by Lesley Eames
It still wasn’t enough, and she didn’t dare to shout louder in case Miss Monk or her crony came to investigate. Lizzie gave the matter more thought, and as she waited for the children to draw near the following afternoon, she had a message ready. It was tied to a stone with bright red ribbon to make it visible. Look up at the window, it read. My name is Lizzie.
She chose her moment then threw the message as far as she could. It landed in a bush. ‘What was that?’ the girl said.
‘A bird?’ the boy suggested, but the girl moved towards the bush.
Moments later she emerged again only to walk on. Lizzie thought she must have given up searching for the source of the noise but the girl reached the place where the sycamore had stood, looked up at Lizzie’s window and waved.
She waved every time she passed after that. Sometimes her friend waved too. Lizzie was thrilled, but soon she wanted more.
*
Trudging along the road to Witherlee – the first hamlet she’d reach on her journey – a horrifying sight suddenly jolted Lizzie from her memories and stopped her in her tracks. Eyes were glowing in the darkness ahead. Belatedly, she realised they belonged to a fox rather than a spectre. Sure enough, the creature loped away, and, after lingering a moment to let her heartbeat steady, Lizzie walked on.
She reached Witherlee and, having partly memorised the map, knew she’d walked two miles, leaving five miles to go before she reached the village of Witherwast. The town of Streeforth was three miles further on, making a total walk of ten miles.
From Streeforth she could catch a train, but Lizzie wanted to try to beg free rides on carts before she spent money on tickets. The closer she got to London, the cheaper the ticket would be. Or so she hoped, as she was by no means sure she had enough money to pay for such a long journey.
Ten miles hadn’t looked far on the map. But the bags were heavy and Lizzie’s pace was slow. She stopped to drink some lemonade then trudged on again, drifting back into her memories.
*
It hadn’t taken long to think of a plan to see more of the fair-haired girl, but worry over the risks held Lizzie back for more than a week until the loneliness bit deep and she knew she had to take a chance. She threw another note out of the window: I’m coming down to see you tomorrow.
The plan involved stealing down to her old bedroom and climbing out of the window into the tree that grew nearby, then making her way down to the ground. In theory it was simple. In practice it wasn’t simple at all. The distance to the ground was dizzying and the tree was too far away to step into with ease.
The thought of jumping into it was frightening but giving up was bleaker. Lizzie took a deep breath and launched herself at the tree, catching hold of a branch and clinging to it until she felt a little steadier. Studying the branches below her, she plotted a way down and finally stood at the bottom.
There was no cry of outrage from Miss Monk or anyone else to suggest that Lizzie had been seen, but she glanced up at the open window uneasily. If Miss Monk noticed it, she might assume the cleaning woman had opened it, but then she’d close it and how would Lizzie get back in? Deciding to worry about that later, Lizzie crouched low and ran towards Amesbury Lane, squeezing through the hedgerow as the children drew near. Now she was close to them she could see they were around her own age, though perhaps the girl was a little younger.
‘Hello.’ Lizzie stepped in front of them. ‘I’m the girl from the attic. Lizzie Maudsley. What are your names?’
‘Polly Meadows,’ the girl said. The name suited her, as she was pretty and graceful.
‘Davie Perkin.’ Brown-haired and solid, he suited his name too.
‘Have you been to school?’ Lizzie asked.
Both children nodded.
‘It must be nice going to school.’
‘It must be nice living in a big house like that!’ Davie flicked a hand towards Briar Lodge. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was one of Witherton’s better houses, a substantial Victorian property, set on three floors and surrounded by gardens. ‘What does a rich girl want with the likes of us?’
Lizzie supposed he meant poor children. She’d been careful not to stare, but couldn’t help noticing that the sole of one of his boots was separating from the upper part, while his shirt was frayed and his jacket was too small. Polly’s clothes looked equally worn. Her boots were too big, her dress was darned, and her shawl was an old sack.
None of that stopped Lizzie from wanting to befriend them. ‘I just wanted to say hello.’
Davie still looked wary but Polly smiled and said, ‘I’m glad.’
How pretty she was with that silvery hair and those soft blue eyes. She reminded Lizzie of Mama, though Mama’s hair had been golden rather than silvery. Lizzie much preferred fairness to her own heavy chestnut hair and brown eyes, though Mama had insisted that they were lovely, adding that Lizzie’s pink cheeks made her a picture of health and freshness too. Lizzie hadn’t believed a word of it. Mama was always kind.
‘May I walk with you?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I’d like that,’ Polly told her.
‘It’s got to be a secret, though. You mustn’t tell anyone.’
‘Why not?’ Davie looked more interested at the mention of a secret.
‘I’m not allowed out alone.’
‘Did you sneak out?’
‘Climbed out. From that window there.’ Lizzie pointed. ‘I had to jump into the tree.’
Davie looked impressed. ‘What will happen if you’re caught?’
‘I’ll be punished.’
‘How?’
‘With a ruler. Or something worse, knowing Miss Monk.’
‘Who’s she?’ Polly asked.
‘The woman who’s come to keep house for my father now my mother… isn’t here.’
‘My dad uses the flat of his hand on me,’ Davie said. ‘Once he used his belt.’
‘I’ve never been beaten,’ Polly said.
Davie smiled at her. ‘I’m glad, Poll. Anyone who tried beating you would have me to answer to.’
Lizzie realised then that Davie was sweet on Polly.
They walked a little way along the lane. ‘Did you have a nice time at school?’ Lizzie asked.
Davie pulled a face but Polly smiled again. ‘I did.’
Lizzie would have liked to ask more but she was nervous about staying out for more than a few minutes, especially as she wasn’t sure she could get back in by climbing the tree.
She turned to Polly. ‘I have to return home. I know I’ve only just met you, but can I ask for a favour?’
‘What sort of favour?’
‘Could you put some flowers on my mother’s grave? Wild flowers will do. Like those.’ Lizzie pointed to some primroses.
‘I can do that.’
‘Thank you. She’s buried in—’
‘I know where she’s buried. She was a very pretty lady.’
Lizzie nodded. Her throat felt tight all of a sudden.
‘I’ll tell her you’d have taken the flowers yourself, if you could,’ Polly added kindly.
‘I’ll try to come out another day,’ Lizzie said. ‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Of course we don’t mind,’ Polly assured her.
*
Lizzie was jolted from her memories again as clouds swept in and trapped the moonlight behind them. She looked into the blackness of the road ahead and apprehension inched along her spine like an icy finger.
Fighting it down, she continued onwards, burrowing back into her memories in search of solace.
*
The first time she’d climbed out, Lizzie had returned to find the window still open and, with some difficulty, had managed to climb back in. Worried that she might not be as lucky a second time, she tied a ribbon to the window’s handle then pushed the window shut after her, using a ruler. Hopefully, it would open again when she pulled on the ribbon.
‘Why don’t you come to the den?’ Polly asked that day.
‘Den?’ It sound
ed exciting.
‘It isn’t far.’
‘Won’t there be other children there?’
‘Davie, will you go and look?’ Polly smiled at him and he visibly softened before running down the lane, disappearing into trees then reappearing to beckon them forward.
The den was a small space surrounded by bushes and containing a fallen log on one side that made a convenient seat. In summer the bushes would be green. At this time their branches were bare.
‘I like this place,’ Lizzie declared.
She sat on the log and Polly sat beside her. Davie leant against a tree trunk.
‘I haven’t put the flowers on your mother’s grave yet, but I haven’t forgotten,’ Polly said.
Lizzie smiled gratefully. ‘How was school?’
‘A waste of time,’ Davie said. ‘I know how to read and write, and I can reckon numbers too, so I’d be more use helping my dad.’
‘Helping to do what?’
‘Look after Mr Anstey’s cows.’ Mr Anstey was a local farmer.
‘I help at home too,’ Polly said. ‘My job is to look after the little ones. I’ve three younger sisters.’
‘I have two,’ Davie said.
‘Do you have brothers or sisters, Lizzie?’ Polly asked.
‘Not one.’
‘Your house must be quiet. You go to school, though?’
‘I’m being educated at home.’ Not that she was getting much of an education from Miss Monk. All Lizzie did was copy out of books, study the atlas and whizz through simple sums. ‘School must be fun.’
‘I like it,’ Polly told her, ‘but I’m leaving soon now I’m twelve. My favourite thing is singing.’
‘I’ve heard you singing in the lane. You have a beautiful voice.’
Polly blushed. ‘Do you like singing?’
‘Yes, though my voice is deeper than yours. I like playing the piano too.’ Sadness washed over Lizzie as she realised weeks had passed since she’d sung or played the piano. But she wasn’t here to mope. ‘Do you like music, Davie?’
‘Can’t say as I bother with it. I prefer to be outside.’
‘I like reading, writing and sewing too,’ Polly said. ‘I’m not so good with numbers.’
‘That’s because you’re a girl,’ Davie told her.
‘What difference does that make?’ Lizzie demanded.
‘There’s men’s work and there’s women’s work,’ Davie offered.
It wasn’t a good explanation as far as Lizzie was concerned, but she didn’t want to argue.
Davie pushed away from the tree. ‘I have to get home.’
‘So have I.’ Lizzie got to her feet. ‘I’ll meet you another day.’
*
An icy sleet began to fall as Lizzie reached Witherwast at last. She comforted herself with the thought that she only had three miles left to walk before she arrived at Streeforth. Only! Hauling her bags along had exhausted her already, and she had a blister on one of her heels.
She was tempted to find shelter and rest for a while, but she needed to reach Streeforth before the town stirred so no one would see her enter and wonder why a child was emerging from the countryside bedraggled and alone. She had no idea of the time but suspected several hours had passed since she’d set out from Briar Lodge.
Leaving Witherwast meant being sucked back into the isolation of fields, so Lizzie burrowed back into her memories.
*
’Thank you for putting flowers on my mother’s grave,’ she told Polly, the third time they met. Lizzie had seen the jar of primroses on Mama’s grave when she’d gone to church with Papa and Miss Monk.
This time Davie didn’t linger but Polly looked happy to stay for a while. ‘I’ll put different flowers in the jar when the primroses die.’
‘Will you tell me about your family?’
Lizzie learnt that Polly’s parents were Bill and Janet. Bill laboured on a farm and Janet kept house. Polly’s sisters were Marjorie, Mary and Ruth.
‘It must be wonderful to be part of a large family,’ Lizzie said.
‘It’s annoying sometimes, but mostly I like it.’ Polly paused then added, ‘Is it lonely being the only child?’
‘I wasn’t lonely when I had Mama. Since then… But, I have you for a friend now, haven’t I?’
‘You have,’ Polly said, smiling.
Lizzie met Polly often after that. Sometimes Davie joined them, looking hopeful of food to eat after the time Lizzie smuggled cake out of the house in return for the pheasant’s feather Polly gave her as a gift. The sponge cake had been part of Lizzie’s lunch but it was worth going without it to see the happy looks on her friends’ faces.
‘Do you have food like this every day?’ Davie asked, chomping enthusiastically.
Lizzie had never given much thought to her meals. But as she answered questions about them, she saw his eyes widening. Polly’s too. Lizzie already knew they were poor, but now she realised that at times they actually went hungry. It must be awful to go to bed with an empty stomach, but perhaps it was better to be hungry occasionally and live surrounded by love than to have a full stomach and no love at all.
Lizzie smuggled food out as often as she could after that first time, wrapping it in a handkerchief so she could carry it in her pocket. Polly gave more gifts too – flowers, pretty pebbles and, once, the blue eggshell in which a robin had grown.
Most times Davie didn’t stay long. Probably, he only came at all so he could spend time with his beloved Polly and eat Lizzie’s food. Not that Lizzie minded. She liked having Polly to herself because it gave them a chance to talk about other things.
‘What will you do when you leave school?’ Lizzie asked once.
‘Go into service, I suppose.’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘I don’t much care. It’ll only be for a few years until I’m sixteen or so. Then I’ll be able to do what I really want.’
‘Which is?’
‘Marry Davie, of course, and settle down with a family of our own. What do you want for your future, Lizzie?’
‘To earn a living so I can escape from Miss Monk. I’ve no idea what sort of job I’ll be able to get, though.’
She’d thought of teaching, but perhaps she’d be considered unsuitable as her own education had ground to a virtual halt. Shop work was another possibility, but might mean serving people like Miss Monk.
At least Lizzie wasn’t expected to work from the age of twelve. She had years in which to decide on a direction.
Sometimes Lizzie told Polly about her mother’s diaries. ‘It’s like hearing about a princess in a fairy story,’ Polly said.
There hadn’t been a happy ever after following Mama’s wedding but Lizzie still understood what Polly meant. To a girl like Polly who’d never been further from home than she could walk, Mama’s life at a smart school in London must feel like a different world entirely.
‘Maybe you’ll get to see London one day,’ Lizzie suggested.
Polly laughed. ‘London isn’t for girls like me.’
‘Don’t you want an adventure before you settle down?’
Polly only smiled as though Lizzie couldn’t understand what life was like for poor girls.
‘I’d like an adventure,’ Lizzie said.
‘I’m sure you’ll have one, because you’re different from me. You’re brave and full of spirit. But what sort of adventure would you like?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Lizzie admitted, though perhaps leaving Briar Lodge would be an adventure in itself.
When the girls weren’t talking, they were singing, keeping their voices quiet so no one would overhear. Polly taught Lizzie songs she’d learnt in school, including a song about a bee buzzing around a garden, which made Lizzie smile.
In return Lizzie taught Polly songs she’d learnt from Mama. One of Polly’s favourites became ‘Scarborough Fair’. Lizzie would begin with the melody: Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…
Then Polly would chime in with a descant.
‘Greensleeves’ became another favourite.
Even after Polly went into service in the house of a Miss Hepple, the girls continued to meet on Sundays and Wednesday afternoons when Polly only worked a half-day. Polly was cheerful about working and Lizzie wondered if she too might be happier if she could work and begin to save for a future away from Briar Lodge. Papa and Miss Monk would be too concerned with appearances to allow it, though.
It still upset Lizzie to see Miss Monk in Mama’s place, flaunting the finery that Papa must have bought her – pearl earrings that were bigger than Mama’s, a gold bracelet, a fur coat, a hat from London… But Lizzie took pleasure in knowing she was leading a secret life behind Miss Monk’s back.
Of course, she didn’t know then that things were about to change. With hindsight Lizzie supposed she should have foreseen the announcement, because there was always a look in Miss Monk’s eye that said, ‘Just you wait!’
But it still came as a shock.
‘It’s a year since your mother died and that means the mourning period is over,’ Miss Monk told her triumphantly, ‘Your father and I are getting married.’
There’d be no end to her cruelty then, and the hand she’d once raised to strike Lizzie wouldn’t be held back again.
‘I can’t stay,’ Lizzie told Polly the next time they met.
‘Where can you go? I don’t think your father would like you to live in my little house even if we could fit you in. He’d think it a disgrace.’
‘I wasn’t hinting at you to take me in, but it’s kind of you to think of me.’ Lizzie paused then added, ‘I may not have any family, but I do have a godmother.’ Reading her mother’s diaries had reminded her of that. Mama and Miss Penrose had met at school.
‘I thought you hadn’t heard from her in years?’
‘I haven’t. She had some sort of argument with my father. But she was fond of my mother once, and she might come to be fond of me.’
