The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  ‘Of course not.’

  They agreed a time and place then Lizzie opened the door and watched Matt set off down the street. He walked a few yards then turned and waved. He paused to look up at the sky and draw air deep into his lungs. Then he continued on his way unhurriedly, as though this taste of England was to be savoured.

  It warmed her over the following days to imagine the welcome Matt would be receiving at home – hugs, kisses, his favourite foods, chatter around the big farmhouse table, singing around the piano in the parlour… Doubtless his family was spoiling him. Equally doubtless, Matt was insisting on pitching in with the work.

  He’d be taking walks around the farm’s acres too, examining crops here, soothing animals there… In the daytimes he’d watch the clouds passing overhead in an ever-changing pattern of whites, pearls, pinks and greys. He’d follow the paths taken by birds and take pleasure in the supple sway of grasses in the breeze. In the evenings he’d feel the cooling air on his cheeks – velvety soft with damp or crisp with hints of autumn. He’d listen for the hoot of a distant owl and the rustle of leaves in the trees.

  She wished she could be there with him instead of waiting to see him, because his return to London would also mean his return to the war. But Lizzie still felt a burst of joy when she saw him walking towards her on Thursday evening. He bent to kiss her cheek and she smiled up at him. ‘I’ve been imagining your family spoiling you and I see I was right,’ she said.

  The few days with his family had done him good. There was more of the old colour back in his cheeks, though strain still cut lines around his eyes. Of course it did. He was going back to face hell.

  He was calm, though. Smiling. And an image burst into Lizzie’s mind of how he’d be in the trenches. A steadying influence. Unflinching and unflustered no matter how much fear and dread tortured him inside.

  ‘The uniform spruce-up is courtesy of Edith,’ he said. It was immaculate. ‘Molly polished my buttons and buckles. Mikey and Joe cleaned my pack and boots. And everyone contributed to the parcels of food and drink I’m lugging around.’

  The pack was bulging.

  ‘Can I carry anything for you?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got everything tucked in neat and tight. Shall we go for some food? I asked a chap on the train for a recommendation and he’s given me the name of a place.’ Matt’s green eyes glinted. ‘Usual criteria. Decent food at decent prices. Unless you already have somewhere different in mind?’

  ‘I don’t. Let’s see if the chap on the train can be trusted.’

  It appeared that he could. ‘Shepherd’s pie for me,’ Matt said. ‘I may not be a shepherd, but I’m a farmer and that’s close enough.’

  ‘I’m sitting opposite a farmer and that’s close enough for me too,’ Lizzie said, ordering the same.

  ‘Before I forget…’ Matt dug into his pack and took out two parcels. ‘Dried herbs from Edith, and a small cheese from Molly.’

  ‘How kind! I grow herbs at home now, but the garden is small and shaded so the plants don’t grow quite as well as Edith’s. I remember hers growing abundantly.’

  ‘Edith has a magical touch with herbs. And also with the lavender in Bee Corner.’ Matt’s eyes danced and Lizzie groaned, remembering the foolish mistake she’d made all those years ago.

  ‘I can’t believe I was such a fool! But tell me how everyone is.’

  ‘All well. All delighted to know I’ve seen you again. All wishing they could see you again too.’

  Pleasure wrapped itself around Lizzie like a blanket. ‘I’d love to see them again one day.’

  Matt talked about his family until the food arrived. ‘So,’ he said then, ‘votes for women.’

  ‘It was my godmother who got me interested, though perhaps I might have leant towards the cause sooner or later anyway, because I don’t see it as being about voting rights only. I see it as being about respect for women.’

  ‘Your father isn’t a respectful man.’

  ‘He was horribly controlling when I was a child and my poor, gentle mother was afraid of him. Not that he ever hit her or anything like that. But he intimidated her. He didn’t value her.’

  ‘Was your godmother’s father like that too?’

  ‘I think so. She doesn’t talk about him, but I suspect he stopped her from living the sort of life she might have chosen for herself.’ A life with Gilbert George Grafton. ‘Anyway, she introduced me to her women’s group. It’s an informal group with no official leader but Cordelia Bishop is the woman who does most of the organisation. She’d make a wonderful Member of Parliament though I think she prefers organising people and bringing them together with other people of influence. She’s incredibly well connected.’

  ‘So you have meetings?’

  ‘We do. Sometimes just for ourselves, sometimes with guests such as Members of Parliament. We’ve been on marches too, and handed out leaflets’

  ‘I imagine that’s an… interesting experience,’ Matt said, eyes gleaming humour again.

  ‘Oh, yes. Abuse is common. Mostly from men, but sometimes from women who think we should leave it to men to get on with running the world while we stay at home.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a domestic life, if that’s what a woman wants. Edith loves a domestic life. But it doesn’t make her a fool, and neither should it stop her from having a say in how the country is run.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘I expect no less of the girl who ran away from home, then ran from Amos Bradley too.’

  Lizzie smiled, then said, ‘Of course, the suffragette cause is taking second place to the war effort just now, but it hasn’t been forgotten. If anything, the work women are doing should show the country that females can contribute in all sorts of ways.’

  ‘It’ll be outrageous if it doesn’t,’ Matt said.

  The evening passed too quickly again but, as before, Matt walked Lizzie home despite her protests.

  ‘I don’t want to say goodbye now,’ Lizzie said, when they reached the house. ‘May I come to the station tomorrow to wave you off?’

  Matt looked pleased. Lizzie supposed that, with his family so far away, no one had ever waved him off on the boat train before. ‘I’d like that.’

  They met near Waterloo station and had a quick cup of tea, smiling over the drawings Edith’s little boy had given Matt to keep him cheerful on the journey. But soon it was time to head for the train.

  ‘You’ll write?’ he said. ‘I look forward to your letters.’

  ‘Of course I’ll write.’

  Lizzie looked around the station concourse. ‘This is where I saw you in the distance that time. I waved but you didn’t see me.’

  ‘You managed to get in touch eventually. I’ll always be glad of that. And this time I’ll wave back.’

  ‘Stay safe,’ she urged, when they reached his platform and he dug in his pocket for his travel warrant. ‘Please stay safe.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He kissed her cheek, then, obeying a mutual impulse, they hugged. ‘Write,’ he urged again, and walked onto the platform.

  He boarded the train without looking back but reappeared moments later, leaning out of a window to wave as the train pulled away.

  Lizzie kept waving until all that remained of the train was a faint cloud of steam. She realised she was crying – for Matt, for Harry, and for all the young men who were risking life and limb to serve their country. ‘Dratted war!’ she muttered.

  ‘You’re right there,’ a man said, presumably a father who’d been waving off a much-loved son. ‘Dratted war indeed.’

  23

  It was hard to think that a year was likely to pass before she saw Matt again, but Lizzie would simply have to put one foot in front of the other and go about her life. After all, she’d been doing exactly that since had Harry left eleven months ago, and surely he was due to be granted leave again soon?

  She returned home after seeing Matt off on his journey to find a letter f
rom Harry had arrived. Opening it down in the kitchen, her heart beat fast in hopeful anticipation but, while he wrote as affectionately as ever, he had no news of any leave.

  Sighing, Lizzie reached for the second of the three letters that had come for her. She hadn’t paid much attention to the envelope in her eagerness to read what Harry had to say, but when she drew the letter out and saw the address at the top, her stomach clenched in troubled surprise.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Margaret asked, looking up from her lunch.

  ‘This letter is from Miss Monk. Mrs Maudsley, I should say.’

  Lizzie read it quickly.

  Dear Elizabeth,

  I hope this letter finds you well and that I can prevail upon you to return to Witherton on a visit. It’s been a long time since we saw you so a visit is long overdue. Your father hasn’t been well recently, so the sooner you come the better. I’ll keep a bed made up for you in the hope that only a day or two need to pass before you’re with us.

  Your loving stepmother,

  Susan.

  Loving stepmother? Lizzie almost choked. ‘She asks me to visit. Apparently, my father is unwell.’

  ‘Is his condition serious?’

  ‘She doesn’t say. I suppose it’s possible that illness has given him a change of heart about me, but after all these years of silence I find it hard to believe.’ Yet Lizzie was aware of a feeling of hope creeping up on her. It was a ridiculous hope, but it wouldn’t be dismissed.

  ‘Will you go?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Even if Edward Maudsley had thawed towards his daughter, Lizzie couldn’t believe that Susan Monk had undergone a change of heart. Was something was going on?

  It all became clear when Lizzie opened the third letter. ‘This is from the family solicitor,’ Lizzie told Margaret. ‘My father has suffered a stroke and isn’t expected to recover.’

  ‘I won’t make a hypocrite of myself by saying I’m sorry.’

  ‘Apparently my father’s estate will come to me, but the business is in trouble and there are debts. He warns me to moderate my expectations.’

  ‘Did you expect to inherit?’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve given it a moment’s thought. I always assumed my father had complete power over my mother’s money, but it seems the terms on which he got it mean it comes to me after his death whether he likes it or not.’ Doubtless Susan Monk was currying favour with a view to getting her hands on it. ‘The solicitor is some sort of trustee and wants me to go and see him.’

  ‘So you’re returning to Witherton come what may.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Do you wish me to accompany you?’

  ‘Thank you, Margaret, but I’d prefer you to cover as many of my lessons as possible. I may ask Polly to come, though. Her mother has been clamouring for her to visit, so we could travel together.’

  Lizzie spoke to Polly later that day. ‘I’ll only stay one night, but you could stay longer if Mrs Bishop will give you the time off.’

  Polly chewed on her lip and Lizzie guessed she was balancing the pleasure of seeing her family against the distress of returning to the place where she’d been so happy with Davie. ‘All right,’ Polly said. ‘If Mrs Bishop gives permission, I’ll come. I’ll just have to hope I don’t see any of Davie’s family.’

  They took the train to Witherton the following afternoon. Lizzie had telephoned to the solicitor to make an appointment for the morning after her arrival but she hadn’t contacted Susan Monk, wanting to catch the woman unawares if possible. ‘I’ll call on her, but I’ve no intention of staying at the house,’ Lizzie told Polly. She’d booked a room in a small lodging house instead.

  Arriving at Witherton station, Polly wished Lizzie luck then set off for her family home. Lizzie headed for the lodging house of a Mrs Burrows, who offered plain but adequate rooms and plain but adequate breakfasts at reasonable rates.

  Dinner wasn’t included but Lizzie ordered ham and an egg – a real egg instead of the powdered stuff! – at a nearby tea shop just before it closed. She spent the next couple of hours wandering the streets of Witherton and finding it little changed, though here, as everywhere, there were reminders of the war – a tattered recruiting poster attached to a noticeboard, a soldier in khaki and, further on, a seaman in navy blue.

  Advertisements in shops urged families to buy supplies, from boot laces to cigarettes, to send to the boys serving overseas. Some houses boasted patriotic flags in their windows. One sad window displayed black mourning crepe around a photograph of a young man in army uniform. Lizzie pitied his poor family.

  Only towards the end of her walk did she approach her childhood home. Even then she kept a distance. Happy memories came to her first – walking in the garden with her mother and learning the names of flowers, playing piano in the drawing room, being tucked into bed in her pretty bedroom…

  Unhappy memories followed – her father’s coldness, Susan Monk’s cruelty, the insolence of Mrs Clegg…

  Lizzie looked up at the attic window behind which she’d been virtually imprisoned. Below it was the window of her old bedroom, with the tree beside it, a little taller now. It made her shudder to think of the risks she’d taken in climbing out into that tree – so high above the ground! – but misery had made her desperate, and she’d had her reward in Polly’s friendship.

  Edward Maudsley lay behind one of the other windows, perhaps in the room he’d once shared with Mama. Was it possible that he wished to see his daughter at last? To tell her he’d been wrong to neglect her and that he loved her? For years Lizzie had told herself, Maybe one day. Perhaps that day would be tomorrow.

  She slept only fitfully that night, but felt determined as she walked to the solicitor’s office the following morning. Mr Patchett was tall and stooped, with hair that had whitened with age, but his eyes were both shrewd and kind as he shook her hand. ‘Thank you for calling, Miss Maudsley.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve taken my mother’s maiden name. Kellaway.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and Lizzie thought that he really did understand.

  He gestured her to a seat then moved behind the old mahogany desk to a chair of his own. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have better news.’

  Half an hour later Lizzie knew the worst. Her father had let the business run down, failing to invest in modern machinery or replace staff who’d left for the war. ‘Other businesses are coping using female labour,’ Mr Patchett had explained, ‘but Mr Maudsley… I warned him, but he wasn’t inclined to listen.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The more unreliable the business became, the more contracts it lost. It was a downward spiral, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lizzie said, to reassure him he was neither shocking nor upsetting her.

  ‘Regretfully the debts are substantial, both for the business and Mr Maudsley personally. The second Mrs Maudsley has a taste for extravagance and turned deaf ears to my pleas for economy. It appeared to be beyond the scope of her imagination to believe that she and Mr Maudsley might face ruin, but now that it’s happening, she’s a frightened woman.’ The curl of Mr Patchett’s lip suggested he considered her to be an unpleasant woman too.

  He rallied himself. ‘It may be that some debts will die with him so it might be possible to salvage something of your inheritance, Miss Kellaway.’

  ‘If there are debts, they need to be repaid,’ Lizzie said. ‘I won’t have the livelihoods of creditors threatened by my father’s incompetence.’

  ‘That will mean selling the house.’

  ‘I’ll behave honourably even if my father wouldn’t.’

  ‘In that case your inheritance is likely to be small indeed.’

  ‘So be it.’

  An offer had already been made for the business and Mr Patchett agreed to see to the sale of the house too. ‘I suggest an inventory of the house contents be made sooner rather than later,’ he added. ‘It would be a pity if some of those contents went missing.’ In other words, it would be a pity if Susan Monk ma
de off with them.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I’ll send someone today.’ He promised to keep her informed of developments and Lizzie got up to leave. ‘You must miss your mother,’ he said. ‘She was a lady through and through.’

  Whereas Susan Monk was no lady at all.

  24

  Lizzie headed next to Briar Lodge. She passed between the gateposts into the garden, but instead of knocking on the front door she walked around to the rear door and stepped into the passage through which she’d fled all those years ago. Voices reached her from the kitchen. The bitter, grumbling voices of Susan Monk and Mrs Clegg. Their easy lives were coming to an ignominious end and they were livid.

  Lizzie opened the kitchen door and both women turned, their faces registering so much shock that neither could speak for several moments. Mrs Clegg recovered first. ‘Well, haven’t you turned out a beauty, Miss Elizabeth? We always said you would. Didn’t we, Susan?’

  Susan’s tongue appeared to be stuck inside her mouth, probably because Lizzie was sending her a contemptuous look that made it clear that she wasn’t going to fall for flattery.

  ‘It’s good to see you’ve turned out so well,’ Mrs Clegg continued, oblivious. ‘You’re quite the young lady and so gracious-looking. There’s no trace of the rebellious child in you now. When you were little… Why, I remember how you took against poor Susan for no reason at all. Still, that’s ancient history now, isn’t it?’

  Lizzie sighed irritably. ‘I know what you’re trying to do, Mrs Clegg, and it won’t work. The past may be history but I won’t allow you to rewrite it to cast yourselves in kinder roles. Both of you were cruel to me and disrespectful about my mother. You’ll leave now, Mrs Clegg.’

  The older woman looked scared. So did Susan.

  ‘There’s a month’s wages in here.’ Lizzie handed over an envelope. ‘Not as much as you’d like, I’m sure, but then the pair of you have been squandering my family money for years. Which brings me to a warning, Susan. My solicitor is sending someone to make an inventory of this house’s contents. I suggest you also draw up an inventory of any items you consider to be your personal property so I can compare the two. If you attempt to cheat by claiming things which aren’t your own, you’ll leave with nothing.’