Honeyville

‘Pour encourager les autres,’ she said.

‘Something like that.’ I smiled. ‘Most of it’s junk, but not all.’

‘Well. You’ll be out of this dreadful place soon. As soon as we’ve set you up. And, by the way, when you tell them you’ve written a book, you’ll be able to charge a fortune. You can’t imagine how much money there is flushing round in this town.’

I laughed at that. ‘Oh, I believe I can …’

‘By the way, it occurred to me in the middle of last night that you’re going to need an address! Quite why we hadn’t considered it before, I cannot say.’

‘I thought a post-office box,’ I said. ‘See what interest I can muster and then—’

‘You can’t give singing lessons in a post-office box. And the ladies have to know where to find you. That is, until you can find a little place of your own. And by the way, I have seen the sweetest little cottage on South Elm Street, which you might easily be able to take once your students start to roll in. And in the meantime, Dora, I have come via the Columbia. I’ve taken a room for you there in your new name. It’s only for the week, mind. But I thought – if we are to do this, we must do it properly. And nobody could doubt the credentials of an Italian opera singer if she is residing at the Columbia!’

The Columbia was the oldest and by far the most luxurious hotel in town. It stood elegant and proud at the heart of Trinidad, on the corner of Commercial and Main Streets. ‘I can’t afford that!’ I said.

‘It’s my gift to you, Dora, to thank you.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘For being my friend,’ she said simply. ‘You can’t imagine what a thrill it is. And for introducing me to Lawrence; and for showing me that even in this Hicksville-Snatchville of a town …’ She giggled delightedly. Ladies didn’t call it Snatchville. They just about called it Honeyville, if they were being especially daring – if they called it anything at all. ‘No matter what my brother Xavier thinks, life can be absolutely … exciting.’

‘But it must have cost you a fortune. I can’t accept—’

‘Oh don’t be silly, darling!’ She waved it aside. ‘I have already paid for it in cash. The room is sitting empty. It’s under your new name. It’s a suite. And I have told them to put a piano in there – you can play the piano, can’t you?’

‘You know I can,’ I said. ‘I already told you. And I was just playing when you came in.’

‘Oh yes, of course you were. Well then, Maria di Leopaldi,’ she pronounced it badly, but with relish. ‘You can leave the ladies a card with your name and details on it – and for a week you can hold court at the Columbia. Offer them trial lessons or something. It’s perfect. And after that, we had better find you a place.’

For authenticity we decided she would come to fetch me from the hotel, where I would be waiting in the room she had hired, in the Italian opera singer disguise she had helped to pick out, and that we would walk the five minutes or so east along Main Street to Aunt Philippa’s house together.

It was, I think, the longest walk of my life. God knows – in the exhilaration of cooking up the plan with Inez, I hadn’t allowed myself to fully acknowledge the risks. Shuffling along Main Street with my head down, stomach churning with fear, the risks hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water. If Phoebe discovered I was trying to make my escape, and she surely would, she would not only put a stop to it, she would exact a vicious kind of revenge. I dreaded to imagine quite what; although I knew, whatever it was, it would cause her no loss of income. It gave me some comfort. She wouldn’t murder me then, or have me beaten to a repellent and uncommercial pulp of flesh … My mind skittered from one vengeful alternative to another, and I might have turned back, but Inez marched us forward, and I hardly had a chance.

She made a point of waving and smiling at just about everyone we encountered.

‘You haven’t met Trinidad’s new celebrity,’ she shouted proudly to anyone who stopped – and to several who didn’t. ‘She’s performing for the Ladies’ Music Club this afternoon, but if you or your wife are interested in singing instruction …’

By the time we reached Aunt Philippa’s house two blocks north of City Hall, Inez had already collected three eager lady students. ‘Between you and me, they’re not quite wealthy enough to be part of the Ladies’ Music Club,’ Inez explained to me in her noisy whisper, as soon as they passed, ‘which makes them all the keener to hang onto our coat-tails, Mrs di Leopaldi. I tell you what, you’re going to make a fortune, Dora! And no one to take any commission off you, either.’

Mention of Phoebe and her commission – or rather Phoebe and her imminent lack of it – made my stomach lurch so violently that we had to pause. What was I even thinking? Phoebe would kill me if she discovered what I was attempting. She would send her stooges round and have me beaten until I begged for mercy. Was I mad?

Even now, I feel a prickle of fear, remembering. But I wasn’t mad. In retrospect, I know the word is ‘desperate’. Remote as it was, Inez seemed to be offering me a way out: a new life that didn’t depend on the whims of a single, vicious woman whom, over the years, I had learned to hate.

‘Oh we can deal with Phoebe!’ Inez said blithely. ‘For crying out loud! Let’s just concentrate on getting ourselves through this!’

As we turned into the McCullochs’ street – three times the width of Main Street, and each handsome house as large as any mansion, I felt my knees buckle, and Inez had to push me up the steps to the great front door.

‘Inez!’ I whispered, as we waited for the maid to answer. ‘I can’t speak Italian! Not a word!’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said, stamping her foot. ‘Nor can they! They’ve just about heard of Michelangelo. And Rome. Relax! You’re going to be just fine …’

Aunt Philippa looked nothing like her niece; twice her girth (though the same small height), her hair and eyes were as dull and pale as Inez’s were alight with colour and life.

‘No, no, she surely didn’t inherit all that prettiness from me!’ Aunt Philippa remarked cheerfully, putting a plate and doily into my hand, and an array of small, unwanted sandwiches. ‘Why, she looks more of an Italian. Like you, Mrs di Leopardaldi.’ She looked at me again: at my light brown hair and hazel eyes. There was nothing Italian about any of us. ‘Even more so,’ she muttered vaguely. ‘Inez tells me you’re a wonderful opera singer! Well, have you glimpsed our little opera house? Of course you have – it’s right opposite you at the Columbia. Built by Jews, by the way. But we don’t mind that. Here in Trinidad, we are terribly open-hearted, you will discover. Italians too – just about anyone is just fine with us. And the opera house – I call it little, but it’s not really little, now is it? It’s our most handsome building – after the Columbia, some people say. I disagree. I think it’s handsomer than the Columbia. But what do you think? You’re an Italian. You know about these things. Do you think it’s more or less handsome? As a building? I should love to know …’

Philippa McCulloch might not have resembled her niece in any physical way, but I wondered who got the first word in edgeways at dinner. She didn’t wait to hear my answer: not that I would have given it to her, anyway. I hated the opera house. The opera house was what had brought me to Trinidad in the first place, and seven years on, I couldn’t walk past it without a shudder.

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