The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  ‘“Golden Barley”?’ suggested Margaret, knowing that Polly was familiar with the words.

  Polly glanced at the audience and visibly quaked but she took some timid steps forward. Margaret played the introduction and Lizzie willed Polly to do justice to herself.

  Polly’s voice faltered as she began and was so quiet it had no chance of reaching the back of the room but, just as had happened when she’d sung to the women’s group, it grew in confidence as well as volume.

  I look over fields and see barley so fair,

  A sweet, luscious gold like my dear lover’s hair…

  Pure, silvery beauty soared through the room. When the song finished, the applause was so loud that Polly took a startled step backwards.

  Lizzie got up to join her and they sang ‘Scarborough Fair’ together before Lizzie took over for the more rousing songs.

  When the concert ended, Lizzie stood back so Polly could receive a share of the praise that came their way.

  ‘A real treat, that was…’

  ‘Voices of angels…’

  ‘Better than medicine…’

  The men left and Polly turned to Lizzie suspiciously. ‘Did you cough on purpose?’

  ‘The choking was genuine, but I admit to exaggerating the coughing to persuade you to sing.’

  ‘That was sly. I’m not sure I can forgive you.’

  She was teasing, of course, and Lizzie was pleased to see that singing had been good for her friend. It was going to take a long time for Polly to come to terms with her broken engagement, but a boost to her confidence in the meantime could only help.

  ‘You’re one of the Penrose Players now, and there’s no going back,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘I don’t play,’ Polly pointed out.

  ‘Then we’ll change our name to the Penrose Players and Singers.’

  Polly came often to the house after that so they could work out a programme of songs that suited both of their voices. They added simple dance steps too. ‘What do you think?’ Lizzie asked Margaret.

  ‘I think you’ll please the patients,’ Margaret said, though doubtless she was thinking that there was no way such a performance would ever sully the stage at Covent Garden.

  The new programme did indeed please the patients.

  Polly had expected her work commitments to limit her performances to Saturday afternoons and Sundays, but old Mrs Bishop proved to be an unexpected ally. Hearing how Polly was spending her free time, she insisted that Cordelia should bring her to a rehearsal at Margaret’s house.

  She was a fierce woman who barked orders at Cordelia’s chauffeur as he helped her inside then poked Cordelia with her walking stick when she wanted a cushion adjusted. She watched the rehearsal with hawk-like eyes, as though keen to find fault.

  ‘Well!’ she said at the end, but no one knew what that meant.

  She turned to Margaret. ‘Congratulations, Miss Penrose. You play superbly. As for you younger girls…’

  Lizzie held her breath, waiting for the verdict.

  ‘Highly entertaining.’

  Phew!

  ‘I’ve been looking for a way to support the war effort but I’m not interested in all that knitting nonsense Cordelia organises. I wouldn’t knit socks even if my arthritic fingers were up to it. But concerts… Yes, I think they’re just the thing I’ve been waiting for.’

  Oh, no. She wasn’t thinking of performing, was she?

  ‘Don’t look so horrified, you silly girls. I’m not proposing to join you on stage. Who wants to watch a wrinkled old crone who can’t sing? That wouldn’t entertain the audiences. It would torture them. My contribution to the war effort will be to give you time off for concerts, Polly. I’ll expect you to make up for it, though.’

  ‘Oh, I will!’ Polly cried, delighted.

  All through spring and into summer of 1916 the Penrose Players and Singers performed to grateful audiences. Polly’s confidence grew, though she was still desperately unhappy about Davie. Not that she ever complained or moped. On the contrary, she made a heroic effort to be cheerful. But it was clear that her tender heart wouldn’t heal quickly.

  Lizzie wrote to both Harry and Matt, praising Polly’s voice and the difference she made to the concerts. Singing duets, a little dancing… Thanks to Polly we have a more varied programme now and the patients appear to love it.

  Both replied with words of praise. Polly sounds a lovely person, Harry wrote, and Matt wrote, All those singing sessions in your little den in Witherton are paying off.

  ‘I enjoy our concerts but wouldn’t it be wonderful if they weren’t needed anymore?’ Lizzie said to Margaret one day.

  ‘Because the war would have ended?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe this latest push will be the turning point,’ Margaret suggested.

  Cordelia had spoken of a big campaign by the allies. It started at the beginning of July after enemy trenches near the river Somme had been bombarded for several days with a view to destroying barbed wire and enemy positions before the foot soldiers went on the attack. Lizzie was torn between hope of a successful outcome and dread in case Harry or Matt fell in action. Davie too, because Polly still loved him and Lizzie couldn’t hate him.

  She rushed out for a newspaper every morning and it soon became apparent that the attack was proving disastrous in terms of casualties with thousands of men being killed or injured. She felt limp with relief whenever letters came from Harry and Matt, though the relief was always short-lived because the letters took time to arrive and who knew what had happened after they’d been written?

  One day Polly arrived looking grave. ‘Davie’s been captured. He’s in a prisoner of war camp. His sister got my address from my mother and wrote to tell me.’

  ‘He’s alive, Poll. He’s safe.’

  ‘For the moment. I can’t help wondering if he’ll have enough to eat and be given medical attention if he needs it.’

  ‘He’s safe,’ Lizzie repeated. ‘Don’t go looking for worries.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Polly finally agreed. ‘Shall we practise for a while? I’m not sure about that new song…’

  *

  August came and moved towards September. Lizzie was showing a pupil out one afternoon when a telegram boy came along the street on his red bicycle. Dismay swelled inside her as she watched him skid to a halt in front of her. ‘Miss Kellaway?’ he asked.

  Lizzie nodded and took the telegram with trembling fingers. A moment later she slumped against the door in relief.

  The telegram was from Matt. He was on leave and would be in London tonight! He suggested she leave a message at the hostel where he’d be staying if she was free to see him.

  Hastening inside, Lizzie told Margaret about the telegram then rushed to the Post Office to telephone the hostel. Matt hadn’t arrived yet, but he was expected soon. Lizzie left a message to say she’d meet him outside the hostel at seven o’clock.

  She walked home again, remembering the warm glow of comfort she’d felt in his presence and fizzing with excitement at the thought of seeing him again.

  ‘I’m sorry I won’t be cooking dinner tonight,’ she told Margaret.

  ‘I’m glad you have a pleasant evening ahead of you. But take care being out alone at night, Lizzie. The nights are drawing in again, and with the streetlights dimmed… I’ve heard that some criminals are taking advantage of it to steal people’s belongings.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  It was only as she sat on the omnibus that doubts crept in. Memory might have exaggerated how comfortable she’d felt with Matt as a child and perhaps she’d feel differently now she was an adult. Or Matt might have changed. There’d been no hint of change in his letters but anyone could put on a cheerful act for the time it took to write a letter. And war could break the strongest person. Lizzie’s nerves began to flutter.

  22

  The hostel was near Kings Cross. Lizzie waited outside, trying to avoid the eyes of the men who passed by. Not that
any of them were offensive.

  She recognised Matt as soon as he stepped out of the hostel. There was something imposing about such a tall, upright man, especially in uniform. He glanced around, saw her and for a moment stood simply looking at her.

  Lizzie swallowed. Was he the Matt of old? Or was he a different sort of man these days?

  The familiar smile spread across his face and Lizzie felt a surge of emotion – relief dancing alongside joy. She breathed out slowly and smiled back.

  Matt walked towards her, green eyes gleaming. ‘Edith was right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘She said you’d been a strikingly pretty child who’d have grown into a strikingly beautiful woman.’

  Lizzie pulled a face at such nonsense.

  ‘Can an old friend take a liberty?’ he asked, then bent to kiss her cheek. ‘It’s good to see you, Lizzie.’

  ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘I didn’t intend for you to wait here, though. This isn’t the pleasantest of places.’ Doubtless the hostel was cheap. ‘Unfortunately, it was too late to send another telegram by the time I received your message.’

  ‘I’ve been fine.’

  ‘Hungry? I asked in the hostel about where we might get a decent dinner and I’ve been given the name of a place not far from here. You won’t mind walking?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Matt offered his arm. Lizzie took it, glad to feel the old warmth returning as they set off for the restaurant. ‘How was your journey?’ she asked.

  ‘Eventful.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He grinned and told her about a poor chap who’d got to the port late and tried to jump into the boat as it was beginning to move off only to fall in the water. Another chap had spent the entire crossing being sick over the side. Two men playing cards had got into a fight about cheating, and another man had made a fuss about cheese having been stolen from his pack before realising he’d been looking for it in someone else’s pack.

  ‘This place isn’t fancy but I’m told the food is good and hot,’ Matt said, as they reached the restaurant.

  ‘Suits me.’

  Inside they ordered meat pies with gravy to be followed by treacle tart, then Lizzie sat back to study her friend properly. His face was thinner and there were fine lines at the corners of those shrewd green eyes. She imagined they’d been put there by the war instead of the passage of time, and wondered what horrors he’d experienced. Not that she intended to ask about those experiences. It was for Matt to decide what he felt able to share with her.

  She realised he’d begun to study her in return and some sort of private thought had brought a smile to his lips.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m remembering the little Lizzie. Now you’re all grown up,’ he said.

  ‘Twenty years old. Thanks to you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Amos Bradley wished me harm. I might never have got past thirteen if you hadn’t rescued me.’

  ‘You were an enterprising child. You might have escaped his clutches some other way if I hadn’t happened along.’

  ‘I doubt it. I was unwell.’

  ‘Well, who knows?’ he said. ‘But I’ve always been glad I helped you, Lizzie.’

  ‘I’ve never stopped being grateful.’

  Smiles passed between them and for a moment neither of them spoke.

  ‘Tell me about everyone at the farm,’ Lizzie suggested then.

  Matt’s face softened with affection for his family, just as she’d expected. ‘You’ve been writing to Edith, I hear.’

  ‘Regularly. She sounds happy with Peter.’

  ‘Very much so. I couldn’t wish for a better brother-in-law. Peter’s hardworking, kind, and an excellent father.’

  ‘And he’s working at Sorrel’s Patch.’

  ‘Making a success of it too. He used to work for another farmer but never had the chance to influence how the farm was run. Now he has that chance alongside Joe. Mikey’s working on the farm too just now. He was a clerk in a pottery for a while and hopes to return to that sort of work eventually.’

  ‘After the war, you mean. Meanwhile he’s safer on the farm.’

  Matt sent her a speculative look.

  ‘You enlisted to save your brothers and brother-in-law.’ Lizzie wasn’t asking a question. She was stating what she believed to be a fact.

  Matt would have foreseen that there wouldn’t be enough volunteers to sustain the fighting indefinitely so men would be called up to fight whether they liked it or not. Conscription had been introduced earlier in the year but farming was essential work so its workers could apply for exemption. Sorrel’s Patch wouldn’t have justified four exempt workers, though.

  Matt didn’t answer but Lizzie hadn’t expected him to. She simply wanted him to know that she understood his decision and admired him for it.

  ‘How’s Molly?’ she asked.

  Relaxing, Matt told her how Molly loved life on the farm too. ‘She’s only twelve but she’s taken over from Edith in looking after the chickens and the cows. She has a third cow now. Maude injured her leg as a calf and her owner was going to put her down. Molly persuaded him to let her nurse Maude back to health instead. These days Molly is even better than Edith at making butter and cheese.’

  The food arrived. ‘This looks good,’ Matt said. ‘Smells good too.’

  ‘I hear army food is grim.’

  ‘It’s terrible!’

  He talked about the food and other day-to-day challenges such as having to strip off boots and socks in cold, wet trenches to dry the feet and smear them with whale fat to stop trench foot from developing. ‘Awful thing, trench foot. Men lose toes and other parts of their feet to it and, once the rot sets in, it can spread.’

  He talked about the camaraderie too – games of cards, shared parcels, teasing, banter and Foxworth, the terrier the battalion had unofficially adopted to catch trench rats.

  Mostly Matt was interested in hearing about Lizzie’s life in London, particularly the concerts. ‘What you’re doing is wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘Sometimes I think I should be nursing or driving an ambulance. Not that I can drive, but I could learn. Singing feels… easy, I suppose. Too comfortable.’

  ‘Nursing and ambulance driving are important jobs, but so is raising the spirits of men who are injured or sick,’ Matt insisted. ‘Your concerts are about more than an hour or two of entertainment. They remind the men that there’s life beyond their suffering. A life they’re fighting to protect and which they’ll enjoy again when the war finally ends. They also give them happy memories to look back on while they’re away.’

  These were arguments that had been put to Lizzie before but, coming from a serving soldier as wise and thoughtful as Matt, they were doubly reassuring.

  A waiter took their empty plates and returned with the treacle tart. ‘Delicious,’ Lizzie declared.

  Matt nodded, eating hungrily. ‘Tell me what happened after I left you with Miss Penrose.’

  Lizzie had summarised events in her letters but now she told him more.

  Matt listened intently. ‘I’m glad you found a home with your godmother but I’m sorry your father has never seen sense about you,’ he finally said. ‘The loss is his.’ Reaching out, Matt touched her hand. Gently, and just for a moment, but it was enough to make her feel better.

  It was getting late. Matt had to be tired after his journey and Margaret would worry if Lizzie wasn’t home soon. ‘Time to go?’ Matt questioned.

  ‘Unfortunately it is.’

  He called for the bill.

  ‘I’d like to pay,’ Lizzie said, but Matt wouldn’t hear of it and had an ally in the waiter who gave her no chance even to see the bill.

  ‘At least let me repay the money I owe you from when we first met,’ Lizzie pleaded.

  ‘Certainly not. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Think of it as paying for all the stamps you bought trying to get in touch with me. I could ha
ve saved you the cost – and the trouble – if I’d written to you because I knew your godmother’s address.’

  But he’d wanted to free her to get on with her new life instead of reminding her of a debt she might not have had the funds to repay.

  ‘Don’t try sending the money to Edith either,’ he added. ‘She’d be offended because her hospitality comes from a generous nature rather than a hope of repayment.’

  With that Matt insisted the subject was closed. ‘I’ll see you home,’ he said, when they got outside.

  ‘You can see me to the bus stop but you can’t take me all the way to Highbury. You need to rest.’

  ‘I need good company and quietness more than rest.’

  Quietness? Lizzie had heard how the relentless noise of shellfire could rip men’s nerves to shreds.

  The walk to Highbury was long but Matt preferred it to an omnibus and Lizzie felt no fear of the dark with him at her side. They walked in companionable ease, pausing only now and then for Matt to point out the constellations in the sky or for Lizzie to comment on the fragrance of a late-flowering rose that lingered in the night time air.

  ‘I feel we could have talked for longer,’ Matt said, after a while.

  ‘We barely got started,’ Lizzie agreed.

  ‘Please say if this isn’t convenient, but would you be free to meet me again if I came back from the farm early?’

  ‘That would be lovely! But won’t Edith and the others want to keep you with them for as long as possible?’

  ‘I’m catching the boat back to France on Friday but I could spend Thursday evening in London.’

  ‘If you’re sure…’

  Matt grinned. ‘We didn’t even touch on your votes-for-women work. How can I return to the front without hearing all about it?’

  ‘How indeed? You approve of votes for women, I hope?’

  ‘Do you need to ask? Of course I approve of it.’

  ‘Good.’

  They reached Margaret’s house and Matt kissed her cheek again. ‘I won’t disturb your godmother as it’s late, but please give her my regards.’

  ‘Would you like to come here on Thursday? For a meal?’

  ‘Thank you, but I may be late getting into London. Would you mind meeting me there again?’