Luckily David Tilling came home all right, although exhausted and starved. Mrs. Tilling was incredibly relieved and kept him in bed for two days to recover. Fortunately, the Colonel gave up his room and has taken a hotel room in Litchfield, or I think we’d have had a war right here in Chilbury.
Ralph Gibbs from the shop came back in a bit of a state, with his shoulder dislocated and some broken ribs. He is prone to fighting, and we can’t help wondering if his injuries were from the enemy or from trouble in the ranks. He gets to stay at home for now, while David Tilling has to go back again in a few weeks, probably heading to North Africa. And very unhappy he is, too, mooching around trying to woo Venetia, who is far too busy with Mr. Slater to even notice him.
Henry is a hero at last, and bound to get a medal, Mrs. B. says. He downed three Nazi planes over Dunkirk! I was hoping he’d have leave, too, but they’re busy helping poor France, who are being overrun.
Sadly, the son of Mrs. Poultice, one of the Sewing Ladies, didn’t make it. He was in a small boat that was bombed by a Nazi plane. Another boat dragged him out of the water, but he was too injured and died before they reached Dover. She hasn’t spoken a word since, just slowly sews. We managed to convince her to join the choir, which might help a little.
Mr. Churchill says we’re not giving in!
Daddy’s glad that Mr. Churchill became Prime Minister, even though a lot of people say he’s wrong. They want to make a settlement with the Nazis rather than fight, as frankly our chances don’t look terribly good.
“They’re cowards!” Daddy roared. “It’s more honorable to go down fighting than to give in. We can’t just let them walk all over us.”
Mr. Churchill says this war is going to be fought in the air, and we’ve been asked to give our pots and pans to the Government so that they can be melted down and made into bombers. I found eleven in our kitchen, which surely must amount to a wing at least.
Invasion
If we don’t give in, we’re the next ones after France to be invaded. Since Chilbury is only seven miles from the coast, there’s a chance we’ll be overrun by Nazi troops before we’ve even heard about it. We’ll be woken in the middle of the night by the sound of tanks crashing down our doors.
What will happen if we get taken over by the Nazis
We’ll all starve as they’ll take our food to give to Nazi soldiers
They’ll take anyone left who can fight and send them to the front line, or get shot
They’ll force the rest of us into factories, even children like me
We’ll have to have Nazi soldiers staying at our houses, or shoving us onto the street so they can live there
We won’t be able to go anywhere except by walking or bicycle as they’ll take our motorcars and we won’t be able to get on trains
They’ll imprison or shoot anyone who doesn’t do what they say
They’ll imprison or shoot anyone they don’t like
People have started moving away. The Dunns have gone to Wales, as Lizzie is deaf and Hitler doesn’t like children like that. The synagogue where we take Silvie is looking rather empty as many Jewish people are moving away from the coast, even though the synagogue is determined to stay open for the Jewish people in the troops. We’re petrified about Silvie, of course. Mama wanted us to go and stay with a cousin in Scotland, but Daddy refused.
“I have complete confidence that we’ll always remain British, even if those Nazis try anything silly.” He looked all gruff and proud, thwacking his horsewhip against the unsuspecting leg of an armchair, and I felt at once glad to be part of such a fearless national spirit and frightened to death that it’s no help at all when you have half a dozen Nazi guns pointing at you.
Everyone’s going mad accusing people of being spies. They’ve rounded up all the Germans and Italians and sent them to camps on the Isle of Man, even Mama’s frightfully nice bridge partner, Mrs. Barone. I can’t imagine her in a camp at all—where would she store all her fur coats and fancy hats? We’ve been told to look out for spies among us, keep an eye on our neighbors and turn in anyone doing anything suspicious. I considered telling someone about Proggett, as he’s forever sneaking around—I even found him in Daddy’s study last week, leafing through a few papers, telling me he was trying to locate a lost cuff link—but Daddy would beat me if they carted off Proggett. He’s got to be the last available butler this side of London.
We’ve been told there’ll probably be Nazi planes coming over to drop bombs on us soon, and the Vicar’s taken the job of Air Raid Warden. Most people have dug great holes in their gardens to put in Anderson bomb shelters, which are little metal huts that look far too flimsy to survive a bomb. I’m glad we’ve got a cellar that’s big enough to sleep in, even though it’s thick with dust and home to a highly prolific spider community.
The Government has circulated leaflets about what to do when the Nazis invade (stay calm) and what we’re not to do (panic and run away). There are pictures of Nazi soldiers and a list of what to do if we find one (go to the police) and what not to do (try to reason with them and get shot as a result). We’ve been busy removing signposts so that when they arrive at least they won’t know where they are.
Apparently the rest of Europe was overrun easily because the people weren’t prepared and they simply panicked. I’m not entirely certain how the Government intends us to stop a cavalry of well-equipped Huns, but this is what they have told us to do.
Preparation for Invasion
Keep calm—don’t run away
Don’t believe rumors and be distrustful of orders—check that orders are from the Government
Hide all maps, food, fuel, tools, and other supplies—a parachutist will prey on you for these items
Put concrete pillboxes, land mines, or barbed wire defenses on beaches, fields, and roads
Dig anti-tank ditches on roads and tracks—a line across the country stops the Nazis from going north
Block the roads with motorcars and other big obstacles, or by felling trees
If necessary, use wire or chains to block a road with an imitation bomb (box with cable)
Only ring church bells to warn of invasion
Form a group of Local Defense Volunteers from men still in the village—Daddy is organizing the few men left
Form a village Invasion Committee to work out how your village aims to defend itself
The Chilbury Invasion Committee (CIC)
Mrs. B. has taken it upon herself to coordinate the CIC (everything is abbreviated nowadays because it sounds more official). She’s been especially bossy as her remaining servants have left, so now she’s fending for herself, asking for recipes from Mrs. Tilling (although we suspect she’s living off hampers sent down from Claridges). She called the WVS ladies for a special CIC meeting in the village hall this afternoon.
“As your leader, I feel it my duty to prepare our ladies for the coming invasion. First of all, I’d like some suggestions for what we can do if a troop of abominable Nazi thugs stomps into the village square tomorrow morning.”
“But we don’t know it’s going to happen for certain, do we?” Mrs. Gibbs stammered. A haunted look has overtaken her face since Ralph’s been back. I’m not sure if she’s more scared of Ralph or the Nazis.
Mrs. B. marched up to her, putting her face close like a sergeant major. “We have to be ready,” she roared. Then, turning to the rest of us, she continued, “I’m looking for serious suggestions.”
“I’d get my husband’s old air rifle,” Mrs. Tilling suggested. “I don’t know how to use it, but it would look good, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, you must learn how to use it,” Mrs. B. shouted. “Everyone who has access to firearms, clean ’em, make sure you know how to use ’em, then load ’em.” She looked around menacingly. “Mrs. Quail, what about you?”
“I’m quite dapper with a kitchen knife,” she said confidently, and I exchanged a smirk with Hattie, who was rocking Rose’s pram. Imagine Mrs. Quail getting cro
ss with the Vicar over tea and whipping out a carving knife!
Mrs. B., clearly disappointed with our lack of pluck, demonstrated how to lunge and attack using household objects, such as a fire poker, a table lamp, or a three-tiered silver cake stand. We all enjoyed it thoroughly and left feeling awfully brave.
Of course the next meeting wasn’t as straight forward as that, because the Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV) showed up halfway through.
The Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV) vs. the Chilbury Invasion Committee (CIC)
Daddy has taken it upon himself to start the Chilbury Defense Volunteers (CDV). We think he did it because Mrs. B. “stole” the CIC from under his nose, and he needed a troop of his very own.
The Chilbury Defense Volunteers consists of a motley collection of men left in the village preparing to defend us if or when the Nazis come. All a lovely idea, but in reality it’s Daddy, Proggett, old Mr. Dawkins and the two farmhands, some other old men in various stages of decay, the Vicar, Ralph Gibbs (although he has yet to put in an appearance), and would you believe it, Mr. Slater, who apparently finds the entire thing “rather amusing,” according to Venetia.
They meet twice a week and Daddy shouts a lot while they pretend to be a real army, marching up and down and trying to stab each other with pitchforks, since they don’t have any proper weapons yet.
The problem is that Mrs. B.’s Invasion Committee also meets in the church hall twice a week, and yesterday the men began arriving with their pitchforks just as Mrs. B. was perfecting her three-tiered-cake-stand lunge, surrounded by a group of women practicing the very same move. “Point, lunge, thrust.”
“We’re supposed to have the hall now,” Daddy announced pompously. “Will you clear your women out of here immediately.”
“I shall do no such thing,” Mrs. B. retaliated, swinging her cake stand in his direction.
“We have important invasion preparations.” Daddy was starting to raise his voice. “Get your blasted women out of here.”
“Brigadier, I’d like to remind you that my Invasion Committee is the most important body for invasion prevention in our village. As you can see, we are in the middle of crucial combat practice.”
“But we have booked the hall, haven’t we, Vicar?” He turned and searched for the Vicar, who was hiding behind Mr. Slater, and dragged him by the collar to the front. “Haven’t we, Vicar?”
“Well, yes, but the hall is meant for all of us to share—”
“Never mind that,” Mrs. B. said, pushing the Vicar roughly to one side. “We were here first, and you’ll have to wait until we’re finished.”
“In that case, we’ll have to come in and take over.” He turned to the group of men, who were starting to edge back toward the door, and bellowed, “Company, fall in!”
The men shuffled into the room among the women and got into line, pitchforks at attention.
The women just stood and looked at them in dismay, until Mrs. B. yelled, “Point, lunge, thrust.”
The women obediently lunged, mostly at the men who were in the way, which was clearly Mrs. B.’s intention.
Mayhem ensued. Many of the older men and women made an escape to the door, some nursing injuries. But the rest continued for a few minutes until the door slammed shut and a sharp teacherlike voice clipped, “What’s going on here?”
Everyone looked around. It was Hattie, standing at the door with her blue pram. “What on earth are you all doing?”
“The Brigadier started it,” Mrs. B. began. “It’s our rightful turn to use the hall and they barged in and tried to intimidate us.” She looked proudly around at the ladies. “But we showed them, didn’t we?”
“It was our turn and they wouldn’t leave,” Daddy said, nose in the air as if even discussing it were beneath him.
“Well, I suggest that everyone put down their weapons and shake hands,” Hattie said. “And then after that let’s put on the wireless and listen to news of a real war.”
Everyone quietly began putting things away, although Mrs. B. snapped, “That’s precisely what I’ve been telling them to do all along.”
Bad news for the choir—and my singing career
The choir competition has been postponed indefinitely. Prim announced it at practice, although she quickly said we’d have a special choir practice next week, and everyone in the village is invited. At least I still have singing lessons. Prim has lent me a pile of modern records for me to try to sing along to at home. Some are jazz, which is quite thrilling. We’re to try them out in our singing lessons.
Tonight at choir practice, we sung an especially aggressive rendition of “Jerusalem,” becoming quite raucous toward the end as we’re so peeved with the Nazis for preventing us from singing in St. Paul’s Cathedral. You’d have thought that our higgledy-piggledy assortment of ladies was ready to pick up handbags and charge toward the enemy. Does Hitler have any idea of the force and determination of thirteen impassioned women? At the very least, I suspect he’s never considered the lethal potential of a three-tiered cake stand.
3 CHURCH ROW,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Monday, 17th June, 1940
Dear Brigadier,
After waiting more than a month for the money owed which is rightfully mine, I have taken it upon myself to remind you that we had a deal, and you owe me the second half of my money. I carried out my role, and now you must fulfill yours.
I will be waiting at the outhouse Saturday morning at 10.
Miss E. M. Paltry
Wednesday, 19th June, 1940
We arrived early for Prim’s special choir practice, some chattering about what Prim had for us, others with our own thoughts after Dunkirk. I had convinced one of the Sewing Ladies, Mrs. Poultice, to come. She lost her only son at Dunkirk. She hasn’t spoken a word since, just sews, in her own world.
I was surprised that so many people were there. The whole of the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir, the Sewing Ladies, and some other women not in the choir. Then there were men, too, including the Vicar and Mr. Slater, and even Colonel Mallard. I tried to ignore him, but he insisted on coming to speak to me. Fortunately, as he came near, the heavy door swung open and Prim came down the aisle and we were saved the need to speak to each other.
Instead of her usual dramatic voice, Prim gestured for us to be quiet.
“Tonight is a special evening for us to come to terms with what has happened and what is upon us. Please take a chair from the back and bring it to the altar, making a circle.”
We all did so. I had poor Mrs. Poultice beside me, looking so pale and sad, as if something inside her had stopped living but her body lived and moved, like a lifeless machine.
“In my youth,” Prim began, “I traveled to Italy, and it was there that I learned a different type of song. A song to bring peace and acceptance of the natural cycle of life and death. The chant.” She put out her hands on either side. “Let us take each other’s hands, complete the circle.”
We gingerly held hands. Such a simple, childish thing, but so rare in our busy, untouching world. I felt the back of Mrs. Poultice’s wrinkled, veined hand in mine, and felt her tremble slightly with the strange intimacy of it all. It was as if we’d torn down our everyday masks to expose the scared children inside.
“Now let’s close our eyes, and start with a single held hum.”
The sound of a faint hum, a middle note, neither high nor low, emanated from Prim, at first soft and then growing with confidence.
Then I heard Kitty’s soft tones joining in, then Mrs. Quail’s, and before long a sonorous single note was echoing around us, filling all the gaps between us with a vibrating connection. A noise that drowned out all the mess.
The hum petered out, thinning into the air until it was a whisper, or an echo of a whisper.
After a few poignant moments of silence, she handed out some music. “This is a simple Gregorian chant,” she told us. “It is for the mourning of the dead.”
She hummed t
he note to begin, and then we all came in, Kitty’s voice leading the descant. It was beautiful. At the end, when the echoes had faded into silence, we sat a few moments in the warmth of the silence, our hands linked.
Prim was the first to get up, ushering everyone to follow suit, quietly taking her chair to the back, finding her music bag.
“Keep calm and peaceful for the rest of the night,” she said gently, and drifted out as if on a wave of calm.
We slowly began to get up, chattering softly among ourselves. Even Mrs. B. seemed pacified for a moment. “What an extraordinary evening,” she said. “I really wasn’t sure at the beginning, but it was like we were nuns,” she chortled.
Funny how a bit of singing brings us together. There we were in our own little worlds, with our own problems, and then suddenly they seemed to dissolve, and we realized that it’s us here now, living through this, supporting each other.
That’s what counts.
Wednesday, 19th June, 1940
Everyone is sad after Dunkirk. Prim had a special choir practice with chanting. I sat beside Kitty and Mrs. Poultice. Her son died at Dunkirk. Her hand shook, so I gripped it tight.
Then we sang a Gregorian chant.
It was beautiful. I began to cry. It made me think of sitting shiva when Grandpa died and there was chanting every evening. Mrs. Poultice was crying, too.
The Nazis will be here soon. Mrs. Winthrop will hide me in the attic. When they came to Czechoslovakia, they found everyone who hid. They beat people in the street. They took that screaming woman into a house. Then she had blood and cuts, nearly dead.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 13