The Wartime Singers

by Lesley Eames

  ‘It’s natural to worry,’ Lizzie told her, ‘but there are nice things to think about too. Like that pretty engagement ring you’re wearing.’

  ‘Oh! You haven’t seen it before, have you?’

  Polly held out her hand so Lizzie could admire the ring, a slim gold band supporting an oval sapphire.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Lizzie declared. ‘The sapphire matches your eyes. Tell me what sort of wedding you’re planning.’

  ‘It’s hard to make plans with Davie away but we’d like something simple. To be honest, we haven’t the money for anything else. But I’m determined it’s going to be beautiful. I’m saving up to have as many flowers as possible – in the church, in our bouquets and even in my hair.’

  ‘It sounds utterly charming. What will you wear?’

  ‘A white dress, of course, though I’ll have to make it myself.’

  ‘What would you like me to wear?’ There was no question of a special dress for Lizzie.

  ‘Just whichever of your dresses you feel is prettiest. Hopefully, we’ll be able to book the Sunday School hall for the reception, as my family’s cottage is tiny and Davie’s home isn’t much bigger. Both families will provide sandwiches and cakes. I wonder if you might play the piano and sing? You must be used to performing now.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you like,’ Lizzie promised.

  Polly paused then said, ‘I’m so happy with my Davie. I hope you’ll find someone special soon.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  Lizzie had been invited to walk out by several young men – the brothers of pupils, a neighbour’s son, and a doctor at one of the hospitals – but none had sparked her interest.

  Was she destined to remain a spinster? There was nothing wrong with remaining unmarried if that was what a person wanted. Miss Sparkes from the women’s group was one of them. She shuddered at the mere mention of men. But Lizzie rather liked the idea of a husband and children eventually.

  Not that there was always a choice. Lizzie still didn’t know what had happened between Margaret and George Gilbert Grafton, but if Margaret had rejected him, she’d long regretted it. Or so Lizzie suspected.

  After lunch, the girls lingered over a cup of tea before taking another look at the shops. ‘I hope you can have your wedding soon,’ Lizzie said, folding her friend into a hug when the time came to part. ‘Whatever happens, we must meet up again. Perhaps you might come to London for a few days. Margaret won’t mind putting you up, and I can show you the sights.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Polly agreed.

  With a final wave they went their separate ways.

  Thoughts of romance lingered in Lizzie’s thoughts over the following days. She was in their local music shop collecting an order for Margaret when an impulse prompted her to ask, ‘I wonder if you have any music by George Gilbert Grafton?’

  ‘The Girl with Grey Eyes’ was a wonderful song. He might have written more and had them published.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the name. Is he a classical composer? We only supply classical music, of course. If he writes popular music…’ The shop assistant made it sound like a disease.

  ‘You wouldn’t stock it, I suppose.’

  ‘Not at Millerfield’s.’

  What a snob he was. Lizzie liked classical and popular music. In their different ways they both gave joy.

  But perhaps it was just as well that she’d found no music by Mr Grafton, because what would she have done with it? Even if he had shared a romance with Margaret, many years must have passed since then. Mr Grafton might be married to someone else and have forgotten all about poor Margaret. Perhaps he’d been married all along and she’d never been more than a passing fancy to him.

  Whatever had happened, Lizzie was fairly sure that Margaret knew what it was to pine for a sweetheart. She had a way of saying, ‘Poor girl,’ when letters from Polly arrived.

  Then there was the time when Lizzie, wanting a book to read, chose Persuasion by Jane Austen. ‘I haven’t read this in a while,’ she told Margaret.

  ‘Humph.’

  ‘Not your favourite?’

  ‘It’s a good enough book if you like that sort of thing.’

  Clearly Margaret didn’t. Did she dislike the book because its heroine had been reunited with the sweetheart she’d been persuaded to reject in her youth but there’d been no such happy outcome for Margaret’s own romance?

  If anyone had persuaded her godmother against Mr Grafton, Lizzie imagined it had been Margaret’s father. He’d brought her up alone after his wife died young, yet appeared to stir no affectionate memories in his daughter. Margaret mentioned him rarely and displayed not a single photograph of him.

  Lizzie had Mr Grafton in mind when she travelled to a music shop near Waterloo station a few weeks later in search of the ragtime music one of her pupils had requested. ‘My cousin gets to play ragtime at his piano lessons,’ the pupil had added.

  Lizzie didn’t want to lose the pupil to another teacher when money was increasingly tight so she promised to see what she could do about acquiring the sort of music he wanted. She rather liked the jollity of ragtime anyway.

  She chose two pieces that were suitable for learners then asked about Mr Grafton’s music.

  ‘We have several of his pieces in stock,’ the sales assistant told her.

  Lizzie gaped at him. So Mr Grafton really was a professional composer. She snapped her jaw up again. ‘Might I see them, please?’

  There were five pieces and Lizzie chose two – ‘In the Park’, which looked to be a lively song, and ‘Twilight Serenade’, which looked to be slower. She left the shop feeling pleased and a little stunned by her purchases.

  She had no suspicion that she was about to receive a second surprise.

  15

  The streets around Waterloo were busy but Lizzie’s thoughts were on Margaret and Mr Grafton, so she took little notice of her fellow pedestrians as she navigated her way around them. It was only when she paused to give space to an elderly woman that her eye was caught by a man in khaki uniform on the other side of the street. His face was mostly obscured beneath his cap, but being tall, upright and rangy, he put her in mind of Matt. His way of walking reminded her of him too. It was confident. Elastic.

  Good grief. It couldn’t actually be Matt. Could it?

  Frustratingly, the passing traffic and pedestrians allowed only brief glimpses of the man. Lizzie moved to the kerb for a clearer view but a bus halted beside her. By the time she’d hastened around it, the soldier had already passed by.

  Dodging traffic, she darted across the road in pursuit, earning an irritated toot from a car driver and a raised fist from a man in a cart. ‘Sorry!’ she called.

  The soldier’s height put him several inches above most people and made him easy to spot, but his long strides were taking him onwards at speed and the pavement was too busy for Lizzie to break into a run. She dipped this way and that instead, apologising when she got in people’s way.

  The soldier turned into Waterloo station. Lizzie followed, but it was even busier in the station concourse, not only with servicemen but also with families there to greet them or send them on their way. Where was Lizzie’s soldier?

  There! She squeezed through the throng but realised she wouldn’t be quick enough to reach him before he arrived at a platform where a train stood waiting, presumably to take soldiers to the boats that would transport them to France.

  ‘Matt!’ she called, but the soldier simply eased through the families that had gathered around the barrier and set off down the platform.

  Lizzie arrived at the barrier to see him stop by a train door. ‘Matt!’ she called again, and felt a thrill of excitement as he paused and turned.

  It was him! Surely it was him? But he’d looked around only to speak to another soldier who’d come up behind him. Both men boarded the train and, while some soldiers leant out of windows, this man wasn’t one of them.

  Or was he? Yes, there he wa
s.

  Lizzie stood on tiptoes and waved. ‘Over here, Matt!’

  Had he seen her? He was looking in her direction but perhaps he was merely looking at the crowd. A whistle blew, steam hissed and the train lurched away, picking up speed until it disappeared from sight.

  Lizzie’s heels slumped back to the ground and she trailed out of the station, trying to talk herself out of her disappointment. Much as the man had reminded her of Matt, it made no sense that he’d be here in London in army uniform. He’d be hard at work on the farm instead. Unless…

  Of course! All three Warren brothers must be old enough to serve their country now, and perhaps the farm couldn’t justify them all staying at home. If one brother had to join the fighting and risk death or injury, Matt would have insisted on that brother being him.

  Lizzie still wasn’t entirely sure that the soldier had been Matt, but it was certainly possible, and she knew she’d worry about him for as long as the war endured. Her personal stake in the war – begun with Polly’s Davie – had deepened.

  *

  The moment Lizzie reached home, she took Mr Grafton’s music up to her room and hid it under the lining of a drawer. Not for anything would she risk upsetting Margaret with a reminder of the man she might once have loved. Lizzie would have to wait until her godmother was out of the house before she played the songs.

  The opportunity didn’t come for more than a week. Margaret walked out each morning on what she called her constitutional, but it was difficult to predict how long she’d be away. Only when Margaret went to a pupil’s home to teach did Lizzie feel safe enough to take the music from its hiding place.

  She played ‘In the Park’ first. It was the sort of catchy tune that people would hum under their breath for days.

  ‘Twilight Serenade’ was different. A love song. Lizzie wondered if it had been written with Margaret in mind. For all its beauty, it was still what would be termed a popular song rather than a classical one. Had highbrow Margaret caused the split in their relationship by looking down on Mr Grafton’s music? Possibly, though opposition from Margaret’s father continued to be the more likely cause in Lizzie’s mind.

  She was glad she’d spent precious pennies on buying the music. It helped her to feel closer to her godmother.

  Lizzie was returning the music to the drawer in her room when she noticed the publisher’s name on the cover – Williams Landish – with addresses in London and New York. She stared at the London address for several seconds as it occurred to her that she might be able to write to Mr Grafton through his publisher. But then she made an impatient sound and closed the drawer. What had she been thinking? That she might somehow reunite him with Margaret?

  Even if she composed a letter that simply gave news of an old friend rather than a romance, he might consider the approach to be impudent, intrusive and embarrassing, especially if he happened to be married. Margaret might feel the same if he got in touch. No, Lizzie didn’t know enough about their relationship to risk it.

  Dismissing the idea, she turned her thoughts back to the man who might have been Matt. Several years had passed since she’d last looked for Bee Corner Farm in the atlas.

  She looked again now, and even went to the library to study a larger reference map. Frustratingly, she could still find no mention of it.

  *

  Summer slipped into autumn. Every morning Lizzie bought a newspaper and read the casualty lists, feeling relieved when neither Matt’s name nor Davie’s were mentioned. Then she’d turn her attention to her teaching and the concerts, which were growing increasingly popular. Many hospitals and convalescent homes were inviting the Penrose Players back for second or even third concerts.

  Most satisfying of all was the reaction of the men they entertained. ‘First rate…’

  ‘A corker, Miss…’

  ‘You can come and kiss me better anytime, me darlin’…’

  October came and towards the end of the month one member of their women’s group, Miss Sparkes, broke an ankle and went to stay with her sister in Pimlico in order to recuperate. When the mother of Lizzie’s two last pupils of the day – twins – cancelled their lessons because she thought they might be coming down with measles, Lizzie fitted in a visit to the invalid.

  ‘It was the darkness that did it,’ Miss Sparkes said, explaining how her ankle had come to be broken. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I know we need to keep lights hidden to keep us safe from those dreadful Zeppelins, and I’ve no sympathy for the people who are fined for letting their lights show. But the darkness does make it harder for a person to see steps and kerbs and slippery patches.’

  This was true. Lizzie had even heard of one poor soul being killed by a car because the driver had been unable to see him.

  ‘I misjudged the edge of a kerb and now look at me,’ Miss Sparkes said.

  Lizzie duly sympathised.

  War talk occupied the rest of Lizzie’s visit. ‘Terrible as this war is, it’s at least showing what women are made of,’ Miss Sparkes said. ‘Women are doing all sorts of jobs these days, not least making munitions, and that’s horribly dangerous work. If the contribution women are making to the war effort doesn’t result in the right to vote, there’s even less justice in the world than I thought.’

  It was very dark outside when Lizzie took her leave. Not wanting to follow her friend’s example in breaking an ankle, Lizzie walked carefully.

  She was nearing Victoria train station when she saw an elderly lady stagger and clutch a lamppost. Hastening over, Lizzie touched the woman’s arm. ‘Excuse me, are you unwell?’

  ‘Bless you, dearie. I don’t feel quite myself.’

  ‘May I fetch someone? A relative? A doctor?’

  ‘What I need most is to get off these feet.’

  ‘Take my arm. There’s bound to be a seat in the station.’

  Lizzie helped the woman inside and found a seat for her. ‘That’s better,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Ida Braithwaite, by the way.’

  ‘Lizzie Kellaway. Would a cup of tea be welcome?’

  ‘It would, dearie.’

  Lizzie bought tea from a mobile canteen and was pleased to watch it bring colour to Mrs Braithwaite’s cheeks.

  ‘That did me a world of good,’ she said. ‘I’ll sit here a while longer, but don’t let me keep you from going about your business.’

  ‘I’m not going to leave you. Rest for as long as you like and then I’ll see you home.’

  It was half an hour before Mrs Braithwaite felt able to move. Luckily, she didn’t live far away and insisted there was no need for a cab.

  Her home was in Masons Buildings, a tenement that looked run-down from the outside but was clean and comfortable on the inside. ‘I always try to keep things nice,’ Mrs Braithwaite said.

  ‘I can see that. Do you live alone?’ Lizzie had been hoping there’d be someone here to help.

  ‘I’ve been a widow for twenty years, and my Sal left to get married almost as long ago. You’ve done me a kindness in seeing me home, but you needn’t linger any longer.’

  ‘At least let me make you something to eat.’

  There was soup in a pan so Lizzie warmed it on the stove.

  ‘You’re welcome to share it,’ Mrs Braithwaite offered.

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.’ It wasn’t true but Lizzie wouldn’t take food from a woman whose budget was obviously tight.

  She sat with Mrs Braithwaite while she ate, noticing that a jaunty little black hat decorated with green feathers sat beside a sewing box on the table. ‘Are you a milliner?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘I trim hats for the shop my daughter runs with her husband.’

  ‘This hat is delightful.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so. How do you make your living, dearie? If you don’t mind me asking?’

  Lizzie told her about piano teaching and the concerts too.

  ‘The poor soldiers deserve a sing-song after all they’ve been through. My Sal’s Frank had consumption as a
child, so his wind isn’t good enough for fighting, thank goodness. The hat shop suits him. Suits my Sal too. Quiet, you see?’

  ‘I’m glad he’s safe. Let me wash these dishes then I’ll be on my way.’ Margaret would be worried and Ida was looking much better now. ‘Are you sure there’s no one I can fetch to help you?’

  ‘I don’t want to impose, but could you get a message to my Sal? She’s in Exeter Street near Covent Garden. Lives above the shop. Don’t worry if it’s out of your way, though.’

  ‘I can take a message.’ Lizzie imagined it would take half an hour to walk there, but at least it was in the right direction for Highbury. ‘What would you like me to tell her?’

  ‘Could you say I’ve had one of my turns? She shouldn’t worry because I’m all right now. But I’m behind on a couple of hats.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be more concerned about you than the hats.’

  ‘She’s a good girl, my Sal. But I don’t want her wondering why I haven’t got over there. Tell her I’ll try again tomorrow.’

  Lizzie bade Mrs Braithwaite goodbye and set out, hurrying now despite the darkness in case Margaret was imagining her in an accident. After racing down Buckingham Palace Road, Lizzie passed the Palace and continued along The Mall towards Trafalgar Square. Skirting it, she hastened along the Strand and finally reached Exeter Street. The subdued lighting made it difficult to read the numbers above the doors but Lizzie finally found a window in which she could make out hats on stands.

  A knock on the door brought a woman downstairs.

  ‘Sally?’ Lizzie realised she didn’t know the woman’s surname.

  ‘Yes.’ The answer sounded suspicious.

  Lizzie explained what had happened and passed on Mrs Braithwaite’s message. Sally’s manner changed to gratitude. ‘I’m obliged to you! Mum suffers with her heart sometimes, but she won’t come to live with us. We haven’t really got room, but we’d make do. Mum likes her independence, though. Come in for a minute. Catch your breath. I’ve got a bottle of stout in the cupboard.’