The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  ‘Will you write to ask her for help?’

  ‘Writing might make it too easy for her to say no.’

  ‘You can’t just turn up on her doorstep!’

  Lizzie didn’t answer.

  Polly’s eyes grew wide. ‘Are you even sure you know where she lives?’

  ‘I know she was living in London thirteen years ago.’ Lizzie had found the address in Mama’s address book.

  ‘London is miles away.’

  ‘Nearly two hundred miles.’

  ‘She might have moved. Heavens, Lizzie, she might not even be alive. Promise you won’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I can say that I’ve no way of getting to London at the moment.’ Lizzie had only four shillings and sixpence, left over from the time Mama had given her pocket money for small treats.

  ‘The train would cost a lot of money, I suppose, but Miss Penrose might send you the fare if you write to her.’

  That was true – if Miss Penrose agreed to give Lizzie a home. But it would be all too easy to refuse a plea from a girl she’d only seen as a baby. A baby, moreover, who had the hated Edward Maudsley as a father. Lizzie felt strongly that only by seeing Miss Penrose face to face would she have a chance of talking her round.

  ‘She might even come to collect you,’ Polly continued. ‘That would be better than travelling all that distance on your own. You could be kidnapped or—’

  ‘I don’t think people are kidnapped off trains in broad daylight, Poll. Trains are full of passengers.’

  ‘You might be kidnapped when you get off the train.’

  ‘I won’t be going on a train at all unless I can find some money.’

  The problem vexed Lizzie for a week before she remembered the secret compartment in Mama’s trinket box and found ten shillings in there. Had Mama left it there especially so her daughter could find it one day? Lizzie liked to think so. It meant she now had fourteen shillings and sixpence in total. Enough to get her to London? Lizzie could only hope so.

  ‘I’m leaving tonight,’ she told a worried Polly, when they met in the den the following afternoon.

  ‘Lizzie, I’m scared for you.’

  Lizzie was scared for herself. Terrified, in fact. But the idea of Miss Monk as her stepmother was unthinkable. ‘I’m going to be careful.’

  ‘You don’t know who you might meet. Bad people. And don’t tell me you’ll avoid bad people because you won’t know that they’re bad. Not at first. What if you need help?’

  ‘I’ll ask a nice motherly lady. Or a policeman.’

  Polly shook her head then burst out with, ‘I’m going to miss you so much!’

  There were tears in her eyes and Lizzie felt tears springing up in her eyes also. ‘I’m going to miss you too, Poll. You’ve been the most amazing friend.’

  ‘You’ll write to tell me you’re safe?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll try to send paper and stamps as well, so you can write back.’

  Polly gave most of her wages to her family so hadn’t the money for such things.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone where I’ve gone?’ Lizzie pleaded. ‘If my father finds out I’m going to my godmother’s house, he might speak to her on the telephone, if she has one, and I won’t have a chance to persuade her to take me in.’

  ‘I’ll keep your secret, Lizzie, even though I think you’re mad.’

  The girls hugged, then Lizzie sped off down the lane to spend her last few hours in Briar Lodge.

  *

  Now she was tired, wet and bitterly cold. Frightened too. When a face suddenly loomed out of the field next to her, she screamed, dropped her bags and began to flee, before her mind made sense of what she’d seen and she realised the face belonged to a cow. Halting, she turned around and walked back. ‘Bad cow,’ she called, but the pale ghost had wandered away.

  She found the bag containing her clothes and mother’s things easily, but the bag of food must have slipped into the ditch at the side of the road. Tentatively, she began to climb down, but it was a foolish endeavour in the darkness. Lizzie slipped and fell, landing with her feet in the water that had accumulated at the bottom of the ditch. Bitter coldness seeped into her stockings and Lizzie knew the rest of her must be covered in mud. She felt around for the bag but found only what felt like sharp, rusted metal. Her food and drink were lost to her.

  When she finally reached Streeforth, Lizzie felt more tired than ever before. A cart rattling with milk churns came along the road. Unwilling to attract attention at this early hour, she ducked behind a wall until the cart had passed. It would probably be a while before the town was fully stirring. Until then Lizzie needed somewhere dry to hide.

  Dawn was suffusing the sky with feeble grey light as she looked around the town. She saw a shed in the garden of a house, but the moment she set foot on the drive a dog began barking. The door to the church was locked.

  Turning, she noticed a motor van parked in a nearby yard. The words Kitson & Co, Deliveries Undertaken with Speed and Courtesy were painted on the side. Lizzie tried the van’s rear doors with no expectation of finding them unlocked. But unlocked they were.

  There were boxes inside but plenty of space for Lizzie too. She climbed in, closed the door and made a hiding place behind one of the larger boxes. Seeing a pile of sacks, she fashioned them into a cushion and sat down on them. Hunger echoed inside her. There was sure to be a shop in the town that sold buns and bottled drinks but that would have to wait for another hour or two. In the meantime, she’d rest, get dry and warm up.

  To pass the time she began to sing one of the songs Polly had taught her, but in her head rather than out loud.

  The little bee knew what to do,

  So twice around the garden flew,

  Then slipped into his favourite bower,

  To drink of nectar, flower by flower…

  What came next? Lizzie couldn’t remember. She was so very tired.

  3

  Lizzie surfaced from sleep to an awareness of movement. For a moment it felt rather pleasant, but then memories of her flight from home rushed in on her and, realising what had happened, she sat bolt upright. Like a fool she’d fallen asleep, and now someone was driving the van to goodness-knew-where.

  Grabbing her bag, she scrambled to the van doors to take a peek outside and assess when it would be safe to leap out. The doors were locked.

  Fighting down panic, Lizzie tried to console herself with the thought that the van might be taking her closer to London. On the other hand it might be returning her to Witherton, or heading in a different direction entirely.

  Time passed. At least an hour. More time passed. Two hours? Three? Lizzie’s hunger wore off but she was horribly thirsty.

  At least she was warm now. Too warm actually, but that was preferable to feeling cold and wet.

  The van stopped at last. Hearing the driver get out, Lizzie tensed. The doors were thrown open and light flooded in.

  More footsteps approached. ‘You found us then,’ a man’s voice said.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Let’s get everything unloaded, then you can come in for a cuppa. Wife’s got the kettle on and, unless I’m much mistaken, she’ll have a nice fruitcake too.’

  ‘I like the sound of that. Let’s start with the big box.’

  Oh, no. Lizzie looked around for another hiding place but it was too late. The men tugged the box towards the door and Lizzie was exposed. The driver sprang back in surprise. ‘What on earth—’

  Lizzie didn’t stay to hear the rest of his words. She leapt out, broke into a run and kept running, heedless of the shouts of the men behind her. She was in a farmyard. Running through the open gate, her bag banging painfully against her side, she found herself on a country lane.

  ‘Stop!’ one of the men called.

  Lizzie heard them come after her but kept going until she was sure she’d outrun them. Chest heaving, she slowed to a walk – until it occurred to her that the driver might come after
her in the van. She climbed into a field and took care to stay hidden from the lane until she came to a crossroads.

  A signpost pointed to four different places, none of which Lizzie recognised. She chose the road leading to the nearest place, but it proved only to be a small hamlet so she walked on, hot and bothered now despite the frosty day. She was hugely relieved when she saw the chimneys of what looked to be a town to her left. Crossing fields, she made towards it, a headache settling over her eyebrows. She was desperate for water.

  Despite her thirst, Lizzie was careful to enter the town unobserved. Luckily, it was market day and the town was bustling with farmers selling vegetables, fruit and livestock. She spent precious pennies on a bottle of lemonade and a bun, and sat on a step to consume them. The drink was welcome but, oddly, Lizzie’s appetite had gone. She wrapped the bun in a handkerchief, hoping she’d fancy it once her headache had worn off.

  Her next task was to find out where she was. Walking through the market, Lizzie came to a large building with a sign outside announcing that it was Stropley Town Hall. She’d never heard of Stropley, but she sat on another step and studied the traveller’s guide. The headache made the words and lines swim in a sickly fashion, but she discovered that the town was to the north-west of Stafford, a place she knew was celebrated for its pottery.

  Fortune had smiled on her in taking her closer to London. If only fortune would rid her of this headache and the hot sensation that was making her feel stifled and fretful.

  There was a train station in Stafford. If Lizzie could get there, she could ask about the fare to London. The thought of walking there was daunting, but perhaps she could beg a ride from someone.

  She wandered through the market again. One stall belonged to a butcher, a stout, middle-aged man who wore a straw hat and a white apron over his swollen belly. His business appeared to be doing well, perhaps because he constantly called out to passing housewives and housekeepers, ‘You’ll find no finer pork anywhere… Try these sausages and I promise you won’t be disappointed… They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and your man’s heart will beat with joy at the taste of these chops…’

  Lizzie felt queasy at the sight and smell of meat but there were two reasons she lingered near the stall. Firstly, Amos Bradley was a butcher in Stafford according to the sign above his stall. Secondly, he had a woman helping whom he called Ada and whom Lizzie took to be Mrs Bradley. Surely there was safety in a married couple?

  She lingered at a distance as the afternoon wore on then sagged with relief when the stallholders began to pack up. Eventually Mr Bradley walked off, presumably to fetch his van or cart. Lizzie moved towards Mrs Bradley but at that moment an acquaintance of hers came up and stopped to chat. Frustrated, Lizzie stepped back again. The moment the acquaintance moved on, Lizzie hastened onwards. She wanted to appeal to Mrs Bradley’s sympathies and had no trouble in bringing tears to her eyes. The lemonade had done little good and Lizzie felt dreadful.

  ‘Excuse me, but I wonder if you might help me?’ Lizzie said. ‘I was supposed to get a ride back to Stafford on my cousin’s cart but he left without me. It was my fault because he warned me he’d leave if I didn’t meet him on time, but—’

  ‘What’s all this?’ Amos Bradley returned, leading a horse and cart.

  ‘Girl wants a ride to Stafford,’ Ada told him.

  ‘Does she indeed? Well, I see no reason for refusing a damsel in distress. Especially a pretty one.’ He laughed heartily then reached out for Lizzie’s bag and put it in the back of the cart.

  Lizzie helped Amos and Ada to load the market stall boxes though her body ached all over. ‘Up you get,’ Amos said then, and surprised her by lifting her into the cart, his hands around her waist.

  Lizzie didn’t like being touched by a stranger. Not even a friendly one. She slid along the seat, hoping Ada would sit in the middle.

  Amos dug in his pocket and brought out a handful of coins. ‘Next time, next week?’ he said to Ada, handing the coins over.

  ‘Right you are, Amos.’ Ada pocketed the money and walked away. Not Mrs Bradley after all.

  Lizzie was aghast. ‘Actually,’ she began as Amos climbed into the cart, ‘I think my cousin is only hiding from me to teach me a lesson. I’d better go and find him.’

  ‘You should teach him a lesson by getting home under your own steam.’ With that Amos jiggled the reins and the cart lurched forward.

  ‘I might get into trouble. My cousin might get into trouble too. Please, Mr Bradley, I need to get down.’

  ‘Nonsense. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. Bates may be an old horse but he’s steady. He’ll soon have us in Stafford.’

  Bates wasn’t all that steady, because Amos urged him into to a fast trot as though to leave Stropley behind as soon as possible. Lizzie’s heartbeat quickened again. She wasn’t comfortable being alone with Amos Bradley, especially when she noticed him watching her with something hot and unpleasant in his eyes.

  Deciding to jump down at the earliest opportunity, Lizzie turned to locate her bag. She was dismayed to see that Amos had placed it well out of her reach. She couldn’t run away without it, as it held her money as well as her godmother’s address, the traveller’s guide and the precious items that had belonged to Mama. Lizzie would have to bide her time until they reached Stafford.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Amos asked.

  ‘Jane,’ Lizzie lied.

  ‘A pretty name for a pretty girl.’ He patted her knee and kept it there until a motor car approached from the opposite direction and required him to use both hands on the reins.

  Lizzie seized the chance to ease further away until she was squashed against the wooden side of the cart.

  ‘Whereabouts in Stafford to do you live?’ he asked next.

  ‘Rosalie Street,’ Lizzie invented, ‘but you can set me down on the High Street, if that’s convenient?’

  Amos smiled but didn’t answer. Lizzie’s unease grew.

  Not having been to Stafford before, she had no idea if they were heading for the High Street as they made their way through the outskirts but her heart jumped when Amos drew Bates to a halt at the back of a terrace. ‘Help me with the gates, Jane,’ he said.

  He got down but Lizzie hadn’t time to jump into the back for her bag because he took her around the waist again and lifted her to the ground, rather more slowly than was necessary.

  ‘Thank you for the lift. I can walk to the High Street,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘I’ll take you there, but let’s have a drink first. I’m parched and you must be too. I’ve a nice bottle of lemonade indoors.’

  He steered her towards the gates as he spoke. Lizzie helped him to open them and saw that they led to a yard and what might be the back of a shop. ‘I really have to—’

  Lizzie’s words were cut off as Amos picked her up and put her back on the cart. He got up beside her and drove Bates inside. Leaving her in the cart, he swung down to close the gates by himself. Lizzie scrambled for her bag, jumped down to the ground and ran to the gates. ‘I can’t stay. I’m expected at home.’

  Amos had already closed one gate. Now he closed the other. ‘A few minutes for a glass of lemonade won’t hurt.’

  Why was he bolting the gates if he only meant to delay her for a few minutes? Possibly he intended to let her out through the front door, but all of Lizzie’s instincts were screaming at her to get away now because Amos Bradley wasn’t a nice man.

  She swung her bag and brought it crashing into him just below his overhanging belly. He let out a gasp and doubled over in pain.

  Wasting not a single second, Lizzie climbed up onto a water trough and swung herself over the wall. She landed heavily on the cobbles, overbalancing onto her knees and hands, but she scrambled up again and fled, hearing curses on the other side of the gates followed by the sound of the bolts being opened. He was coming after her.

  She reached the end of the row of shops and cut down another alley, hoping to find people at
the end but finding herself opposite a copse of trees instead. Glancing over her shoulder, Lizzie saw Amos enter the alley, his face red and murderous. She ran into the copse, only to realise that running through undergrowth with twigs snapping and branches swishing would soon give her position away. She ducked behind a bush instead.

  She trembled when she heard Amos crash into the copse. He came so close that she could hear him breathing and muttering irate curses. Halting nearby, he tried a different approach. ‘Come out, Jane. I only want to help. You’ll find yourself lost soon, and what will you do when it’s dark?’

  Lizzie huddled in silence.

  Cursing, Amos walked deeper into the copse.

  Lizzie backed out of the bush and stood. She tried to be careful but a twig snapped loudly. Amos turned, saw her and broke into a bulky run.

  Lizzie ran in the opposite direction.

  ‘Hey!’ a voice called, but it wasn’t Amos’s voice.

  To her horror, Lizzie realised Amos wasn’t alone. He had an accomplice. A much younger, faster accomplice judging from the glance Lizzie gave him.

  He was coming at her almost head-on. With Amos coming at her from behind she was in danger of being caught between them.

  Lizzie veered off sideways, slipping when the ground dipped suddenly into a slope. She managed to stay on her feet but the men had to know the lie of the land better than she did. Suspecting she couldn’t outrun them, she tried to outwit them instead by squeezing into another bush and throwing a large stone so it would crash through the undergrowth far ahead of her and make them think it was Lizzie doing the crashing.

  The stone duly crashed and one man blundered past her. Amos, judging from the laboured breathing. Where was the younger man? Lizzie waited for a moment then eased tentatively from her hiding place.

  Arms closed around her. ‘Got you.’

  4

  Lizzie tried to swing the bag back at him but it was hopeless. ‘I only want—’ he began, but broke off, wincing, as she kicked his shin with her heel.

  ‘I only want to know if that man is troubling you,’ he said, releasing her.