Honeyville by Daisy Waugh

was my undoing. It was me, who kept singing for far too long. I was only meant to sing three songs, and then our plan had been for me to break for further tea and pastries, so that Inez and I could canvas for students. But the ladies kept asking for more songs and I was so flattered, and was having such a wonderful time, I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
    Midway through the sixth or seventh ditty, the drawing-room door opened softly and somebody joined us, a fact I was only dimly aware of until I finished singing and the applause had started to fade.
    ‘Cedric Hitchens!’ cried Mrs McCulloch, fluttering up to greet him. ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Don’t you know this is a ladies’ event!’ She tapped him playfully – or perhaps, to get his attention, since his eyes were fixed on me: ‘It’s a Ladies’ Music Club, Mr Hitchens!’
    ‘I heard the music from the street,’ he said. ‘I could hardly believe my ears – such a beautiful, individual singing voice, right here in the middle of Trinidad. I just couldn’t resist coming in.’
    ‘Well, honey, now that you’re here, you had better meet the wonderful Mrs di Lepodi of Ronoma, Italy. She’s an opera singer, and she’s written a book, if you please, and she’s come all the way from Italy !Inez found her in the library and positively dragged her here to see us! And now she’s going to teach us all to sing, if only we can persuade her to stay right here in Trinidad, and bring some music to our troubled streets, and absolutely agree not to climb back on that train to California.’
    ‘Bravo!’ cried the ladies. ‘Hoorah for Mrs Lappolli!’
    He said: ‘Well, and ain’t that something? … All the way from Italy, you say?’
    He smelled of tobacco and uncooked offal. It’s just about all I could ever remember about him. And my borrowed soap (but they all smell of that). And he asked me to sing for him whenever he visited and his prick was as thin and bent as a half-snapped pencil.

11
    He leaned against the doorframe to watch as I took my leave. He didn’t say anything to expose me. Why would he? I might have been tempted to repay the favour.
    ‘Don’t forget,’ Inez called out over the hubbub, ‘you will find Mrs di Leopaldi at the Columbia for one week only! Hurry now! Or we may miss the chance …’
    She followed me to the front door.
    ‘Oh God Dora. Is it …?’ she whispered, her face crestfallen, ‘Is it what I think?’
    I nodded, too disappointed to look at her. ‘It was crazy of me ever to think it might work.’
    I stepped out into the bright sunlight, onto the high stone McCulloch porch. Inez tugged my sleeve. ‘Do you suppose he’ll say something?’ she asked. ‘Are we … Am I … to be exposed?’
    ‘Not you,’ I said. ‘Just stick to your story. They will assume I lied to you.’
    ‘All right, but—’
    But I couldn’t bear to linger a moment longer. I thanked her for trying to help me, detached her hand from my clothing and turned away. I heard her calling my name but in my haste to return to the part of town where I belonged, I had already broken into a run.
    I nursed my disappointment quietly, with well-practised skill. Nobody could have guessed at my wretchedness, and of course I’d not mentioned my plans – or their failure – to anyone in Plum Street. They were my secret.
    Nevertheless, when Phoebe sidled up to me a few evenings later and invited me for tea in her private rooms, I feared the worst.
    ‘Are you unhappy, Dora?’ she asked, her beady eyes on my face.
    ‘What? Not in the least!’ I replied.
    ‘It’s what I thought. We are a happy family, aren’t we, Dora? Here in Plum Street.’ She gave a heartless tinkle of laughter, and offered me cake. ‘Only I’ve been hearing the oddest stories!’
    ‘What kind of stories?’
    She bit into her cake. ‘Try some!’ she said. ‘It’s delicious.’ There were crumbs at the sides of her mouth and I stared at her, unable to look away.