The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  Susan paled. ‘You can’t leave me with nothing. It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Please don’t attempt to tell me what’s right. There are debts, so the business and this house will be sold to pay them. I’ll consider making a payment to you from any money that remains, but not if you cheat me of a single penny or a single item. Neither will I tolerate any spiteful damage to this house or its contents. Is that clear?’

  Hatred burnt in Susan’s eyes but so did fear for her future. She nodded.

  ‘I’m glad we understand each other.’

  The doorbell rang. ‘I expect this is the solicitor’s clerk, come to make the inventory.’

  Lizzie let him in. Leaving him to his task, she went upstairs to her father’s room, nervousness stirring as she wondered again if the day had finally come…

  Edward Maudsley lay in bed. Lizzie felt pity to see his lopsided mouth and helplessness, but as she looked into his face her last hope of achieving any sort of closeness to him withered and died.

  There was no pleasure in his eyes as he looked back at her. No regret for his past coldness, and no yearning for the relationship they might have enjoyed, had he wished it. He didn’t want her here even now.

  Sadness washed over her. All those years of hoping… For a moment Lizzie blinked back tears but then she squared her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry to see you brought so low,’ she told him. ‘I hope the doctor will keep you comfortable.’

  With that she left the room because there was nothing more to be said. Out on the landing, emotion ambushed her again and her shoulders slumped. But the doctor arrived and she steadied herself to greet him as he came upstairs.

  Doctor Moore remembered her. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so well, Miss Lizzie.’

  ‘Thank you. My father…’

  ‘Isn’t much longer for this world.’

  ‘I want him to have all the care and medicine he needs.’ Edward Maudsley might be going to his grave as a cold, unfeeling man but Lizzie wouldn’t let him drag her principles down to his level.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ll let me know when… When the time comes? A message through Mr Patchett will reach me.’

  Doctor Moore bowed his agreement and, parting from him, Lizzie moved along the landing to the bedroom of her childhood.

  It was a neglected room now, its former prettiness a ghostly echo from the past, but still reminding her of happy times with her mother, as it was Mama who’d chosen the pretty things for her. Lizzie put a few of the smaller items into her bag – books, a china bird, a tray cloth her mother had embroidered…

  Continuing up to the attics she looked out of the window of the room in which she’d been imprisoned. How heartless Susan Monk had been to trap her in loneliness in this cold, bare place.

  She moved into the room that had been used for storage, expecting to find that her mother’s things had been looted by Susan and her crony over the years. She was right. Boxes had been opened and some of the contents taken but other things remained. Lizzie packed a selection into her bag. Silver-backed brushes and a matching mirror, sadly tarnished now but likely to improve on re-acquaintance with polish. More framed photographs. Several cut-glass perfume bottles. A silver inkwell…

  There was no point in voicing farewell to Susan and her crony, who were doubtless cursing Lizzie down in the kitchen. She descended the main staircase and left through the front door.

  For old times’ sake she walked down Amesbury Lane where she’d met Polly all those years ago. She passed the ruined trunk of the lightning-struck sycamore from where Polly had waved to her, then rediscovered the den amid the trees. The ground showed signs of being trampled by small feet and the log remained. Doubtless the den was used by other children now.

  Lizzie lingered long enough to visualise herself sitting here as a child with Polly and Davie, and to remember the songs they’d sung. Who’d have guessed then that Lizzie and Polly would be singing some of those songs even now and entertaining servicemen with them? Or that Davie would become a soldier, and then a prisoner? But then who’d have guessed that war would be raging across the world and destroying so many hopeful lives?

  Turning around, Lizzie walked into town and had tea and a bun in a café. The bun was coarse, probably because wheat was in short supply and some other grain had been mixed into the flour. Lizzie ate it anyway. Wasting food was bad at the best of times. In wartime it was criminal.

  Afterwards she bought flowers then headed for St Paul’s churchyard where she laid them on her mother’s grave.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t visited for so long, Mama. I’m unlikely to visit again, but I know you won’t mind because you want the best for me. Thank you for all the love you gave me. I’ll never stop loving you. Neither will Margaret.’

  She touched a fingertip to her mother’s name on the headstone. ‘Goodbye, dearest Mama.’

  Straightening, Lizzie blew a kiss towards the grave then walked away to meet Polly at the station. Not wanting to impose on Mrs Bishop’s goodwill after being given time off for the concerts, Polly had decided to follow Lizzie’s example in staying in Witherton for only one night so the girls were to travel back together.

  Lizzie arrived first and sat on a bench to wait for her friend. But several minutes ticked by and there was no sign of Polly. Beginning to worry, Lizzie got up and paced the platform. ‘You need to board, Miss,’ a guard warned, as the train shuffled into the station and pulled up alongside her.

  At that moment Polly ran up, holding onto her hat as hair flew around her face like silvery thistledown. Despite her exertion, Polly’s face was pale. Had something – or someone – upset her?

  They settled in an empty carriage. ‘Your family is well, I hope?’ Lizzie asked, concerned.

  ‘All well.’

  But?

  ‘I crossed paths with Davie’s mother as I was walking to the station,’ Polly explained. ‘That’s why I was late.’

  ‘Is Davie…?’

  ‘He’s well enough, it seems. But his mother said I shouldn’t give up hope of him wanting to take up with me again. She thinks the war has addled people’s brains and that Davie will soon realise he was a fool to let me go. She was actually quite insistent that I shouldn’t let my head be turned by anyone else because Davie and I are meant for each other. What do you think, Lizzie?’

  ‘I think Davie’s mother loves you and wants you to be part of her family. Whether she’s right about Davie I can’t say. But I’d hate to see you wasting your life waiting for something that might never happen. If the war has taught us nothing else, it’s shown us that life is precious and we shouldn’t waste a second of it.’

  Polly nodded, but as the train left the station she leant towards the window and looked back at Witherton as though at least a part of her wished to stay. Lizzie, on the other hand, had finally come to terms with being unloved by her father. Yes, there was sadness and always would be. But other people cared for her and her future lay with them – if they came through the war, of course.

  Despite that uncertainty, this trip to Witherton had done Lizzie good. But had it done Polly harm by stirring up hopes that could come to nothing and hurt her all over again?

  25

  Mr Patchett’s letter came one week later. Edward Maudsley was dead. Lizzie sat quietly after she read it. She felt an echo of sadness for what might have been, but she couldn’t grieve for a man who’d chosen to be an unpleasant stranger to her.

  Mr Patchett had also sent the inventory. It included some lovely things – furniture, pictures and china – but few held sentimental value for Lizzie. Besides, it would be expensive to have them transported to London and kept in storage. She chose to keep only her mother’s graceful writing desk, a mirror, some porcelain items that were family heirlooms, and what remained of her mother’s jewellery– the pearl earrings, a gold bracelet, an emerald and diamond ring, and two necklaces. One was a simple silver chain. The other was a heart-shaped gold locket which
was another relic from her mother’s youth. No other jewellery was listed in the inventory. Doubtless it had been plundered by Susan Monk over the years.

  Mr Patchett had received a private offer for the house and recommended acceptance. He’d drawn up an estimate of how much he expected to be raised by the sale of the properties and how much was owed to creditors. This is just a provisional account, he cautioned, though I expect it to prove fairly accurate. As you will see, I anticipate that there will be no more than one hundred pounds remaining after the funeral expenses and the costs of the sales.

  ‘One hundred pounds must be only a small fraction of the sum your mother inherited, but it could still be useful,’ Margaret said.

  She was right, but Lizzie wrote to Mr Patchett to instruct him to use some of the money to ensure the upkeep of her mother’s grave and to pay the rest to Susan Monk.

  ‘You don’t owe that woman a penny!’ Margaret protested.

  ‘She’s a dreadful person,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘But I won’t let her make me a dreadful person too. I saw real fear in her eyes when I was in Witherton. The money I give her won’t keep her in luxury but it should help her to make a start somewhere. And it’s subject to two conditions. The first is that she takes nothing that doesn’t belong to her or damage anything she leaves behind.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘That she doesn’t contact me. Ever.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a good use of the money,’ Margaret conceded.

  Lizzie was still glad to receive the items she’d selected from the inventory. The writing desk, mirror and porcelain fitted in her bedroom. She hung the emerald ring on the silver chain and fastened it round her neck. It felt good to have something of her mother’s close to her heart.

  She wrote to both Harry and Matt to tell them of her father’s death.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t close to him so it isn’t as big a blow as it might have been, she assured Harry.

  Close or not, it must still be upsetting and I wish I were there to comfort you, my darling, Harry wrote back.

  My darling? Lizzie was touched. Thrilled, in fact. Harry was unaware of the full history of her family situation, but Lizzie would tell him one day. Hopefully, that day would come soon.

  Matt was long familiar with the sorry story, of course. It’s natural to regret what might have been, he counselled, but don’t waste much time or thought on it. Edward Maudsley didn’t deserve you. It’s as simple as that. Close the door on him, Lizzie. Move forward.

  Sound advice. There was too much to concern Lizzie in the present to waste time on a past she had no power to change.

  *

  As autumn progressed it became clear that there was going to be particular demand for Christmas concerts. Lizzie was glad to be busy. So much of her life had become an ordeal of waiting. Waiting for letters from Harry and Matt to reassure her they were well. Waiting for the casualty lists to appear in the newspaper and hoping fervently that their names wouldn’t be included. Waiting to see if Polly heard from Davie. Waiting for the war to end…

  Worry was a constant companion, but keeping busy – and feeling useful – helped Lizzie to fight it. Margaret’s no-nonsense attitude to self-pity made her a valuable ally. Polly too was making a valiant effort to get on with things. She’d said no more about Davie, though Lizzie knew her friend well enough to be sure that hope was beating fervently in Polly’s gentle heart.

  Amid the approaching winter chill, a letter from Harry made Lizzie feel the sun had suddenly burst into the room. He’d been granted leave at last. He was coming home.

  I can’t wait to see you! he wrote.

  Lizzie couldn’t wait to see him either, though she told herself to be cautious. A year had passed since they’d last been together. Absence could build false expectations. Reality could bring them crashing down with disappointment.

  Harry spent a night with his parents before coming to London. They must be desperate to see you and I don’t want them to think I’m stopping that from happening, Lizzie had written, and Harry had appreciated her consideration. Though I’m torn, he told her.

  The moment Lizzie opened the door to him tenderness swelled inside her. He looked so handsome, so kind – and so very tired. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek but hesitated. They’d known each other for only a few days before they’d parted last year, and while their letters had brought them closer – much closer – Lizzie still had no experience of what was – and wasn’t – appropriate in such a new romance. And though her heart was urging her to reach out, her head was urging caution.

  Harry cut through the dilemma by stepping forward to fold her into his arms. ‘I keep saying I don’t want to rush you, but oh, my goodness, Lizzie, it’s wonderful to see you.’

  It was lovely to be held so close but then Harry laughed and drew back, looking over her shoulder guiltily as though worried that Margaret might have seen him and be snorting outrage like fire.

  Seeing no sign of her, he sent Lizzie a conspiratorial grimace and this time they both laughed.

  Lizzie’s laughter had a mix of emotions behind it – not only amusement, but also joy and relief, because she was realising the year of separation hadn’t painted a false picture of Harry or her liking for him. On the contrary, he was everything she remembered – open, eager, fun… Seeing him now and feeling such warmth towards him, Lizzie thought that, if this wasn’t yet love, it was surely very close to it.

  ‘Come in and say a quick hello,’ she said.

  Harry was as charming as ever to Margaret, and Lizzie was pleased to see that Margaret’s expression was approving. Why not? There was nothing false or self-serving about Harry’s manners. They were natural and sincere.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you safely back in England,’ Margaret told him. ‘Did you find your parents well?’

  ‘Thank you, I did.’

  ‘You have plans for this evening?’

  ‘I have a table booked for dinner.’

  ‘Then I expect you wish to be on your way. But first let me congratulate you on your promotion, Captain Benedict.’

  Harry’s nod was embarrassed. He was a modest man. ‘I hope I can live up to it.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will,’ Margaret said.

  Harry had brought his father’s car again. He helped Lizzie into the passenger seat then got into the driver’s seat and turned towards her. ‘I hated being apart from you, Lizzie. Separation is terrible when a man wants to court a girl.’

  ‘The war won’t last forever,’ Lizzie told him, but she’d said it often over the past two years and peace felt as far away as ever.

  ‘It won’t,’ he agreed, though his voice was full of doubt and Lizzie was struck again by how tired he looked.

  But then he shook himself and rallied. ‘Of course it won’t. Let’s not think about the war tonight. Let’s enjoy ourselves.’

  ‘I’ve no fault to find with that plan,’ Lizzie said, smiling.

  He took her to a restaurant on Piccadilly and talked enthusiastically about their surroundings, the menu, the wine list and how much he was looking forward to spending time with her. He was heroic in his attempts to entertain her, but he was clearly battling exhaustion. ‘It’s all right to be quiet for a moment,’ Lizzie said, softly.

  ‘Oh, dear. I’m being dull, aren’t I? Sorry. And I wanted so badly to make a good impression.’

  ‘You’re not being dull, Harry. You’re just tired, and with good reason. I may be living a sheltered life as a piano teacher, but I’m often in hospitals and convalescent homes. I see the impact of war.’

  He reached for her hand. ‘Kind, considerate Lizzie! You’re right, of course. I am feeling jaded. This Somme campaign has been grim. I’ve lost men – good men – from my company. And that’s hard.’

  ‘Appalling, I imagine.’

  ‘The past few days have been particularly difficult. I had to sit up most of one night with a chap who’d just received news that his wife had died and so had the child she
’d been bringing into the world. Some people think bad news runs in only one direction in wartime. From the front to home, I mean. But men at the front live in fear of receiving bad news too – a loved one’s illness, a broken engagement, a faithless wife…’

  ‘It must be terrible to receive news like that and be unable to do anything about it.’

  ‘It is. And an upset soldier is a vulnerable soldier. A moment of distraction is all it takes to fall victim to a sniper. It’s my job to support the chaps I command when they’re suffering. Not just because it’s the decent thing to do, but also to try to keep them safe. It’s my job to write to the families of some of the fallen too. That’s what I was doing last night after spending the evening with my parents – worrying about whether my letters were the best they could be kept me awake even after I’d gone to bed.’

  ‘It’s to your credit that you care so much, Harry. I know that war takes a toll so please don’t feel you have to pretend that all’s well when it isn’t. You’re not an actor in a play, and I’m not a member of the audience.’

  He smiled at her. ‘It was a lucky day for me when I met you, Lizzie.’

  ‘It was lucky for me too, despite the bombing. We live in a strange world, with triumph and tragedy all mixed up together, but perhaps the tragedy helps us to treasure the triumph. Now, let’s treasure this wonderful food by eating it before it gets cold.’

  They didn’t linger late. Harry was staying at the club rather than driving home to Surrey and Lizzie was glad of it as he clearly needed to sleep.

  He called the next morning and Lizzie was pleased to see that the overnight rest had done him good. ‘What would you like to do today?’ he asked.

  ‘Might we go for a walk? It needn’t be a long one.’

  ‘I don’t mind if it is a long one. Hyde Park? I haven’t been there for years.’

  He parked the car in a Bayswater side street and they entered the park from the north side, Harry offering his arm to Lizzie who took it willingly, savouring the closeness. ‘Thank you for last night,’ Harry said. ‘Your understanding, I mean.’