She went straight up to bed, refusing supper from Mrs Johnson. ‘I’m really tired,’ she said. ‘It’s been such a hectic evening.’
‘Saturday night,’ Mrs Johnson said knowingly. ‘My stage folk are always hexhausted on a Saturday night. I ’eard’ – she nodded her head and pursed her mouth – ‘I ’eard from Miss Jenkinson about your reception tonight. She said how good you were and that the haudience didn’t want you to leave! My word,’ she said. ‘The Terry Sisters won’t like that.’
‘They were all right,’ Poppy assured her. ‘They didn’t say anything.’
‘No. They wouldn’t,’ she said sagely. ‘Where are they, anyway? They’re generally in by this time.’
‘They – they met some friends,’ Poppy said. ‘So they’ll probably be late. I’m going up now, Mrs Johnson. I’ll say good night.’
‘Good night, my dear. You do look a bit tired. Your first week, ain’t it? You’ll be glad of a day off tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ Poppy said, feeling her chest tighten as she fought back tears. ‘I will. Good night.’
She screwed her eyes up tight and felt her way upstairs. When she entered her room she took off her bolero and gloves and dropped them to the floor before unbuttoning her dress and letting it slide over her feet. She sat on the bed in her petticoat, and, putting her hands over her eyes, she wept and wept. In the course of the evening, she had gone from being exalted on the stage to being downhearted over Charlie’s attitude at the supper bar, and then his leaving her to come back to her diggings alone. She was full of pent-up emotion.
She talked to herself between sobs. ‘What did I do? I don’t understand. Did I upset him? Was it something I said?’ He had seemed in a strange mood right from the beginning: from the time when he demanded, in front of his friends, to know whether she still loved him, to his odd manner in the supper bar when people had clapped and the pianist had come over to speak to her. Was he resentful that others demanded her attention? Did he begrudge her her popularity?
She blew her nose. No, of course he didn’t. He wasn’t like that. How could she even think it? He has worries, she thought. Perhaps he had wanted to tell her of his plans and there hadn’t been an opportunity. She took the rose from her hair and breathed in its perfume. Dear Anthony. If only he had still been here. I could have discussed it with him. He would have understood.
After rinsing her face and cleaning her teeth she climbed into bed. The refrain of ‘Forever True’ ran through her head. ‘You said we must say adieu. Sweet memories are all I have left of you.’ She gave a heavy sigh. Did Anthony write those words thinking of someone? It was such a poignant song. But no, she thought. He’s a songwriter, after all. He writes emotional words and music to touch the heartstrings. But still, she thought, I’ll ask him when I next see him. But then she realized that she might not see him for a long time, and her tears flowed again.
The next few weeks passed fairly quickly. She wrote and received letters from her father who told her of the hostility between Lena and Nan, and that he didn’t know how to resolve it. Poppy also wrote several times to Charlie, and was disappointed not to receive a reply. But she put on a brave face and followed a regular routine at the theatre. A violinist now accompanied Miss Jenkinson on the piano, and complemented her light and sensitive touch. Poppy dropped ‘Forever True’ from her repertoire and included more popular songs; she learned how to appeal to the audience, dwindling though it was, as the last of the holidaymakers left and the London day-trippers no longer came to Brighton as the weather became colder.
Jack Bradshaw went around with a long face, hunched into the fur collar of his heavy overcoat, chewing on a fat cigar and complaining that the takings were down.
‘Don’t even think of asking us to take a cut,’ Ena warned him one evening when he had been grumbling about the small audience. ‘We shall be off to London if you so much as mention it!’
‘To where?’ he scoffed. ‘You’d not get a booking so near to Christmas!’
‘We’d go home to Mater and Pater,’ Ronny said, ‘and rest.’
He’d grunted, but said nothing more and left the theatre. Poppy, Ena and Ronny had started walking back to their lodgings together as the winter nights were dark, and Ena suddenly asked Poppy now, ‘So where’s your next gaff, Poppy? Has Dan told you yet?’
‘No.’ Poppy shook her head. She was getting worried. This was her last week. Today was Wednesday; she was finishing on Saturday night and hadn’t yet heard from Dan Damone.
‘Odd that he hasn’t been in touch,’ Ronny said. ‘Are you sure he’s got you a booking?’
‘No,’ Poppy said again. ‘I’m not sure about anything any more.’
‘What’s up?’ Ronny glanced at her. ‘Fallen out with your shoemaker?’
‘I haven’t heard from him for us to fall out,’ Poppy said miserably. ‘He’s not replied to my letters.’
‘He’s probably too busy getting his business up and running,’ Ena commented. ‘Roger said he was looking for premises.’
‘Roger said?’ Poppy turned to Ena. ‘You’ve heard from Roger?’
‘Mm,’ Ena said casually. ‘Had a note a week ago. He and Bertie are coming down next week.’
Poppy fell silent. Ena and Ronny hadn’t mentioned the evening when they had all visited the supper bar, but she hadn’t heard them come in that night. They hadn’t come down for breakfast the next morning either, and Mrs Johnson had been very grouchy, muttering about inconsiderate people.
Poppy wondered if Charlie would come to Brighton with Roger and Bertie. She had written to say she was leaving at the end of November, but that she didn’t have a forwarding address as yet.
‘Roger told me that he’s backing Charles,’ Ena explained. ‘That’s how he knows.’
Ronny tucked her arm into Poppy’s. ‘Don’t break your heart over him, darlin’,’ she said. ‘Men in business only have time for themselves. And I think your Charles was jealous over your success that evening.’ She gave a wry grimace. ‘We all were.’ She gave Poppy’s arm a squeeze. ‘But not now. You’ve got talent. It just needs to be nurtured.’
The next day there was a letter from Dan asking her to come to his office on Monday morning as he had something to discuss with her. Where will I stay on Sunday night? she wondered. Dare I just turn up at the Marinos’? They did ask me to. She decided to ask the advice of Ena and Ronny.
‘You’ve time to write to the Marinos,’ Ronny said. ‘If you post a letter today they’ll get it before Saturday. And if they can’t take you, then you can go to my ma. You’ll have to pay her. She won’t put you up for nothing, but if you tell her I’ve sent you, she’ll find you a room.’
Poppy spent Saturday morning emptying drawers and cupboards and packing her trunk. There was a matinee in the afternoon and a performance in the evening. Jack Bradshaw had put up a poster outside the theatre announcing her final performances for the season, and although the audience was scanty at both houses, she received a good ovation.
‘I’ll say cheerio now,’ Ena said, as they reached Mrs Johnson’s after the evening show. ‘I shall have a lie-in tomorrow. Thank Gawd it’s Sunday.’
Poppy was quite sorry to leave them. They’d been fairly supportive of her as a newcomer; Ronny in particular had offered suggestions and advice, though Ena had held back. ‘I hope I’ll meet you both again,’ she said.
‘We only part to meet again, as someone once said,’ Ronny quoted. ‘We’re sure to catch up with you one of these days. But all the best, anyway, gel. Keep on singing!’
The next morning she said goodbye to Miss Jenkinson, who had been so encouraging and helpful. ‘Think seriously about your career, my dear,’ the elderly pianist said. ‘You could do better than Bradshaw’s – or at least you could do differently.’
‘What exactly?’ Poppy asked. ‘I like doing what I do, though I like to sing more than dance.’
‘Then that is what you must think about,’ Miss Jenkinson advised. ‘Be a singer, not a dancer.’
She thought about it as the train steamed towards London and considered that if Anthony should, by a stroke of luck, be staying with his parents that weekend, she would ask him. However, he was unlikely to be in London if he was touring the coastal towns. She hired a cab to take her to St Martin’s Lane and directed the driver towards the small street off the main thoroughfare where the Marinos’ café was situated.
But the blinds were drawn on the window and a notice hanging on the door said they were closed for a week. ‘I know of a bed and board place,’ the cabman called to her, but she declined, remembering the last time she was recommended to the rundown and dirty lodging house.
‘Will you take me to Seven Dials, please?’ she asked. That was the area in which Ronny’s mother lived.
‘Nuffink much there,’ he commented. ‘Used to be the rookeries till they pulled the ’ouses down. But if that’s what you want!’
She gave him the address and he stopped outside a shabby terrace of two-storey houses. ‘Will you wait, please?’ she asked, and hoped that Ronny’s mother would be in and able to accommodate her, for she didn’t know where else to go. She knocked on the door and waited, then knocked again. ‘All right, I’m comin’,’ a female voice called. ‘Keep yer ’air on.’
A plump middle-aged woman in a dark red velvet dress with an apron over it opened the door. She was wearing a brown curly wig with a white lace cap, and had a tobacco pipe in her hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
‘Mrs Trenton?’ Poppy asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who wants to know?’
Poppy knew it was Ronny’s mother for they looked alike; both had narrow faces and bony noses. ‘Ronny said you might be able to let me have a room for the night.’
‘Did she?’ The woman looked Poppy up and down. ‘Did she tell you you’d have to pay rent?’
‘She did. Yes, of course. I – I do hope you can,’ she said desperately. ‘I don’t know where else to go.’
Mrs Trenton came closer. ‘You’re not in trouble, are you?’ she whispered, as if the cabbie could hear. ’Cos I’ll not take you if you are.’
‘Trouble! No! I just need somewhere to stay tonight. I’ve to see my agent in the morning.’
‘Who? Dan, is it? Well, why didn’t you say so? You’d better come in. ’ere,’ she shouted to the cab driver as a stream of steaming urine flowed from the horse into the road. ‘Don’t you let that ’oss mess up my clean front!’
‘What d’you expect me to do about it, lady?’ he said, jumping down from his cab to carry Poppy’s trunk into the house and up the rickety stairs. ‘Ask if she can use your privy?’
Poppy paid him, and as she came into the house she saw that Mrs Trenton’s home had a scrubbed doorstep and clean lace curtains at the window.
‘There’s some criminals about,’ Mrs Trenton muttered in front of her. ‘You can’t be too careful about who you invite indoors.’ She took Poppy into her front parlour, which though furnished with cheap furniture had a brightly polished brass fender and fire irons in front of the grate, and on the mantelpiece hung a red embroidered valance, with an ebony clock in the middle of it. The window sill was adorned with green plants; the chairs were covered with cushions, antimacassars and shawls, and pinned to the walls were theatre posters and bills advertising various shows, reviews and comedies. Teddy Trenton was a recurring name as was Dolly London, music hall artiste. There were several photographs of the Terry Sisters and others of young girls and boys in Pierrot and stage costume.
She asked Poppy to sit down and she sat down opposite her. ‘You on the boards, then?’ she queried. ‘You don’t look the type.’
‘I’m a singer,’ Poppy said. ‘I’ve been appearing at Brighton with the Terry Sisters.’
‘Is that where they are? Up to no good I’ll be bound, specially that Ena.’ She scratched at her head, knocking the wig and cap sideways over one ear. ‘What do you sing? All the Marie Lloyd songs, I’ll bet? Everybody does. Nobody does their own material any more, not like in my day.’ She eased herself out of the chair and humming a tune took a photograph from the wall. There was a brighter patch on the faded wallpaper where it had been. ‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘Or was. Don’t look much like that now, do I?’
The photograph showed a round-faced buxom young woman with a cheeky grin, wearing a milkmaid costume and carrying a pail in each hand. ‘Fifteen I was, when that was took.’ She bent her head and scrutinized Poppy. ‘About your age, I reckon?’
Poppy nodded. ‘Were you a singer?’
‘Me? No! I was an entertainer. A bit of comedy, bit of knockabout, spoofing, and then I learned to clog dance. I can still do it,’ she said, and lifting her skirts did a few shuffling movements with her slippered feet. ‘Though I get breathless after a few minutes, and it gets your back in the end, you know, cos you’ve to keep it so straight – it’s all legwork, you see. Then me and Teddy, that’s me ’usband, ’im up there in the picture, ’e’s gorn now, God bless ’im, we did a double act. He was a comic and I was his sidekick and we did a song and dance routine.’
She sighed and sat down in silence for a minute. Then she said, ‘I miss them days. Best days of my life they was, even though it was ’ard, specially when the youngsters came along. Do you want somefink to eat?’ she asked suddenly. ‘It’s extra, o’ course. I ’ave to charge to keep body and soul together.’
‘Yes please,’ Poppy said. ‘That would be very nice.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Trenton rose to her feet again. ‘I’m just cooking an eel pie. A pal o’ mine comes round on a Sunday and we have a bite to eat together. But there’s plenty. I always do enough for three, just in case.’
Poppy unpacked what she would need for the rest of that day and the following morning. She lifted the faded coverlet off the bed to check the sheets, but they were clean and smelled as if they had been freshly laundered so she didn’t need to use her own. The marble washstand had a crack in it, but the bowl and jug were clean. The fire in the grate was laid with newspaper curls, sticks and coal and she guessed that Mrs Trenton kept the room constantly ready for any visitors.
She was called down for supper at six o’clock. Mrs Trenton’s friend, Nelly Gorman, was already seated at the table in the small kitchen with a knife and fork at the ready in her hands. In the middle of the table was a huge crusty pie with dishes of carrots and floury potatoes.
‘This is Nelly. She used to play in penny gaffs,’ Mrs Trenton said. ‘She’s a bit deaf so you’ll have to shout up if you want to talk to ’er.’
Poppy tried to converse, but to no avail as Nelly couldn’t hear her, and eventually she asked Mrs Trenton to explain to her friend that she couldn’t shout in case she damaged her voice. Mrs Trenton passed on the message in a piercing shout and Nelly looked at Poppy, then shouted back at Mrs Trenton. ‘She’ll be no good at the gaffs, then, will she?’
Mrs Trenton shouted back. ‘She’s a singer. She ain’t going to the penny gaffs; she’s been doing music ’all, like our Ronny.’
After supper, the two women cleared all the crockery into a deep earthenware sink. Mrs Trenton poured boiling water from the kettle onto it and then the three of them moved into the parlour where a fire had been lit in the grate. ‘We ’ave a little sing-song on a Sunday,’ Mrs Trenton shouted at Poppy, then she gave an apologetic grin. ‘I gets used to shouting at Nelly,’ she said. Poppy really wanted to go out for a walk, but felt it would be rude if she didn’t join them for a while, so she sat down and prepared to be entertained.
The women pushed back the furniture and lined themselves in front of Poppy. ‘Nice to ’ave an audience, ain’t it?’ Mrs Trenton said, and began a lively song with Nelly joining in, slightly behind the beat and raising her eyebrows, wiggling her hips and lifting her skirts.
‘I was going for a walk in the park,
When this feller calls to me, let’s have a lark,
Come on pretty miss, let’s ’ave a little kiss
For you know how much I care for you.
Says I, if I do, will you marry me and be true?
He gave a saucy wink and said I’ll have to have a think
Of what my darlin’ wife might say,
That I’d never be good enough for you.’
Poppy sat with a fixed smile on her face. How can I get out without offending them? She sat through another three slightly suggestive songs, and then stood up. ‘I must take a walk before bed,’ she announced. ‘Otherwise I’ll never sleep.’
‘It’s raining cats and dogs!’ Mrs Trenton told her. ‘You’ll be soaked. And besides, it’s not safe for a young girl out there on her own.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Poppy assured her. ‘I’ve got an umbrella and I don’t mind the rain. I won’t be long, just a turn round the block.’
She backed out of the parlour and ran upstairs for her rain cape and black umbrella, and then down again and out of the door before they could persuade her not to.
The rain was torrential, sharp and needle-like, and she huddled beneath the brolly and hurried down the narrow road, keeping her eyes on her feet for the road was cracked and broken in parts. But she hadn’t gone far when she lifted up the umbrella and stopped, realizing she could no longer see where she was going. There had been gaslight outside the row of houses where Mrs Trenton lived, but ahead of her there was none. She seemed to have run into a wall of darkness concealing dilapidated buildings with shadowy low arches and murky passages dividing them, whilst beneath her feet ran a thick stream of putrid water. She took in a quick startled breath and was about to turn back when she heard the rasp of a match. There was a sudden flare of yellow light on a level with her eyes and behind it she saw the features of a man.
‘’ello, little lady,’ he said softly, but his voice had a hoarse edge to it, and she was instantly reminded of the comic song which Nelly and Mrs Trenton had been singing. Only now it wasn’t in the least comical, for she saw something sinister in his expression. ‘Where are you off to on this dismal night?’ She flung her umbrella at him and turning swiftly on her heels took flight, picking up her skirts about her knees and sprinting back the way she had come.