After the Friday matinee, Jack Bradshaw called Poppy into his office. ‘I’m making some changes for tonight and tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I want you to open the second half. The juggler will go next, then Tony Marino, and the Terry Sisters will go on before the comic. And don’t forget to spice up your act a bit. That’s what the Friday and Saturday audiences like: a bit of spice. We’ve some competition over at the Alhambra; don’t forget, they’ve got some big names over there.’
I’m opening the second half! ‘Thank you, Mr Bradshaw,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll catch Miss Jenkinson and discuss it with her.’
She almost collided with Anthony as she came out of the office. ‘I’m opening the second half,’ she said excitedly. ‘Mr Bradshaw has just asked me!’
He nodded and smiled. ‘I know. He told me. Want to come for coffee?’
‘Dan Damone told me that you’re leaving the show tomorrow,’ she said as they walked along the street towards a coffee house. ‘I didn’t know. I thought – well, I thought you’d be staying longer.’ She glanced up at him. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said shyly. ‘You’ve been so helpful to me.’
He took her elbow and guided her into a small and steamy café and ordered a pot of coffee.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ he said, helping her off with her coat. ‘When Dan asked me if I’d watch out for this new young singer and help her along, I thought I was letting myself in for nerves, tears and tantrums, and—’
‘Dan asked you to watch out for me?’ She was astonished. ‘Why did he do that?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s like that.’ He gave a little frown. ‘I’m not sure if he’d promised your father he’d find someone to keep an eye on you—’
‘So when you asked me to visit the Royal Pavilion, it was because Dan had asked you to keep me entertained and not because you wanted to go? You were doing him a favour!’ She felt piqued; she’d thought it was because they were going to be friends.
‘No!’ he said earnestly. ‘That wasn’t the reason. Dan wanted me to show you the ropes, to let you know you could come to me if you had any problems.’ His face was set as he realized what she was implying. ‘I asked you to go to the Pavilion because I’ve always wanted to visit it, and because I thought you might like it too. Not because I was asked to. It was nothing to do with Dan.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, lowering her voice and her head. ‘You must have thought me a nuisance to begin with, though? Especially when Mr Bradshaw got my name wrong and we went round changing the posters.’
‘I never thought you a nuisance,’ he insisted. ‘We had fun together, didn’t we? Poppy!’ He reached across the table and clutched her hand. ‘I never thought you a nuisance! Honest!’ He gave her a reassuring grin. ‘I’d have found all kinds of excuses not to be with you if I’d thought that!’
‘Well, thank you anyway,’ she said, not entirely convinced.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘Just to prove it, shall we have supper at Orlando’s tomorrow night? I’m leaving early on Sunday morning – what?’ he asked, on seeing her expression change.
‘Oh!’ she breathed. ‘I can’t! A friend . . . a friend of my brother’s – the one I told you about – is coming to the show.’ She bit her lip in frustration, torn between having supper with Anthony on his last night, and wanting, desperately to see Charlie. ‘He’s asked me out to supper.’
‘Ah!’ Disappointment showed on his face for a second, but then he gave her a quick smile. ‘Well, never mind. We’ll meet up again, I expect.’ He sipped his coffee and glanced at her over the rim of the cup. ‘Is he, er, special? He’s not just a friend of your brother’s?’
She was embarrassed and looked down at the tablecloth. It was white with yellow spots. Here and there were tea and coffee stains and she thought that Nan would never have allowed that at Mazzini’s. ‘I’ve known him a long time.’ She traced round one of the stains with her finger. ‘He still thinks I’m a child.’
He kept his gaze on her face. ‘And you – how do you think of him?’ When she didn’t answer, he said softly, ‘Ah! You love him?’
She nodded, pressing her lips together. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I always have. I think of him whenever I sing love songs.’
‘I see.’ He considered, tapping his lip with his finger. ‘When you sing “Forever True”, do you sing that for him?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘But in the song you’re asking do you love me as I love you? It’s a question,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know the answer?’
‘No.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He still thinks of me as his friend’s little sister, although once—’
‘Well, you can’t blame him for that, Poppy,’ he interjected. ‘You are young; though I’m not saying that you’re too young to know what love is.’ He gazed thoughtfully at her. ‘But men have to be careful around vulnerable young women.’ A slight smile hovered about his mouth. ‘Especially the beautiful ones.’
She blushed. ‘Now you’re embarrassing me,’ she said. ‘I’ve not spoken about Charlie to anyone else before,’ she admitted. ‘But you understand, don’t you?’
He nodded and pursed his lips. ‘Yes. That’s the romantic in me. I’m a songwriter, don’t forget.’
She gave a deep sigh. ‘Will you write a song for me?’
‘For you?’ he asked. ‘Or for Charlie?’
‘It’s the same thing,’ she murmured.
He drew his fingers through the lock of hair that always seemed to fall over one eye. ‘A love song? Unrequited love? Or reciprocated?’ His brown eyes were soft and gentle as he gazed at her. ‘Music is often more appealing if it speaks of lost love, or of tender feelings that are not mutual or returned.’ He gave a wistful smile and looked away. ‘That’s the trend at the moment, anyway.’
‘Well, I don’t know then,’ she said. ‘I can only tell you how I feel. How I’ve always felt.’
He nodded slowly, and then said lightly, ‘Shall I get to meet this paragon? This idol who has stolen your heart?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ll introduce you. Charlie’s bringing some of his friends along. After the show?’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps so. Come on then, Poppy.’ He called for the bill. ‘I must go and rehearse for an hour.’
‘How committed you are,’ she said. ‘You rehearse so often. That’s why your playing is so perfect.’
‘Come with me,’ he said impulsively. ‘You can practise too.’
‘Oh!’ Poppy put her hand to her mouth. ‘I was supposed to speak to Miss Jenkinson about the change of programme tonight!’
‘Naughty girl,’ he admonished. ‘First and foremost you must always be ready for your performance.’ He shook his head at her. ‘Don’t ever leave your rehearsal until the last minute. The musicians can’t guess what you want from them. Perfection is what you must strive for.’
‘Yes, Anthony.’ It was a reproof, if a mild one. ‘I won’t forget again.’
‘You mustn’t.’ He took her arm as they stepped outside. A wind was blowing off the sea and it buffeted them together. ‘You can be a star, Poppy. Top of the tree. But it’s a hard climb.’ He hung on to his hat and Poppy’s skirt flapped around her calves. He looked down at her. ‘And don’t get waylaid by love.’
The theatre was empty apart from the stage door keeper who let them in, and a cleaning woman in the auditorium. There was just one light burning on the stage, and Anthony pushed the piano towards it and then lit a single candle in a candelabra and placed it on top. ‘There,’ he said, giving Poppy some song sheets, and sat at the keyboard. ‘We’ll set the scene. A romantic evening.’ He pointed to the candelabra. ‘The light of the moon. And a young man or woman in love.’ He ran his fingers gently over the keys. ‘Choose the one you’d like to sing.’
‘I don’t know these,’ she said, coming towards the piano. ‘I haven’t heard them before.’
He didn’t answer, but played a soft refrain, and she started to hum and then sing the words of the first song. ‘Take away this loneliness, take away this aching heart / Wrap your love round me so tight, let your love stay here this night.’
Then another which began, ‘Once I thought she loved me. Once I had such plans. Now she is contented in some other lover’s hands.’
She paused and glanced across at him. His head was bent as he fingered the melody. ‘These are your songs, aren’t they, Anthony?’ she said quietly. ‘Your words and music?’ She noticed that all the lyrics were of lost or unrequited love, but there was something else which struck a chord. She didn’t quite know what it was, but it was a nostalgic memory, teasing and tantalizing her.
He nodded and went on playing snippets of popular themes, improvising with his own personal adaptations.
‘“Forever True”!’ she said suddenly. ‘That’s yours! Now I recognize your style!’
He looked up at her and nodded. ‘Sing it then, Poppy,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never heard anyone else sing it the way you can. You’ve made it your own.’
And so she did. She took a breath and, sustaining the sweet and appealing harmony, lifted her voice at the last to fill the theatre with a heart-rending emotion and a clear ringing plea. The cleaning woman stopped what she was doing and leaned on her mop. The stage door keeper came and stood with his arms folded, and Jack Bradshaw, coming through the unlocked stage door, chewed on his unlit cigar as he listened.
For Poppy it was the ultimate triumph, singing the song she loved with the man who had composed it; the man who surely had felt love in the same way as she did. Who had perhaps been too young and had lost that love; unlike her, who was determined to keep it.
Her eyes were shining as she finished and her lips trembled. She couldn’t speak and neither could Anthony as he gazed at her, before he turned back to the piano and started to play. It was a haunting little melody and he didn’t know where it came from; but a refrain ran through his head and he sang in a husky whisper, ‘The man’s a fool – if he doesn’t love you; the man’s a fool if he doesn’t care / So sweet a face my eyes embrace – la lah, la la lah, hmm, hmm.’
‘Will you write a song for me, Anthony?’ Poppy came over to the piano, her voice catching with emotion.
He smiled up at her and murmured, ‘I rather think I already have.’