Songbird (34 page)

“Well,
I never knew that,” I said.

Danny
had returned from his short walk and was reading his book.  He looked up.  “She
rolls her own and I’ve helped her.  She timed me and I can make three in a
minute and she says that’s not bad going.”

Ten
seconds of stunned silence followed before Martha and I burst into laughter. 
It felt good and went some way in easing the tension that made me feel like a
coiled spring.

We
arrived in Birmingham and went straight to our hotel.  It was a splendid place,
of shining glass and brass and polished mahogany.  Although it didn’t have
electric lighting like The Savoy at least it had had modern bathrooms
installed.  I was to share a room with Danny, while Martha and Miss Rupp would
be next door.  Andrew was down the corridor from us.

We
went to see the theatre that night.  It was large and would have been grand in
its day, but now seemed rather shabby.  While Andrew had a word with the
manager, I spoke to the conductor of the orchestra and gave him my programme. 
The following morning I would attend a rehearsal before the first performance
in the evening.  Looking round the rather run-down auditorium, I felt
apprehensive and hoped I had made the right decision. 

Martha
pulled a face at the dressing room.  “Couldn’t swing a cat in here,” she
sniffed.

“It’s
only for two nights and then we move to the next theatre,” I said.

“Well,
let’s hope that one is better.”

The
following morning I rehearsed.  I stood on the stage feeling very self-conscious. 
There was no scenery, no other performers.  Nothing!  Just me and an empty
stage.  I felt anxious.  I asked the manager if tubs of flowers could be dotted
about and perhaps some sort of a backdrop to soften the loneliness of a barren
stage.

“What
are you considering, Miss Barri?” he said, frowning at the thought of any
effort on his part.

I
explained.  “I want to appear as an English lady, perhaps standing in a
garden.”

“We
have an old curtain with trees and flowers printed on it.  Will that do?”

I
nodded.  “Yes, anything.  I don’t want to stand on a bare stage.”

The
conductor of the orchestra was a lovely man.  Tall and wiry with grey, untidy
hair, he tapped his baton and his players followed him through the songs I had
selected.  I rehearsed my entire repertoire and he nodded in satisfaction.  At
least they enjoyed my choice.

That
evening, Martha dressed me in one of the special creations.  She did my hair
and pinned feathers amongst the curls.

She
stood back and looked me up and down.  “You look lovely.  Now, you go out on
that stage and knock their hats off.”

I
waited in the wings for my turn and it reminded me of my first night as
Carmen.  That had been successful, so why shouldn’t this?  And then the Master
of Ceremonies announced me and I stepped to the centre of the stage, smiling as
the clapping, although not deafening was at least welcoming.  I quickly glanced
about me.  The manager had found some tubs and pots and they were filled with
silk flowers, but I was rather disappointed with the backdrop.  Yes, it
depicted a garden of sorts, with trees and flowers, but it was old and faded. 
I hoped the audience wouldn’t notice.  I went straight into the first song.  A
lovely melody from Wales although I sang in English.  The applause was polite. 
Undaunted, I carried on.

I was
on my last song when I heard the most terrible creaking and I furtively looked
about.  The stagehands were trying to hold onto the backdrop that had snapped
from its rope and was in danger of falling onto the stage.  I moved out of the
way in case it came crashing down.  I realised that if it did it would hit a
wicker basket filled with flowers that had been fixed to the side.  Since I
considered myself a professional, I kept on singing.  And then I heard a cry
from the back and knew that they had failed in their attempt to secure the old
and worn out curtain.

It
moved slowly at first, but then gathered momentum, crashing in a sad and untidy
heap just four feet from me and sending up a cloud of dust.  As I had
suspected, the edge caught the hanging basket and it toppled from its
position.  I don’t know what made me hold out my arms, but I did and as the
last note left my throat, the profusion of rather tattered silk roses,
carnations and lilies landed in my arms.  My nose began to tickle and I sneezed
violently.  Someone sniggered in the audience and there was an outburst of
laughter.  Clutching the basket, I stepped forward.

Cocking
my head to one side, I gave a theatrical sigh.  “Well, as they say.  All’s
well, that ends well.”

The
audience gave a roar of delight and started clapping.  I smiled and then
pulling the flowers from the cork in the base of the basket, I threw them into
the audience and up into the boxes.  Young men leaned forward trying to catch
them and cries of ‘to me, to me’ rose above the applause.  Finally, I waved and
left the stage.  It was over for the night and I felt utterly exhausted.

“I
think they like you, Miss Barri,” said Martha, meeting me in the wings and
putting a cape over my shoulders.  “But Mr Perry is very angry with the
manager.  They’re in the office now having a right ding-dong.  He’s saying
he’ll sue the theatre for such negligence.  He was so afraid that you could
have got hurt.”

And
he was angry!  I’ve never seen him in such a state.  He wanted to pull me out
of the following night’s performance, but I insisted that I must carry on.

“If
that damned curtain had come down on your head, you would have been knocked
senseless,” he said furiously.  “Or killed.”

I
smiled encouragingly.  “Why worry?  I saw it moving and took the necessary
action.”

He
seemed pacified.  “I can’t believe you caught that hanging basket.  And to
throw the flowers into the audience, that was a inspired idea.”

“Perhaps
I should do it tomorrow night,” I said thoughtfully.

“Would
you like to?”

“Yes,
but not dusty, silk flowers.  Some fresh, fragrant ones that I can lob into the
auditorium.”

“Then
I’ll organise it.”

The
following night was better.  The manager was very remorseful and worked hard to
make the stage appear more like a garden, with a swinging seat, although I
wondered at the safety of it.  I sang the arias, the melodies and the folksongs
and when I realised the audience were humming along, I encouraged them to sing
with me.  It was the second time I had spoken to them and already I had
discovered that I liked to relate to my audience.  I wanted to sing to them and
not at them.  And at the end, I took up the basket of fresh flowers and threw
them into the stalls and boxes.  I even tried aiming for the balcony.  Again,
the young men leaned forward to catch them, shouting at the top of their
voices.

The
next theatre was modest, but friendly.  When I was introduced to the manager, I
was stunned for Mr Samuel King was a huge man with skin the colour of ebony. 
Shaking my hand vigorously, he welcomed me to his ‘small and humble place of
entertainment’ and informed me in a profuse manner that whatever I needed would
be sent for immediately.I smiled politely and breathed a sigh of relief, for it
was apparent that this theatre was run efficiently.  And so that first night I
followed the same routine, laughing gleefully as I threw the flowers to hands
that reached for them.  But the next evening, the manager surprised me
completely.

Martha
was just pinning feathers in my hair when there was a gentle knock at the door
and she went to open it.  Mr King stood on the threshold, hesitating, as if he
was afraid to enter my domain.

I
beckoned him in.  “I don’t bite, despite what Mr Perry might have told you.”

He
grinned, showing perfect white teeth.  “He’s told me nothing of the sort, Miss
Barri.”  He stepped into the room and then coughed nervously.  “I just wondered
if I could ask you a special favour.”

“Of
course,” I said, turning to face him.

He
looked down at his feet.  “I was born in New Jersey, ma’am,” he said softly,
but then he raised his head and spoke vehemently.  “And in New Jersey they
never had no slavery.  So, in the war I joined up with the northern states and
General Grant.”  He shook his head sadly.  “I thought it would be a way of
helping my black brothers and sisters in the south and glad I am that we won,
for I dread to think how it would have been otherwise.”

I
nodded, understanding his meaning.  The southern states of America had wanted
to maintain their state rights and in particular the institution of slavery.

“Yes,
Mr King.  I quite agree with you.  But why are you telling me this?  I get the
feeling that your story has a purpose.”

He
gave a raucous laugh and rubbed his hand over his grey, thinning hair.  “My
wife says I can ramble on ‘till Judgement Day.  What it is Miss Barri, I just
wondered if you’d be so good as to include the song
Amazing Grace
in
your repertoire tonight, for if any hymn means anything to me then that one
surely does.” 

I
pondered on his suggestion for a moment.  “Curtain goes up in thirty minutes. 
What a shame you hadn’t mentioned it this morning, then we could have made the
necessary arrangements with the orchestra and…”

He
raised his hand to stop me.  “Forgive me, Miss Barri.  But I’ve already spoken
to the orchestra and if you care to take a look at the stage, you will see that
it’s already prepared.”

I
couldn’t help laughing.  “You guessed I would say yes, then?”

“No,
ma’am.  I hoped you would say yes.”

Before
I went on stage, I did take a peek at the scenery and to my utter amazement,
discovered that Mr King had worked hard to construct the inside of a church,
even hanging flags on poles against the walls.  Undoubtedly, he had rushed
about borrowing the numerous flags of the different regiments that had fought
in the many battles of the American Civil War.  He told me that with the slight
breeze from the wind machine, the flags would wave gently and look wonderful.

I
performed in front of a closed curtain, grateful for the applause that greeted
me.  But when I reached the finale, I stepped forward and said in a clear
voice,

“My
final song, ladies and gentlemen, is a hymn that has been requested by Mr
Samuel King, the manager of this theatre.”

The
curtains slowly opened revealing the representation of a church.  I took my
place near the altar and the orchestra accompanied me as I sang the hymn, my
voice soaring above the heads of the audience.  I had never sung that hymn with
as much feeling as I did that night.  But when I finished, I thought it had
been a terrible mistake.

As
the last note died away, I kept perfectly still and waited.  There was silence;
a silence that was almost deafening and I closed my eyes as a cold sweat passed
over me.  The audience obviously didn’t want to be reminded of a war that had
taken place in a far-off country in another time and they were showing their
disapproval in the only way they could.  Dear God, I thought desperately, I
hope they don’t walk out.

But
slowly the atmosphere completely changed and the effect was astonishing. 
Clapping started and it rose to a crescendo.  People came to their feet and the
cheering went on and on.  I curtsied and smiled and then Martha passed me the
basket of flowers.  I threw them into the audience and when every blossom had gone,
I left the stage.

“That
was incredible,” said Andrew, shaking his head in disbelief.

I
slumped into the armchair in the dressing room, exhausted to the point of
nausea.  “I thought I’d made a big mistake at first.  There was no response.”

He
chuckled with amusement.  “They didn’t respond because they couldn’t.  Do you
realise you had most of them in tears?”  He blew out a breath.  “Well, everyone
should adore you now.”

“Even
the young men who catch my flowers?” I asked cheekily.

He
squeezed my hand.  “They adored you from the start.”

That
was the end of my four days in Birmingham and then we moved on to Coventry for
a two-night run.  It was shortly after that, that the papers began to call me
the Lady of the Flowers.  I thought it quite sweet.

After
Coventry came Northampton, Norwich and then Cambridge.  As I had suspected, the
theatres started to blend into one another, the towns and cities just a name on
the railway station sign.  Miss Rupp and Danny enjoyed themselves and she
taught him all she could about the places we passed through.  But for me,
although I enjoyed my brief time on the stage, I began to tire of living out of
a suitcase.  What’s more, the tour was not helping to mend my broken heart.  If
anything, the pain of the last year, of losing Brett had become even more
acute.

Yes,
I should have known better.  It’s a simple fact that heartache cannot be left
behind, its annoying presence accompanies a person wherever they go.  As my
popularity grew, so did the pain and the Lady of the Flowers found she couldn’t
think beyond the next town, the next hotel, the next theatre.  And all the
while Brett’s shocked expression as I had closed the hotel door on him,
continued to haunt me like a terrible nightmare that refused to end.