by Lesley Eames
10
Nothing was said over the following days about Lizzie leaving. She tried to make herself useful in the kitchen as Miss Penrose had little interest in food and Lizzie rather liked to eat. She also took her godmother’s shoes to the cobbler, opened the door to her pupils and took her tea as well as fresh water in the lull between pupils.
When she wasn’t being useful, Lizzie tried to keep quiet. She studied the atlas again and was sorely disappointed to find no mention of Bee Corner Farm anywhere near Stafford. When they received no letter from her would Matt and the other Warrens think she’d taken advantage of their hospitality – not to mention their meagre savings – only to forget about them because she had brighter excitements in her life? It was vexing in the extreme.
A week passed and still nothing was said about Lizzie leaving. One week became two, and then three, and a routine gradually took shape. Mornings were for lessons. Miss Penrose was an exacting taskmaster and Lizzie had never been gladder that her own brain worked swiftly. The lessons weren’t always interesting, but Lizzie gave her godmother credit for the effort she put in to planning a decent grounding in English, Mathematics, History, Geography, Science and French.
In the afternoons, Lizzie shopped, tidied the house and cooked, helped by finding a recipe book on Miss Penrose’s shelves. The Housewife’s Encyclopaedia of Cookery had looked unopened, as though it had been a somewhat puzzling gift from a friend.
Not that Miss Penrose had a large number of friends, but she certainly had some. Lizzie met them in her second week when Miss Penrose attended a meeting of her women’s group. Miss Penrose had considered missing the meeting because she wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to leave a child alone in the house but, after making a telephone call to a Mrs Bishop, had decided to take Lizzie along.
‘I’ll sit quietly,’ Lizzie promised.
The meeting was held a fifteen-minute walk away in a much grander house than Miss Penrose’s. This house was painted pristine white and had sturdy pillars supporting a porch under which were imposing black doors.
A maid showed them into a large drawing room that was sumptuously fitted out with chandeliers, gold-coloured silk furnishings and numerous silver-framed photographs. ‘This is the child?’ a woman asked, getting to her feet and coming to greet them. She was handsome and richly dressed in dark satin relieved by lace and sparkling jewels.
To Lizzie’s relief, she looked kind.
‘Elizabeth, isn’t it? Or do you prefer to be called Lizzie?’
‘Actually I do,’ Lizzie said.
‘We’re glad to have you with us, Lizzie. I’m Cordelia Bishop. Please sit wherever you like.’
A benign-looking gentleman got up from a sofa. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to your meeting,’ he said, and winked at Lizzie as he left.
Mr Bishop, Lizzie assumed. Clearly a decent man, like Matt, for welcoming a group of suffragettes to his home.
Biscuits, cakes, sherry and wine were handed around, with lemonade for Lizzie. Sipping it appreciatively, she listened to the meeting with interest. As well as Mrs Bishop the group comprised Mrs Caroline Hopkins, Miss Emma Caswell, Mrs Ida Trumpington, the Misses Eve and Evangeline Pirrow, Mrs Clarice Osborne, and a Miss Sparkes who seemed not to use her Christian name.
They were all members of the NUWSS, which Lizzie learnt stood for the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, and a few years earlier they’d joined three thousand other women in marching from Hyde Park to Exeter Hall in support of votes for women. They’d also been members of the WSPU – the Women’s Social and Political Union – but had declined to continue, for reasons Mrs Bishop explained to Lizzie. ‘Mrs Pankhurst wants to run the organisation free from challenge by anyone else. We believe all women should have a voice. We’re also worried about their tactics. Window-smashing, for one. Our aim is to present ourselves as responsible, reasonable women who deserve the vote. Vandalism rather undermines that in our view.’
‘What tactics do you use?’ Lizzie asked.
‘We’ve all joined the WFL – the Women’s Freedom League – to use political influence and persuasion to win the day.’
All of the women in the group spoke passionately and intelligently, not just about the fight for the right to vote, but about women’s opportunities in general. ‘What do you think of us, Lizzie?’ Cordelia Bishop asked as the meeting ended.
‘I think you’re amazing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Justice is on your side and I hope the world sees sense soon, because if God didn’t mean women to help to run the country, he wouldn’t have given us brains.’
‘Spoken like a true suffragette,’ Miss Bishop approved, to murmurs of, ‘Here, here.’
Lizzie’s cheeks warmed with pleasure but mostly she was relieved she hadn’t disgraced her godmother.
Three weeks became four and it was Miss Penrose’s turn to host a meeting. ‘I suppose I’d better buy sherry,’ she said, but made no mention of biscuits or cakes.
Lizzie set to work with the cookery book, baking biscuits and cakes.
‘I say,’ the Misses Pirrow commented, eyeing the plates in pleased surprise.
‘Your work, Lizzie?’ Mrs Bishop’s eyes twinkled. ‘Your godmother is an admirable woman but disinclined to consider the needs of the stomach.’
So true!
As Lizzie settled into her fifth week she began to hope that maybe – just maybe – she might be allowed to stay. She hadn’t written to Polly before as she’d been hoping to share a permanent address and, until her future was more certain, she’d been wary of spending precious money on buying paper and stamps.
Polly would be worried, though, so Lizzie finally broke into her funds and wrote to tell her friend about everything that had happened. She enclosed paper and a stamped envelope so Polly could write back.
Lizzie had still been unable to find the Warrens’ farm on any map and had come to the reluctant conclusion that it was just too small to warrant a mention. The thought of never being with that welcoming, jolly family again – of never feeling the warm safety of Matt’s regard, let alone repaying the money she owed – filled her with distress, so she wrote to Matt at Bee Corner Farm, near Stafford without mentioning a village name and prayed the letter would reach him somehow. She decided she wouldn’t send any money until she was sure he’d receive it, though.
Polly wrote back straight away. She’d been appalled to hear about Amos Bradley. You must have been so scared, she wrote, and so relieved to find yourself among friends with the Warrens. What a pity you don’t have their address.
Polly’s family didn’t move in the same circles as Edward Maudsley but Polly had seen Miss Monk talking to Mrs Chant in the street and slowed down to eavesdrop on their conversation. Mrs Chant asked about you and Miss Monk told her you were extending your stay with your godmother for educational reasons as Miss Penrose is a teacher and London has galleries and museums for you to visit. I don’t think Mrs Chant believed her because there was something knowing in her eyes that made Miss Monk walk off with a face like thunder. The wedding is still going ahead, though. She was wearing a very grand fur jacket, by the way, and a large hat which looked horribly expensive.
I do miss you, Lizzie! Please write again soon. Your loving friend, Polly (Davie says hello too) x
No letter came from Matt so Lizzie drew up a list of villages around Stafford. Choosing two of them – Furzeley and Cottam – she wrote one letter addressed to Bee Corner Farm, Furzeley and another to Bee Corner Farm, Cottam.
Still no letter came in reply. After three months she’d written twenty-five letters but none appeared to have found him. She had enough money to continue writing for a while but not enough to replace her shoes which were pinching badly as Lizzie was growing. She also had several darns in her stockings.
When she could bear the pinching no longer, she spoke to Miss Penrose. ‘I’d like to earn a little money of my own and I wonder if you have any ideas for how I might go about it?’
‘Money for what?’
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‘New shoes, stockings, and eventually—’
‘For goodness’ sake, Elizabeth! Why didn’t you say you needed new clothes? How am I to know these things if you don’t speak up?’
Perhaps because it was the way of the world for children to outgrow their clothes? But that was unfair. Miss Penrose couldn’t have made it plainer that she had no experience of children and had only taken Lizzie on because she’d felt she had no choice.
‘I’d like to pay for my own things, if possible,’ Lizzie said. She also wanted to put money aside for repaying Matt if she ever located him.
‘It isn’t possible, is it?’ Miss Penrose snapped. Then she sighed. ‘We’ll go shopping tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry to be a trouble.’
‘Hmm.’
Shopping for clothes clearly gave Miss Penrose as much satisfaction as cooking. Urged to say what she needed, Lizzie did so quickly, not wanting to incur her godmother’s wrath by requiring another clothes-buying expedition in the near future. In addition to shoes and stockings, Lizzie came away with a new dress and underwear.
‘I’m truly grateful,’ Lizzie said on the way home. ‘But if you can think of a way I might earn a few shillings, I’ll be even more grateful.’
Lizzie suspected that Miss Penrose earned little enough herself, possibly because she was too strict a teacher to suit all but the most talented or robust children. It seemed likely that she’d dipped into savings to make the purchases. After all, Edward Maudsley hadn’t sent any money as far as Lizzie knew. He hadn’t written a single letter.
No answer came and Lizzie supposed her godmother’s thoughts were tuned to an imaginary orchestra in her head. But then she said suddenly, ‘Practice.’
Lizzie didn’t understand. Was this another criticism of her piano playing?
‘I mean you might earn a little money supervising the younger pupils when they practice. I often receive requests for that sort of service. It wouldn’t pay as much as a proper lesson, of course, but if women want the right to influence the political landscape, they shouldn’t shy away from earning for themselves.’
‘How would it work?’
‘You could hear the pupils play on the old piano in the attic. You wouldn’t interfere with my teaching up there. You might also be asked to attend pupils’ homes.’
‘It sounds ideal.’
‘Tiresome, actually. You’d only be helping the youngest pupils. But I’ll let it be known that you’re available and we’ll see if any families respond.’
A number of families did respond and Lizzie began supervising practices up in one of the two attic rooms, a small oil stove taking some of the bite out of the chill. The pupils weren’t afraid of Lizzie in the way they feared Miss Penrose. Some of them preferred chatting to playing but Lizzie made sure the chatter didn’t get out of hand. Occasionally she got a headache from a pupil thumping down on the piano keys but mostly Lizzie enjoyed being useful, and it was gratifying to see her modest savings build.
Earning money meant Lizzie could continue writing to Polly – and attempting to write to Matt – without worrying about the price of paper and stamps. She could also venture into London on the bus on Saturday afternoons. Not just to visit the galleries and museums Miss Penrose insisted were a part of a civilised education, but also to see other places of interest, particularly those Polly would love to hear about – Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London… Lizzie bought postcards to send to Polly when she had a spare penny or two.
Working gave Lizzie a sense of comradeship with her friend, though Polly’s job had to be harder. Not that she ever complained. Mrs Hepple is old and doesn’t entertain so I’m hardly worked into the ground as some maids are, she wrote.
She also informed Lizzie that Edward Maudsley and Susan Monk had married. I was in the grocers buying sweets for the little ones at home when Miss Monk came in. Mrs Maudsley, I should say. The shop was busy and some of the women congratulated her on her marriage. One of them suggested that it must have been a quiet sort of wedding and Miss Monk said she’d preferred quietness. But that mean mouth of hers was all pinched up so I knew she was lying. After she’d gone, the women exchanged the sort of satisfied looks that made me think they knew she was lying too.
So Edward Maudsley hadn’t seen fit to inform his daughter that he’d remarried. What had Lizzie expected? Nothing, really, but still… Would he ever realise what he was missing and want to see her?
When her birthday came, he either forgot it or chose to ignore it. Polly remembered, though, and Lizzie was delighted by the small parcel she received from her containing a hand-drawn greetings card and a bright red satin ribbon. For your hair, Polly wrote. The red should look lovely in all that silky darkness.
Lizzie was touched. Not only because Polly had gone to the trouble of choosing a ribbon that would indeed look lovely, but also because Polly had sacrificed hard-earned money to pay for something long and wide and luscious.
Polly also sent a funny drawing of Miss Monk, emphasising the woman’s mean eyes and narrow lips. She had more gossip to report too. People are saying the first Mrs Maudsley might not have thrown herself into Witherton society but at least she was a lady. Which was more than could be said for her successor.
Lizzie was delighted all over again when Miss Penrose gave her a new coat and hat in bottle green that would look very well indeed with Polly’s red ribbon. Miss Penrose also produced a cake. Not home-baked – obviously – but she’d gone to some trouble to buy it from a bakery.
‘It has a candle…’ Miss Penrose waved a hand as though she couldn’t bring herself to mention something as foolish as making a wish but by now Lizzie knew her godmother for a kind woman beneath the brusque manner and tactlessness.
‘I love it all,’ Lizzie said. ‘The coat, the hat, the cake… Thank you so much.’
When Miss Penrose’s birthday came, Lizzie’s little job meant that she was able to return the kindness by buying her godmother some new sheet music, placing it on the table beside her as they ate breakfast.
‘What’s this?’
‘A birthday gift.’
‘It isn’t your birthday again already?’
‘No, it’s yours.’
Miss Penrose looked surprised. ‘I haven’t celebrated my birthdays in years.’
‘Then a celebration is long overdue.’
‘Goodness.’
It was unusual for her godmother to be flustered. Lizzie found it endearing. ‘I know you don’t normally bother with cake but a birthday cake is different, so I’m going to bake one.’
Mindful that the household budget was modest, Lizzie made a simple sponge, decorating it in pale yellow icing as she couldn’t see Miss Penrose taking kindly to pink.
‘Well, really!’ Miss Penrose said, as though Lizzie was being nonsensical in making a fuss of an ageing spinster, but Lizzie knew her godmother was secretly pleased. Touched, even.
‘You have to make a wish then blow the candle out,’ Lizzie said.
An eye-roll followed but Miss Penrose did as asked.
There was more colour in her cheeks than usual and Lizzie wondered what she’d been like as a younger woman. Never pretty, but perhaps softer. Had George Gilbert Grafton been responsible for turning her starchy and severe? Had he stirred her hopes of romance only to let her down because he wasn’t serious? Or had she rejected him for some reason?
The fact that she’d kept his music and tucked it carefully into tissue paper suggested he still held a place in her heart. But perhaps the reason for keeping the music was nothing to do with romance.
Lizzie peeped at the tissue-wrapped music several times before she found the nerve to take it out and carry it to the piano one day when her godmother was out. Lizzie wasn’t driven by curiosity alone – she would never have invaded Miss Penrose’s privacy for something so disrespectful – but by a desire to understand the woman who’d taken her in.
She studied the music th
en played it through experimentally. By the time she’d played it three times she was in no doubt that this music had been written with love. It was a soft and dreamy tribute. Beautiful.
Something must have happened to separate these star-crossed lovers. But what?
*
When Christmas came, Lizzie bought sprigs of holly and fir from the greengrocer and arranged them on the mantelpiece. There were no other decorations because Miss Penrose never bothered. The mantelpiece arrangement appeared to strike her favourably, however. ‘Perhaps next year we’ll have a Christmas tree,’ she said.
Lizzie was thrilled, not only because she wanted a tree, but also because the comment suggested she’d been accepted as a permanent addition to her godmother’s life. The thought of it made Lizzie glow warmly.
The glow dimmed a little when she thought of Matt and the other Warrens. She’d sent dozens of letters all over Staffordshire to no effect. It was hard to accept that they were lost to her and might be thinking badly of her, but she wouldn’t stop hoping that she’d find them again one day and had two pounds set aside to repay them if – or preferably when – that day arrived.
Perhaps her father might come to miss her too.
Within days 1909 had eased into 1910. It was the year in which Miss Penrose first let the name Lizzie slip from her lips. It was also the year Lizzie turned fourteen and assured her godmother that she’d happily take on the house cleaning when their cleaning lady left to live with her sister. It made Lizzie feel better to know that Miss Penrose could use the money she no longer had to pay to replenish her depleted savings.
Lizzie’s life was busy. Taking lessons from her godmother, supervising piano practices and looking after the house and small garden left little leisure time during the day, while evenings were taken up with improving her own piano playing, dinner, exchanging letters with Polly – still such a good friend even over a distance – and involvement in the women’s group.
