I try not to think. But it is there.
I sang Kitty our mourning chant, the Kaddish. She wrote it down. Maybe we can sing it for Mrs. Poultice.
3 CHURCH ROW,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Saturday, 22nd June, 1940
Dear Clara,
All is not yet lost, Clara, although I must confess we have had a few setbacks, the first entailing the Brigadier handing over the rest of the money. I met him at the outhouse today, fuming he was, and he told me he wasn’t giving it over.
“Why not?” I demanded, clutching my black bag, ready to give him a good clout.
“Because, my dear woman, you weren’t terribly good at covering your tracks, were you?” He was all controlled anger, waiting to snap like a tethered wolf. I felt my knees wobble but put up a good front.
“No one knows a thing. I did a clean job. Always do.”
“But what about the rumors?” He took a step closer, threateningly, so I took a step back right into the nettles. I could feel them pinch under my stockings. “Mrs. Tilling has been asking my wife questions about the birth. Couldn’t you have come up with something better than the mechanical ventilator? A different problem for the other child?”
“I don’t think you understand the difficulties of the task, Brigadier,” I said haughtily. “We made a deal, did we not? And I fulfilled my part. So I want my money.”
“I told you there’d be no money if you aroused suspicion. If that woman pieces it together because of your carelessness, then you’ll be paying me,” he snarled, his face coming up to mine like a fierce Army General. “With your blood.”
The smell of his breath at such short range made me fall over backward into the bracken, and he looked smugly on as I picked myself up and pulled off twigs. He’s a woman hater, that man. I can tell one anywhere. In my line of business you hear all sorts of stories from women, sometimes even the men themselves, thinking they’re so clever abusing some poor woman. I can tell the Brigadier thinks women are only good for serving men and having babies. And sex, of course. Doesn’t realize that we’re human, too. With heads and hearts and pockets to line.
“She’ll never catch on,” I said. “It’ll blow over, same as everything. You owe me that money, and I can raise a stink about it if you don’t give it to me.”
“You know better than to make a fuss about something that’ll put you in jail,” he said shrewdly, twiddling his mustache. “But I’ll make you a deal. If I hear no other gossip before the end of summer, you’ll have your money. Until that time, I expect no more stupid blunders, no more rumors, and no more notes—I’d have thought you’d know better than to pass letters between us. You could have had us both arrested within the hour if it had fallen into the wrong hands.”
He shoved my note, all scrunched up, into my hand and stormed off, leaving me picking bracken off my skirt and feeling relief about two things: first, that the Tilling woman didn’t know anything for sure, and second, that I’d just have to sit tight and the rest of the money would be making its way to me soon.
Not ideal, but better than only getting half.
My next problem was that stupid girl Elsie. She came to my house thinking she had one over me.
“I know your deal,” she said, striding in and lounging on my sofa like a sleek cat. “And I want my cut.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” I said, smiling with puzzlement.
“Your deal, swapping the babies. I know all about it.”
“What on earth are you talking about, my dear?”
“Don’t act all nonchalant with me. I saw you swap them. I know you did it and got paid.”
“Who could possibly have asked me to do that?” I said, all astonishment.
“The Brigadier. See, I’ve been thinking, putting it together. I’m not as stupid as I look, you know?”
“Believe me, Elsie. You look far cleverer than you really are.”
She ignored my comment, or didn’t understand it. “He gave you money so he could have his son, didn’t he? And I want my cut.”
“But you didn’t do anything,” I said, deciding to get down to business.
“I helped you escape with one of them. In any case, I know all about it, and I can tell people. Isn’t that enough? I want two hundred pounds, please.” She stuck her hand out toward me, face up, all white and skinny like a corpse’s.
“How do you know how much he gave me?”
“A woman like you wouldn’t have done it for less than twenty thousand.”
I grimaced. I knew I should have asked him for more.
“I’ll give you fifty and that’ll be that. If I hear you’ve told anyone, you’ll have to pay me my dues,” I added, taking a leaf from the Brigadier’s book and looking all menacing. “With your own blood.”
I left the room and got out the large notes. Wretched girl, I knew I should never have trusted her. Anyone capable of fooling around with Edmund Winthrop was bound to be immoral.
I slapped them on her hand, and she leaped up.
“You’ll have no worries from me. I’m heading out of this dingy place as soon as I’ve finished some business here. The Brigadier can stuff his stupid job. No one wants to be a maid these days, and it’s easy to see why. I’ve been slaving for them for pennies, and now I’ve got my chance.” She glanced at the money bulging in her old coat pocket. “Now I’ve got the money, I’m getting a new life. I got myself Edmund, didn’t I? So now I’ll get another one of them toffs. Once one of them gets a taste of Elsie, I’ll have him eating out of my hand. Just you watch! The next time you’ll see me, you’ll hardly recognize me.”
With that she flounced out, and I thought how stupid the girl was. If she couldn’t hold down an idiot like Edmund Winthrop, she’d have no hope with anyone even slightly sensible. Still, I do wonder who she has her eye on.
So, Clara, for now I’m stuck in this village like a splodge of sour tar, unable to move until I get the rest of the money, trying desperately to ensure the nasty secret doesn’t leak out. Burn this after reading it, and I’ll be in touch soon.
Edwina
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Wednesday, 3rd July, 1940
Dear Angela,
You will never guess what happened here yesterday. I’m hoping it won’t cause any commotion, but I think it’s terrifically funny. It all started yesterday evening at Alastair’s house. It was around midnight, just as they were closing up the bar at the Fox & Ferret. I could hear the men’s voices in the square; they’ve become much rowdier since the soldiers came home after Dunkirk. Ralph Gibbs has been causing trouble, I’ve heard, giving someone a bloody nose last week and threatening someone else with a knife. They say he’s become involved in the black market.
When I arrived yesterday evening, Alastair had cooked me dinner, would you believe it? Baked cod, no less. He’d laid the small table and found a pink rose from somewhere, one of those floppy perfumed ones put in a jam jar with water.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked.
“Here and there.” He smiled, again not giving anything away. “I’m glad you approve.”
He brought a candle over to the table and watched me in the flickering glow. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could do this every night?”
“Yes,” I said. “But tediously I have to dine with my family most evenings.”
He grinned. “Actually I only know two other dishes. So we’d be out of options by the end of the week.”
We laughed, and he tidied a piece of my hair behind my ear, stroking my cheek and my neck. “I’d love to have you here always,” he said gently. “You could let your hair down, let me see the real you, the real Venetia, not the showy one who pretends to be mischievous and confident.” He smiled, but there was that disarming seriousness about him again, a look of intensity behind his eyes.
I pulled away, uncomfortably. “But that’s who I am,” I said serenely, although I’m no
t sure if it really is anymore.
After dinner we went to the living room. He’d lit a few candles and dotted them like glowing stars around our dark little studio, their waxy scent filling the air, all warm with velvet cushions and the deep, thick rug. I stripped naked and posed for my portrait as usual. It’s astonishing how one gets used to having no clothes on, baring one’s all for the sake of art. The portrait has been coming on very nicely, even though Alastair stops every few moments to come and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. But tonight, as he was close to putting on the finishing touches, there was a sharp knock at the door, or rather a bang, like someone was using their fist.
“Slater, I know you’re in there,” a rough voice shouted. I knew instantly who it was, as did Alastair, as we both exchanged looks, and I smirked.
“Open this door, Slater,” the voice growled, slurring from drink.
It was David Tilling. He was clearly worse for wear from a few pints at the pub and looking for some kind of retaliation. Since he returned from Dunkirk, he’s been bragging about how he’d made it back as if he were some kind of hero, which of course he’s not when you think about Henry shooting down three Nazi planes in a single day. David has an embryo RAF mustache, which looks ridiculous, and he’s taken up smoking. It’s too hilarious.
He found out about my affair with Alastair after following me around; Alastair and I spend all our free time together, such is our newfound love! Since then, David’s been making these snide little comments, such as “Slater’s not good enough for you, Venetia. What are you doing with a coward?” Or the rather damning: “You’re letting yourself down, Venetia.” I can only conclude that he’s learned a lot more in the army than just fighting; he’d never have come out with something like that before he left.
Back to last night, when he was banging on the door. Alastair put his brush down and went leisurely into the hallway, pulling the living room door closed behind him. I slipped my dress back on without putting any underwear on first, which was rather naughty, don’t you think?
“Ah, good evening, David,” Alastair announced as I heard the door opening. “What brings you here?”
“I wanna word with you, Slater,” David slurred loudly, sounding so young and foolish next to Alastair’s poise.
After this there were a few loud bangs, as if someone had been hit, and the clank of something hitting the ground. I was worried, as David is tall and just back from army training. He must have thrown a few punches at Alastair.
I peeked into the hallway.
But there was Alastair, not a hair out of place, holding David in a kind of vise grip, a broken beer bottle lying on the floor, which I can only assume was David’s.
I found myself looking at Alastair with renewed awe. Where did he learn those combat skills?
“I’m not entirely sure what it is that you want, David,” Alastair said lightly. “But trying to bottle me is not a good means of communication.”
“I know she’s in here, Slater.” David’s voice was getting louder. “Get out of my way.”
Next thing I knew he had bombarded past Alastair and was bursting into the living room, where I now sat, good as gold, perched on the settee, my hands together in my lap, my green floral dress delicately creased, and a small smile on my lips. “Hello, David.”
“Venetia,” he said, dismayed, his big floppy mouth gaping open. I can only wonder how dazzled he’d have been if he caught me with no clothes on.
He came up to me and sat beside me, taking my hands in his. “Venetia, I need to see you. I’m leaving tomorrow.” He was drunker than I thought, his hands moist and clammy, his breath virtually toxic. “I wanted one last kiss, since you’re giving yourself to every man in the village.”
I slapped him, although not hard. I knew it was just another line he was trotting out. “David, I can be with who I want. You need to learn that no one owns me, especially with this war going on. We all need to be ourselves, free.”
I laughed as I said it; I’m no more free than he is. Alastair has me completely smitten.
Suddenly David lunged for me, trying to kiss me, his flabby lips like a cold fish slurping me up.
“David, please, stop!” I cried.
Alastair pried him away from me, and David stood and turned to punch him, but Alastair ducked, sending David flying over to the other side of the room, completely off balance, crashing on the floor in the corner.
Then he turned and saw the picture.
“My God, Venetia,” he gasped, gazing up at it flabbergasted.
I remained perched on the settee as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, as Alastair dashed over and covered the easel with a large black sheet.
“Done from imagination, I hope you understand,” Alastair said lightly, trying to hide a compulsion to laugh.
“Venetia, you were posing nude for this scoundrel?” He got up and whisked the black sheet away, taking it all in, the curves, the—well, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, Angie. Suffice to say, he saw it all.
“It’s art, David,” I said simply, shaking my hair back in a nonchalant fashion. “It’s what artists do.”
“You took your clothes off for this bastard,” he snarled, his face set in a reddening grimace. “You let him paint you. You let him touch you, didn’t you?”
“David, I’m a grown woman.”
“And I’m a grown man.” He stood looking from me to the portrait in seething silence.
“David, I know you’re leaving tomorrow, but you need to go now. This is Mr. Slater’s house. You can’t just go around barging into people’s houses like this—”
“I’ll tell your father.” He broke in decisively. “He’ll have Slater’s guts for garters.” His strangled laugh came out somewhat awkwardly. “He’ll put a stop to him.”
“Don’t tell him, David.” This was getting out of hand. Daddy would kill Alastair, and probably me, too. “I know you won’t betray me like this.”
He looked me in the eye, and then his eyes traveled down my body, and I felt he was groping me in his mind, lifting my dress, his hands all over me.
Then, quick as a flash, David grabbed the picture and was out into the cold midnight air, slamming the door shut in my face as I raced out after him. I yanked it open and ran into the darkness, but the blackout had him out of sight in seconds.
Alastair came alongside me, and we darted around the village green trying to listen for his escape route, but he’d vanished. I never thought he’d be so extraordinarily daring. Or so incredibly fast.
Our search ended when I tripped over a rock and went tumbling down toward the pond, surprising a few snoozing ducks.
“Are you all right?” Alastair whispered, coming up beside me.
But before he could utter another word, I dragged him toward me, and we began kissing right there on the village green.
What would Mrs. B. say to that, do you think?
So we never found David, who disappeared off to war this morning. I wondered if he’d have had time to run over to show the painting to Daddy, but he evidently didn’t as Daddy hasn’t murdered anyone. In any case, he’d be risking his own life by being the messenger; Daddy can be a lunatic with a shotgun. Remember what happened to that poacher last year?
I don’t know what David would have done with my portrait, as it would have been too big to take with him, and he certainly wouldn’t have left it at home for Mrs. Tilling to stumble across. Perhaps he gave it to someone for safekeeping, and I’m hoping it’s not someone who knows me, like Ralph Gibbs.
Meanwhile, I’ve been begging Alastair to tell me how exactly he has all this defense training, but he always changes the subject. The more I get to know him, Angie, the more I think he’s up to something.
There was a surprising incident after church on Sunday, on the path outside, where everyone always gathers. Alastair was there—he says he loves to come and hear us sing in the choir—and Mrs. B. rushed up to him.
“You must let me introduce you to p
eople,” she insisted, taking him around her flock.
The thing is, when they got to Colonel Mallard, I saw him hold back slightly.
“I really need to be getting on, Mrs. B.,” he said, all politeness, backing away.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. B. boomed. “You need to know everyone here if you mean to make some money, eh what?” She nudged him, chortling.
The odd thing was that Colonel Mallard also seemed uncomfortable. He was in no mood to meet Alastair, so when Mrs. B. inevitably pulled them together, the scene was a little awkward, to say the least.
“How do you do,” they both said together, and then there was nothing for a long moment.
“Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?” Alastair began, but—could I have been correct?—was he amused at something? His lips smiled in their usual polite way, and his upright stance was relaxed as ever, and yet there was a trace of humor in his voice.
It was as if they had met before. And not under these circumstances.
“Probably won’t last.” Colonel Mallard seemed to sneer at him, then turned quickly and found important things to discuss with the Vicar, baffling as that might seem.
Does Alastair know Colonel Mallard? And if so, in what capacity? It was all so terribly perplexing, so I decided to ask Hattie what she thought when I popped in for tea after church.
“What do you know about the Colonel who’s staying with Mrs. Tilling?”
“He’s tremendously rude, according to Mrs. Tilling, and hardly manages a conversation with her,” she said. “But she’s barely civil to him, especially since he had the audacity to offer her a lift home from Litchfield last week. It was pouring with rain and he stopped next to her on her bicycle and practically forced her into his car.” She giggled. “Can you imagine the tension in the air as they drove home?
“But he did give his room up to David when he came back, went to stay in a hotel in Litchfield. Although she tells me that’s only what was expected.” She shrugged. “If you ask me they’re tripping over each other, neither ready to call a truce. Why do you ask?”
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 14