by Lesley Eames
‘Hmm,’ Miss Penrose said. ‘Perhaps you take after your mother in singing?’
Lizzie sang ‘Greensleeves’ as she was familiar with both the words and the music.
‘Your mother had a different sort of voice,’ Miss Penrose remarked, crushing Lizzie even more. ‘I have pupils now. Take your reading down to the kitchen.’
For the next three hours Lizzie sat at the kitchen table hearing pupils arrive and leave above her. Between times the piano tinkled or thumped according to the talents or incompetence of the pupils. More than once Miss Penrose’s voice cried out, ‘No, no, no!’
When she descended to the kitchen at last, she looked fraught. Lizzie suspected she was a brilliant pianist but an impatient teacher.
‘I expect you’re hungry,’ Miss Penrose said. ‘I know nothing of children, but I believe they’re always hungry.’
‘Aren’t your pupils children?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Certainly. But I only teach them piano. Their other needs are no business of mine. I don’t keep a cook and I don’t cook for myself beyond warming soup or boiling eggs. I haven’t the interest.’
She opened the pantry door and Lizzie saw that it was almost empty. A covered plate, the end of a loaf, something wrapped in greaseproof paper and a butter dish were taken out and placed on the table. There was ham under the plate and cheese in the greaseproof wrapping.
Lizzie would have preferred one of Edith’s heartening stews but hoped she kept her longing hidden. Miss Penrose prepared two plates and carried them back to the music room where she pulled out a small table. Seeing her godmother pick up her book and read as she ate, Lizzie did so too, supposing she wasn’t good enough company to warrant a conversation.
Afterwards Miss Penrose washed the dishes. Drying them, Lizzie was left in no doubt that her godmother regarded domestic tasks as nuisances. An even bigger nuisance loomed when, as though it had only just occurred to her, Miss Penrose said, ‘I suppose you need somewhere to sleep.’
Lizzie was shown to a bedroom at the back of the house. Like the rest of 11 Marchmont Row, it appeared to have been frozen in time many years ago. The wallpaper was faded, the curtains looked brittle with age and the furniture had probably been undisturbed since before her godmother’s birth. Miss Penrose took sheets and blankets from a cupboard and made the bed inexpertly. ‘The bathroom is across the landing.’
‘A bathroom?’ What an unexpected luxury.
‘It was installed when my father became infirm,’ Miss Penrose explained.
Lizzie wondered if she should go to bed now, to give Miss Penrose some time to herself.
‘I’m tired after the journey. Would you mind if—’
‘Goodnight, Elizabeth.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Penrose. And thank you.’
Lizzie’s room was cold. She remade the bed but the sheets felt chilly when she slipped between them. It had been an emotional day, though, and despite the discomfort, Lizzie slept.
She woke with a sense that the morning was already well underway and hoped her sleepiness hadn’t inconvenienced her hostess. The linoleum felt icy beneath her feet as Lizzie got out of bed. She put on her boots for the trip to the bathroom, a space that she guessed must have been made out of the third bedroom on this floor. She’d noticed another staircase leading to what must be attics, but she hadn’t dared to investigate.
Only when Lizzie returned to her room did she realise her yesterday’s clothes were no longer on the chair. Miss Penrose must have taken them last night or earlier this morning. Dressing in the spare clothes she’d brought with her, Lizzie brushed her hair and ventured downstairs.
Miss Penrose was in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows and her face flustered.
‘Good morning,’ Lizzie said.
‘That brute is going to have no chance to complain that you’re being sent home dirty.’
Irons were warming in the fire and Lizzie recognised her underwear in the small pile of linen on the table. A glance out of the back window into a small rear garden established that her dress was hanging on the washing line.
Lizzie was thinking that it would take an age to dry when a cold fear rushed into her mind. ‘Did you take the envelope from my pocket, Miss Penrose?’
‘What envelope?’
The one which contained Matt’s address, of course.
Lizzie rushed outside and pulled the envelope from her dress pocket. It was sodden and breaking into pieces. Oh no…
Carrying it carefully, she took it inside and set it on the table. The envelope itself was ruined but perhaps the paper inside was—
No such luck. The paper was sodden too, the writing reduced to a few streaks of ink, washed pale and utterly illegible.
9
‘What’s that?’ Miss Penrose demanded, when she noticed the wet remains of paper on the table.
‘It was a note.’
‘It isn’t much of a note now. Throw it away.’
Might the words become more readable once the paper had dried? Not a chance. Lizzie tidied the mess into the bin.
She must have looked dejected because Miss Penrose’s manner changed to guilty awkwardness. ‘Was the note important?’
Lizzie was near to tears but she didn’t want her godmother to feel bad about an accident. ‘Matt had written his address down for me but I may be able to remember it.’ Lizzie couldn’t actually remember anything more than Bee Corner Farm but it occurred to her that she might be able to locate it on a map and that gave her hope.
They breakfasted on a boiled egg and slice of bread and butter each. The eggs were hard but Miss Penrose appeared not to notice. Lizzie helped to clear up then escaped to her room to pull the traveller’s guide from her bag. She studied the map which featured Stafford but where on earth was Bee Corner Farm?
Quelling her rising panic, Lizzie tried to think logically. She’d met Amos Bradley in Stropley and there it was, to the north-east. He hadn’t taken her through the middle of Stafford so maybe he lived on the north-east outskirts. Perhaps Bee Corner was to the north-east too.
Lizzie could still find no mention of it and none of the villages or hamlets in the area triggered any memories. Of course, Amos might have gone round the outskirts of Stafford to the north, south or even the west of the town. Bee Corner Farm could be in any direction too.
Why, oh why hadn’t she paid more attention to the route when Joe had driven her to the station?
It occurred to her that Miss Penrose might have a more detailed map but when Lizzie returned to the kitchen her godmother was looking harassed. She’d brought Lizzie’s still-soaking dress off the line and was attempting to iron it. ‘Can I help?’ Lizzie asked, grimacing at the smell of scorched wool.
‘Are you packed? We leave at twelve.’
‘I can be ready in five minutes.’
‘Then please tidy the music room. I have pupils later.’
Miss Penrose’s routine had been interrupted and she wasn’t happy about it. Lizzie tidied the music room and looked in the bookcase but couldn’t see a larger map.
Just before twelve Lizzie packed the clothes Miss Penrose had laundered – still damp and horribly creased – then put her coat on. A frowning Miss Penrose joined her in the hall and they hastened to a bus stop, Lizzie’s bag banging against her legs, though she didn’t complain.
She felt sick at the thought of seeing her father. Miss Penrose was a worthy match for him, but after crossing swords with him today would she bother checking on Lizzie by writing for reports and perhaps even visiting? Maybe for a little while. But as time passed and Miss Penrose was caught up by the demands of her own life, Lizzie might be forgotten.
A walk followed the bus ride. Miss Penrose strode out purposefully and Lizzie hastened after her, trying not to wince as the bag bruised her legs. They turned into a side street and Lizzie came to an abrupt halt.
A man had turned into the street from the other end. A man with a bad-tempered mouth showing beneath his hat, and resent
ment coming off him like steam.
‘Come along!’ Miss Penrose urged, glancing round, but something in Lizzie’s face caused her to turn back again. Her shoulders stiffened as she too saw Edward Maudsley.
He disappeared into a building. Drawing nearer, Lizzie saw that it was the Mostyn Hotel. Miss Penrose swept in and Lizzie followed.
The reception area was large and gloomy. ‘Sit over there and don’t move.’ Miss Penrose pointed to some armchairs.
Lizzie sat in a chair, half-hidden by an aspidistra in a brass pot. Miss Penrose spoke to the receptionist then swept through another door.
It was one o’clock according to an ornate clock on the fireplace. At five past one Miss Penrose surged back into the reception area. ‘Come,’ she commanded, continuing towards the outer door.
Confused, Lizzie scrambled up, grabbed her bag and followed. She had to run to catch up with Miss Penrose then half-walked, half-ran to stop herself from falling behind again. Only after they’d rounded several corners did Miss Penrose spit out, ‘That brute is insufferable!’
‘Where are you taking me?’ Lizzie asked, but Miss Penrose was marching ahead again.
Eventually Lizzie realised they were returning to Highbury. Miss Penrose headed straight for her armchair when they arrived at the house. Lizzie hovered at the music room door. Had her father foisted her onto her godmother for another night?
Long minutes passed before Miss Penrose looked at Lizzie. ‘What am I going to do with you now?’ she asked despairingly.
‘I’m not returning to Witherton today?’
‘You’re not returning to Witherton at all. Unless there’s someone there who might look after you?’ Miss Penrose suddenly looked hopeful.
‘No,’ Lizzie said, and her godmother’s face slumped.
‘What happened?’ Lizzie asked. ‘At the hotel?’
‘That brute said I should stay out of his business and either leave your upbringing to him or keep you myself. I told him that I was in no position to keep you, but then he insulted your mother. After that…’ Clearly, Miss Penrose had let her temper get the better of her.
So Edward Maudsley really didn’t care if he never saw his daughter again. Lizzie hadn’t expected to be wanted, but even so…
‘Heaven knows what I’m going to do with you,’ her godmother continued. ‘I could send you to school, but the fees would be beyond anything I could afford and I can’t imagine that brute paying.’
Lizzie surfaced out of her thoughts. ‘Are you going to put me in an orphanage?’ That was what happened to unwanted children in the books she’d read.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not an orphan as long as that brute lives.’
So…
‘We’ll have to muddle along here until I can find a better solution.’
No one wanted Lizzie, it seemed. It stung her to think she was regarded as a burden. ‘I’ll make myself useful,’ she promised. ‘I’ll start now by making you a cup of tea. Something to eat as well, perhaps.’
‘Be quick. My first pupil arrives shortly.’
Lizzie went down to the kitchen, set the kettle to boil on the stove and scraped together a meal of bread, cheese and sliced apple, not finding much else in the larder. She left her plate on the kitchen table then carried a tray up for Miss Penrose. ‘Would you like me to go to the shops while you’re teaching?’
‘The shops?’
‘For food.’ Lizzie could see no other way of providing supper. ‘I have fourteen shillings so—’
Miss Penrose put up a hand to demand silence. She reached for her bag, took out her purse and passed over a pound note. ‘I’m not taking money from a child. Buy eggs and cheese and… Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never seen the value in spending long hours cooking.’
‘I’ll see what I can find.’
Miss Penrose picked up some sheet music and studied it. Lizzie was loath to interrupt her but the loss of Matt’s address was preying on her mind. ‘Might I borrow a map of England if you have one?’ she asked.
‘In the dining-room,’ her godmother told her.
Lizzie discovered the dining room behind the music room. It contained a formal table and eight chairs as well as a chiffonier and bookcase, but none looked as though they’d been used for years. The bookcase yielded a promising-looking atlas of Britain, however. Lizzie was taking it downstairs when Miss Penrose called, ‘Don’t spend my money on sweets!’
Eating her own meal, Lizzie found Stafford in the atlas and studied the area around it. Some farms were named but she couldn’t find Bee Corner among them. She wasn’t giving up, though. She’d look further afield once she returned from the shops.
She took a basket from the pantry and, not liking to interrupt her godmother to ask for a key for the front door, she left through the kitchen door, locking it behind her and taking the key. She found the shops by asking a passer-by. There was a row of them – butcher, grocer, cobbler, greengrocer, tailor, baker, haberdasher…
Lizzie had never shopped for food in all her life, except for buying the bun and drink in Stropley, but she was determined to make a good job of it. She visited several shops as she tried to work out the best way of spending Miss Penrose’s money.
She finally bought a loaf from the baker, a small piece of mutton from the butcher, vegetables from the greengrocer, and several items from the grocer – eggs, cheese, meat paste, tinned soup and corned beef, as Edith had told her that corned beef mashed into potato made for a cheap and filling supper. There wasn’t a great deal of change from the pound note, but Lizzie hoped she’d bought enough food for several days.
When she returned to the house a pupil was banging heavily on the piano upstairs. Lizzie pictured Miss Penrose gritting her teeth at the awfulness of it. The noisy pupil departed as Lizzie put the shopping away, and a gentler pupil arrived. Half an hour later the lesson finished and Miss Penrose came downstairs.
‘Oh,’ she said, as though she’d forgotten her goddaughter’s existence, then she frowned when she heard what Lizzie had bought. ‘Doesn’t mutton need to be cooked?’
‘I plan to make a stew. Matt’s sister taught me.’
‘Hmm.’
At that moment the door knocker sounded. Miss Penrose took a glass of water upstairs and answered the door to her next pupil.
By the time she returned after another two lessons Lizzie had the stew simmering on the stove. It didn’t smell as delicious as Edith’s stews, but with luck it would be edible.
Worryingly, Lizzie had still found no mention of Bee Corner Farm on the map and none of the village names had stirred her memory. The thought that she might never be able to get in touch with the Warrens seared her with distress, but surely there was more she could do to locate them? Lizzie wouldn’t give up yet. In the meantime, she wouldn’t bother her godmother with her troubles.
Miss Penrose looked tired, in fact.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Lizzie offered.
‘Thank you, I would.’ Sitting at the table Miss Penrose stared abstractedly into space. ‘You need an education,’ she said. ‘I told you before that I haven’t the funds for a decent school.’
‘Can’t I go to the local school?’ Polly and Davie hadn’t had to pay to go to school. They’d both left at twelve but some children stayed on until fourteen. Like Mikey Warren hoped to do.
‘And learn what?’ Miss Penrose asked.
Clearly Miss Penrose’s opinion of the local school wasn’t high. ‘I can teach myself,’ Lizzie said after a while. ‘I like to read, and you have a lot of books here.’
‘I’ll teach you,’ Miss Penrose decided, though without enthusiasm. ‘We’ll have lessons in the mornings, but only until I can make other arrangements.’
Lizzie couldn’t blame her for wanting her goddaughter gone. Clearly, Miss Penrose valued her solitude and it hadn’t been fair of Lizzie to descend on her uninvited.
Fortunately, the stew was edible even if it wasn’t up to Edith’s standards. Lizzie
supposed it was Edith’s herbs that made the difference but Lizzie hadn’t seen any herbs on sale.
‘You haven’t played today,’ Miss Penrose said, after they’d eaten. ‘You’ll never become an accomplished pianist unless you practice diligently. Go upstairs and play now. You’ll find music in the drawers if you need it. The easier pieces are at the top.’
Lizzie went upstairs and investigated the drawers. Miss Penrose had indeed arranged the contents so that the beginners’ music was in the top drawers with the pieces becoming more advanced the further down she explored. The music in the lower drawers was too advanced for Lizzie but she continued working her way down just to see what sort of pieces Miss Penrose liked. All were classical.
Reaching the bottom drawer, Lizzie was surprised to find that it contained just one piece of music, wrapped in tissue paper. She drew it out carefully and eased the tissue aside. The music was handwritten and titled ‘The Girl with Grey Eyes’ by George Gilbert Grafton.
‘What are you doing?’ Miss Penrose’s voice sliced into the quietness like a blade, icy with anger.
Startled, Lizzie dropped the music, just managing to catch it again before it hit the floor.
She placed it in the hand her godmother held out. ‘I was looking for music. I thought—’
‘Does this look like the sort of music a child would play?’ Miss Penrose’s fury made Lizzie tremble.
‘I don’t know. I only—’
‘Find something else.’ The handwritten piece was returned to the drawer, and the drawer was slammed shut.
Lizzie opened a middle drawer and took out the first piece that came to hand.
‘Play!’ Miss Penrose barked.
Lizzie did so. Badly, because her fingers were trembling.
‘Concentrate, child!’
Heaving breath into her lungs, Lizzie played as well as she could. Miss Penrose’s comments were scathing but the shouting gradually diminished and no more was said about ‘The Girl with Grey Eyes’.
But in bed that night Lizzie’s mind wouldn’t rest as three questions bounced around inside it. Was Miss Penrose the girl with grey eyes? Had she once been in love with George Gilbert Grafton, only to be disappointed for some reason? And had Lizzie’s intrusion into her godmother’s private affairs hastened her departure from the house?