Ella's War Read online

  ELLA’S JOURNEY

  LYNNE FRANCIS

  Avon an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  The News Building

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

  Copyright © Lynne Francis 2017

  Cover design © Alison Groom 2017

  Cover image © Shutterstock

  Lynne Francis asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008244279

  Version: 2017-09-08

  Dedicated to the memory of Freda Pegden 1924–2017 and Lucy Westmore 1958–2017

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: 1896–1902

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two: 1903–1904

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Part Three: 1904–1913

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Part Four: 1914–1918

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Part V: 1918–23

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  1896–1902

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Ella?’

  She thought she heard someone calling her name, but it was hesitant, and the bustle and hubbub of the crowd whipped the words away. She paused and turned but, unable to spot anyone she knew, she continued on her way, shopping list in hand. Parliament Street market was busy so close to Christmas, although at least the crush provided a bit of warmth on such a raw, bitter day. Ella’s brown wool coat, on permanent loan from Mrs Sugden, the housekeeper, fitted well enough but it was thin and barely held the cold at bay. She was glad of her red knitted scarf – a bright flash of colour – and another loan, this time from Doris, from one of the maids. When Ella Bancroft had first arrived at Grange House, the two women had been puzzled by what they perceived as her lack of appropriate clothing.

  ‘A shawl will never do!’ Mrs Sugden had exclaimed the previous November when Ella, wrapped in the shawls that had seen her through the Yorkshire winters back in Northwaite, was set to leave the house with her shopping list and basket. ‘You’ll be nithered. And you’re in the town now. You need to wear something that’s a credit to the household. You’d best borrow this.’

  She’d pulled the brown coat from the cupboard in the passageway. ‘I won’t miss it. I’ve another I prefer.’

  Ella had slipped it on: it fitted her quite well. She thought it was probably some time since Mrs Sugden had worn it as it was putting it kindly to say that the housekeeper was a good deal broader than Ella, who was slender and taller than average. She’d judged it best not to comment, however, and instead expressed her gratitude, although privately she felt that the thin wool wouldn’t do the same job of keeping out the cold as her thick woollen shawls. And so it proved but, nevertheless, she felt almost elegant when she ventured out in the coat, which was a feeling quite new to her. Stevens, the butler, had said admiringly, ‘That red scarf of Doris’s puts the roses in your cheeks,’ making Ella blush and thus further increasing her rosiness.

  She wished she had a pair of gloves. The wind was biting and her numb fingers struggled to grasp the coins as she made her purchases. Tucking the last paper bag into her basket, she smiled at the stallholder who was stamping his feet and blowing on his fingers in an effort to keep the chill at bay. With her errands completed, it wouldn’t be long until she was out of the cold and back in the kitchen at Grange House. Groceries arrived there in a regular weekly delivery, one of the many things that Ella had marvelled at in the York household. The grocery boys carried great boxes of meat and vegetables into the scullery and, if more supplies were needed during the week, one of the delivery boys would be sent round on a bicycle, with his front basket loaded up and his apron flapping as he pedalled. But sometimes Mrs Sugden took it into her head that they needed a nice bit of samphire to go with the fish for that night’s dinner, and old Mr Grimshaw’s stall in the market was bound to have some, or she’d heard that there were some particularly fine quail’s eggs to be had that day. Ella was both entranced and unnerved by her errands, puzzled that a bright-green weed would be deemed suitable to serve at the table, or that such a creature as a quail existed.

  ‘Ella!’ This time the call was louder, more forceful, stopping her in her tracks. She turned again, scanning the crowd. As her eyes skimmed over the good citizens of York, intent on last-minute Christmas purchases, they were arrested by an almost-familiar figure.

  ‘Albert?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Albert Spencer?’ He stood before her: out of breath, wiry, dark-haired and little changed i
n appearance from the young man she’d last seen several years before.

  ‘You know your way around!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve had a hard job keeping up with you in this crowd. Is it always like this?’

  Ella glanced about her and smiled. ‘Yes. Always busy with those in search of a bargain or two, particularly so at Christmas. You’re not familiar with the market then?’ She looked enquiringly at Albert, trying to get over her astonishment at seeing him after so long.

  ‘No, no, I was here by chance.’ Albert sounded hurried. ‘But I’m glad I was. I wasn’t sure it was you at first, but then when I followed you I knew I was right. You move just like Alice!’

  Hearing her sister’s name gave Ella a jolt and she glanced quickly at Albert.

  Oblivious to the effect he’d had on her, he carried on. ‘What are you doing here? It’s so long since I’ve seen anyone from home! I’m aching for news. It’s too cold to stand around here though. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  Ella hesitated. Mrs Sugden would scold her if she was late back, but she wanted to hear Albert’s news, even if she wasn’t keen to share hers with him. He had a confident air, which was that of a grown man now, far removed from the mill boy she had walked to work with seven or more years ago. The cut of his clothes marked him out as prosperous; not like her employer Mr Ward, of course, but not dissimilar to some of the tradesmen who came to the house to discuss plans for the houses that her employer was building on the edge of the city. Ella was becoming practised at pinpointing who belonged to which level of society, even though such things had been a complete mystery to her when she first arrived in York. Back in Northwaite where she had grown up there had been those that worked at the mill, those that owned the mill, and the overlookers in between. A few other figures, such as the parson and the doctor, occupied a level above the overlooker and below the mill owner, Mr Weatherall, and his family, but there was little to consider beyond that.

  Here in York there were landed gentry right up at the top of the ladder, those who didn’t seem to work on a daily basis but whose affairs regularly called them away from home, to Leeds or to London. Then there were those who had a standing and an education, such as doctors and clergy; after that came business people, tradespeople, shopkeepers and a whole layer of workers below who kept the wheels in motion.

  The hierarchy ‘below stairs’ in the grand residences such as Grange House was a little world in itself, from the butler right down to the scullery maid. It had taken Ella a while to sort all this out for herself. She’d only managed it by careful observation and listening to the nuances of conversations: the way in which Mrs Sugden referred to those under her jurisdiction, and those above stairs. Although Ella worked as both a house parlourmaid and a lady’s maid these days, her role was relatively clearly defined compared to her previous role in Mr Ottershaw’s house back in Nortonstall, just two miles from where she had been born and brought up. Ella shuddered at the memory. As the only maid that he could afford, she had been expected to cover all the household duties of cooking and cleaning, as well as minding the children. The length and hardship of her days had almost made her nostalgic for her time working at the mill.

  Albert had noticed her shudder. ‘You’re cold,’ he said and, taking her arm, he guided her through the grand, gilded doors of the tearoom that stood a little way from the edge of the market. Ella hesitated, trying to pull back, but it was too late; they were inside in the warmth and being ushered to a table. She’d passed this place many times whilst on her errands and had gazed through the huge plate-glass windows, wondering what it must feel like to sit at one of the round tables draped with a starched white cloth, having time to sit and chat over coffee served in monogrammed china cups.

  Her cheeks flamed, partly from the sudden warmth but more out of embarrassment. Her coat, which she had thought so smart, felt distinctly dowdy and unfashionable in here. She could see some of the ladies at adjacent tables eyeing her up and down, noting her attire, her basket, her lack of a proper hat and gloves, the way her unruly reddish-blonde hair was escaping from the pins holding it in place. They commented to each other, turning away then glancing back, laughing behind their hands.

  Albert was oblivious to this. He ordered coffee for both of them before turning his attention to Ella. ‘You’ve barely said a word,’ he said.

  Ella tried to overcome her discomfort, and her worry about being scolded by Mrs Sugden over her tardiness. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit overwhelmed. I’ve never been in here before.’

  She chanced a look around, trying to imprint her surroundings on her memory. High ceilings, the grey light of winter filtering through the stained glass which edged the windows, the inside lit by gas lamps and filled with the buzz of chatter and laughter, the clink of china and wonderful aromas of coffee, sugar and chocolate. Ella felt her stomach rumble. Breakfast had been a long while ago.

  Albert must have read her mind. As the coffee pot was delivered to the table, he murmured something to the waiter, and a plate of tiny pastries swiftly followed. Ella relaxed a little and unwound the scarf from around her neck, trying to sip her coffee and eat her pastry as though she was used to it, although even a cursory glance at her reddened, worn hands would have suggested otherwise.

  ‘So,’ Albert said, giving her a probing look. ‘How long have you been in York? Do you have news from home?’

  Ella started to fill him in on her last few years, her time at Mr Ottershaw’s in Nortonstall and the hardships of life there, her chance meeting with Mr Ward and her good fortune in being taken on at Mr Ward’s house in York. She managed to intersperse a few questions for Albert, and very soon realised that his apprenticeship and almost immediate employment as a qualified stonemason had kept him fully occupied here in York, and in other cathedral cities. It appeared that he had not returned to Northwaite in all that time. He had sent word home, and frequent amounts of money, but had heard little in return, neither his father nor his mother being ‘much of ones for writing’ as he said ruefully. Ella knew this to mean that they had never learnt how.

  The furrow in Albert’s brow had deepened as Ella told her tale, and she feared his next question. Her coffee was drunk and she was very conscious of the passage of time. Mrs Sugden would not be impressed at the idea of a servant meeting up with an old friend and passing the time of day with him in a tearoom. Ella knew she was going to be in trouble.

  ‘I really must go. It was lovely to see you, Albert, but I will be late back.’ Ella wound her scarf around her neck as she spoke, and pushed her chair back. Perhaps she could make her escape while he settled the bill? She felt a pang of regret. It had been so lovely to see a familiar face from home, but what use could they be to each other now?

  ‘Wait,’ Albert rose at the same time as Ella and handed her basket to her. Ella tried to ignore the contemptuous stares of their neighbours. ‘Alice. You haven’t mentioned Alice. How is she?’

  Ella took a deep breath. She had dreaded this very question. ‘She’s dead, Albert. I’m really sorry. It happened within three months of you leaving. Alice is dead.’

  And with that she hurried to the door, almost pushing the doorman out of her way in her haste to be gone. As she passed the window, she glanced in quickly. Albert still stood by the table, as if rooted to the spot, leaning forward slightly and supported by his rigid arms, fingers splayed and tense on the cloth, all colour drained from his face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time Ella had reached the Tadcaster Road, a good mile and a half from the tearoom, she was regretting the manner of her departure. It was cruel to Albert, who didn’t deserve it. Her own grief over her sister’s death seemed to veer between a cold, hard nugget locked away deep inside, to an overwhelming, boiling rage that made her want to run and run, screaming aloud at the injustice of it all. It was partly the latter sensation that had made her want to leave the tearoom so suddenly. Whatever would Albert think? She knew he had been sweet on Alice, but too shy to ever express this to he
r. Only a little older than him in years, Alice had seemed vastly older than him in wisdom and had always treated Albert more like a younger brother. Ella sensed some sort of unspoken bond between them, which she put down to them having been playmates from a very young age in Northwaite.

  Northwaite. It hurt her to think of it even now, high up above Nortonstall on the Yorkshire hills, with views for miles on a clear day, exposed to vicious winds, snow, sleet and hail in the winter. As a child, Ella had believed that the skies went on for ever, something that had only struck her once she was here in a city, where the sky seemed limited by the buildings all around her. Even if she climbed to one of the highest points in the centre, Clifford’s Tower, her view was restricted to the silvery stones of the ancient city walls and the trees that shaded the river path. York, sprawling along the river, was set deep within a vale and at times Ella’s spirit longed for the soaring open spaces of her childhood home.