena drew lazily on her cigar. ‘Think yourself lucky to get anything at all.'

‘We used to,' Ronny declared. ‘When we were first starting out. Who're they from then?' she asked. ‘Not the gentleman who makes the shoes?'

‘No,' she said softly. ‘They're from Anthony Marino. He's leaving the show tonight.'

They both raised their eyebrows. ‘Very nice too,' Ronny said. ‘He's taken a shine to you, obviously. He usually keeps himself to himself. A bit aloof, you know.'

‘That's because he's not really one of us.' Ena looked at herself in the mirror and tapped the corners of her mouth with a fingertip. ‘He's concert hall, isn't he? Not music hall like we are.'

Poppy buried her face in the bouquet to hide her disappointment. It smelt sweet and heady. The flowers were beautiful, even if they weren't from Charlie.

‘Five minutes, Miss Mazzini!' A rap on the door and the muffled tones of the callboy alerted her.

‘Thank you,' she called back.

‘This is your first Saturday night, isn't it?' Ronny asked, cupping her chin in her hand. Her fingernails were long and red. ‘Well, all the best. They're in a merry old mood out there.'

Poppy walked towards the wings. The stagehands were in position to open the fire curtain. Jack Bradshaw, in a silk top hat, tailcoat and a white cravat, stood waiting. She had told Miss Jenkinson that she wouldn't dance the mazurka, but would save her breath and energy for the songs. She would start with ‘Come Pretty May', then the popular sweetheart song, and finally ‘Forever True'. Miss Jenkinson had told her that next week she had asked the violinist to accompany her.

She heard the opening bars of the first song and the stagehands, looking in her direction, began to open the curtain. Jack Bradshaw stepped forward and the audience whooped. He bowed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. We have many fine performers entertaining you this evening, and none finer than the talented –
Miss
–
Poppy
–
Mazzini
.'

He held out his hand and as Poppy ran onto the stage he backed away behind the curtains. The audience cheered, the most noise coming from the gallery. ‘Poppy – Poppy! Come on, give us a love song!' They were men's voices and she had to raise her own voice to be heard. ‘Shh,' some of the audience admonished, but Poppy smiled and smiled and continued with the song.

There was tremendous applause as she finished, and again she could hear voices from the gallery. ‘She's a friend of ours, ain't you, Poppy?' someone called and again they were shushed. She sang the second song and they were quieter until she was finished, then applause and cheers broke out again. She took a bow. ‘For my final song,' she began, and by the piano in the orchestra pit she detected some movement, ‘I would like to sing “Forever True”, composed by Anthony Marino.'