Chapter 1
Liverpool, England
March 1919

By nature she wasn’t a solitary person, and yet Charlotte couldn’t help but relish the peace and quiet that descended on the constituency office after her colleagues had gone home. Even the ward councillor herself, Miss Rathbone, had departed after extracting a promise that Charlotte not stay on too late. With nothing but the scratch of her pen and the faint thrum of traffic outside to distract her, she’d made terrific progress, first taking care of her filing, then some overdue correspondence. Now she was making a fair copy of the notes she’d taken at the Women’s Industrial Council meeting that afternoon. It was a dull task, but one that would only become less interesting the longer she let it sit.

It had only been two months since her return to Liverpool, and already she was discouraged. As tedious and unpleasant as nursing had been at times, at least she’d been able to witness the difference her actions had made: wounds bandaged, burns salved, restless spirits comforted.

She was good at her work here, for she’d been with Miss Rathbone for three years before the start of the war, and even after a nearly five-year break she’d fit right back in, picking up the reins of her duties as if she’d never set them down. That was the problem.

Nothing had changed. Four years of limitless war, untold millions dead, millions more left wounded, bereaved, desolate. And for what? Britannia was blind and deaf to the suffering of its citizens—the men crippled by war wounds who were reduced to begging on street corners, the widows with no work because returning soldiers were given what few jobs there were, the children who went to bed hungry and were kept home from school so they might help their mothers with piecework. It was all so very, very discouraging.

 “Miss Brown?”

The voice from the hall was so startling that Charlotte all but jumped out of her skin. She looked up and was relieved to see a solitary woman, her face somehow familiar, standing at the door.

“I’m ever so sorry to bother you, miss, but there weren’t nobody out front…”

“There’s no need to apologize, I assure you. I was only a bit surprised. Do come in and sit down.”

Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t recall the name of her guest. The woman looked poor but respectable, her coat shiny at the seams, her shoes polished though the soles were likely worn through, her face wearied by worry and need. She might have been any age from twenty-five to forty-five.

“I feel as if we’ve met,” Charlotte began, “but I’m afraid I can’t place your name.”

“Doris Miller. I met you the other week, when you was helping Miss Rathbone on her report.”

“Yes, of course. I remember now. You spoke to the pensions committee about how hard it’s been for you. I believe you lost both your husband and your eldest son?”

“Yes, miss. My husband was killed at Loos, and then Davey right at the end of it all, at Messines last year. He was…he was only just eighteen.”

“Oh, Mrs. Miller. I am so very sorry for your loss.” The words were rote, but she meant them all the same. To the bottom of her heart she did. “I recall that you haven’t been able to find any steady work.”

“No, ma’am. The jobs are all going to the men. Fair’s fair, I suppose.” Mrs. Miller looked down as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the sight of her toil-roughened, gloveless hands, clasped so tightly together the tips of her fingers had gone white.

“May I ask, Mrs. Miller, if there’s any particular reason you came to see me tonight?”

“I told myself, on the way over, that you’d understand. You was ever so nice when I talked at that meeting. You didn’t look down your nose like some others do.”

“Thank you. I will do my utmost to help you, Mrs. Miller, if help is what you need. If that is why you’ve come to see me. But first you must tell me what is amiss.”

“I’ve had a letter. From my uncle, my mother’s brother. He lives in Belfast. He was widowed last year. He’s asked if I might come and live with him, me and the children, and take care of him. He’s had a fall or two and he don’t want no stranger coming to help.”

“Is he a man of means? Can he support all of you?”

“He was a welder at the shipyards, and he and my aunt never had no children of their own. So I expect they was able to save a bit over the years.”

“Do you think him a decent man? Will he treat you and the children well?”

“He’s nice. Quiet. I think we’ll do well by him.”

“Are you asking if I think you ought to go?”

“It’s only that…” Mrs. Miller’s voice trailed off and she resumed her impassioned hand-twisting. And then the words came out in a torrent, so softly Charlotte had to lean forward to hear them.

“They’s said there’s summat wrong with my papers, that’s why my pension hasn’t come through, not for my husband, or for my son, either. I’ve sent them everything I have, I even had a copy made of my marriage certificate, but they wrote me back and said it’s under review, or summat like that, and how am I to feed the children?

“The steamship fare to Belfast for all of us is nigh on five pounds. I’ve tried but it’s too much. I sold all the furniture when things got bad a few months back. We’ve only the one bed left, the table and a few chairs, and they won’t bring enough, not hardly enough. They’s only fit for the tip. I sold my wedding ring last year. We’ve the clothes on our backs and nowt else. I daren’t ask my uncle for it, else he change his mind. Think twice, or worry we might make trouble for him. It’d only be a loan, until we’re settled and I can take in washing or summat else. And I thought…I hoped…I thought you or Miss Rathbone might know of somewhere I might go…”

Charlotte knew exactly what she ought to do. By rights, she ought to send Mrs. Miller to the offices of the Personal Service Society, the charity that Miss Rathbone had recently founded for families in desperate straits. All she had to do was write down the address on a scrap of paper, pass it to the woman, and send her off.

And yet she hesitated, for assistance from the P.S.S. would involve a daunting amount of form-filling and question-asking. Mrs. Miller might end up receiving the aid she needed, but not without sacrificing what few scraps of self-respect she still possessed. Charlotte had seen it before, more times than she could count, and she was heartily sick of it.

“You were right to come here,” she stated in the firmest voice she could conjure. “For I do know of a fund, a rather secret fund, you see, for war widows just like yourself, and I feel quite certain that Miss Rathbone would agree if I advance you the money to cover your fares to Belfast.”

Mrs. Miller went pale, and for a moment Charlotte thought the woman was going to faint, but then she rallied and sat up even straighter than before.

“God bless you, Miss Brown—”

“Let me just fetch the ledger…yes, there it is.”

Charlotte pulled a spare notebook from the shelves behind her, and opened it to a blank page. Using a pencil, she wrote down Mrs. Miller’s name, the amount of the loan, and the date; she would erase it later. Then she opened the bottommost drawer of her desk, dug into her bag, and extracted a five-pound note. It was a good thing she’d been to the bank that morning.

“Do you have a handbag, Mrs. Miller? Or would you like an envelope?”

“Can I have an envelope?”

“Of course. Here is the money, and in return I shall ask for only one thing. When you are settled, please find a way to let me know how you are getting on. Your eldest daughter is still in school, is she not?”

“Yes, miss. I’d never of took her out of school.”

“Then she will certainly be able to write out a short letter and send it to me here. Just so I know that you are all safe and sound.”

Charlotte tore a page from the notebook and wrote her name and the address of the constituency office upon it. “Here is my direction. I am so pleased you came to me today, Mrs. Miller. Miss Rathbone will be delighted to know we were able to help such a deserving family.”

“God bless you, Miss Brown, and Miss Rathbone too. I’ll never forget how good you’ve been to me and my children.”

“You’re very kind. Now, tell me: how are you going to get home?”

“I’ll walk, same as I did to get here. Shouldn’t take more’n an hour to get back.”

Charlotte bent again to the open drawer and fished tuppence out of her purse. “If I give this to you, will you promise to take the tram home tonight?”

“I couldn’t, honestly I couldn’t.”

“I insist. Now off you go to your children, and I wish you a very happy journey to Belfast.”

After seeing Mrs. Miller out the door, Charlotte returned to her desk and gathered her things; she’d finish her notes in the morning. As she locked up and started off down the street, she was buoyed along by a rare sense of elation, her spirits lighter and brighter than they’d been for months. She’s wasn’t fool enough to think that five pounds could solve the world’s problems, or even make a discernible dent in them, but they would ensure a decent future for Mrs. Miller and her five surviving children.

Tomorrow she’d go to the bank and withdraw three pounds, enough to cover her room and board for the month; fortunately she had enough in reserve to tide her over until she was paid again. A few weeks without a daily newspaper or any new books wouldn’t hurt her, and it would serve as a useful reminder of how well off she was in comparison to most. She had enough to eat, she had a warm bed to sleep in, and she had useful work that paid her well.

And if, alone in her narrow bed at night, so forlorn she could almost hear her soul shriveling away, she were to wonder and worry why there wasn’t more to life…well, that was human nature, wasn’t it? To want the impossible, though the sum of her experiences proved that happiness was rare, elusive, and above all, ephemeral.