The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  Angela Quail is the most flirtatious and despicable girl I know—it’s impossible to believe she’s the daughter of the Vicar. Her color is tart red, all lips and slinky dresses and no morals whatsoever. She used to work with Venetia at the new War Command Center in Litchfield Park, which is a gorgeous old manor house on the outskirts of Litchfield, complete with Georgian pillars and rolling gardens. It was requisitioned by the Government for the war a few months ago, and Lady Worthing is having to stay with her sister in Cheswick Castle, poor her. It’s now a terrifically important place, and since it’s only five miles from Chilbury, we’re on special alert in case the Nazis try to bomb it. Venetia has a clerical job there and thinks she plays a vital role when all she does is type notes and relay telephone messages to London.

  Last month Angela was moved from there to the real War Office in London, where she is almost certainly toying with every man available. Angela is without doubt the most accomplished flirt this side of the English Channel. Venetia’s distraught that Angela’s gone to London as she’s her best friend, and who else can she share her conquests with? I was hoping that Venetia might become a bit nicer without Angela’s evil presence, but she seems worse than ever.

  Our Czech Evacuee, Silvie

  Now I must tell you about Silvie, our ten-year-old Jewish evacuee. The Nazis have invaded her home in Czechoslovakia, but her parents managed to get her here before war broke out. Her family is supposed to follow her, when they can get away. Uncle Nicky, Mama’s youngest brother and my very favorite member of our family, was organizing the children’s evacuation and got us to take Silvie last summer before the war started.

  “We had to stop the evacuation because the borders closed, which is terribly sad for the children left behind,” he told us. “The Nazis run half of Eastern Europe now. It’s desperate over there. They’re thugs and arrest people if they don’t obey the rules. They can do what they want. Everyone’s petrified.”

  Daddy wasn’t happy about having Silvie at all. But then a few months later war was declared and hundreds of grotty London evacuees turned up wanting homes. Suddenly he was overjoyed we had lovely, clean, quiet Silvie and no space for anyone else. The Vicar and Mrs. Quail took in a dreadful woman with four squalling children who had lice and fleas and no table manners at all. The woman was forever arguing with Mrs. Quail, and then up and left back to London because the war didn’t seem to be happening. She didn’t even say thank you.

  I’ve yet to decide what Silvie’s color is. She doesn’t say much, or smile much either. We’ve been trying to make life a little jollier for her and helping her practice her English. And she told me she has a secret that she can’t tell a soul.

  “I am completely trustworthy,” I reassured her. But she refused to budge, her little lips tightly shut to warn me away.

  She arrived without even a suitcase, which had been lost on the way. There had been a difficult border crossing into Holland, and they had to hurry everyone through. It was a group of about a hundred, some of them as young as five or six—she said they cried for their mothers all the way, for three whole days. The loss of the cases was especially traumatic as they had their favorite toys, photographs from home, everything that was familiar. We gave Silvie a doll when she arrived, but she put it on a chair at the side of the room, her face to the wardrobe, as if it were a magical doorway to a better world.

  The New Music Tutor, Prim

  But I almost forgot. There’s some excellent news! A music tutor has moved into Chilbury. She came down from London to teach in Litchfield University. Her name is Miss Primrose Trent, but she told us to call her Prim, which is funny as she’s not prim at all but frightfully unkempt. With her frizz of graying hair and her sweeping black cloak, she looks more like a wizened witch with a stack of music under one arm. Her color is dark green, like a shadowy woodland walk on a midsummer’s night.

  Mrs. Tilling introduced me to her yesterday in the shop, and I felt bold enough to tell her my dreams of becoming a famous singer.

  “Practice, my dear!” she boomed, her dramatic voice causing the tins to rattle on the shelves. “You must have the courage of your convictions.” She swept her arm out gracefully as if on a grand stage. “I can give you extra lessons if you have time.”

  What an opportunity! “I’ll ask Mama to arrange one straightaway. You see, we’ve had some disastrous news. The Vicar has disbanded the village choir, so we’re stuck without any singing.”

  “Well, that’s no good, is it! To close down a choir. Especially at a time like this!”

  I’m hoping with every inch of me that she’ll persuade the Vicar to reopen the choir, although I can’t see what either of them can do. With no men around, what hope do we have? In the meantime, though, I have singing lessons to look forward to, as Mama agreed. That’ll propel me into the spotlight, I can tell by the way Prim’s eyes twinkled.

  CHILBURY MANOR,

  CHILBURY,

  KENT.

  Wednesday, 3rd April, 1940

  Dear Angela,

  The bet still stands! Mr. Slater is tiresomely resisting my advances. I’ve tried my best tricks, even knocking on his door and asking if he had any spare paint as I was attempting “a frightfully difficult landscape,” but he simply handed some paint over and politely waved me off. I’d spent all day getting ready, wearing my green silk dress, my hair curled to perfection. Perplexing, my dear. Perplexing isn’t the word!

  But you must stop proclaiming victory, as I’ll have him soon enough. He is truly captivating, Angie, and a romantic artist, too. I’ve always thought of them as bohemian willowy types, but he is more athletic, with the look of a gentleman fencer—en garde and all that. Beneath those crisp suits I can make out his muscular arms, thighs even. How I long to run my fingers over him. But Angie, it’s more than that. There’s something about him that makes me feel we’re meant to be together. The way he looks at me, as if he’s looking through me to a different person inside.

  I miss having you here, even though things are improving. Everyone is finally calming down after Edmund’s death, although Mama remains weepy and Daddy furious. I miss him, too, in my way, the antics we’d get up to. Funny how one forgets how beastly someone can be when they’re dead. I suppose the threat of him is gone.

  I’ve been rekindling my friendship with Hattie, even though she’s become as boring as boiled cabbage since she’s been pregnant. I went around for afternoon tea yesterday. She’d redecorated the baby’s room a ghastly green as that’s the only paint she could find. Her terraced house on Church Row is excruciatingly tiny. I don’t know how she can bear it.

  “But it’s next door to Miss Paltry, the midwife!” she exclaimed, inexplicable joy on her pretty face, her long dark hair especially unruly since she’s been pregnant. “Don’t you see how useful that is? Although Mrs. Tilling is to be my main attendant at the birth. She’s like family to me with my parents gone.”

  “And Mr. Slater lives on the other side of you. That’s infinitely more exciting.” I laughed, wondering if all this tedium was ruining my lipstick. I didn’t want to bump right into him without looking perfect.

  “How is your bet going?” she asked.

  “Not well. I confess I don’t know what to make of him.”

  “I know what you mean. I do wonder what he’s up to. I always see him going out, in his motorcar or on foot, with not so much as a paintbrush, and he doesn’t come home for hours.” Hattie’s always acting the sensible older one. She thinks being two years older makes her wiser. And now that she’s going to have a baby, she’s insufferable.

  “Maybe he’s really a movie star!” I laughed. “He certainly has the looks.”

  She didn’t laugh. “Maybe you’re better off chasing someone else.”

  I looked at her, in her dreadful maternity dress, the lonely quietness of the poky little house, but I knew she was tediously happy. I have to confess that a flash of envy crossed my mind. But don’t worry, I soon snapped out of it. Who wants Victor
Lovell, after all? Who wants to be pregnant when there’s so much excitement with this war? All the new things a girl can do. We’d never have got our clerical jobs with the War Office, and you would never have been sent to live in London by yourself. All the parties and freedom. I heard that Constance Worthing is even ferrying planes for the war effort.

  I suppose Hattie’s always been the sensible one, but she seems so annoyingly settled. I remember when we were young, the three of us in the Pixie Ring shouting, We are as strong as the snakes, as fierce as the wolves, and as free as the stars.

  “I’m still the same person as before,” she said suddenly, as if reading my mind—funny how she does that—and I knew she hadn’t changed at all.

  I thought about Hattie having a baby as I walked home. I’m not sure I’d like being a mother, but perhaps it isn’t as bad as all that.

  Silvie came into my room when I was home, her quiet little feet treading carefully to the dressing table. She scoured it for treasures, asking me what various items were. Sometimes I make up stories about them: a necklace from the deep, a lipstick lost by a princess.

  “Do you like Mr. Slater?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Kitty told me,” she said simply. “I hope he is kind. Like you.”

  I smiled and gave her a cuddle. I’ll have to make sure Kitty regrets telling my secrets, and doesn’t hear any more.

  Do write soon, Angie, as I heartily miss your mischief making. I do wish they’d send me to London with you, although now that I have Mr. Slater to tantalize me, perhaps not quite yet.

  Much love,

  Venetia

  3 CHURCH ROW,

  CHILBURY,

  KENT.

  Thursday, 4th April, 1940

  Dear Clara,

  The deal is done. We’ll be wealthy beyond our wildest dreams, dear sister. I went to meet the Brigadier, as arranged, in the deserted stone outhouse in the wood.

  He was already there, crossly getting out his silver pocket watch. “You’re late.”

  “Am I?” I smiled politely. “What a shame!”

  He snorted at the unmistakable irony in my voice. “Well? Do you think you can do it?”

  “Swap the babies, you mean?” I kept the smile off my face, although I still found it hilarious that he was suggesting just that. “Nip between the births and make both women believe they gave birth to a different baby?”

  “Yes, damn it, woman,” he shouted. “Or should I find someone else?”

  “I doubt you’ll find anyone as trustworthy.” Then I added with a little laugh, “Although Mrs. Tilling has midwife training, if you’d like to ask her?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” he bellowed. “Just answer me. Will you do it?”

  “Depends how much we’re talking.”

  He snorted like a disgruntled bull. “I’ll give you five thousand.”

  I stopped breathing for a split second. Five thousand pounds is a vast sum—ten times what I earn in a year. But I wasn’t willing to leave it there. The old rascal is worth far more than that. I’ve seen the finery, the crystal chandeliers, the crown sodding jewels.

  “I wouldn’t be able to work again, and I’d need to leave the village afterward,” I said, looking as sorrowful as I could. “I’d need twenty to give it a thought.”

  He was furious. “Eight thousand then. That should be plenty for a woman like you.”

  “A woman like me?” My face shot up to meet his gaze, and I raised an eyebrow. “A woman like me can kick up a good storm, you know?”

  “Are you threatening me?” he hissed. “If you are, I’ll deny it. They’ll never believe your word over mine.”

  “Don’t count on it, Brigadier,” I said. “The days of you toffs being in charge are long gone.”

  “I’ll get you strung up for something, you mark my words.”

  “Ten and I’ll do it,” I said resolutely. “Provided I get the money regardless if it works out or not.”

  “You’ll do exactly what I tell you, Miss Paltry, or you’ll never work here again. Do you hear me?” He came up close. “You’ll get your money when I get my boy.”

  “You give me the money beforehand, and if no boys are born, there ain’t a jot I can do about it. But if there is a boy”—I smiled with enticement—“I will make him yours.”

  He clenched his fists. He hadn’t been bargaining for this. Since arriving here five years ago I have been careful to build a reputation of even dealings, especially following my miscalculations in that village in Somerset. (You’ll remember how they hounded me out after I gave wart patients the wrong ointment that resulted in purple-colored nether regions. It caused three marriage breakups, a major punch-up, the disappearance of a young woman, and at least two angry men trying to hunt me down.) No, Clara. I’ve played my game carefully in Chilbury, hushed up my past, played by their rules.

  Now it’s time to reap the rewards.

  “All right, you’ll get ten thousand. But it’ll be half before and half after,” he roared. “And if Mrs. Winthrop gives birth to a boy, you’ll settle with half.” He looked me over, scowling. “How am I to trust a woman capable of doing such a business?”

  “Women are capable of many things, Brigadier. You just haven’t noticed it until now.” I gave a quick smile. “I will need the first half of the money, in cash, two weeks from today.”

  He blustered around the scrub, and I suddenly realized how much this deal meant to him. I should have taken him for fifty. He would have done it. He would have done virtually anything.

  “You’ll get your money,” he growled under his breath. “Come back here on that date at ten, and it’ll be ready.” He came toward me, his eyes scrunched up like Ebenezer Scrooge. “And mind you keep your mouth closed, or the deal’s off. Not a word to my wife either. She is not to know. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Brigadier.” I spoke quietly. “Loud and clear.”

  With that I turned and strode out into the wood, leaving him pacing around, cursing under his breath.

  Taking a deep breath of newly fresh air, I danced out of the bracken and onto the path. This will work, Clara. As a precaution, I have decided to get chummy with the nuisance Tilling woman. Keep my ear to the ground. This is big money, and my attention to detail is merciless. I’ll write closer with details, just as you said you wanted in your letter. I know you think I’ll mess it up like usual, but I won’t let you down this time. You’ll be rich before the spring is out, I swear.

  Edwina

  Wednesday, 17th April, 1940

  Prim’s notice in the church hall announcing a new “Ladies’ ” choir has caused uproar in our tiny community. Last night before the Women’s Voluntary Service meeting (or the WVS as we say these days), Mrs. B. told me she’d gone straight to the Vicar to find out the truth.

  “ ‘Have you allowed this woman—this newcomer—to take over the choir and debase it beyond recognition?’ I demanded of him, and do you know what he said? The Vicar, who is supposed to be a Man of God, told me, ‘Well, she was awfully forceful and I really couldn’t object.’ I didn’t know what to say!”

  “Gosh,” I said. I was rather excited about the whole adventure. At least we’d be singing again. I’d missed it. “I know it’s unusual, but why don’t we go along and see what Prim has to say. There’s no harm in it, after all.”

  “No harm in it?” she bellowed back at me. “No harm in ruining the reputation of our village? I can’t imagine what Lady Worthing will have to say to me about it. She’s such a stickler for doing things the way they’ve always been done.”

  A few of the other WVS ladies joined in, the Sewing Ladies tutting about it over their troops’ pajamas, the canteen ladies unsure how it would work. So you can imagine my curiosity as I peeked into the church this evening, nipping in out of the rain.

  I was one of the first to arrive, and the place looked enchanted, the candles at the altar throwing dark shadows around the nave. One by one the ladies began to arr
ive: Mrs. Gibbs from the shop, Mrs. B., Mrs. Quail at the organ, and even Hattie, who’s heavily pregnant now but said she wouldn’t miss it for the world. Miss Paltry made an appearance—it seems she is turning a new leaf, even speaking to me at the end about becoming involved in the WVS. Kitty and Mrs. Winthrop bounded in enthusiastically, bringing their evacuee, Silvie, who for once was almost smiling. Venetia strolled in, perfectly dressed in case she bumps into Mr. Slater. She’s become astoundingly unpleasant. But maybe there’s hope for her now that Angela Quail’s out of proximity.

  By seven the place was packed, in spite of the downpour, and a buzz of chatter and anticipation filled the chilly air; even Our Lady of Grace seemed to look down in readiness. Meanwhile, a firm contingent of naysayers clucked like a bunch of unhappy hens in front of the altos’ pew, urged on by Mrs. B.

  Suddenly, the massive double doors flung open, and Prim, majestic in her black, sweeping cloak, swooshed down the aisle toward us, her footsteps cascading through the wooden awnings, scaring a few bats in the belfry. She swirled off her cloak and shook off the rain, her hair looking especially frazzled. With a look of pomp and ceremony in her eyes, she plumped a pile of music on a chair and pranced theatrically up the steps to the pulpit.

  “May I have everyone’s attention, please,” she called, her pronunciation resounding richly through the cloisters. “I’m proud to announce the creation of the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.”

  From one half of the crowd, a round of applause burst forth. I felt a warm glow inside me. This might become a reality.

  But on the other side, Mrs. B., hands on hips, stood defiant, guarding her territory and supporters with a firm, unyielding presence.