The Songbird (56 page)

‘Call it intuition,' he said softly, and tucked her arm into his.

But now he was leaving and didn't know when he would be back in England.

‘I'll miss you, Anthony,' she said shyly.

‘How much?' he asked, his eyes tender on her face.

She blinked. She felt vulnerable and lost. Could she ever trust again? ‘A lot,' she said huskily.

The train steamed in and his parting words were lost in the noise of clanking wheels and engine, the hiss of steam, the cries of porters, engine driver and van guard, and the rush of passengers dashing to claim their seats.

‘What?' she shouted, ‘I didn't hear!'

‘It will keep,' he said, and bent to kiss her cheek before picking up his overnight bag. ‘Take care of yourself, Poppy.' He gave her a wistful smile. ‘Keep on singing.'

She exhaled a breath. ‘When will I see you again?'

He looked steadily at her. ‘Whenever you're ready,' he said, before turning to board the train.

Poppy walked slowly back to Savile Street. She felt exhausted, and as if she was in limbo. I'll rest for a while, she thought, then play the piano and sing a little, perhaps go back to the beginning and practise, as I always used to. Her thoughts turned back to Anthony. What was it he had said as the engine blew off that screeching steam? She hunched into herself. I'm missing him already, she realized. He seemed so different, at home, away from the theatre. He's quite a different person.

She stopped at the corner of Savile Street, and on a sudden impulse turned up George Street and rang the bell of Miss Eloise's rooms.

Miss Eloise stared in amazement when she opened the door and saw Poppy standing there. ‘My goodness!' she exclaimed. ‘Can it be? Poppy! Come in. Come in. How lovely to see you.' They climbed the stairs to her rooms and she clapped her hands in delight. ‘I never thought— Sit down, do. Tea? Yes? Well, I didn't think you would ever have the time to come and see me again,' she chatted as she brewed a pot of tea. ‘I know how busy you are; that you've been travelling abroad— Oh, yes,' she said, seeing Poppy's surprised expression. ‘I have followed your career avidly, as did Miss Davina, who, I'm sorry to say, has now left the area to live with her niece.'

‘You must miss her,' Poppy said, knowing of their long friendship.

‘I do,' Miss Eloise said. ‘I feel quite lonely sometimes, but I play the piano and I sing, and music is my companion. But why are you home?' she asked. ‘Are you between engagements? I read of your success in France, but nothing recently.'

‘I – I have been indisposed,' Poppy murmured. ‘A personal matter left me unwell.'

‘Ah!' Miss Eloise said knowingly. ‘A matter of the heart, perhaps?'

Poppy nodded, unwilling to say more.

‘Thank goodness, I have never suffered so,' Miss Eloise poured the tea into fine china cups. ‘I have never felt the thrill or loss of love for another person. My music has been my one and only love, but if I have two regrets in my life, one is that I didn't have a child, which, of course, was impossible without a husband; and the other is that I never travelled to Italy and heard opera in its rightful home.'

She clasped her hands together and lifted her eyes. ‘To hear the works of Rossini in Naples or Rome. Bellini or Verdi in Milan. That is –
was
– my dream.' She lifted her shoulders. ‘But, alas, it is too late now. I am too old, and I have no companion. But you, Poppy,' she shook a finger, and Poppy smiled, recalling the familiar gesture, ‘that is what you must do whilst you are young. Go to Italy and hear the great composers.'

Poppy stayed with her father all summer. She slept until late in the morning and was indulged by her father and Nan. She served coffee in the coffee shop and chatted to the customers, and spent time wandering round the town, looking in the shops in Whitefriargate, strolling down to the pier and watching the ships tossing on the choppy water as they came up and down the busy estuary. She visited the theatre, sometimes taking Mattie with her. They went to variety shows at the Mechanics, which Mattie loved, especially enjoying the living tableaux and performing birds and animals.

But she Went alone to the Gough and Davy promotion of a Grand Concert at the Assembly Rooms, which featured well-known singers and instrumentalists. Miss King, contralto, Miss Ribollo, soprano, and the popular tenor, Mr James Leyland. The soloist Miss Clara Asher of the London Philharmonic Orchestra played the pianoforte, and Poppy closed her eyes as she listened and thought of Anthony, and as she sat watching the performers she knew that that was where she wanted to be, up there on the stage, singing.

She wrote to Anthony, shy, halting letters, and he wrote to her. His letters were amusing as he told of the people he was meeting and the towns he was playing in. They were solicitous as he asked about her, affectionate and tender in tone.

As summer receded, Poppy visited Miss Eloise again and asked her to give her some coaching, which she did, telling her that her voice had improved and matured since she had last heard her. ‘I was wrong when I said that your voice wasn't suitable for operetta,' she admitted. ‘You have had a good coach. Much better than I,' and Poppy told her about Marian Bennett and of their visit to France.

‘But you have also experienced life,' Miss Eloise told her. ‘This is in your voice too.'

Without really intending to, Poppy confided in her about her lost love, though not Charlie's name, and about working at the Pit Stop, and her friendship with the pianist Anthony Marino.

‘You must learn to love again, my dear,' Miss Eloise said kindly. ‘You are only young. You are resilient, though you may not think so at the moment.'

Nan told her much the same thing, shyly adding, ‘Look at your pa and me. Would you ever think that we could become fond of someone else at our age? I shall be forty-two this year.'

Poppy laughed. Nan had a pretty bloom on her, and her father seemed to be younger and merrier than he had been in a long time. ‘You're in your prime, Nan,' she told her. ‘I never realized you were so lovely.'

Nan patted Poppy's arm. ‘Face up to life, Poppy,' she said softly. ‘Wake up and look at what's in front of you. Take a chance. Don't be afraid of being hurt.' She kissed her cheek. ‘Charlie wasn't meant for you. He wouldn't have made you happy. He isn't 'loving kind. But there's someone else who is.'

The following week, Poppy packed her trunk and then walked to the station to book a ticket for London for the next day. ‘I'm ready to go back, Pa,' she said on her return. ‘I'm ready to sing and take up my life again.'

His eyes were sad at the thought of her imminent departure, but he nodded. ‘Aye,' he said gruffly. ‘There are songs to sing, Poppy. We must all sing them and find that life's worthwhile after all.'

She hired a cab at King's Cross station and had her trunk delivered to the Marinos', but asked the driver to drop her off at Dan's office in St Martin's Lane. ‘I need to work,' she told him after he had joyfully greeted her. She gazed steadily at him. ‘But I want to go abroad. To Italy.'

‘Who'll go with you?' he asked, rubbing his chin.

‘Wh-what?'

‘You can't go alone. You're not a music hall performer! You have a reputation to consider. And I know that Marian can't go. Jeanette is expecting another child and she'll want to be with her.'

‘Then I'll go alone,' she said firmly. She hadn't considered this aspect.

He shook his head. ‘I won't book you! As your agent I must consider your safety as well as your reputation.'

She sat silently thinking as he went into the outer office to speak to Miss Battle. When he came back she had a sparkle in her eyes. ‘How long will it take to make bookings, if I find someone to come with me?'

‘Depends which theatre or concert hall has a vacancy. Why? What's the hurry?' he asked. ‘I can get engagements in London almost immediately.'

‘It has to be Italy,' she said. ‘It's important.'

He gave a wide grin of comprehension. ‘All right! Make your arrangements and I'll see what I can do. Florence would be a good place to start,' he added, his smile crinkling his eyes. ‘A very good place indeed.'

She walked to the Marinos' where Mario greeted her like a long-lost relative. ‘You must always stay with us,' he said. ‘Don't think of staying anywhere else.'

‘I'm going to Italy,' she told him, which silenced him for a moment, then he called to his wife.

‘Rosina!' he shouted. ‘Poppy! She is going to Italy!'

Poppy wrote a letter to Miss Eloise asking her if she would accompany her to Italy, and adding that she would of course pay travel expenses. A reply came back immediately to say that Miss Eloise was already packing a trunk, and that she would take care of her own expenditure, as she had a considerable fortune and nothing to spend it on.

Dan made the travel arrangements, and Miss Eloise arrived a week later. She looked exceedingly elegant, having spent a good deal of money on new clothes for the journey. Her dolman cashmere coat was trimmed with astrakhan, and her very large velvet hat supported plumes and feathers. In her hand she carried a long umbrella. ‘You have no conception, my dear,' she explained to Poppy who had met her at King's Cross station to take her to the Marinos' where they were to spend the night, ‘how that money has been burning in my bank account for so many years, just waiting for the opportunity to be used!'

Rosina and Dan came to see them off on the boat train, and Rosina gave her a list of things she must tell Anthony, ‘if by any chance you see 'im,' she added as if it were a side issue. ‘For I quite understand that you might not! Italy is a
beeg
country, but you must ask 'im for to meet my cousins and family also, if you can.'

They had smiled at each other in an implicit understanding, though Poppy was rather shy at meeting her eyes. She thinks she knows why I'm going, she thought, when I don't even know for sure if I do.

It was a long and tiring journey, but Miss Eloise was an excellent travelling companion. She organized porters and harangued station officials when trains were late or didn't arrive, and had their hotel accommodation changed if she thought it unsuitable. ‘I am so enjoying myself,' she told Poppy. ‘I feel as if I'm thirty-five instead of fifty-five.'

Poppy became more and more nervous and apprehensive the nearer they came to Florence. Am I being foolish again? Have I misunderstood? And perhaps Anthony might have moved on. Or he might not be pleased to see me when he's in the middle of a tour. I'm too impulsive; I should have sent a telegram to warn him. I still could, I suppose. She fiddled in her handbag to look for Anthony's address and his list of engagements in Florence, which Dan had given her. ‘Just in case you should be in the vicinity,' he'd explained. ‘And you must wire me as soon as you're there and I'll send details of engagements when I make them.'

They arrived in Florence at four o'clock in the afternoon. The warm October sun shone on the mellow architecture of palaces, churches and the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. ‘How wonderful,' Miss Eloise exclaimed, looking out of the hotel window. ‘I can't believe that I'm really here. Tomorrow we must explore. Forgive me, my dear, but I cannot do more tonight than have a little supper and seek my bed. But I'm sure it will be perfectly safe for you to take a walk and view the sights, if you should wish to do so.'

‘Yes,' Poppy breathed nervously. ‘That is what I would like to do. I've been sitting for too long.'

She drank a cup of China tea in her room, and then bathed and changed into a gown of white spotted muslin, over an underdress of pale green silk taffeta. The sleeves were also lined in green to the elbow, and fell to a frill of white lace at the wrist. She brushed her hair and pinned it up, leaving a few tendrils around her cheeks, and put on a straw hat adorned with flowers and a short veil.

She knocked on her companion's door. ‘I'll perhaps see you at supper, Miss Eloise,' she said nervously. ‘Or I – I might go to a concert.'

‘Of course.' Miss Eloise raised her eyebrows. ‘Would you like me to come with you?'

‘No, no,' Poppy hastily assured her. ‘I shall be quite all right; there are so many visitors about. You have your rest,' and carrying her white parasol, she walked out of the hotel.

Miss Eloise looked out of the bedroom window and watched her; she saw heads turn and gentlemen raise their hats or give small bows. She sighed. Turning away, she slipped off her gown, took off her shoes, unhooked her stays and put on a silk robe; then she poured a glass of wine, and sitting down in a comfortable chair by the window picked up her book,
Italian for the Traveller
.

Poppy walked steadily towards the street where the concert hall stood. She had studied the map so many times that she was quite sure she knew how to find it. It was, according to the map, close by the church of Santa Croce, which she was approaching now. She stood for a moment and gazed at the poster outside the building.
Il concerto
, she read, and Antonio Marino's name was featured at the very top.

People were going in and appeared to have tickets, which they were handing in at the door. She followed them, and going to the desk asked haltingly, ‘
Buona sera. Per favore, vorrei un biglietto
.'

‘
No, signorina
,' the booking clerk said. ‘
Non può entrare, lo spettacolo è iniziato
.'

Poppy put her hand to her mouth, her eyes open wide. What was he saying? That she couldn't go in?

‘It ees too late. It ees starting now,' the clerk explained. ‘You understand, signorina?'

‘But,' Poppy pointed to the last few stragglers who had just gone in. ‘They—' She put her hand to her chest. ‘I'm a –
sono un amica di
– a friend of Signor Marino.'