The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  Heavy rain began, spattering the roof and engulfing us, as if we were all sheltering under the same umbrella. A clap of thunder echoed around the vaulted ceilings, and we huddled together, more in fear than anything else, while the other choirs trooped up to the front to perform.

  All about our competitors

  1. The small Riseholme Choir—sang a very nice “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”

  2. The huge Litchfield Choir—incredibly good, and we agreed they were going to win (followed by more suggestions that we should back out)

  3. The Belton Choir—not so good, which perked us up, thinking we might not be last

  Next was us. My heart was clattering like castanets as the Bishop announced us. A series of murmurs echoed around the church, people questioning whether they’d heard right, no doubt.

  “Did he say, the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir?” I heard someone behind us say with astonishment. We looked to Prim with anguish, but she was standing ready to file out to the aisle, beckoning us to follow suit.

  We sat terrified, glued to our seats like a huddle of wild rabbits in hunting season.

  But then, suddenly, a deafening crack of thunder came. The congregation stopped in unison and looked to the ceiling, as the lights blinkered, then blinkered again, and died. We were plunged into darkness, the kind of blackness that makes you feel like you haven’t got your eyes open when you know you have.

  Everyone began frantically whispering.

  “At least we can go home now,” Mrs. B. sniffed. “Escape this dreadful ordeal.”

  Then came the nasal voice of the Bishop. “Don’t worry, everyone. Just stay where you are, and we’ll get some candles.” The whispers grew until, from behind us, a glimmer of light came from the vestry as a single candle was carried to the altar. It was a girl, maybe about ten years old, holding her hand around it to stop it from flickering as she moved slowly forward. Another girl came up behind her, a few years older, and then a woman, and then more people, each holding a lit candle, coming up the aisle, and dividing at the altar to place their candle in a new dark corner. After a few minutes, candles of different lengths and shapes had been placed around the massive ancient interior, some in candlesticks of silver and gold, others long pillars of angelic white. Soon the scent of the hundreds of glowing wicks wafted around, the shifting shadows bringing the ancient statues to flickering life.

  “Will we still be able to sing?” I whispered. “What about the organ? It’s not going to work now we don’t have electricity.”

  “We’ll do it without,” Prim said jauntily, as if it were a bit of a lark and not a colossal disaster.

  “How will we know the right note to start?” I was panicking. We were barely ready to sing, let alone this!

  “I shall hum the first note for the altos as they come in first, and I’m afraid the sopranos are going to have to use that note to find their own. Kitty, we will have to rely on your keen skills.” She grinned at me, and I was at once elated and terrified.

  We got up quietly, the hammering of the rain drowning our chairs and feet as we worked our way to the front and took our places on the altar step. There was a slight rustle of papers as we found our music, hands shaking with nerves. Prim was holding her baton aloft, her eyes large and bright as she caught each of ours ready to begin. In the silence, we heard her hum a single note, flowing through the candlelight like a small, silver dart. I saw her catch Mrs. Tilling’s eye and nod—if Mrs. Tilling had the note, we knew the altos would be all right. Prim lifted her baton, eyes closed as if in prayer, and as she brought her arms down, Mrs. Tilling’s clear held note rang out through the church, surrounding the mass with glowing warmth. The other altos joined in for a wonderful full sound.

  I was petrified. The sopranos would be counting on me to guide us in. I thought I had the note—knew I had the note—but did I have the confidence to sing it out? What if I just opened my mouth and nothing happened?

  But the moment had arrived. Prim’s eyes narrowed on me. She raised her arms and then brought them down, both baton and forefinger pointing at me, and I heard our first note carrying through the flickering candlelight like pure-cut crystal. Someone else must have got it, I thought, until I realized that it was my own voice I was hearing. I looked over at Prim, praying I’d got it right. But she had her eyes closed, a smile of serene contentment on her face. The sound swelled as the other voices joined mine. I had done it! Me, Kitty Winthrop. I’d saved the choir. A surge of exhilaration gushed through me, knowing that Prim had recognized my talent, had faith in me. I had carried the choir through and made them proud of me.

  The solitary beauty of our unaccompanied voices soared up in the desolate, dim church, weaving in and out, climbing higher and more passionately until the breathtaking climax. It was magnificent, angelic, even I could tell.

  My solo was up first, and I felt my throat dry to nothing as the chorus came to an end, marking the place where I came in. Prim’s eyes were on me, her baton poised, and then I opened my mouth for the first note to ring out. “Ave Maria.” I slowed slightly—my nerves were getting to me—but the top notes were firm, clear, crisp, lingering as all eyes were on me, and then I continued, as the notes swept down, and I suddenly felt an elation, as if the piece of music belonged to me, and I sang as if it were part of me, from some new reserve deep inside.

  I came to the end, allowing the final note to slowly ebb away, catching Prim’s eyes, her nod, and I knew that it was the best performance I could have given. The best I have ever sung.

  The chorus resounded beautifully around me, and we began looking at Mrs. Tilling as it was her solo next. She had been incredibly nervous beforehand, repeating that she didn’t want to let us down.

  “But you won’t,” said Prim. “You have to trust your voice.”

  The chorus drew to an end, and I watched Prim look at her, lift her baton, and bring it down. Mrs. Tilling’s voice was superb, the mellowness deep and rich like a late summer’s night. She paused slightly before the high note, making it even more poignant, even more beautiful, and after that the notes seemed to flow like gold from her, straight from her heart.

  The rest of the choir joined in for the final chorus, the wonderful fullness of sound surrounding us again. Then came the calming lull of the slowly undulating final notes, dissipating into the eerie darkness.

  There was a pause through the cathedral, only the drumming of the rain echoing through the apse.

  Then the applause started, growing to a hearty surge, and I found a tear coming down my face. We had made it! I had made it!

  Prim beamed a look of gratitude at me as we went back to our seats, and inside I rejoiced. I didn’t care if we won or lost. I had saved the day, as had Mrs. Tilling.

  The nasal Bishop came to the front again. “I’m afraid that refreshments have to be canceled because of our diminishing candle supplies. So please could everyone keep their seats for a few minutes, and hopefully we can give you the results shortly.”

  Everyone began whispering, except for Mrs. B., who loudly proclaimed that Mrs. Gibbs had sung off key for the entire performance and that, should we lose, we’d know where the blame should be placed.

  “Either that or we’ll be eliminated for not having men,” she sniffed.

  “We have nothing to worry about,” Prim smiled, and I suddenly began to doubt if she really knew the countryside, how attached everyone is to tradition around here. There’s something called conventional wisdom, which means we have to carry on doing things the same way, even when it doesn’t make sense. That’s what the countryside’s about. Litchfield especially.

  A minute later, the nasal Bishop returned to the front, this time with the Mayor beside him to announce the winner. The Mayor began to give another speech, and then, thankfully, the Bishop leaned over and had a word in his ear, which was probably “Get on with it,” and he started to announce the runner-up.

  “Litchfield,” he announced, as the choirmaster tottered up and received the certific
ate. That would mean, we thought, that the winners would be Riseholme, as surely no one would vote for Belton.

  “And the winner, who will represent the Litchfield area in St. Paul’s Cathedral in the finals”—he rustled some papers annoyingly—“is the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.”

  We leaped out of our seats.

  Mrs. Quail gasped, “What did he say?”

  Mrs. Tilling sputtered, “We weren’t eliminated?”

  Mrs. Gibbs said, “Was that really us?”

  Then Mrs. B. pushed her way through to the aisle. “Pull yourselves together. Of course we won. What were you expecting?”

  We followed her up the aisle, where she was busy pumping the Bishop’s hand as if she were solely responsible for the entire thing. I looked around for Prim, and serene as ever, she was floating up the aisle after us, her long cloak flowing behind her like a great protective owl.

  After we took a bow, we got together for photographs. Of course Venetia made sure she was center stage, hair perfect, which was funny as she was standing beside Mrs. Gibbs, who looked like an unhinged hen, with coats and scarves at all angles and hair like a bird’s nest.

  There were some photographers there from the Kent Times and even a national paper—they’re grabbing any happy stories they can these days.

  We filed over to shake hands with the judges, who were sitting at a fold-up table at the front. First was the Mayor and beside him Mrs. Mandelson, who is the rather severe Litchfield WVS leader. Then there was pompous Lady Worthing, who stood proffering her white-gloved hand as if we were diseased. Mrs. B. was doing her hideous false laugh at something she said, and we grimaced with embarrassment.

  The final judge was the Head of Litchfield Park, a giant of a man who looked untidy even though he was in uniform. Mrs. Tilling whispered to Mrs. Quail that he’s the man billeted at her house.

  “I didn’t realize he was the Head of Litchfield Park,” she muttered, irritated. “What a strange choice!”

  I wondered why she was being such a sourpuss, but then I saw that he, too, frosted over as she pushed her hand out to shake his.

  “Well done, Mrs. Tilling,” he said noncommittally.

  She flustered, embarrassed. “I didn’t realize you were among the judges. I really don’t know what—”

  “Thank you for voting for us!” I said quickly, as it was a bit mean to question his judging ability when we’d just won.

  He smiled warmly at me. “It was an easy choice, especially with your solo performances.” Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  Mrs. Tilling tried to ignore him, making a small hmph sound before turning to me and saying in a very forced way, “Come on, Kitty. And you, Silvie. We need to find Prim.” And making a bolt for the vestry.

  The rest of the evening was a blur of congratulations, with cheers and patting on backs, and the other choirs pretending they were pleased for us. A journalist asked us how we felt being a women’s-only choir.

  “We’re starting a new trend,” Venetia declared, preening before him. “We’re all the rage, didn’t you know?”

  The man stood gawping at her until Mrs. B. barged in, saying, “We always believed we would win. Men or no men.” And we all nodded and smiled.

  After a while, the crowds began to dwindle, and the Bishop had to shoo us out, so we made our jolly way back to the bus and set off jubilantly for Chilbury, singing all the way. But we didn’t sing “Ave Maria.” No, we sang old music hall songs, including my new favorite, “Can’t Get Away to Marry You Today, My Wife Won’t Let Me!”

  IVY HOUSE,

  LITCHFIELD ROAD,

  CHILBURY,

  KENT.

  Monday, 20th May, 1940

  Dear Maud,

  Apologies for my lack of contact, but I have been caught up with the recent events in Belgium and northern France. This letter comes to you from my new billet in Chilbury—have you been here on your travels? Please tell the girls to write to me here as letters to the MOD always get diverted via London. Do encourage them to write; frankly their letters are the only things that keep me going in this dreadful war. Once again, many thanks for looking after the three of them—I do hope they’re behaving themselves. I know that Vera would be happy knowing they are with you, God rest her soul. I can’t believe it is five years on Wednesday that she died. I can still hardly get used to the fact that she has gone.

  I’ll be here for the summer, I’d imagine, probably beyond. The woman who owns the house, a Mrs. Tilling, is a nurse who seems to disapprove of everything and everyone, and especially me. She’s a stick of a woman with a never-ending supply of dull gray housecoats. Hardly speaks a word, except to give me polite orders, and has been particularly bad-tempered since I asked if I could have dinner at home, demanding my ration book and crashing pots around the kitchen in annoyance.

  “I’d like it, Colonel Mallard,” she said crisply to me last night, “if you could let me know at what time you will be home for dinner.” I had only been an hour late the previous night.

  Similarly, one evening I decided to move the small chest of drawers as it makes much better space if it goes in the nook beside the wardrobe. The next day it had been returned to its usual position, and I decided not to attempt any further furniture rearrangements.

  But then on Saturday I was forced into being a judge for a choir competition, and would you believe it, she sang a solo, and it was so wonderful and expressive. It was as if she was a different person. I can’t make head or tail of her.

  Most evenings when I come in, she disappears completely. I hear a door slam upstairs or see the curtain swing in the front room window as I approach. It would be nice to have some company, but I usually end up trudging upstairs to be by myself. Her son has just left for France, and she is openly resentful that I am staying in his room. There’s not much to be resentful about, if you ask me: a small, lumpy bed and a picture of the solar system on the wall—we are a tiny, self-destructive dot in a mass of gray blackness.

  Enough for now. I’ll write to the girls Wednesday, after I’ve been to the church to say a prayer for Vera. I hope she’s watching down on us, keeping us safe.

  Much love,

  Anthony

  Saturday, 25th May, 1940

  The Eventful Picnic

  Since it was such a heavenly morning, I decided that Silvie and I deserved a treat after our choir competition victory. I felt an urge to pretend—at least for one day—that the war wasn’t happening. So I flung open my bedroom window to feel the warm yellow sunlight on my face, smelling that fresh piney scent of a sumptuous spring morning. It was so utterly perfect that I decided to dedicate the day to a search for lost time, and to recapture some of my childhood.

  On days like these before the war, we used to get dressed up and go on picnics with the Tillings or the Brampton-Boyds, the girls in summer frocks, the boys in smart suits. Proggett would get Cook, who has now left to make tanks in Tonbridge, to prepare a picnic luncheon packed with pies and cherries and madeleines. Mmm, the smell of those delicious buttery cakes always takes me back to waiting eagerly in the kitchen before tasting the first warm bite of the fresh cakes as they come off the cooling racks. Today we had to make do with Elsie putting some jam sandwiches together in a terrifically offhand manner, asking all kinds of questions about Henry.

  Questions Elsie wanted to know about Henry

  What’s his favorite food? Roast pheasant, of course, and spotted dick pudding

  What’s his favorite sport? Shooting, fox hunting, and cricket

  Does he like Venetia? No, of course not

  Does he have a girlfriend at his base in Hampshire? No, of course not

  What’s his favorite color? Azure blue

  What does he like to do for fun? Picnics, parties, and he’s rather good at croquet

  I think she was trying to help me win him over, although she wasn’t being terribly useful. Silvie nudged me, whispering that I shouldn’t tell her anything, although I have no idea why. Sometimes Silvie
seems to completely misunderstand what’s going on.

  After we’d sorted out the sandwiches, Silvie and I had the important task of choosing our dresses. I took Silvie to my room and found one of my old ones for her, the white one with tiny turquoise flowers, the one that I wore the time Henry proposed to me. It brought back the flood of memories—boating on the lake, Venetia storming off up the banks, Henry stumbling after her and landing me in the bracken, getting my dress muddy, him promising to love me forever if I forgave him, and then roaming the countryside with him, calling Venetia’s name until we found her on top of a hill sulking beneath a sprawling oak tree. She refused to speak to Henry and would only come back to the picnic with me, gloomily trudging back as I skipped for joy, thrilled that my future had been mapped out to perfection.

  In the spirit of remembering, I decided that I should wear Venetia’s sky-blue dress, as that was the one she was wearing that day, and I stole into her room to borrow it. Although it was a little large, it was perfect.

  Silvie and I sneaked into Mama’s dressing room to peer at ourselves in her big mahogany mirror. We looked impeccable. The sky-blue dress was just the thing for a picnic, and Silvie looked lovely, too, in the white frock. She’s a pretty girl, with her unruly dark curls always plastered behind her ears, although she hardly says a word. We used to think she was quiet because her English wasn’t very good, but now we know that her English isn’t bad at all—except when she misunderstands things, like the whole Henry situation. So when she doesn’t talk it’s simply because she doesn’t want to. I sometimes ask her about her secret, but she looks very alarmed and stops speaking immediately.