The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

Oh, heavens. Mama had been in awe of Margaret Penrose when they’d first met, but Lizzie still hadn’t expected quite such a terrifying personage as this. But perhaps this woman was someone else and Margaret Penrose had mellowed into a cosy creature who was somewhere inside the house? ‘Miss Penrose?’ Lizzie enquired, hoping the answer would be no. ‘Miss Margaret Penrose?’

  ‘What of it?’

  Lizzie’s hopes were crushed. She tried to draw comfort from the reflection that her father couldn’t have been in touch or Miss Penrose would surely have guessed her identity. Even so, it was hard to believe that being the first to talk to her would make any difference to this frosty woman.

  Lizzie reminded herself of Matt’s suggestion that her godmother might be crusty on the outside and soft in the middle, but crusty all the way through was looking more likely.

  ‘Be quick, child. State your business or move along,’ Miss Penrose snapped.

  The razor eyes turned to Matt and the downturned mouth tightened. ‘If you’re begging, let me tell you now that you’ll get no money out of me.’

  Lizzie was mortified on Matt’s behalf. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said, though she supposed she was begging after a fashion. ‘I’m Lizzie Kellaway. I used to be Lizzie Maudsley but I’ve taken my mother’s name. You knew her as Grace Kellaway and she chose you to be my godmother.’

  Surprise and something else – regret? – rippled across the granite face. ‘Did Grace send you?’

  Lizzie swallowed. ‘My mother died last year. But you were fond of her once, and I need your help. My father isn’t a nice man and he’s going to marry a woman who’s even worse than him.’

  ‘You want me to intercede on your behalf?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’ve run away,’ Lizzie said. ‘I need somewhere to stay.’

  Miss Penrose looked startled. She turned to Matt again. ‘Did you put her up to this?’ She made it sound as though Matt had an ulterior motive. A reward, perhaps.

  ‘Matt helped me!’ Lizzie cried.

  The rain worsened suddenly and a cold wind whipped it towards Lizzie and Matt.

  Miss Penrose clucked annoyance. ‘I suppose you’d better come in. Don’t think you’re staying, mind.’ She stepped back to let them enter. ‘Wipe your feet and don’t leave drips.’

  It was impossible to avoid dripping. Frowning, Miss Penrose led them downstairs to a basement kitchen. It was fitted out with a stove and cupboards but appeared to be little used.

  She pointed to the chairs that surrounded a table. ‘Hang your coats over the backs.’

  They did as instructed but still dripped from their wet hair. Lizzie’s stockings and the hem of her dress were sodden and muddy too. So were Matt’s trousers.

  ‘Who are you, young man?’ Miss Penrose barked.

  Was she looking down her nose at Matt because his clothes were limp with wear? Lizzie thought he carried his modest circumstances with dignity.

  ‘I’m Matthew Warren, a farmer from Staffordshire. As Lizzie said—’

  Matt’s casual use of Lizzie’s name hadn’t met with approval.

  ‘Miss Kellaway, if you prefer,’ he corrected.

  ‘I do prefer.’

  ‘Miss Kellaway found herself in a spot of bother. My family helped her.’

  ‘You’re expecting a reward, I suppose.’

  ‘You suppose wrong.’

  The denial caused Miss Penrose’s chin to come up. Clearly, she wasn’t used to being contradicted.

  Matt met her glare with steadiness.

  ‘You’re forthright for someone so young and… modestly circumstanced,’ she accused.

  ‘I’m honest.’

  ‘Humph. As you’re unrelated to Miss Kellaway, I suggest you remain here while I speak to her upstairs.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He gave Lizzie an encouraging nod.

  ‘You may sit,’ Miss Penrose told him, but her expression warned him against touching anything.

  Back upstairs, Lizzie was taken into a room at the front of the house. It was a dull room with faded flowered paper on the walls and a meagre fire in the hearth, though there were signs of activity in the form of a piano, two music stands and a tall cabinet with shallow drawers designed to hold sheet music. Miss Penrose hadn’t been playing the piano, however. An upright armchair stood to one side of the fire and beside it was a small table on which a pair of spectacles rested alongside a book. Miss Penrose had been reading about the life of the composer Handel.

  She pointed to another, smaller chair. ‘Sit there and tell me why you’ve come all the way from Witherton. If Witherton is still your home?’

  Lizzie nodded and sat. Miss Penrose sat too and looked at Lizzie impatiently. ‘Well, child?’

  Could a girl have two more miserable alternatives? Life with Susan Monk or life with this hard-edged woman? At least Lizzie had no reason to suspect Miss Penrose of actual cruelty.

  ‘My father is a horrible man,’ she finally began, and soon the words were tumbling out.

  ‘I warned your mother against marrying him,’ Miss Penrose said, when Lizzie reached the end of her story. ‘She wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘She made a mistake and I’m sure she regretted it every single day. Except that she always said she was glad to have me. She said I brought her joy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Miss Penrose’s tone suggested it was beyond her imagination to comprehend how Lizzie could bring joy to anyone, let alone a spinster like her.

  ‘You thought well enough of my mother to travel to Witherton to be my godmother,’ Lizzie pointed out.

  ‘That was years ago. Your mother and I argued because I stood up to your father and told him what I thought of him. He ordered me from the house and your mother urged me to go without a fuss. I thought she might write afterwards to apologise but she never did.’

  Once again Lizzie saw something in her godmother’s face – a fleeting glimpse into private hurt?

  ‘My mother was afraid of my father and did everything she could to protect me from his anger,’ Lizzie explained. ‘I’m sure she missed your friendship terribly. Why else would she have spoken to me so fondly about you?’

  Another ‘Hmm.’

  ‘She wrote of you affectionately in her diaries too.’

  Growing desperate, Lizzie took one of the diaries from her bag and began to read aloud from it. ‘Dear Margaret taught me a new duet today. How kind and patient she is!’

  Had Miss Penrose’s face softened a little just then?

  Lizzie ploughed on. ‘Margaret gave me a silver pen for my birthday. It’s beautiful. Mama kept that pen. I have it here in my bag.’

  ‘I’m sure it was useful.’

  ‘Mama didn’t keep it because it was useful. She treasured it because you gave it to her. Have you kept anything she gave to you?’

  Another flicker passed across Miss Penrose’s face.

  ‘You have kept something!’

  ‘What of it? This is a large house and I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve kept a lot of things because I’ve never needed to throw them away.’

  ‘You’ve kept everything anyone ever gave you? Of course you haven’t!’

  ‘Upon my word, you’re as forthright as that farmer downstairs. I’m surprised your mother didn’t teach you how to behave more respectfully to your elders.’

  ‘I do respect you, Miss Penrose. But we all tell ourselves things that aren’t true in the hope of feeling more comfortable.’

  ‘Forthright indeed!’ Miss Penrose retorted, but Lizzie saw the bony hands thresh together as if their owner was troubled. ‘Even if I do have fond memories of your mother, you’ve wasted your time in coming here. You’re a child under your father’s authority. I have no right to keep you from him. You’re more your father’s child than your mother’s anyway. You don’t look anything like her.’

  ‘My character comes from my mother.’

  ‘It doesn’t appear so to me.’

  ‘I’m more�
�� forthright as you put it. But my mother loved me dearly, while my father dislikes me and Susan Monk hates me.’

  ‘Your father might still have reasons for wanting your return.’

  ‘Pride, do you mean?’ Edward Maudsley did care about appearances. ‘I’m sure we could suggest a story to save him from looking bad. Something about my education and your loneliness, perhaps.’

  ‘My loneliness?’ Miss Penrose was affronted.

  ‘I don’t mean that you’re actually lonely,’ Lizzie said, though now she came to think about it, she wondered just how many friends the abrasive Miss Penrose had. ‘It would only be a story. No one knows you in Witherton, so what would it matter?’

  ‘I have no room for a child.’

  ‘This house is big! You just said so.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to the house. I was referring to my life. I live alone and know nothing of children. I also have a living to earn. I teach piano. It isn’t as though I have staff to look after you. I only have a cleaning woman who comes twice a week.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be any trouble.’

  ‘That, I find hard to believe.’

  ‘I’ve spent months banished to an attic. I know how to keep quiet and how to entertain myself. If you’re worried about the money side of things—’

  ‘Must you be so uncouth?’

  ‘I’m sorry. But money matters, doesn’t it? Especially when it’s in short supply.’ Lizzie knew that from Polly and Davie. ‘My father might be willing to pay you for my keep.’

  ‘Edward Maudsley wouldn’t spend a farthing more than he needed.’

  ‘To save face, he might. I could be useful too. I could run errands and fetch the coal in. I could learn to dust and polish too.’

  ‘No, it won’t do. And before you attempt to stir my conscience by saying your mother would have expected better from the woman she chose to be your godmother, let me tell you that I can’t abide emotional blackmail.’

  So there it was. Rejection. Lizzie got to her feet, blinking back tears. Her mission had come to nothing and she dreaded the vengeance Miss Monk would inflict when Lizzie was in her power again. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Will that farmer take you home if I pay him for his trouble?’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself, Miss Penrose.’

  Lizzie returned to the basement where Matt was waiting. He raised an eyebrow in enquiry but one look at her face must have told him what had happened. He helped her into her coat, patted her shoulder sympathetically then ushered her back upstairs and out onto the street. Shoulders hunched against the rain, they walked away.

  8

  ‘Wait!’

  They were halfway down the street when they heard the voice. Turning, they saw that Miss Penrose had come out behind them. She glanced up at the falling rain and grimaced. ‘Come back inside, for goodness’ sake!’

  Matt looked at Lizzie. She’d had enough of her godmother’s abrasiveness for one day, but she finally nodded.

  Miss Penrose allowed them into the hall. ‘I just want to be sure you’re going straight home, Elizabeth, and that this young man is taking you.’

  ‘I shan’t be abandoning Lizzie,’ Matt said, and Miss Penrose flushed as though he’d accused her of abandoning her goddaughter. ‘But I shan’t be returning her to Witherton today.’

  ‘If it’s a question of money, I—’

  ‘It’s a question of time. I’m responsible for a farm as well as my family.’

  ‘You’ll take her soon?’

  ‘I’ll take her when it’s convenient, but I shan’t hand her over to a pair of tyrants without making it clear that there’ll be trouble if they treat her unkindly.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  ‘I’ll expose their cruelty to their neighbours.’

  ‘You’ve never even met Edward Maudsley.’

  ‘He won’t scare me no matter how much he rants and raves. Lizzie was brave to run away, but she’s only thirteen and needs friends to stand up for her. It looks as though I’m her only friend.’

  ‘I find your tone offensive, young man.’

  ‘I expect you do. It doesn’t trouble me.’

  ‘Bad manners are—’

  ‘Of no consequence compared to standing up for someone in need.’

  Miss Penrose looked furious. But she also looked frustrated and full of doubt. ‘All right,’ she finally said. ‘I’ll see the child is restored to her father, and I’ll have the strongest possible words with him. He doesn’t scare me either.’

  Matt smiled and his green eyes glinted. ‘You’re a formidable person, Miss Penrose.’

  ‘You’re a shocking manipulator.’

  Matt only smiled again then looked down at Lizzie. ‘Is that acceptable?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I think so.’ It wasn’t fair to expect Matt to do more for her but Lizzie felt horribly reluctant to part from him. In fact, the pang of loss she felt was immense and she found she was blinking back tears again. Stepping forward, she wrapped her arms around his middle, wishing she could keep them there forever.

  Miss Penrose humphed and moved further down the hall as though distancing herself from what she considered to be an unbecoming exhibition of sentiment.

  ‘Thank you, Matt,’ Lizzie said. ‘For everything. You’ll give my love to Edith and the others?’

  ‘I certainly will. You’ll write to let us know you’re well? Happy too, I hope?’

  ‘I’ll write,’ she promised, then added in a whisper, ‘I’d like you to have my money.’ She didn’t want Miss Penrose to hear in case she thought Matt’s motive in helping had been money all along.

  ‘Keep it for the moment. You should have a small emergency fund so you won’t be tempted to cross paths with the Amos Bradleys of this world again.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Farewell, little Lizzie. I have a train to catch so I mustn’t linger.’

  She wanted to say, ‘Farewell, big brother,’ but her throat was too tight.

  ‘Miss Penrose.’ He nodded at her godmother, who nodded back but didn’t speak. Probably, she hadn’t bothered to remember his name.

  Lizzie watched him walk down the street. Reaching the end of the road, he turned, waved, then disappeared from sight. Desolation washed over her at the loss of her friend.

  ‘Close the door, for goodness’ sake!’ Miss Penrose called.

  Lizzie closed it.

  ‘Take your coat off downstairs then come back into the music room. Change your boots as well.’

  ‘I have no other shoes. I could only pack what I could carry.’

  ‘Then wipe your boots thoroughly.’

  Lizzie did as instructed, returning to find Miss Penrose sitting in her armchair and frowning. ‘Staying here is a temporary arrangement. I trust you understand that?’

  ‘I do, and I’m grateful for your help.’

  ‘I don’t have a telephone but I shall go out to make a call shortly.’

  Lizzie felt worry slither in her stomach as she guessed the call would be to her father.

  ‘Don’t stand there idling, Elizabeth. Go to the bookcase. Choose a book to read.’

  Lizzie found a whole shelf of books about music. There were history books too, as well as books about travels, philosophy and science. Moving down a shelf, Lizzie saw—

  Goodness, what were these? Pamphlets about women and the fight for the vote? Did Miss Penrose support the suffragettes?

  Lizzie was impressed. She’d hated growing up in the shadow of a bully like her father, who’d taken Mama’s inheritance. Allowing women to vote for the people who sat in Parliament and made all the laws was surely a perfectly reasonable step towards a fairer world. After all, females were just as clever as men, as far as Lizzie could see, and the work they did in or out of the home was just as valuable.

  Of course, not all men were bullies. Lizzie thought of Matt and realised he treated the females in his family with respect as well as love.

  ‘May I
read one of these pamphlets?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you interested in women’s suffrage?’

  ‘I can’t say I know much about it, but I’d like to learn more. Perhaps my father would benefit from reading about it too.’ It was a joke and it wasn’t lost on Miss Penrose.

  The arctic eyes gleamed in momentary appreciation then resumed their glacial state. ‘You’re not like your mother at all.’

  More was the pity. ‘Most people call me Lizzie.’

  ‘I can’t abide diminutives.’

  Lizzie wasn’t sure what a diminutive was, but supposed it was a shortened name.

  Miss Penrose’s next words confirmed it. ‘My name is Margaret but you shall call me Miss Penrose. Not Maggie, Meg or Peg, and definitely not Peggy. Is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, Miss Penrose.’

  ‘Then sit down and read.’

  Miss Penrose stared into space for a while – deciding what to say to Edward Maudsley? – then got to her feet. ‘Behave yourself while I’m gone.’

  She hadn’t been out for long when she burst back in, breathing outrage like a dragon breathed fire. ‘The cheek of the man, expecting me to go to Witherton to spare him the trouble of collecting his own daughter!’

  She threw herself into her chair.

  Lizzie’s absence from home had changed nothing, it seemed. She felt a pang of hurt but swallowed it down and asked, ‘Are you taking me to Witherton?’

  ‘I most certainly am not! That brute is coming here tomorrow. To London, I mean. I won’t have him in this house.’

  Sensing that Miss Penrose was in no mood to entertain further questions, Lizzie lowered her gaze to the pamphlet, but for a while she could think only of Edward Maudsley and how livid he might be when she saw him.

  ‘Do you play?’ Miss Penrose finally asked.

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘Of course the piano. It was your mother’s favourite instrument.’

  ‘She taught me.’

  ‘Then play something.’

  Lizzie went to the piano. ‘I haven’t played much since Mama died.’ She didn’t want Miss Penrose to have high expectations.

  ‘Just do your best.’

  Lizzie chose a minuet by Bach, hoping to make a decent performance of it, but realising she wasn’t playing well at all.