A Songbird in Wartime Read online

  The Reverend Simeon Smedhurst was a pleasant-faced man in his mid-thirties, prematurely balding with thin sandy hair swept strategically across his pink scalp and the beginnings of a paunch. He perched on an armchair in the seldom-used parlour, a cup and saucer balanced precariously on his knee. The curtains were drawn as a sign of their mourning, plunging the room into a permanent state of twilight.

  Emily sat solemnly on the sofa, wedged between her father’s solid presence and the curved wooden armrest. Listening to the vicar talk about her mother in his soft, melodious voice had brought a lump to her throat and she kept her gaze fixed on her hands folded primly in her lap, her teeth clenched together in an effort not to cry.

  ‘Do you have any family who are able to help you?’ the vicar asked, taking a sip of tea.

  Eli shook his head. ‘I’m an orphan, as was my wife. But we’ll manage. Emily is a sensible girl and capable. We’ll muddle along well enough, I imagine.’

  ‘Well, if you find it’s too much for you,’ the vicar said, his cup rattling against his saucer as he set it down, ‘there’s a woman over in Bimport who boards children.’

  Emily stiffened. She could feel the vicar’s scrutiny and didn’t dare meet his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eli replied with a cool edge to his voice. He reached for Emily’s hand. ‘But that won’t be necessary.’

  Emily hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until that moment. She exhaled in a rush, her thin shoulders sagging in relief. She had trusted Eli to keep his word, but it was relief to hear him confirm it to the vicar. She wouldn’t be sent away.

  ‘Very well,’ the vicar replied. He sounded unconvinced. Ned Sawyer’s reputation as a hard taskmaster was well known and Eli’s working hours were long. ‘If you change your mind…’

  ‘I won’t.’ Eli gave the vicar a tight smile. Reverend Smedhurst simply nodded and got to his feet.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, setting his cup and saucer on the parlour table. ‘I will see you at eleven o’clock on Friday.’ The two men shook hands and Eli walked him out.

  Emily washed up the crockery, watching from the window as her father stood talking to the vicar at the gate. Daffodils growing against the wall nodded in the breeze and a kestrel hovered overhead. The sun had yet to burn off the mist that clung to the surrounding hills, shrouding them from view.

  The cottage was quiet, too quiet, without her mother. Despite the sad loss of her babies, her mother’s disposition had been a happy one. For as far back as Emily could remember, there had seldom been a day when the cottage didn’t resound with Mary’s singing or laughter. Softly, Emily began to sing. The melody came hesitantly at first, missing her mother’s direction, but soon her voice seemed to take on a power of its own. She closed her eyes as her voice took flight, lifting her above the sadness, above the grief as she soared on the wings of the song.

  Standing in the doorway, tears streaming down his face, Eli thought his heart might burst as he watched his daughter, singing her heart out.

  * * *

  The funeral service was well attended and mercifully brief. The sun was shining as Mary and her infant son were laid to rest in St James’s tranquil churchyard beside her other lost babies. The mourners made their way back to Eli’s cottage where, once again, the capable Molly dispensed endless cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes she and Emily had spent the previous afternoon making.

  Ned Sawyer was there, big and brawny, with a shock of black hair, and a sombre nature. A year older than Eli, the two men had been friends since Eli had come to work for Ned’s father at the tender age of twelve. He stood now, in the corner of the dim, stuffy, overcrowded parlour, chewing contemplatively on a slice of Molly’s Victoria sponge. He hated funerals and he’d been to his fair share of them, the first being his father’s back when he was just a teenager. His father was followed barely a year later by his younger brother, Tommy, who succumbed to his injuries after being attacked by a neighbour’s prize bull. His mother had lived to see Ned married, but not long enough to see him a widower at twenty-two, losing his wife Lizzie in childbirth when she was barely twenty years old.

  He took a swig of milky tea, the dainty china teacup incongruous in his shovel-like hand. The sea of mourners parted slightly, affording him a glimpse of little Emily Baker, stacking dirty plates onto a tin tray he recognized as being from his own kitchen. Her face was pale and drawn, her black dress two sizes too big for her bony frame, and he felt a flicker of sympathy for the child before glancing away. His gaze came to rest on a small side table where Eli and Mary’s wedding photograph took pride of place and he felt a tightening in his stomach. Whether it was anger, regret or incredulity that a poor workhouse girl would choose a simple farmhand over himself, he couldn’t say. He knew only that he had loved Mary Hamilton from the moment he first saw her.

  With her waist-length brown hair, smiling eyes and upturned mouth, Ned had thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. His mother hadn’t relished the idea of an ex-workhouse girl for a daughter-in-law and he had spent hours trying to persuade her otherwise. But in the end, his mother’s opinion had proved irrelevant for Mary had chosen Eli.

  He saw his friend approaching and swallowed down the last of his tea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Ned.’ Eli held out his hand. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do,’ Ned said, taking Eli’s hand. ‘Mary was a good woman, God rest her soul.’

  ‘The best.’ Eli scanned the room, pursing his lips at the sight of the Tucker sisters huddled in a corner, heads together, no doubt indulging in their favourite pastime of gossiping. He spotted the vicar talking to Annie Scrivens. So many friends and neighbours had turned out to pay their last respects.

  ‘She’s had a good turn-out.’

  ‘Your Mary was well respected in the town,’ Ned said with a nod. ‘And a good friend to many. She’ll be very much missed.’

  ‘I’ll be back at work first thing tomorrow,’ Eli said, raising his voice to be sure Edith and May would hear him above the buzz of conversation. ‘Emily is quite capable of looking after herself.’ He caught the eye of the younger Tucker sister. May looked away quickly, but not before Eli had seen the embarrassed flush colour her cheeks. He allowed himself a smile of grim satisfaction.

  Only half-listening to Ned, who had launched into a lengthy monologue about one of his prize-winning ewes, Eli’s gaze sought out his daughter. He spotted her on the sofa and caught her eye. Emily smiled, and some of the anxiety shifted from his shoulders. They were going to be all right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1930

  The kitchen was filled with the aroma of baking bread. Putting the last of the cutlery in the drawer, Emily hung up the tea towel and refilled Ralf’s water bowl. Her father reckoned the old dog to be about fourteen now. Grey-muzzled and suffering from arthritis, he seldom accompanied his master around the farm anymore, preferring to spend his days napping in the sun.

  He licked Emily’s hand and settled himself in the open doorway, resting his nose on his paws with a weary sigh. Singing softly to herself, Emily took up the broom and swept the floor. She loved the easiness of a Saturday morning. They breakfasted early as usual when Eli returned from the milking at six, but once breakfast was done and he had gone back to work, Emily could take her time with the seemingly endless household chores. During the week, she had to rush to get her chores finished to be at school by nine, and then, when she returned at half past three, there was the garden to see to, the evening meal to prepare. Not that she begrudged a single moment she spent caring for Eli and the cottage. She doted on her father and devoted her time to doing whatever she could to keep his life running smoothly.

  The parlour clock chimed the hour and Emily opened the oven door, sliding the well-risen loaf onto a wire rack and setting it beside the open window to cool. Red and white gingham curtains framed a vista of rolling green hills, dotted with shee
p, and a cloudless blue sky.

  Ralf raised his head, sniffing the air, and got stiffly to his feet, his tail wagging in welcome.

  ‘Who is it, Ralf?’ Emily asked, going to stand in the doorway just as Molly reached the top of the hill. Leaning against the three-bar gate to catch her breath, she gave Emily a cheerful wave. Emily waved back. At twenty-four, Ned’s housekeeper was a decade older than Emily, yet the two girls had become good friends over the past seven years. It had been Molly who taught Emily all she needed to learn about keeping house.

  ‘Get me a glass of water, please, Emily,’ Molly pleaded, pushing open the gate and stepping into the lane. ‘That hill never gets any easier.’ She fondled Ralf who had ambled over to greet her and collapsed on the bench, fanning her flushed cheeks with her hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said when Emily returned with a glass of water and sat down beside her. She gulped it down in one go. ‘Ah, that was good.’ She turned to Emily and grinned. ‘I’ve got some exciting news. Sid has proposed, at last.’ She beamed joyously. ‘We’re getting married.’

  Not pretty in the conventional sense, with her auburn hair, pale freckled skin and too-wide mouth, it had been Molly’s eyes – dark green and fringed with long, curling lashes – that had caught the attention of the sixteen-year-old Sidney Manners when Molly was just fifteen and they had been courting ever since.

  ‘I’m so pleased for you,’ Emily said with a smile, though her joy at Molly’s news was tempered by the knowledge that her friend would be moving away. Sid farmed a small tract of land on the other side of Compton Abbas, over an hour’s walk from Shaftesbury.

  ‘Have you set a date?’

  ‘The first Saturday in August,’ Molly told her. ‘The banns are being read tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s quick. It’s less than a month away!’

  ‘We’ve been courting for nine years, Emily,’ Molly said, rolling her eyes. ‘I think I’ve waited long enough.’

  ‘Mr Sawyer will miss you. He’ll have to find himself a new housekeeper.’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that.’ Molly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I’d like to recommend you for the job.’

  ‘Me?’ Emily said, somewhat taken aback. ‘I wasn’t really intending to go into service.’

  ‘There’s not much else about,’ Molly reminded her. Emily sighed. It was true. The daily headlines were a grim catalogue of job losses and business closures as the depression continued to tighten its grip on the country. Only yesterday, the owner of the glove manufacturer’s had sent a message to say he could no longer offer Emily an apprenticeship when she left school at the end of the month.

  ‘Mr Sawyer’s a good employer. He pays a fair wage and you’ll get every Sunday off.’

  ‘Do you think he would agree?’ Emily asked.

  ‘I can’t see why not. He knows your character, and he and your father are good friends.’

  ‘I’ll talk it over with Father when he comes home for his dinner,’ Emily promised. The prospect of working for Ned Sawyer wasn’t an unattractive one. She had known him all her life, after all.

  ‘My last day is the thirty-first of July,’ Molly said, getting to her feet. ‘If your father agrees, you could spend a few days before then learning how Mr Sawyer likes things done. He’s not pedantic by any means, but there are one or two things he does like to be done a certain way.’

  ‘I’ll let you know my decision today,’ Emily said as she walked with Molly the short distance along the lane. They paused at the gate, the valley spread out below them in a patchwork of green and gold fields. Her gaze caught the flash of sunlight on metal as a solitary motor car wended its way down the hill from Melbury.

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’ Molly pushed the gate and it swung open, startling a flock of five sheep huddled against the hedge. They shuffled out of Molly’s way, bleating loudly as she started down the hill.

  * * *

  Emily was still pondering Molly’s offer when Eli returned home for his dinner.

  ‘It’s been a hot one today,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the stool beside the door and scratching Ralf behind the ears. ‘I saw Molly heading up this way,’ he said, removing his heavy boots. ‘Came to tell you her good news, did she?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily replied, handing Eli a bowl of warm water and a towel. ‘And to offer me her job.’

  Eli raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. And how do you feel about working for Ned?’

  Emily shrugged. ‘It’s as good a job as any.’ She returned to her meal preparation, slathering butter onto thick slices of the freshly baked bread. ‘And there’s not much available in town.’ She set the bread on the table along with a bowl of home-grown tomatoes and a lettuce.

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Eli said, pulling up a chair and helping himself to a tomato. ‘Well, Ned’s a fair man. Work hard and he’ll treat you well.’

  ‘I’ll have Sundays off so I’ll still be able to sing in the choir,’ Emily said, wiping her hands on her apron as she sat down at the table.

  ‘The congregation will be pleased.’ Eli grinned. ‘Losing their best soloist would come as a huge disappointment.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ Emily chided him, blushing at the compliment. Emily had joined the church choir four years before at the age of ten. Six months later the vicar had, none too tactfully, Emily remembered ruefully, elevated her to lead soloist over her eleven-year-old schoolmate, Lucy Hunt. Lucy’s mother, a widower in her early forties, hadn’t taken her daughter’s demotion lightly, and the two of them had taken to attending services at the church on top of the hill. In the school playground, Lucy’s resentment and jealousy had manifested in spiteful bullying that had blighted Emily’s otherwise happy schooldays right up until the previous year when Lucy left school to go into service. To Emily’s relief, their paths hadn’t crossed since.

  ‘Don’t be coy, Emily,’ Eli chided her mildly now. ‘You have your mother’s beautiful singing voice.’ He smiled, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling with mirth. ‘Unlike your old man. I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life.’

  Emily returned his smile. ‘Reverend Smedhurst said if I had singing lessons, I could probably become a professional singer. Imagine that,’ she said, folding tomato and lettuce in a slice of bread. ‘Earning a living just for singing.’

  ‘Ah, Emily, love.’ Eli’s expression clouded. ‘Ambition of that sort is not for the likes of us. Smedhurst should know better than to fill your young head with such nonsense. The only places around here you’d earn money singing is in the pubs, and that’s not the career I want for my daughter.’ He smiled at Emily’s crestfallen expression. ‘Cheer up, you’ve got your choir and you earn a pretty penny singing at weddings and the odd funeral. And with that, I’m afraid, you will have to be content.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1932

  Emily stood in the farmhouse doorway, gazing out across the Blackmore Vale. A refreshing breeze blew across the valley, bringing with it the sweet-scented promise of much-needed rain after a lengthy spell of hot, dry weather.

  It was the second week of August and Emily had been working for Ned Sawyer for two years. It had taken her a while to learn her way around Ned’s vast farmhouse, and familiarize herself with the way he liked things done, but although a man of few words and given to bouts of melancholy, he had proved a patient and fair employer and she had soon settled into her new routine.

  She saw him now, coming out the barn, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, followed by Eli and several dogs. They had lost Ralf the previous winter at a grand old age. He had gone to sleep in front of the range one cold January night and never woken up. Eli had buried him under the apple tree in the back garden.

  The two men and dogs approached the house. Chickens scattered, ruffling their feathers and squawking their indignation.

  ‘We’ll be off in a minute, Emily,’ Ned called, untying the bandana from around his neck and wiping his forehead. ‘Have you made a list?’

  ‘It’s on the
table, Mr Sawyer,’ Emily replied, emptying the kettle into the washing-up bowl. The day Ned fulfilled on his promise to have indoor plumbing and electricity installed in this rambling seventeenth-century farmhouse would be a joyous day indeed, she mused, reaching for the dishcloth.

  Oblivious to the dusty footprints his boots were leaving on the slate floor, Ned crossed to the table and picked up the list of items Emily needed him to pick up at the weekly market. The dogs milled about in the doorway, alternately panting and whining as streaks of lightning split the sky.

  ‘Looks like we’re in for a soaking,’ Eli said, glancing out of the door at the rumble of distant thunder.

  ‘Ah well. We’ll have to dry off in the Knowles Arms over a pint then, won’t we?’ Ned grinned, shrugging on his jacket. He folded Emily’s shopping list and put it in his pocket, along with his pipe and tobacco pouch.

  ‘We’ll see you later, Emily,’ Eli said, giving his daughter an affectionate smile.

  ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ Emily replied with a smile of her own. Market day was an opportunity for her father and Ned to catch up on the local news and gossip over a few pints in one or two of the town’s many public houses. She dried her hands on a tea towel and followed them to the door to see them off. Clouds billowed overhead, dark and foreboding. The dogs padded about the yard, hackles raised. Even the birds had fallen silent in anticipation of the coming storm. A solitary magpie preened himself on a telegraph wire.

  ‘One for sorrow,’ Ned remarked grimly, pulling on his cap.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Magpie,’ Eli said, doffing his cap. ‘How is your wife this morning?’

  Satisfied that the prospect of bad luck had been averted by the performing of the ancient ritual, Eli and Ned set off across the yard.

  ‘Your Emily certainly favours Mary, doesn’t she?’ Emily heard Ned say as they walked away. She smiled. She liked it when people thought she looked like her mother. It made her feel closer to her, somehow.