by Lesley Eames
‘You sound as though you’ve already made plans.’ Lizzie feared she wasn’t going to like them.
‘I don’t want to wallow in self-pity so I’m going to visit my family in Scotland then look for work in a provincial show. London feels too close to Polly just now.’
‘You’ll stay in touch?’
‘Yes. But I know you’re kind enough to allow me some weeks or months of silence first.’
‘As long as it doesn’t become permanent.’
‘I’m not abandoning the fundraising concerts, in case you’re wondering about them. Charlie and I hope to put on another one, possibly in the summer or next Christmas. By then I hope I’ll be through the worst of my disappointment, because I’d like the Penrose Singers to perform again.’
‘I’d like that too.’ But even summer was six months away and by then Jack might be busy with other things.
‘A new year begins tomorrow,’ Jack said. ‘It won’t be the sort of year I had in mind, but I’ll make the best of it. I shan’t mope more than I can help.’
They parted soon afterwards. Watching him walk away, Lizzie wondered if she’d ever see him again. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t interfere in anyone’s romantic life again. Not Polly’s and not Margaret’s. Lizzie couldn’t even manage her own life.
35
January and February had never been Lizzie’s favourite months. The winds were too mean, the cold too cutting and the daylight hours too short.
Impatient with her low spirits, Lizzie counted her blessings again and again. In her professional life she was able to feel useful through her teaching and concerts. In her personal life she was engaged to a wonderful man and had wonderful friends.
Edith remained one of those friends, as she still wrote regularly and appeared to have forgiven Lizzie for holding back about her engagement, though she didn’t know about that inappropriate moment with Matt, of course.
Lizzie hadn’t lost hope of keeping Matt as a friend too. At times she was convinced he was easing away from their friendship, especially after he’d once gone a whole month without writing. But at other times she felt they were drawing closer again, especially when he wrote about things he knew were dear to her heart.
Women have the vote at last, he wrote after Parliament had passed a law allowing it. I know it only applies to certain women – those aged over thirty who own property, I believe – but it’s a beginning, and I know you’ll go on fighting for the equal treatment you deserve…
Adding her blessings together, Lizzie knew that she was lucky. Yet she still couldn’t shift the low mood completely.
She wasn’t alone in that, of course. The war had been raging for more than three years and, worryingly, the prospects of victory had been dealt a blow by developments in Russia. Revolution had resulted in political turmoil and Russia – formerly on the same side as Britain – had signed an armistice with the enemy. No longer needing to fight Russia in the east, Germany was moving thousands of soldiers to the western front. Lizzie had heard talk of more than a million soldiers being moved, and Britain was desperately seeking new recruits to fight them.
Britain was seeking money to pay for the war effort too. Cordelia was one of the many who went to Trafalgar Square in Tank Week early in March to buy a war bond from what they were calling a tank bank. ‘The army tank is real,’ she explained. ‘A great metal monster. There are several of these tank banks across London.’
People were weary of the effects of war too – the constant anxiety over loved ones who were fighting or injured, the terror of air attacks, the daily grind of high prices and scarce food though compulsory rationing had been brought in to help ensure that everyone had at least something to eat. Not that it was always of good quality. Even bread had become coarse and mixed with grains or potatoes, though it had to be eaten anyway because the fines for wasting food were harsh.
The influenza had gone around too. Lizzie, Margaret and Polly had all escaped it, though the mothers of two pupils had been quite unwell for a while and there were reports of some poor souls having died.
Lizzie had declined an invitation to spend Christmas with Harry’s family because she was committed to concerts on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. She wouldn’t have left Margaret in London anyway.
Lizzie had visited the Benedicts in January instead and been made to feel very welcome. Maria Benedict had shown her numerous photographs of Harry, beginning when he was a babe in a white shawl and finishing when he’d first put on his officer’s uniform. ‘Harry’s been mentioned in despatches,’ Giles told her. ‘It’s the second time. Did he tell you?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘He didn’t tell us either. We heard it from a friend.’
‘Harry’s too modest to boast,’ Lizzie suggested, her emotions swelling with warmth for him.
If only the war would end soon. Once the men she cared about were home again, surely this restless anxiety would end and the world would look straight again?
Of course, there was a third man who was often in her thoughts. Jack Lomax. Lizzie had heard nothing from him and, as the year advanced, she wondered again if she ever would. She toyed with the idea of calling on Charlie Sparrow at the Merriment, but feared embarrassing him if Jack was planning another fundraiser but leaving the Penrose Singers out of it. Lizzie supposed she’d have to wait and see if Jack got in touch, but she had little patience with waiting these days.
Polly wanted news of Jack too. She gave Lizzie a questioning look every time they met but Lizzie had nothing to report.
At least Davie was writing often. ‘He’s desperate to get home to Witherton,’ Polly reported. ‘He can’t believe he was stupid enough to think the sort of quiet, ordinary life we’ll have there would be dull. Quiet and ordinary sound wonderful to him now.’
*
With the approach of spring the days lengthened and flowers appeared in gardens, though there were fewer in the parks, as many gardeners were away at the war and some flowerbeds had been turfed over. April brought lushness and energy to the season. Soft leaves unfurled, new grass shone, birds were busy, and women began to brave the still-cool air to venture out in lighter, more cheerful clothing.
Lizzie saw it and liked it, but still felt restless. It would be many months before she saw Harry and Matt again – if they survived the German assault on the front. Times had never been more worrying.
‘Is there no summer fundraising show this year?’ Cordelia asked.
‘Not that I’ve heard,’ Lizzie said.
‘Pity.’
May arrived, bringing warmer days and small white flowers like confetti on the hawthorn bush in Margaret’s back garden.
And one morning in May a letter fell onto the doormat. As always the arrival of the post gave Lizzie a sharp stab of anxiety in case bad news had arrived, but she picked this letter up to realise Jack had written at last. She stepped into the music room to read his letter.
Dear Lizzie,
I’m sorry I haven’t written before but I trust you understand my reasons and won’t judge me too harshly. You’re well, I hope. Miss Penrose and Polly too. Please believe I’m sincere in wishing Polly happy.
Lizzie did believe it. To Jack love meant care instead of possession.
But enough of my feelings. There are many people nursing deeper sorrows than a bruised heart. This brings me to the subject of fundraising shows. I’ll admit I thought long and hard about organising another one given the bittersweet memories of the previous shows. I decided that was selfish of me but when I got in touch with Charlie Sparrow to explore possible dates, I discovered the Merriment was out of commission due to water damage from a burst pipe. I’ve now heard that it’s back in business and I’ve been offered June 17th. I’m sure you can guess that I’m inviting the Penrose Singers to take part.
Please be assured that I’ll do everything in my power to avoid awkwardness. I wish there were more time for you to think about this invitation, but the date is close so I need to push for a
decision. Forgive me.
Yours in hope and friendship,
Jack x
‘Hmm,’ Margaret said, after Lizzie had told her about the letter. ‘I’m agreeable to taking part, but it might be uncomfortable for Polly.’
Polly’s face certainly grew serious when she heard about the invitation, but she took a deep breath and said, ‘Of course I’ll take part. I owe it to Jack. I know you think I didn’t encourage him, but I didn’t discourage him either. If he needs my help, I’ll give it willingly no matter how awkward it is.’
‘I’m glad, Poll.’
Lizzie wrote straight back to Jack and a few days later met him in a café around the corner from the Merriment. He greeted her as warmly as ever, though perhaps with a little less bounce. ‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, when he saw her concern. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to take part in the show.’
‘Has it been hard to find performers at short notice?’
‘Yes, but I’m pleased with the programme I’ve put together. Tell me what you think.’
He passed a sheet of paper over. ‘Alfredo and Alberto are tenors like me. We’re going to sing two songs together. Elise and Tamara are dancers. Modern, rather than classical ballerinas but there’s nothing of the music hall about them to offend Miss Penrose. They wear floaty Grecian dresses and wave scarves about. It’s all very artistic. Pierre is a violinist.’
‘No Tierney Tenors this time?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Working in Newcastle. Stan – Sheldrick, I should say – is busy in Bristol.’
‘And Amy?’
‘Also busy elsewhere.’
Jack spoke airily but Lizzie suspected there was more to her absence than a work commitment. Perhaps she’d tried too hard to sink her painted fingernails into him. Whatever had happened, Lizzie was glad for Jack’s sake. He deserved better.
‘I’m having leaflets printed as usual,’ he said. ‘Could you pass some to your friends? Mrs Bishop, for one?’
‘The human dynamo? If anyone can sell tickets, it’s Cordelia and I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to take some.’
‘Good. I’d hate the show to flop.’
Jack sent leaflets as soon as they were printed. Lizzie gave some to Cordelia, handed more to pupils and posted others to the hospitals and convalescent homes where they’d performed.
As before, there was a Sunday rehearsal two weeks prior to the show. ‘Sold out!’ Jack told Lizzie when she arrived, his relief obvious.
Then he turned to Polly, seeing her for the first time in six months. His expression was gentle. ‘It’s so good of you to help out,’ he said.
‘Jack, I need your opinion,’ Pierre called then.
Jack touched Polly’s shoulder then walked away.
‘There,’ Margaret said with satisfaction. ‘Everything comfortable. Now we can focus on our performance.’
Lizzie wasn’t sure that Polly thought everything was quite comfortable yet. But she braced her shoulders and looked determined to keep any awkwardness to herself.
That first rehearsal was followed by a dress rehearsal on the next Sunday. For this show they’d decided to wear their smartest dresses. Lizzie’s was blue, Polly’s lemon and Margaret’s grey, neither Lizzie nor Polly having had any luck in persuading her to try more cheerful colours. Margaret was thawing, however, and though she’d baulked at Polly’s idea of wearing flowers in their hair, she finally consented to a very discreet arrangement at the back of her bun. Lizzie and Polly were being more flamboyant with their flowers.
The Penrose Singers were performing four songs, including one written by Matt. By now he’d sent several handwritten pieces of music through the post. Some were soft, lyrical pieces and she could imagine Matt singing them in that low, crooning voice of his. Others were livelier, including ‘Pick Yourself Up’, the one she’d chosen. It was about overcoming adversity, from spilt milk to a bombing raid, and just the sort of rousing, good-humoured piece she thought the audience would like.
The rehearsal got off to a bad start when Margaret had a sneezing fit just as she started to play. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, looking mortified at the way her body had betrayed her strong sense of discipline.
Everyone else smiled because it was unusual to see Margaret pink with embarrassment.
The rehearsal didn’t improve but, having come through bad rehearsals to deliver successful shows before, Lizzie wasn’t unduly worried.
The show was a great success, in fact, even though one of the dancers, Tamara, had gone down with the influenza that was going round again – this time more severely – and had to be replaced at the last moment by a friend. Once again there were drinks in the dressing rooms afterwards. ‘Thank you, everyone!’ Jack said, raising his glass in a toast.
He smiled round at all of them and if his gaze softened as it rested on Polly it soon moved on. He couldn’t have done more to help Polly to feel at ease.
‘These pins are digging in,’ Polly said, putting a hand up to the flowers that Lizzie had pinned to her hair.
‘Mine too. Flowers are pretty but the pins are lethal.’
They unpinned each other’s headdresses. ‘One of my roses is missing,’ Polly noticed. ‘I don’t like to think of it dying on the stage for lack of water.’
She went to find it and Lizzie walked over to chat with Jack and Charlie. ‘What comes next?’ she asked them both.
The men exchanged looks and for a moment Lizzie wondered if she’d stumbled into a private conversation. Before she could excuse herself, Jack spoke with a smile. ‘Actually, Charlie and I are talking of a joint venture. A partnership.’
‘In a theatre?’ Was Jack going to learn how to manage one?
‘A nightclub.’
Lizzie had no idea what that meant.
‘It’s a place where people will come to hear music and to dance. Not waltzes or anything like that. Informal dances to informal music. We’ll have drinks and food too, but mostly it’ll be about having fun.’
‘It sounds exciting.’
‘The war is changing things,’ Jack said. ‘People are tired of gloom. They’re going to want to grab at life once it’s over. Men and women both.’
‘I wish you the best of luck,’ Lizzie said. A thought struck her. ‘Does this mean there won’t be a Christmas fundraiser?’
‘We don’t know if the nightclub venture is feasible yet. Even if we go ahead with it, a fundraiser might still be possible. Let’s see what the next few months bring.’
Lizzie hoped they’d bring an end to the war.
After a while it occurred to her that Polly hadn’t returned. Wondering if something had upset her, Lizzie went to the stage and saw Polly looking out across the empty auditorium.
‘Are you all right, Poll?’
She turned. ‘Yes, I’m fine. I suppose I’m just saying goodbye to all this. I’ve been terrified for much of the time we’ve been entertaining but, despite that, I’ve enjoyed it.’ She paused, then added, ‘You will come to see me when I’m back in Witherton?’
‘Goodness, what’s brought this on?’
‘I’ve been thinking, that’s all. Davie can’t wait to return to some of the old places – the woods, the lanes and even the little clearing with the fallen log where we used to meet as children.’
‘We taught each other songs there. And dances.’
‘You’re smiling because those were happy times. But you were mostly unhappy in Witherton. Can you bear to go back?’
‘I was happy when my mother was alive, and I’ll always be grateful to Witherton for bringing you into my life, Poll.’
‘So you’ll come?’
‘Just try and stop me. Now let’s go and have a drink. Everyone’s celebrating.’
‘I didn’t mean to be miserable. It’s just… Oh, nothing really. Let’s hope there’s some champagne left.’
Everyone was thinking about the future, it seemed. Lizzie was desperate for some certainty in hers.
36
July came
and some pupils left London to visit relations or have holidays. Others paused their lessons so they could avoid the deadly influenza by staying at home.
By August the worst of the influenza had passed again but still more pupils took holidays. With time on her hands, Lizzie went on long walks around London, feeling a little sad when she went to St James’s Park and saw that the lake had been drained and crude office buildings erected on the lake bed to provide more offices for the war effort. At least children were having fun by balancing on the pipes that had been exposed and rolling down the bank to pretend to drown in the non-existent water. She also painted some of the faded woodwork in the house and even tried her hand at wallpapering.
There was better news from the war at last. The allies had rallied against the German offensive that had begun in March and Lizzie began to hope that Harry or Matt or, better still, both would soon have leave.
But one letter from Harry brought different news that made Lizzie feel dizzy with dread.
‘He’s been injured,’ she burst out to Margaret. ‘Shrapnel in the shoulder. A flesh wound, but it became infected.’
‘If he’s writing himself, he must be recovering well,’ Margaret pointed out.
Lizzie realised that was true. ‘Yes, of course.’ She read the letter through to the end. ‘He writes that the doctors are pleased with his progress.’
Did that mean that the danger of infection had passed? She could only hope so. ‘Gas gangrene can take a chap within hours,’ a nurse had confided at one of the concerts. ‘The doctors amputate when they can, but sometimes it isn’t enough…’
‘He’s hoping to come home for a few days.’
But when Harry left the base hospital no one mentioned granting him leave. Ah well. He was healthy again. That was the important thing.
Lizzie reconciled herself to more waiting so was surprised to return from the shops one September morning to hear male laughter coming from the music room. Excitement thrilled through her. Could it be—
The next moment Harry was in the hall and Lizzie was in his arms.