The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  After a lot of reading, listening and thinking, Lizzie had decided that she too preferred Cordelia Bishop’s approach to winning suffrage, though she admired the courage of the women who went to prison for breaking the law in protest at the refusal to allow women to vote. Some went on hunger strike and braved brutal force-feeding.

  Along with the other members of the women’s group, Lizzie was thrilled when the Conciliation Bill was passed by the House of Commons. It only gave votes to women with property worth more than ten pounds and, as Mrs Bishop said, ‘We want all women to have the right to vote.’ But it was a start. Unfortunately, the Bill failed to become law and they were outraged. ‘But we won’t give up,’ Mrs Bishop said, expressing the mood of all of them.

  1910 rolled into 1911 and Lizzie went on her first suffragette march, the Women’s Coronation Procession on the eve of the coronation of King George V.

  Afterwards Mrs Bishop announced, ‘I think you’re old enough to call me Cordelia, my dear. I assume that’s acceptable to you, Margaret?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. If that’s what you’d prefer.’

  Cordelia sighed and Margaret frowned. ‘What is it?’ she asked, then the penny dropped. ‘Oh! Yes, Lizzie must call me Margaret if she wishes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lizzie said.

  It was a step too far for both of them, though, and they settled on Miss Margaret instead. That lasted for a year until Lizzie turned sixteen and they felt comfortable enough to take that final step with Miss Margaret becoming simply Margaret.

  It also felt the right time for Lizzie to say, ‘I’m so grateful for the education you’ve given me over the past few years, but now I’d like to start working properly.’

  Margaret frowned. ‘I attended school until I was eighteen. So did your mother.’

  ‘That was an academy for young ladies. It was more about learning social graces than anything I’m likely to need.’

  Margaret couldn’t deny it, and it wasn’t as though she was qualified to teach social graces, not having absorbed many herself.

  ‘I’d like to start teaching piano lessons instead of just helping with practices,’ Lizzie continued. She already taught to some extent as even supervising practices meant demonstrating how to play and correcting the children’s playing. ‘It’ll mean we can take on more pupils.’

  And that would help Margaret in two ways. It would enable Lizzie to contribute to household expenses, and increasing the number of pupils would give Margaret more choice over those she taught. Margaret was a wonderful woman, but patience didn’t loom large in her store of personal qualities. It tortured her to teach the slow and less talented pupils, and some of them were too afraid of her to stay with her teaching for long. If Lizzie took over their lessons, Margaret could focus on the talented pupils to whom her teaching was invaluable.

  Lizzie got her way and gradually built a following of pupils, seeing her reward not only in the money she earned, but also in the happy faces of the pupils she taught and the more satisfied demeanour of her godmother.

  Life became even busier, but Lizzie still made time for the women’s group, attending meetings and joining her fellow members in handing out leaflets on women’s suffrage outside the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘You need to get yourself a decent chap,’ one young man told her cheekily. ‘You wouldn’t need to make a show of yourself with all this protesting then.’

  An older man said he’d take her over his knee and tan her hide if she were his daughter.

  ‘Luckily, I’m not,’ Lizzie told him sweetly, moving on to offer a leaflet to another gentleman. ‘Give it to your wife if you can’t bring yourself to read it,’ she suggested.

  ‘My wife knows her place and I won’t have such unnatural nonsense in my house.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel threatened by independent-thinking women,’ Lizzie told him. ‘It must be awful to be so insecure.’

  1912 slid into 1913 and Lizzie took part in another march, this time the Pilgrimage for Women’s Suffrage which ended with a rally in Hyde Park.

  It sounds exciting, Polly wrote.

  I have exciting news of my own, though you might think it rather tame after all your protesting. I’m engaged to be married! Davie proposed last night with an adorable ring that used to be his grandmother’s.

  We’re going to wait a couple of years before we actually get married so we can save some of our wages. We’re lucky in that we’re going to have a home with his family for a while, but we still need some things of our own – linen and such – so I’m starting to put things aside in a bottom drawer.

  Lizzie was delighted for her. She wrote to say it was exciting news indeed and sent a pair of embroidered pillow cases to help the bottom drawer along.

  Her thoughts turned to Polly the following year when Cordelia invited Lizzie to write an article for a magazine produced by the NUWSS. ‘You’re eighteen now, and I think readers will be interested in a young woman’s view of a fair world,’ Cordelia said.

  Keen for her article to reflect Polly’s world as well as her own, Lizzie sought for a word that would best express what she most wanted. After thinking of Matt and the rest of the Warrens, she settled on respect. Matt not only loved his brothers and sisters, he also respected each of them and listened to their views.

  The article flowed easily once she’d decided on her approach. In Lizzie’s ideal world, all women – whether domestic servants, factory workers, shop assistants, wives, mothers, single women or anything else – would be valued and their wishes, needs and opinions recognised as being of equal worth to men’s, even if they were sometimes different.

  ‘Excellent!’ Cordelia declared, and Lizzie was thrilled when readers praised the article too.

  Matt would be proud of her. Or so she liked to think. Years had passed since she’d spent those few days on Bee Corner Farm, but he’d made himself the brother of her heart and that wasn’t to be forgotten.

  The weather was glorious over that summer of 1914. Basking in the sunshine and the chance it gave her to wear lighter dresses, it felt unreal to realise that storm clouds of conflict were gathering across Europe.

  But so they were. And they threatened a war that could turn all of their lives upside down.

  11

  The idea that Germany was spoiling for a fight was nothing new. Lizzie had been hearing it for years, but never quite believed anything would come of it. Even when she read in the newspaper that the heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary had been assassinated alongside his wife in distant Serbia, it felt too remote to have repercussions on British soil. But it began to appear as though Germany was using the tragedy to launch a quest for domination by encouraging Austria-Hungary to threaten Serbia in retaliation. Soon old alliances were stirring other countries into possible action. France. Russia…

  But would Britain stay out of it? Discussions at the women’s group gave Lizzie little confidence in British neutrality. Certainly, some people expected it, but others feared the worse, Cordelia Bishop among them. Cordelia was both level-headed and well-connected to the armed forces as well as the government, so her opinion counted most with Lizzie.

  On 28th July, with Germany promising support, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Days later, Germany declared war on Russia and soon afterwards on France. Then Germany invaded Belgium and refused British demands to withdraw.

  On 4th August, as people strolled leisurely in Highbury Fields, watched cricket and played games with carefree children, Britain went to war with Germany too. Gradually more countries entered the war on one side or the other.

  ‘We’re luckier than many,’ Margaret told Lizzie. ‘We have no husbands, brothers, sons, or anyone else close to us in the conflict.’

  That was true. Lizzie felt deeply for those who had loved ones in the armed forces, including Cordelia and other friends. Soon more people they knew had menfolk involved because the call had gone out for volunteers to enlist to serve King and country.

  ‘I hope I love
my country as much as anyone,’ Lizzie told Margaret on returning from the shops one day. ‘If I were a man, I might well volunteer, but only with a heavy heart. I saw a group of young men while I was out and they were urging each other on to enlist as though signing on for a game. One started making chicken noises when a friend hesitated. Another said enlisting would be a lark, especially as it wouldn’t be for long.’

  ‘Over by Christmas, many people are saying,’ Margaret commented. ‘The war may well be over by then for some of these young men, but not in the way they expect.’

  ‘A woman in the grocers boasted that both of her sons had volunteered, as though it were some sort of competition. It just can’t have occurred to her that they might be injured or killed. Another woman crowed that her sweetheart had enlisted and any young man who didn’t join him should be labelled a coward. She didn’t stop crowing even when a third woman pointed out that some young men were also husbands and fathers with families that might struggle to get by on the separation allowance. Seventeen shillings and sixpence a week for a wife and two children doesn’t go far.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t take a tragedy to wake them up to their foolishness.’

  Tragedy called early for some regular soldiers, including the son of one of Cordelia’s cousins. He was in the British Expeditionary Force that sailed to France in the middle of August and fell in the Battle of the Marne less than a month later.

  Fortunately, Polly had written to say Davie was safe because he was needed on the farm. Lizzie was pleased to think that the same must be true of Matt and the other Warren boys.

  At the women’s group they all agreed that it was a good thing the more militant suffragettes had decided to stop using force. ‘The focus is on supporting the country through the war now,’ Cordelia observed.

  With so many men enlisting, there was a labour shortage, so women were beginning to take on work that had traditionally been done by men, from selling tickets on buses and delivering post to producing munitions.

  ‘I’d like to do something to help,’ Lizzie confided to Cordelia.

  ‘You already have a job.’

  And it wasn’t a job Lizzie could easily abandon, even for other paid work, without making Margaret suffer financially and in her enjoyment of her teaching.

  ‘I’d do volunteer work if I could find something to fit around the time I have available,’ Lizzie said.

  Cordelia’s niece was a volunteer ambulance driver and Ida Trumpington’s granddaughter was helping in a hospital, but they weren’t juggling paid work or looking after a house as Lizzie was doing.

  ‘Some of us are going to take First Aid and Home Nursing classes from the Red Cross,’ Cordelia told her. ‘I’m hoping you and Margaret will join us. We may not plan on becoming nurses, but who knows when the skills might be useful? I’m also organising a knitting initiative. Now it appears that the troops will be spending the winter in cold, muddy trenches, they’ll be glad of warm socks and scarves.’

  Margaret and Lizzie joined in both the Red Cross classes and the knitting evenings. Lizzie enjoyed them but, while she was clearly making an effort, Margaret’s talents lay in neither direction. She was awkward with first aid and her attempt to knit socks was a disaster. How fingers that could coax magic from a piano could produce only misshapen knitted items was a mystery.

  ‘I’m not sure they’re quite perfect,’ Margaret said, holding up some socks.

  ‘Perhaps you could try knitting a scarf,’ Cordelia suggested, sending Lizzie a grimace.

  Margaret tried a scarf but produced a sorry length of dropped and wobbly stiches. ‘I’m sure it’ll keep someone warm,’ Cordelia soothed.

  Ida Trumpington piped up then. ‘I’m not sure why we’re bothering with knitting if the war’s going to be over soon.’

  But they were already in December and there was no sign of peace. ‘Whatever we knit won’t be wasted,’ Cordelia pointed out. ‘Even if the war ends, London has plenty of poor people who’ll be glad of what we produce.’

  At their last meeting before Christmas, they gathered around the piano for carol singing. After being the dunce of the knitting and first aid sessions, Margaret became the star. From ‘Silent Night’ to ‘Oh Come, all ye Faithful’, her gifted fingers never faltered.

  ‘Thank you, Margaret,’ Cordelia said sincerely. ‘That was perfection. And thank you, Lizzie, for leading the singing.’

  ‘We all sang,’ Lizzie pointed out.

  ‘But you have the strongest voice. The loveliest voice too. Full of emotion.’

  The others agreed.

  Embarrassed, Lizzie steered the conversation towards the weather, wondering if they’d have a white Christmas.

  They had rain instead. ‘I wonder if the men in the trenches are having rain?’ Lizzie said to Margaret.

  ‘They’ll be having a miserable Christmas if so.’

  As usual, they were spending Christmas Day quietly. Lizzie had bought Margaret a new blouse and Margaret had bought Lizzie a new case in which to store sheet music. Both of them had received gifts from pupils. Lizzie’s were varied – a china cat, chocolates, a notebook, perfume, a small framed print of Highbury Fields, a trinket box, a brooch…

  Margaret’s were handkerchiefs and soap. Lots of soap. Mostly lavender-scented with two bars of lemon verbena. Lizzie guessed that her godmother’s pupils just didn’t know what else to buy their formidable piano teacher. Fortunately, Margaret had little patience for fripperies and was glad to have the household supplied with enough handkerchiefs and soap to last the year.

  From Polly, Lizzie received a jaunty scarf. Lizzie had sent Polly new stockings, knowing they were useful to a girl who was still giving some of her wage to her mother.

  There was no card or gift from Lizzie’s father. There never was. Lizzie dismissed him from her mind, though not before three words crept into her mind. Maybe one day.

  The horrible sherry came out on New Year’s Eve so she and Margaret could toast in 1915 with a single glass each. ‘Let’s hope it’ll be a peaceful year,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘The sooner peace comes, the better,’ Margaret agreed.

  The Red Cross classes and knitting evenings resumed in January, the women hastening through the frigid January air and icy rain to get into the warmth of each other’s houses.

  There was hope that a springtime push might bring victory but Cordelia confided her fear that this wasn’t going to be an easy war to win. ‘It isn’t like battles of old when soldiers fought out in the open and cannonballs caused damage only where they fell. In this war the men are hunkered into trenches and the weapons can do terrible damage. Modern shells can travel over long distances and a single machine gun can kill a dozen men in seconds.’

  Lizzie shuddered. ‘Are you suggesting there’s likely to be a stalemate?’

  ‘One side or the other will have to push forward eventually, but perhaps there’ll be more casualties and less chance of decisive victory.’

  Lizzie’s wish to do more for the war effort grew, though she still couldn’t see a clear path to helping while juggling her other commitments.

  January gave way to February and the war made itself increasingly felt on the home front. Food was in short supply and prices were rising. German U-boats were destroying ships bringing supplies to Britain, and many of the country’s young farmworkers had enlisted. Farmers are struggling to find workers to tend their animals or bring the crops in, Polly wrote. Davie did the right thing in staying. The responsible thing.

  But the next letter Lizzie received from Polly told a different story.

  I hardly know how to begin because I’m in such a tizzy. I thought Davie was safe on the farm, and Heaven knows the country needs farmworkers. I suppose he’s been a little distracted recently, but I never suspected…

  Lizzie, he’s enlisted. I never got a chance to try to talk him out of it because he joined up with two friends without telling me his plans. I cried when he told me what he’d done and then I grew angry. D
avie said I should understand that he isn’t a boy anymore but a man who needs to act like one so I should be proud of him for joining up. Well, of course I’m proud of him, but I’m terrified for him too. He leaves for training camp soon, so between his work and mine we’ll have little chance to see each other.

  Am I wrong in wishing he was staying safe on the farm? Selfish and unpatriotic? Please don’t judge me too harshly.

  Poor Polly! Lizzie lost no time in writing back.

  Of course you’re worried and upset. I wish we lived closer to each other so I could hug you. As it is, I can only tell you I’m thinking of you and of Davie too.

  Davie will be at training camp for two or three months so let’s hope peace comes before he has to join in the fighting…

  A few days later Polly replied.

  Thank you for not thinking too badly of me. I know thousands of other girls are going through the same upset, and many have gone through the worse agony of losing their loved ones or seeing them suffer terrible wounds. I may be spared that.

  Davie’s mother was in tears when I saw her last night and his father was furious with him. All the opposition made Davie quite churlish. He said there was nothing wrong in wanting a bit of adventure before he settled down and his father called him a fool because there was no adventure in dying. The bad atmosphere spoilt the evening and Davie’s mood lasted even when he walked me home. I hope I see him again before he leaves for camp. Whatever happens, I have to make the best of it.

  Two days later another letter arrived.

  He’s gone!

  I’m sick with worry, but at least we parted with words of love. I’m living for his letters and for your letters too. You’re always such a comfort, Lizzie, and I so enjoy hearing about your life in London.

  Lizzie did her best to entertain Polly through her letters, describing London, her pupils, her Red Cross lessons and her knitting. Time never hung heavily for Lizzie but she still hungered to do more for the war effort than knit socks, useful as they were.