The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  ‘What?’ Lizzie searched his face. Did he really have nothing to do with Amos, or was this just a trick to win her confidence?

  ‘I saw him chasing after you. That’s what it looked like anyway. If I’m wrong, I’m sorry.’

  Lizzie whirled around as Amos came thundering towards them. ‘There you are, Jane,’ he said, eyeing the younger, taller man warily.

  So the men really didn’t know each other. Lizzie moved closer to the younger one, though perhaps he didn’t yet qualify as a man, as he was no more than seventeen or eighteen.

  His hair was the colour of bronze, his eyes green and surprisingly penetrating for someone so young. ‘Why were you chasing this child?’ he demanded of Amos, his voice hard.

  ‘You misunderstand,’ Amos blustered, red-faced. ‘I was concerned for her. She ran off and I wanted to be sure she was safe.’

  ‘She’s certainly safe now, Mr—?’

  ‘Bradley,’ Lizzie supplied. ‘Amos Bradley. He’s a butcher.’

  ‘I wonder if the police might be interested in a chat with you, Mr Bradley?’

  Lizzie was horrified at the thought of the police. They’d discover she was a runaway and drag her back to Witherton. ‘I don’t think we need to bother the police,’ she said quickly.

  Her rescuer looked at her with those all-seeing green eyes but Lizzie’s gaze shied away from them.

  ‘The girl is right.’ Amos was happier now. ‘There’s no need for the police because there’s nothing amiss.’

  ‘I hope not, Mr Bradley,’ the younger man said. ‘And I hope I won’t see you chasing after any other young girls next time I happen to be passing. Which is often. At all hours of the day, and sometimes the evening too.’

  Amos’s happiness dimmed a little. ‘I’ll bid you good day, Jane.’

  Lizzie didn’t reply but stood with her rescuer as Amos walked away. ‘Thank you,’ she said then.

  ‘I’m curious about why you didn’t want to go to the police,’ he answered. ‘I’m curious about your name too. If I were a betting man, I’d wager it isn’t Jane.’

  ‘It was kind of you to help, but I won’t keep you any longer.’

  ‘You’re not from these parts, are you?’

  ‘No, but I’m staying with relatives nearby. They’re expecting me home so—’

  ‘They’re expecting you to turn up looking like scarecrow from one of my fields? With a muddy bag packed with what I’ll hazard are all your worldly goods?’

  ‘I’m a little untidy but—’

  ‘I’ve never run away from home, but I know a runaway when I see one.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. It isn’t your business anyway. Just because you helped me, it doesn’t mean… It doesn’t mean…’

  Something strange was happening. The world seemed to be moving dizzily. Lizzie took a step forward only to sway and put a hand to a tree trunk to steady herself. Instantly the young man moved closer. ‘You’re ill.’

  ‘No,’ Lizzie denied, but he put a hand to her forehead.

  ‘You’re burning up. You need a doctor.’

  ‘No doctor!’

  ‘Then it looks as though I have no choice but to abduct you, doesn’t it?’

  Lizzie wanted to run again but hadn’t the strength. Overwhelmed by weakness, she slumped to the ground.

  5

  ‘She’s waking up.’ The voice was female. Young too.

  Who was waking up? Surfacing from what felt like the bottom of the ocean, Lizzie realised the person must be her.

  She opened her eyes, squinting against the light and feeling confused by the unfamiliar ceiling that sloped above her head. Then memories of Amos Bradley rushed in on her and she fought to sit up.

  Firm hands pushed her down again. ‘Steady on, young lady,’ another voice said, this one male. ‘You’ve had a fever and you need to rest.’

  Lizzie turned to the speaker, a middle-aged, kindly-looking gentleman. ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘I am. Your cousins called me in.’

  ‘My cousins?’ Lizzie glanced around the room and saw a young woman.

  This must be her rescuer’s sister. She was a year or two older than him, her hair honey-coloured rather than bronze and her eyes a lighter shade of green, but there was still a resemblance. She sent Lizzie a conspiratorial look that prompted Lizzie to say, ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘My prescription is rest. Plenty of it. I don’t wish to see a relapse. Goodbye, Jane.’

  Jane? Oh, yes. ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  The young woman accompanied him out of the room. Lizzie heard their feet on what sounded like the uncovered treads of a staircase. Alone, she took in more details of her surroundings. She was in a small room tucked into the eaves of what she supposed must be a cottage. There was a single casement window with a climbing plant growing around the outside.

  In addition to the narrow bed in which Lizzie lay, there was a second bed, a chest of drawers, a washstand and a tall cupboard. All was clean and neat, but Lizzie could see that this was a modest household. The curtains were faded, the sheets had been mended carefully and the only fripperies were Mother Nature’s bounty – fir cones, a jug of winter greenery, a piece of wood whittled into the shape of a hedgehog…

  Lizzie’s conscience suddenly stirred as she realised someone must have paid the doctor’s fee on her behalf. She hoped she had enough money to repay it, though heaven knew if it would also cover her train fare to London.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs again. Brisk and too heavy to be female. A tap on the door followed then her rescuer appeared. ‘Welcome back to the world,’ he said, sitting in the chair the doctor had vacated and stretching his long, rangy legs.

  Now she was no longer fleeing from Amos Bradley, Lizzie noticed that her rescuer’s voice was low and pleasant. It had dry humour in its depths that matched the glint in his eyes, as though he enjoyed life but also liked to tease it.

  There was something fresh, outdoorsy and strong about him that suggested he worked hard at some sort of manual labour, though probably for little money. Rolled to the elbows despite the January weather, his shirt sleeves showed darns. There was no collar on his shirt and his trousers were almost worn through at the knees.

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so.’ Lizzie’s throat was dry.

  He took a glass of water from the chest of drawers and passed it to her.

  ‘Thank you.’ Lizzie drank some down then asked, ‘Where have you brought me?’

  ‘I didn’t know where else to take you, so I brought you home to be looked after while we work out what comes next.’

  ‘Your family…’

  ‘…Is glad to help because it’s made up of good people. All of my brothers and sisters are good people.’

  She wondered about his parents.

  ‘We lost our father a year ago and our mother two years before,’ he explained, as though he’d read the question in her face. ‘Now there’s just the five of us.’

  So many!

  ‘We’re the Warrens. Edith is the eldest. She’s been nursing you. I’m Matthew – Matt – next in line to Edith. Then there’s Joe, Mikey and Molly. They’re our real names, by the way.’

  The green eyes gleamed again and she remembered that he hadn’t believed her name was Jane. Lizzie blushed but, despite being grateful for the care she was receiving, she was still wary of sharing her true identity.

  Matt didn’t push her to reveal it.

  ‘I hope I’m not in the way,’ Lizzie said, concerned that she was occupying one of his sister’s beds. She was wearing one of their nightdresses too.

  ‘You’re welcome here,’ he said, ‘but does anyone need to know where you are? We don’t have a telephone, but I can go into the village to make a call or post a letter.’

  Lizzie shook her head, lowering her gaze to the cotton counterpane and expecting him to insist that there must be someone who had an interest in her whereabouts.

  She sensed him wat
ching her, but then he got to his feet. ‘Edith will be up with some broth and I need to get back to work. We’re farmers. Arable, mostly. That means we grow crops. We have a few animals, though. A horse to pull the plough. A pony. Two cows for milk, and several dozen chickens for eggs. We have house animals too. A dog and a cat.’

  Lizzie looked up, which had probably been his intention. ‘It sounds wonderful.’

  ‘It is, though it’s also hard work. Try not to fret.’ He left her with a smile that told her he understood that not fretting would be easier said than done.

  Edith came up soon afterwards carrying a tray. ‘You must be hungry.’

  ’I am,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘I haven’t eaten in hours.’

  ‘At least twenty-four of them,’ Edith said. ‘It was yesterday when Matt brought you here.’

  Goodness!

  Lizzie’s absence from Briar Lodge would have been discovered long ago. Was it too much to hope that her father might actually be concerned for her? Probably. It was more likely that he and Miss Monk were simply furious at her for running away and making them look bad. Appearances were important to Edward Maudsley.

  What were they doing about it, though? Would they think of Margaret Penrose and get to her before Lizzie had a chance to plead her case?

  ‘Eat,’ Edith urged. ‘You need to build your strength before you tackle whatever’s worrying you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m being a burden.’

  ‘Hardly a burden.’ What a kind young woman Edith was.

  ‘Whose bed is this?’

  ‘My sister, Molly’s, but she’s perfectly happy sharing my bed. She often creeps in with me anyway.’

  ‘This is your nightdress?’

  Edith nodded. ‘We didn’t like to look to see if there was one in your bag. Not without your permission.’

  Honourable, as well as kind. ‘The doctor’s fee,’ Lizzie began.

  ‘We don’t begrudge a penny.’

  ‘I can repay you.’

  ‘You need to talk to Matt about that, but for now I know he wants you to concentrate on getting stronger. I’ll return for the tray later.’

  Lizzie did need to get stronger. Clearer-minded too.

  The broth was delicious and Lizzie finished all of it along with the bread, cheese and apple Edith had provided. She placed the tray on the chest of drawers and lay back against the pillows to think.

  She didn’t intend to sleep but she slept anyway, waking to find that Edith must have crept in to remove the tray. Fed and rested, Lizzie tried again to think of a solution to the problem of getting to London and persuading Miss Penrose to take her in, but fear licked her stomach like a flame. It was frustrating to think that even now Edward Maudsley might be in contact with her godmother and insisting that, if Lizzie turned up, she should be sent straight home. Not because he wanted her, but because people might talk. The slight hope that he might actually want her back resurfaced, but it still felt unlikely.

  Lizzie became aware of whispers outside her door. ‘What can you hear?’ a girl’s voice said.

  ‘Nothing. Stop talking and I might—’

  ‘You two! Downstairs. Now!’

  That was Matt’s voice. Not shouting, but forceful enough to make the eavesdroppers gasp and scurry back downstairs, still whispering and giggling.

  Firmer footsteps sounded and, after a rap on the door, Matt entered, bringing fresh air and energy with him. ‘You’re looking better,’ he observed.

  ‘I’m feeling better, thanks to you and your sister.’

  ‘Edith will be making supper in a while. Would you prefer yours on a tray or would you like to come downstairs?’

  ‘I’d like to come down, if I won’t be in the way?’

  Matt smiled. ‘You’ll be doing Edith and me a favour. The children are curious, and if they see you for themselves, they might stop nagging us with questions.’

  Matt returned with Edith when supper was ready. Lizzie was glad of their help because she wobbled when she got out of bed and might never have got down the stairs if Matt hadn’t scooped her up and carried her, depositing her in a chair at a large farmhouse table. Wide eyes stared at her and Matt made the introductions as Edith placed a hand-knitted blanket around Lizzie’s shoulders.

  ‘Joe, Mikey and Molly.’

  They all smiled a welcome. A year or two older than Lizzie, Joe was tall and rangy like Matt, though with Edith’s colouring. Mikey was younger – eleven or twelve – with darker hair and an air of thoughtfulness, even as he smiled. Molly was the baby of the family, a pretty bundle of mischief of around five.

  ‘Thank you for letting me stay,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘We’re glad you’re out of bed because now we can see what you look like,’ Molly said. ‘You’re pretty.’

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But it’s kind of you to say so.’

  Edith brought two serving bowls to the table. One held potatoes. The other held some sort of stew that smelt delicious. As the guest Lizzie was offered the bowls first but was careful to take only modest portions, as this family was clearly far from rich. The kitchen was homely, though, with a warm fire, colourful hand-made rugs, flowered cushions and more of Mother Nature’s bounty in the form of fir cones, dried flowers and a ceiling rack with herbs hanging from it in bunches.

  ‘I hear you have animals,’ Lizzie said, and the children launched into a clamorous account of their names and personalities.

  The dog, Crocker, was a black and white collie who lay curled up in front of the fire. The cat, Sally, lay beside him, purring. The plough horse was Herbert, the pony was Prince, and the cows were Mabel and Matilda. There were too many chickens for Lizzie to remember all of their names.

  ‘Do you have any animals?’ Mikey asked, then looked guiltily at Matt as though remembering he’d been told to ask Lizzie no questions.

  ‘I’d have liked a dog, but it wasn’t to be,’ Lizzie said. Papa hadn’t allowed it, which was probably just as well, as it would have been difficult to run away with a dog and she couldn’t have left it to the unkindness of Miss Monk.

  Apple pie and custard followed the stew. ‘This is a delicious dinner,’ Lizzie declared.

  ‘Edith’s a great cook,’ Matt said, and the others nodded enthusiastically.

  There were no awkward silences because the family was full of chatter and affection. It made Lizzie all too aware of what she’d missed in having no brothers and sisters, but she was glad to be here now.

  When the meal was over, all the Warrens went about the business of clearing up. Lizzie made to get up too, not wanting to leave the work to others.

  ‘Tonight you should rest,’ Matt told her.

  Did that mean she could help to clear up another time because he expected her to stay for at least day longer? Lizzie’s anxiety must have shown on her face because he added, ‘Tomorrow’s soon enough for talking too.’

  He unhooked a jacket from a row of pegs near the door and went out, Joe and Mikey following. ‘There’s always work to be done on a farm,’ Edith explained.

  She had a big pot of tea waiting when they returned. Everyone received a cup except for Molly, who had milk. ‘Are you going to play tonight?’ Molly asked Matt. She turned to Lizzie, adding proudly, ‘Matt can play the piano.’

  ‘Maybe Jane needs an early night,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to hear you play,’ Lizzie told him.

  ‘All right. Just for a little while.’

  Matt helped Lizzie into another room which the family called the parlour. There was a small sofa, some chairs and a piano. Lizzie was steered to the sofa then Matt settled at the piano, running his fingers over the keys with unexpected assurance. ‘Any requests?’ he asked, as the others gathered around him.

  ‘“Lazy Maisie”!’ Molly cried.

  ‘What does Jane think?’

  ‘“Lazy Maisie” sounds fun,’ Lizzie said, earning a beaming smile from Molly.

  Matt began to play, and to sing too.

&nb
sp; There once was a donkey named Maisie,

  Whose farmer thought she was lazy…

  His singing voice was low and pleasant, like his speaking voice. When he reached the chorus all the Warrens joined in.

  Maisie, Maisie, get up off that bed,

  Lazy Maisie, that’s what the farmer said,

  You can’t sleep all day,

  Jut snoozing in the hay,

  There’s no time for you to tarry,

  When these baskets you must carry.

  Lizzie applauded when the song finished.

  ‘Would you like “The Rustling Grasses”, Edith?’ Matt asked then.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  This song was soft and dreamy. Perfect for Matt’s voice.

  Mikey’s choice was a song about a river. Matt sang alone but with the others swaying beside him. Joe wanted a jolly farming song, and the chorus had all of the Warrens singing again.

  Hey, ho, and drink your ale down!

  It was impossible to picture Mama singing, Hey, ho, and drink your ale down but Lizzie was still reminded of the happy times she’d spent singing with Mama. With Polly too. Her throat tightened on a wave of emotion just as Matt turned to her. She guessed he was going to ask if she had a request, but he stared for a moment then said, ‘That’s enough for tonight.’

  No one argued. Matt had a quiet air of authority.

  ‘That was terrific,’ Lizzie said, not wanting him to think she hadn’t taken pleasure in his playing.

  ‘Do you play?’ he asked, as he helped her back into the kitchen and placed her in one of the armchairs beside the hearth.

  ‘I did. Not for a long time, though.’

  ‘A little rustiness among friends doesn’t matter. Perhaps you’ll play for us tomorrow? If you’re well enough.’

  ‘I’d like that. Don’t expect me to be as good as you, though. Where did you learn to play so well?’

  ‘Our mother taught me.’

  Edith protested at that. ‘Our mother knew only a few simple tunes. Mostly Matt taught himself. By ear too, as our mother never learnt to read music.’

  How talented Matt was to have taught himself simply by listening. Clearly, he felt the music deeply.

  ‘I can’t read music either,’ he said, as though praise embarrassed him, then he changed the subject. ‘Up to bed, you younger ones.’