Prim continued, her bright gray eyes bulging with purpose. “I know that everyone’s been feeling downcast at the choir’s demise, which is why,” she announced jubilantly with a flourish of her baton, “I proposed to the Vicar that the village’s dear choir should become a women’s-only choir.”
“And how exactly did you do that?” Mrs. B. asked in her usual condescending way.
“I explained that now that there’s a war going on, we’re far more in need of a choir than ever before. We need to be able to come together and sing, to make wonderful music and help ourselves through this dreadful time.” She paused, turning toward a tall candle beside her so that its flickers reflected thoughtfully in her eyes. “Some of us remember the last war, the endless suffering and death it caused. It is time for us women to do what we can as a group to support each other and keep our spirits up. Just because there are no men, it doesn’t mean we can’t do it by ourselves.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. B. stepped forward, her pompous form bristling up to the pulpit. She was dressed in her usual tweed shooting jacket and skirt, puffing out her chest in what her friends and neighbors know to be her fighting stance. “What will we do without the basses and tenors?”
“We will sing arrangements for female voices, or I will rearrange them for us. We don’t need the men! We are a complete choir all by ourselves!”
“In any case,” Mrs. Quail laughed from the organ, “the only bass we had was old Mr. Dawkins. And he hasn’t been singing in tune for at least two years.”
A few titters came from younger members, but Mrs. B. was not disheartened, looking around for her supporters to speak up.
“What will God think?” one of the Sewing Ladies piped up. “He couldn’t have intended women to sing on their own. Just think of the Hallelujah Chorus—where would that be without men?”
“There are plenty of male-only choirs, aren’t there?” Prim chuckled. “Think of the great choirs of Cambridge, not to mention St. Paul’s Cathedral. I can’t imagine any God would dislike a spot of singing.”
“But it goes against the natural order of things,” Mrs. B. said.
I felt like clearing my throat and telling her that she was wrong, and before I knew it, I was saying out loud, “Maybe we’ve been told that women can’t do things so many times that we’ve actually started to believe it. In any case, the natural order of things has been temporarily changed because there are no men around.” I glanced around for inspiration. “Mrs. Gibbs makes her own milk deliveries now, and Mrs. Quail has taken on the role of bus driver, like a lot of us taking on new jobs. The war’s mixed everything else up. Why shouldn’t it change the choir, too?”
A few claps went round, as well as one or two cheers of “Hear, hear!” and “That’s the spirit!” I still couldn’t believe I’d stood up and spoken, and to Mrs. B. as well, who was watching me in a highly disapproving way.
“Indeed, Mrs. Tilling?” Mrs. B. snipped. “I don’t know which part of that address shocks me the most! The notion of having to lower our moral standards because of the war, or the fact that you, my dear, seem to have joined the fray.” She turned to the group, clustered on the altar between the two choir stalls. “We will end this once and for all with a show of hands. Whoever agrees with this preposterous notion, please raise your hand.”
Now, Mrs. B. is not a spirited loser. Even as she counted and recounted the hands that went up, an indignant frown took form. She glowered at us as if we were somehow beyond reproach. “Don’t think this won’t have its consequences. I’ll be watching. Carefully.” And with that she huffed off, making a great show of it, and then, not being able to quite leave, plonked herself down in the last pew. She obviously felt she could guilt us into changing our minds, but as the voices around me grew, I knew she had no such chance.
“What a jolly idea,” Hattie said. “I can’t think why we didn’t come up with it before.”
“Yes, and such a splendid name, too,” Venetia declared. “The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It has a ring about it.”
I hadn’t thought of it before, but now I found myself wondering why we’d been closed down in the first place, why the Vicar had so much say over us. And, more to the point, why we’d simply let him do it.
Prim passed around some copies of “Be Thou My Vision.” “Let’s get ourselves organized. Stand in your usual places in the choir stalls, or wherever you’d like to be, and try to sing along with your part.”
We muddled around, and Mrs. B. huffed into the altos beside me. “I need to be here to see what a mess she’s going to make of the whole thing.”
“It’ll be just fine,” I said, but I was holding my breath, praying that we’d do well. I didn’t want it to fall through right from the start, for Prim to be disheartened by our terrible voices. We needed to show her that this could work.
With a look of confidence on her face, Prim lifted her baton, looked to Mrs. Quail to begin the introduction, and then brought us in. The sound of our voices filling the space, echoing through the little stone church, brought a burst of joy inside of me: the thrill of singing as a group again, the soft music of intertwining voices, for once staying in tune. I wondered if everyone was putting in a little more effort. Trying to make this work.
“That was wonderful,” Prim gushed when the final tapering of the last notes ebbed away into the still air. “We’ve got some talented singers here!”
We all smiled and hoped she was talking about us. Even Mrs. B.’s little group seemed to come under the spell of the music, forgetting the objections.
Mrs. B., however, wasn’t ready to give up the fight. “I’ll have to speak to the Vicar about this,” she announced, and flounced down the altar and out of the double doors. I’ll hear soon enough how that goes.
Afterward, I wandered home in a trance, trapped between the euphoria of song and the pinpricks of fear reminding me that David is leaving soon. The Nazis invaded Norway last week, and we’re sending a force to try to push them out. I hope they don’t send David there.
Slowly, softly, I began to sing to myself “Be Thou My Vision.” Everything was black in the moonless night, the blackout rules forcing all the light out of the world. But with a cautious smile, I realized that there are no laws against singing, and I found my voice becoming louder, in defiance of this war.
In defiance of my right to be heard.
Thursday, 18th April, 1940
What a breathtaking day! My first singing lesson with the superb and masterful Prim took place at her house on Church Row at five o’clock. I have never been more excited, and arrived a whole ten minutes early, waiting for her to get back from the university.
Prim arrived on her bicycle, her cloaked body balancing precariously on the narrow frame. “You’re here early,” she chortled. “I always say that enthusiasm paves every path with a shining light.” She climbed off and leaned the bicycle against the front of the house. “Come in, and we’ll make some tea before we start.”
The small house was exactly the same size and shape as Hattie’s, except it was completely filled with extraordinary things and smelled as musty as an antique shop. In the corner, a gold elephant stood on his hind legs. On the wall above were paintings of distant mountain peaks, and the burnt oranges and reds of a desert sunset. A small table was crammed with decorated boxes of different shapes and sizes, covered with shells or brightly colored silks—peacock blue, emerald green, cerise.
“Open one,” she said, as she watched my eyes flitting over everything.
I picked up an emerald one with gold-colored cord. There was a small latch that opened it, and inside the black velvet interior was a tiny silver ring, a child’s, with a St. Christopher motif on the front.
“Was this yours?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” she laughed. “It was given to me when I was a child. It came from India, where I grew up. India has always been my favorite place—the colors, the noise, the vibrancy, the people.” She pointed to a picture of a beautifu
l white temple on the wall beside her. “We lived close to this majestic edifice, the Taj Mahal. It’s a mausoleum built by an emperor for his wife, who died in childbirth. He visited here every day, it is said, to grieve.”
“Can you imagine loving someone so much that you create such a wonderful building?”
“Well,” she said. “It depends how rich and powerful one happens to be, I expect. Most people wouldn’t be able to afford it. But that doesn’t make one’s love any less. We can show our grief in simpler ways. Is not the beauty and power of funeral song just as great as such a palace?”
I nodded, peering into the living room that was beaming with the brightness of antiquities. “Do all of these things come from India?”
“Not at all. I traveled across Asia. There’s a mesmerizing world out there, where people live in all kinds of different ways.” She led the way into the room so that I could see. Gold gleamed from every corner: gold urns, gold statues, gold silk drapes around the windows, tiny gold miniatures as small as my thumb—an elephant, an old woman, a falcon.
“Other cultures are rather odd, don’t you think?” I said.
“No, quite the contrary. Other cultures often make me think that we’re the strange ones.” She chuckled to herself, then headed for the kitchen. “Let’s make some tea.”
As the kettle boiled, I looked around. A series of old decorated jugs sat on the windowsill, and bunches of dried herbs lined the far wall, giving off scents of rosemary, thyme, and lavender. A waist-high seagull watched us from the corner.
“Oh that’s Earnest, made of papier-mâché,” she chirped. “He was one of the props for a play we put on in London years ago. He’s always here in the morning, looking hungry.”
I laughed and gave him a pat on the head.
Around the sink were a number of bottles full of liquids and powders and potions, and I leaped back. Was Prim a witch?
She saw me stare, and smiled. “Those are my medicines,” she said. “I once was very ill indeed, and I need the medicine to prevent me from getting ill again.”
I stood back, looking at her. She looked pretty normal—well, normal in a kind of witchy way. “It’s not catching, is it?”
“No, I caught it from a nasty mosquito in India, but we don’t have mosquitoes here.” She rearranged the bottles, then made the tea. “The disease is called malaria.”
“Were you terribly ill?”
“It was almost the end of me. I was about the same age as your sister, my whole life ahead of me, with plenty of music and laughter, and romance, too. There was a boy whom I was to marry.” She smiled at the distant memory of him. “He was the most beautiful creature, a butterfly collector, brilliantly clever.”
“Why didn’t you marry him?”
“He died,” she said simply. “He contracted malaria at the same time as me, and didn’t make it. We’d grown up as neighbors and then fell in love. We became ill at the same time. But the malaria ran its course and passed out of me. I was alive.”
“But brokenhearted!”
“Exactly, and ever since then I’ve felt destined to live a double life for both me and my butterfly collector, alone yet not.” She found a floral porcelain sugar bowl and milk jug. “It taught me that you have to live your own life. Don’t let anyone hold you back.”
I found myself blurting out, “I want to be a singer, but Daddy insists that I can’t. He wants me to make a good marriage, to be a good wife. But Mama tells me to take care when choosing a husband, or my life will be a misery.”
“You need to make your own path,” she said, leading the way into the back room. “Decide what you want to do, and then all you have to do is work out how to achieve it.”
The room was full of musical instruments. There was a huge harp, an upright piano, a harpsichord, a stand with a clarinet, and a silver piccolo lying across the table like a fairy had just flown off after doing a spot of practice.
Prim perched the tray on a tiny round table and pulled over the piano seat, gesturing for me to sit on the harpsichord chair.
“Is that why you never married? Do you still love the butterfly collector?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled, pouring out the tea. “Sometimes we do things without fully understanding. You shouldn’t try to know everything, Kitty. Often it’s beyond our comprehension.” She put the teapot back on the tray. “Now before we start, I want you to sing me a note, as clearly as you can.”
I sang a long, high “laaaa.”
“Beautiful,” she said, picking up the cup and saucer again and handing it over to me. “Did you think about that too much before singing?”
“No,” I said, sipping the hot tea.
“Sometimes the magic of life is beyond thought. It’s the sparkle of intuition, of bringing your own personal energy into your music.”
“But don’t I need to worry about singing the right words to the right notes?”
“The most important part of singing is the feeling.” She leaned forward. “Remember, Kitty. I have faith in you.”
That afternoon we sang “Ave verum corpus” by Mozart, my favorite composer. I sang better and stronger than I ever have before.
“There is a tragic tale about Mozart,” she told me. “He wrote his Requiem, one of the saddest funereal pieces ever written, as he himself was dying, telling his wife, ‘I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.’ On the eve of his death, he and some friends sang it together, and it was at the most poignant song of his Requiem, the ‘Lacrimosa,’ that he let the papers drop and began to weep for his very own death. He died in the early morning. Can you imagine writing your own death music?”
I gasped. “That’s dreadful. Do you think the music made him die?”
“Perhaps it was that he knew deep down inside that he was dying, and put that fear into the music.” She looked back at the “Ave verum corpus.” “Why don’t you try this again, just like before, only this time, think about Mozart writing for his own death. Put your heart into it.”
She began the introduction, and I felt the sound of my voice come from deep inside, and I found myself thinking of the fear you must feel before you die.
A strange elation came over me when I’d finished, like I was a pure white dove’s feather being whooshed up into the air by the lightness of the breeze. And later, as I wandered home, I drew a deep breath of the crisp spring air, and I felt suddenly jubilant to be alive.
3 CHURCH ROW,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Friday, 19th April, 1940
Dear Clara,
A large pile of crisp hundred-pound notes is now hidden in a secret hole under my floorboards, wrapped in an old envelope and done up neatly with a piece of string knotted twice. In less than a month, the deed will be done, the money will be double, and we can away, you and I, to our new life in Birnham Wood.
Yesterday I met the Brigadier for the exchange, the bundle of money gripped firmly in his sinewy fingers, the tight old git. To say he was reluctant to hand it over would be putting it mild. But I finally wrenched it away and fled, the money safe in my hands.
That was the easy part.
Now I have to deliver the boy.
You see, much to my infuriation, Mrs. Dawkins from the farm gave birth last Friday. I wanted to push its scrawny head back in, but then I saw that it was a girl, so it wouldn’t have been any good anyway.
Now my hopes are pinned on goody-two-shoes Hattie. She’s due a week after Mrs. Winthrop, so at least I won’t have any issues with early births. Problem is the Tilling woman’s hovering around like a bleeding fairy godmother. Now she’s gone and promised to be midwife at the birth, even though I tried to talk Hattie out of it. I mean, who would take a misery like Mrs. Tilling instead of an experienced, well-equipped professional like myself? But she was adamant, whining that Mrs. Tilling was the closest to family that she has in a pathetically sentimental way. God damn the girl!
Unspeakable as it was, I decided to befriend the nauseating Tilling w
oman. I had to persuade her out of it, or find out when she’d be out of town. If all else fails, I could give her a major injury, push her down some stairs or collide into her with my bicycle. I hadn’t wanted to go that route, frankly. There’s a fine line between a broken arm and manslaughter, after all.
As a first effort, I joined the new choir to cozy up next to her, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked in and spotted a place right beside her.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Paltry,” she said snootily, shuffling over. “It’s not often we see you in church.”
“I always come on Sundays,” I smiled warmly, although I bet she’s the type to count and see who’s absent.
There was a lot of kerfuffle about starting a women’s choir, which was patently ridiculous. Of course women can sing without men. I do it every week in the bath.
Then we sang some rather dreary hymns, and after practice was over, I saw my chance.
“I feel it my duty, Mrs. Tilling, to lighten your load and take over Hattie’s birth,” I began. “I live next door to her, after all, and you’re so incredibly busy these days. I have all the equipment and medicines at my house should anything happen. I even have a mechanical ventilator,” I lied.
“What? In your own home?” Mrs. Tilling frowned with disbelief. “Did the hospital lend it out to you?”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said quick as a fox, hoping she wouldn’t check. “You’d be surprised how often I need it to get the baby breathing proper. First-time pregnancies can be hazardous, you know.”
“But you’re busy, too, and Hattie’s made her mind up to have me there.”
“I may be busy, but duty first!” I bounced back. “I feel a responsibility, deep down inside.” I thrust a fist up against my heart at this point, looking all patriotic. “And if anything should happen, I’d feel tormented for the rest of my days.” I tried to push out a few tears at this point, but there’s only so much you can do.
“Quite,” Mrs. Tilling said, stepping back, a look of distaste on her lips. I sensed that she smelled something fishy. I must have overdone the theatrics. So I quickly changed tack.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 4