The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  Books by Lesley Eames

  The Brighton Guesthouse Girls

  The Runaway Women in London

  The Orphan Twins

  The Wartime Singers

  THE WARTIME SINGERS

  Lesley Eames

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Lesley Eames, 2021

  The moral right of Lesley Eames to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  EB ISBN 9781788545730

  PB ISBN 9781800246218

  Cover design © Leah Jacobs-Gordon

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  To my beloved daughters, Olivia and Isobel – my inspiration and my joy.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  January 1909

  Witherton, North-West England

  There were no curtains at the window of the attic where Lizzie was forced to sleep, so even as she sat on her bed, she could see that outside all was cold, winter darkness. Down in the hall the grandfather clock began to announce the hour. Counting each heavy chime, Lizzie felt nervousness flutter inside her like winged creatures suddenly taking flight.

  …Six, seven, eight o’clock. In another few hours she’d leave this house secretly and alone for an uncertain future. She was terrified, but the alternative was… No, it couldn’t be borne.

  Until she left, the pretence of normality had to be maintained. Not that anyone was likely to check on her, but it would be foolish to take unnecessary risks. Lizzie changed into her nightgown, though she kept her stockings on because the sheets would be icy. Plumping up her pillow, she got into bed and sat back to wait.

  But it wasn’t long before restlessness overwhelmed her. Lizzie got up again and stuffed her feet into her boots. Her old bedroom downstairs was carpeted, but here where Susan Monk had banished her, there were only bare floorboards. No fire either.

  Slipping her coat over her nightgown, she crossed to the window. The sky was inkiness upon inkiness until the clouds thinned to allow a hint of light to appear. A moment later they parted to reveal the moon. Not a full moon, but almost. Lizzie tried to take heart from it, as it enabled her to make out shapes in the garden below – the gateposts, the shrubbery, the flower bed that was cut into the lawn…

  Moonlight would help her to see where she was going. Of course, it might also make her visible to others, but she’d keep to the shadows where possible.

  She looked in the direction of St Paul’s church and identified the steeple as a dark finger against the sky. It was in St Paul’s churchyard that Mama had lain buried for the past year. What changes her death had brought! Feeling the old outrage burn inside her, Lizzie’s thoughts rolled back in time…

  *

  She wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral. Apparently, her father forbade it, much to Lizzie’s distress. Mama deserved to have someone who actually loved her present instead of just the town’s finest citizens – there for the sake of appearances – and the husband who’d scared her.

  Edward Maudsley was a stern, irritable man who’d rarely even spoken to his wife. Poor Mama had grown timid whenever he was near and it had troubled her that she was leaving Lizzie behind with such a man. ‘I love your spirit, darling, but promise you’ll do your best to rub along with him peacefully,’ she’d urged.

  Lizzie had never provoked him on purpose, but even laughter in the garden, a cough at the dinner table or a burst of cold air when she ran into the house after one of her tramps across fields could bring a frown to his face. Otherwise, he’d ignored his daughter even more than his wife.

  ‘Of course, I promise,’ Lizzie had said, desperate to spare Mama from worry, though full of doubt over how the promise might be fulfilled.

  But after Mama left the world, a strange thought slid into Lizzie’s head. Was it possible that the death of a kind, gracious wife like Mama could work a change in Edward Maudsley and make him actually crave his daughter’s companionship? After all, Lizzie had reached the age of twelve and that was surely old enough to provide both comfort and conversation. If he just took the trouble to know her…

  A feeling like hunger stirred in the hollow space of her stomach though it wasn’t a yearning for food. Hope stirred too, but the day after Mama’s funeral brought unexpected developments. Lizzie didn’t know where her father was going when he left the house in the carriage but seized the chance to slip out to say a private goodbye at Mama’s graveside, intending to slip back in with no harm done.

  Not wanting to be seen walking out between the front gateposts she pushed through the hedgerow at the side of the garden onto Amesbury Lane and made her way to the churchyard from there, kneeling beside the sorry heap of brown earth and sobbing with grief for the woman who’d meant the world to her.

  Shy, tender-hearted Mama hadn’t enjoyed the society of Witherton’s starched and critical matrons, and she’d educated Lizzie at home, so they’d spent most of every day together. How was Lizzie to bear life without her? Loneliness stabbed at Lizzie’s heart as tears stung her eyes like red-hot needles.

  But she had to bear it. Somehow.

  In time she got up and wiped her eyes on a handkerchief, promising Mama all over again to do her best to get along with Papa. She was pushing back through the hedgerow from Amesbury Lane when he returned in the carriage.

  Ducking behind a laurel bush, she watched in surprise as he helped a woman down onto the gravel drive. She was a tall, thin, handsome woman, but her lips were narrow and her eyes were sharp. And, oddly, she looked up at Briar Lodge with a triumphant expression, almost as t
hough she were thinking, I’m here at last and it’s mine now. All mine.

  Unease seeped into Lizzie’s skin like icy water. Who on earth was this woman?

  The gardener came to take the carriage away and Betty the maid opened the front door to Papa and his visitor. Lizzie waited a few minutes longer then made her way to the rear door that led into the passage between kitchen and scullery. From here she could take the back stairs to her room. Or she could have done if Betty hadn’t caught her.

  ‘Heavens, Miss, I was just going to fetch you.’ Betty looked flustered.

  ‘Has the visitor upset you, Betty? Who is she?’

  ‘Her name’s Miss Monk. That’s all I know, but you’re wanted in the drawing-room. Hurry along, but go up to the landing and come down the front stairs like you’re supposed to. I’m to fetch tea.’

  Lizzie started up the stairs. ‘Miss, your boots!’ Betty wailed. ‘Your dress too!’

  Amesbury Lane had been muddy. After a quick and not very thorough clean-up, Lizzie descended the main stairs with neat steps, as befitted a young lady brought up by a mama who had once been Miss Grace Sophia Kellaway of Harrogate. The drawing-room door stood open, showing Miss Monk sitting stiff-backed in a chair and looking around the room as though taking an inventory: That ormolu clock is mine now. So is that magnificent mirror, those silver candlesticks, the china… Mine, mine, mine…

  She was a little older than Mama, with none of Mama’s angelic softness. This face had a hard, greedy look to its handsomeness.

  Lizzie took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ Papa called, turning from the window.

  Lizzie walked in.

  ‘This is my cousin, Miss Monk. Susan, this is Elizabeth,’ he said, but he barely glanced at Lizzie.

  She was disappointed. Worried too. And more than a little confused, because she’d never heard mention of a cousin. She’d always understood the family comprised just Papa, Mama and herself.

  But she set these uncertainties aside temporarily, stepping forward to execute a small curtsey before holding out her hand and saying, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  Susan Monk looked unimpressed. She left Lizzie’s hand floating in the air and raked her up and down with her gaze, those sharp eyes lingering momentarily on the still-messy boots and damp dress. ‘Dear me,’ she said, as though her worst suspicions had been confirmed. ‘I see I have a lot of work ahead of me.’

  Lizzie turned a questioning face to her father, but he didn’t rush to defend her. Mama had considered her daughter to be a gift from Heaven after several years of childlessness, but Papa looked as uninterested as ever. Time might still change that, though.

  ‘I’m not usually this messy,’ Lizzie said. ‘Today is just… unfortunate. You can call me Lizzie, if you like.’

  ‘I do not like. Lizzie is the sort of names kitchen girls have. Not young ladies of twelve years-old who are supposed to be a credit to their papas.’

  Mama had called her Lizzie all the time: My clever Lizzie… My strong, spirited Lizzie… My Lizzie with the dancing feet… This woman was insulting Mama. ‘I prefer being called Lizzie.’

  ‘Well!’ Miss Monk said. ‘What a badly brought-up girl you are, talking back to your elders like that.’

  Horrible, hateful woman. How dared she insult Mama’s way of raising her daughter? Still Papa didn’t speak.

  ‘If that’s your opinion of me, I’ll be sure to stay out of your way during your visit,’ Lizzie said, but an awful fear washed over her, a fear that explained the possessive way Miss Monk had looked at the house and the lovely things inside it.

  ‘You misunderstand.’ There was malice in Miss Monk’s satisfied tone. ‘I’m not visiting. I’m here to keep house for your papa.’

  She looked at him with a smile that invited him to confirm it. He nodded brusquely, as though the conversation bored him.

  Betty arrived then, struggling to balance the tray and knock on the open door at the same time. Lizzie moved to help her, but Betty stopped her with a warning look.

  ‘Enter,’ Miss Monk called, like a queen holding court.

  Betty placed the tray on the table.

  ‘Dismissed,’ Miss Monk told her then.

  Betty glanced at Lizzie again and looks of dismay passed between them.

  An idea suddenly formed in Lizzie’s mind. Mama had educated her at home, but had sometimes asked, ‘Am I being selfish, keeping you here with me, darling? You’re far too clever for anything I can teach you, and perhaps you’d be happier at school with friends of your own age. I have fond memories of my time at school.’

  Lizzie had loved Mama far too much to want to leave her alone with her cold, unfeeling husband, but circumstances had changed. ‘Perhaps I should go away to school,’ she suggested. ‘Mama attended an academy for young ladies and—’

  ‘Pert and opinionated,’ Miss Monk said, pursing her lips in disgust. ‘You have a lot to learn, Elizabeth, but I don’t see why your papa should be put to the expense of a school when I’m more than capable of educating you.’

  ‘You’re going to give me lessons?’ Lizzie was appalled.

  ‘Most certainly I am. Those lessons will include discipline and respect. Now go to your room. I’ll be up shortly and I’ll expect to find you both clean and usefully employed. Be warned, Elizabeth: I’ve tamed far stronger spirits than yours.’

  *

  The grandfather clock chimed again… Seven, eight, nine o’clock. Not long to go now. As long as Lizzie’s courage didn’t fail her. But no. She couldn’t allow that to happen.

  It was freezing cold by the window. Lizzie got into bed but kept her coat on as she let her thoughts drift back into the past.

  *

  Dismissed by Miss Monk that first day, Lizzie went to her room and took a book from the shelf. After a while she heard voices out in Amesbury Lane. She got up to investigate, opening the window despite the winter chill. There were two children in the lane, though the hedgerow meant she couldn’t see them properly until they reached the place where the old sycamore had stood before being struck by lightning. Here the bushes were thinner.

  One child was a dainty, fair-haired girl; the other a strong-looking boy. Lizzie had seen them in the lane before and heard the girl singing sweetly as she walked. But they were poor children who moved in a different social circle. They laughed at something one of them said, then the girl broke into a run and the boy chased after her.

  It must be pleasant to have a friend. Lizzie knew a few other children but saw little of them as, despite being every inch the lady, Mama preferred to stay at home. Lizzie didn’t mind because Clara Bland was sly, while the Mayford sisters were given to whispering secrets, and Alice Payne was only interested in embroidery, shrinking from the very thought of the sort of tramp across wet fields that Lizzie found exhilarating. Mama hadn’t liked tramping either, but understood Lizzie’s need to burn up excess energy before her lessons.

  These poorer children looked as though they had a lot more fun, and—

  ‘So this is how you spend your time.’

  Lizzie whirled around but the book slipped from her fingers and plummeted to the gravel drive outside. Miss Monk stood in the room like a cobra preparing to strike, pleased to see Lizzie discomfited. ‘I should have guessed I’d find you idling.’

  ‘I was reading!’

  ‘Humph!’ Miss Monk thrust Lizzie out of her way to look down on the fallen book. ‘I see you’re very careless with your father’s money. Books are expensive.’

  It was the second time she’d mentioned Papa’s money. What business was it of hers?

  ‘Go down and retrieve that book now. I’ll be waiting.’

  Lizzie ran down for the book and carried it back upstairs, dusting powdered gravel off the pages. ‘Let me see,’ Miss Monk demanded.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘The jacket is scuffed!’

  ‘Those scuffs were there before. It’s an old book.’

  Mis
s Monk picked up a ruler. ‘I was minded to give you six smacks. Now you’ve answered back disrespectfully, you’ll have twelve. Hold out your hands.’

  Vicious woman. She brought the ruler down hard, and Lizzie blinked at the stinging pain.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you. It’s my job to undo the over-indulgences of your mother and bring you up as a girl who doesn’t disgrace her father. I take that job seriously and, as you’ve just discovered, resistance will only result in punishment being doubled.’

  She looked around the room at the pretty embroidered white counterpane and pillows, the beautifully-dressed doll, the dolls’ house, the flowery china trinkets… Her mouth pursed resentfully. ‘Where do you have your lessons?’

  Lizzie willed her voice not to crack. ‘Mama taught me downstairs.’

  ‘That will never do.’ Miss Monk stared at Lizzie’s bookcase and pulled out a history book. She leafed through the pages until she found one that she approved.

  ‘Here.’ She pushed the book into Lizzie’s face. ‘Learn the names of all the kings and queens of England, and the dates they were on the throne. There’ll be no lunch for you today because children who are impudent to their elders deserve no lunch. Fail in this task, and you’ll have no supper either.’

  A mean smile curved her lips. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child, that’s my philosophy. And you’ve been spared too much. I don’t know what your mother was thinking, but from what I’ve heard about her…’

  It was all Lizzie could do not to spring at the woman and scratch that hard, pinched face. Miss Monk removed the temptation by removing herself.

  For the next several hours Lizzie heard bustle and commotion as Miss Monk’s things were carried up to the best guest bedroom and she barked out demands for the furniture to be rearranged, showing no concern for the strain she was putting on the staff.

  Lizzie already knew most of the kings and queens, so had merely to sort out the early ones in her head – Aethelwulf, Aethelbald, Aethelbert… ‘Well?’ Miss Monk demanded, when she finally returned.