The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  But valuable to whom? Two hundred years later, who is there left to remember this man, so carefully laid to rest, once so loved and real? Now all that would be left is a pile of dust, laid roughly in the shape of a human being, the frailness of our form putrid beside the enduring carved rock lion above it.

  I found tears coming fast. This war is too much for me. I’m not the kind of woman to be battling it out with a viscount. I’m not built to deal with my son at war, maybe suffering just like Berkeley, his fragile body left to decay like all human flesh. The war will be the end of me.

  I crumpled onto the grassy ground beside the grave, my face in my hands, wishing I could crawl away from all of this, pull the clock back to before the war started and sleep for a thousand years.

  A few drops of rain brought me back into the present, trickling down my back like a shiver of reality. I stood up slowly, the rain coming faster now, and turned to the church.

  Easing open the arched double doors, I slid silently into the wooden pew at the back and sat quietly. Here in the back row I could take my thoughts out for inspection without fear of them spreading through my brain and taking me hostage.

  Today there was a figure a few rows from the front, tucked into the left side like me. The light from the shafts of stained-glass windows above the altar broke a blue and purple haze over him as he bent his head into his hands.

  It was Colonel Mallard.

  Was he invading my church now? Infuriated by his presence, I forgot my worries and found myself angry and frustrated with this war, these men bossing us about. I thought about leaving but decided to stay for a short while and hopefully leave before he did. But my plan was ruined a few minutes later when he got up and turned to come back down the aisle. I saw him pause as he spotted me, but then he pressed on, nodding obliquely as he passed. I pretended that I hadn’t noticed him, forcing my thoughts away as they kept flitting back to his presence.

  After the door shut behind him, I sat for a while, and then, suddenly feeling the need for normality, I got up and bustled out into the world, heading straight out of the graveyard and down the hill toward home, my lovely warm house.

  As I walked, I found myself thinking about how my view of the world has changed. Fancy me giving a viscount a few strong words! And defying the law—taking a decision into my own hands to help this wounded young man. Perhaps there is something good that has come from this war: everything has been turned around, all the unfairness made grimly plain. It has given us everyday women a voice—dared us to stand up for ourselves, and to stand up for others.

  We have less to lose in this world of chaos and death, after all.

  Wednesday, 24th July, 1940

  News About Silvie’s Parents

  Today we had a visit from Uncle Nicky. I was so excited as I love the little conversations we have, usually sitting on the terrace if the evening’s fine, talking about the world, and being all grown up. But today he had no time for talks. He’d come with some news for Silvie, and instead of the terrace, we sat solemnly in the drawing room.

  “I’m afraid your parents and brother have disappeared, Silvie. It’s thought that they are in hiding from the Nazis, maybe in someone’s cellar, or they might be trying to escape overland to come and join you here. We obviously hope it’s the latter, and that they can somehow make their way over, although it might be more difficult now with the Nazis controlling all the ports and borders.”

  She stared on with her big dark eyes, not saying anything, not even shedding a single tear.

  “We have to be strong,” Uncle Nicky said, taking her hands in his and holding them tightly. “And hope for the best.”

  She made a little curtsy, as if she couldn’t open her mouth to say thank you, and trod carefully out of the room, closed the door, and then we heard the darting footsteps running through the hall and up the stairs and the bang of her bedroom door.

  Mama asked me to go and see if she was all right. Everyone knows I’m the best person for such a role. I quietly went upstairs and knocked on her door, but she didn’t answer, so in the end I just went in. She shouldn’t be on her own, after all.

  She was lying on her bed, her face turned away from me, silent.

  “Please cheer up, Silvie,” I said, sitting on the bed. “They’re probably on their way here.”

  But the awful part is that the journey will be incredibly dangerous, with almost all of mainland Europe under Nazi control. Even here we can feel the Nazis encroaching on us. The planes have started to come over the coastal town and ports, bombing Dover almost weekly now. I know Silvie thinks they’re coming for her, the fear behind her eyes obvious whenever we hear those unbearable drones.

  “They are getting closer,” she whispers to me, barely audibly.

  I sometimes wonder if she saw something back in Czechoslovakia, the Nazis in their full horror. Maybe she’s replaying some gruesomely violent scene in her mind, only the victim is her or her family.

  Before he left, I asked Uncle Nicky what happened in Czechoslovakia when the Nazis took over.

  What happened to Silvie, from what I can gather

  Hitler claimed the western part of Czechoslovakia in 1938, and then last year tanks and troops rolled into the rest of Czechoslovakia, stealing food and everything else, hitting people who stood in their way, imprisoning people

  Lots of homes and shops were destroyed, and lots of swastikas were put up by black-uniformed SS soldiers parading the streets

  A lot of the people in prison were shot, their families forced to pay for their executions

  The Jews had their identification papers marked, so Silvie had to leave quickly before anything happened to her

  I’ve been incredibly lovely to Silvie after learning all this. She still doesn’t say anything, but perhaps I wouldn’t if I’d gone through all that.

  That evening I asked Mama what would happen to Silvie if her parents don’t make it here until the war’s over.

  “Sadly we can’t keep Silvie here for long as Daddy wouldn’t like it. But she can stay for a while, until it can be decided where she would do well.” Mama wiped a tear from her eye. She wants Silvie to stay with us, but she has to do everything Daddy says.

  When I saw Daddy later, I tentatively brought up the subject of letting Silvie stay, but he was as stubborn as ever.

  “We can’t have little evacuees from Lord knows where staying with us, becoming part of the family and so forth,” he said. “What a ridiculous notion you have, Kitty, and your mother, too.” He stormed around the room picking up papers and books and slamming them down. “Do you know there’s a war on?” he shouted. “There are Nazi planes in our skies—one came down last week close to Dover, and the Local Defense Volunteers haven’t found the damned pilot yet. The country’s in grave danger, and all you can think about is a blasted evacuee!”

  And that was that. Obviously I’ll have to think up some marvelous plan that will make him capitulate.

  Another Fight with Venetia

  Venetia is being completely intolerable. This morning she stormed into my bedroom in her petticoat, hands on hips, furiously looking around.

  “Where’s my sky-blue dress, you thief?”

  “It doesn’t fit you anymore, so I requisitioned it.” I gave her a sharp smile. “I know that Mama would have told me to do the same.”

  “It does still fit me, you little twerp. All my dresses have gone missing, and I knew it was you,” she spat. “In any case, it’s courteous to ask before you take something.”

  She had come right up to me, standing a foot away, putting her crazed, pursed-up face right into mine. I backed away.

  “I only borrowed this one,” I said. “I don’t know where the others have gone. Maybe the maid’s been taking them. I needed this one for a picnic.”

  “A picnic? With who?”

  “Silvie and I went on our very own little picnic. I wanted to show her what it was like in the good old days. You know, before the war.”

  “R
emember the time we went to Box Hill with Henry?” She stood up straight again and seemed to forget the dress dispute for a moment, her mind flitting back to that July day. “That was the first time Henry proposed to me,” she laughed. “What a funny day that was! Do you remember how I—”

  I cut in, feeling the blood gush hot into my face. “But he proposed to me that day!” I couldn’t believe what she was saying. “He proposed to me!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Kitty,” she smirked. “He could only have proposed to one of us.” She stood back, arms folded, laughing slightly.

  “And it was me.” I stood firm. I think I might have been gripping my fists by my sides because I wanted to punch her ridiculous mouth.

  “Ah, but now I remember, I declined his proposal, so perhaps you’re right after all,” she joked in a patronizing tone. “Perhaps he was saddened and desperate after being turned down, and then saw little you and felt sorry for you. We all know you’ve been infatuated with him for years.”

  If I’d had Daddy’s shotgun with me right then and there, I would have taken it out and pulled the trigger straight into her vile, spiteful heart.

  “But he asked me, and I said yes,” I fumed.

  “He was only joking with you, Kitty.” She laughed. “Of course he isn’t interested in a stupid child like you. It’s me he wants, a real woman.” With this she did that ludicrous pouting with her lips, like a big wet salmon, and I pulled back in disgust.

  “Whatever you’ve got, I don’t want it, and neither does Henry.”

  “Of course he does, darling.” The look on her face was utter, determined domination. “He’s crazy about me.”

  “So why didn’t you accept him if he proposed to you?” I demanded.

  “Because I’m waiting for someone better.”

  “Like that weasel Slater?”

  “He’s not a weasel.” She looked away, and I glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty. “He’s worth a million of Henry.”

  “Really, Venetia?” And I took out my trump card. “A black-market dealer is better than Henry?”

  She unfolded her arms, and something in her posture crumpled.

  “You know?” She didn’t seem shocked, just wary, treading carefully, trying to understand.

  Now it was my turn to be smug. “I saw him in Peasepotter Wood doing business with a crook called Old George.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t see why I should tell you.” I moved to the dresser and started tidying my hair clips. “You’ll have to beg me first, and apologize about what you said about Henry not proposing to me.”

  She stood completely still for a moment, then turned to the door. “I’ll do no such thing, you little shrew. I’ll just have to go and find out for myself.”

  And off she stormed back to her room, forgetting about the dress, the picnic, the proposal. I found the sky-blue dress and tried it on again. I’ll have to wear it next time I see Henry to remind him of our engagement. I’m sure it’ll trigger his memory.

  PARNHAM HOUSE,

  KENT.

  TELEPHONE: PARNHAM 47

  Friday, 26th July, 1940

  Dear Mrs. Tilling,

  I want to thank you for coming to Parnham to give me the ring. I imagine it was not a pleasant task, and realize that you had no obligation to come, which makes me all the more grateful for your visit.

  Since then, I have become employed, which serves a dual purpose of getting me out of the house and providing me with more to think about than the war and lost friends. The surgeon came and deemed me unfit to fight for the time being, and so I have been given a job at Litchfield Park, pushing pieces of paper around and phoning people up to tell them what’s on the pieces of paper. It’s rather dreary but they say they’ll move me into something more interesting as soon as they can. I’m hoping to be sent to London, which would mean a lodging to myself.

  If ever you are in the area, please do come and say hello, as I feel I wasn’t as polite as I could have been, and want to thank you properly for coming so far out of your way to visit. If there is anything I could possibly do for you, please do not hesitate to ask. I would only be too delighted to reciprocate in whatever way I can.

  With thanks and very best wishes,

  Lt. Rupert Carrington

  CHILBURY MANOR,

  CHILBURY,

  KENT.

  Saturday, 27th July, 1940

  Dearest Angie,

  Everything is getting more complicated at every turn. I was sent to Dover yesterday to assess the bomb damage, and the place was half demolished and fast earning its nickname “Hell-Fire Corner.” Even while I was there enemy planes appeared in the sky, circling loudly, their Nazi swastikas clearly visible on their sides. I thought I was going to be sick. A few of our chaps in Spitfires and Hurricanes came along to drive them out, and it became a bit of a dogfight, right there in the skies above us. Some of the locals came out of shops and stood in the High Street cheering them on, but I couldn’t bear it. All this charade for more deaths, more ruined lives. What has become of us?

  A great deal seems to have happened since last I wrote. The main news is that I think I’m pregnant. I’m not at all sure how to feel about this, and I’m rather hoping that I’m not. I thought I was being careful, but I suppose one never knows with these things. Obviously I haven’t breathed a word to Alastair or anyone else. I do so wish you were here, Angie. I know you’re thinking that it’s all frightfully simple, Alastair and I will have to get married. But, you see, I’ve also come to suspect that Alastair is involved in the black market. Instead of being the wife of a romantic artist, living in a tumbledown castle on an island in a river, I would be the wife of a hardened criminal, always on the run, always afraid. Frankly, Angie, it’s not the life I had planned at all.

  I found out through Kitty, of all people, in the middle of one of our stupid rows. Just as I thought we’d finished, she rounded on me, announcing that she’d spotted Alastair in Peasepotter Wood doing business with a common crook. I can’t get over it. It seems so unlike him, so contrary to the gentle, sophisticated artist. I know I’ve had my suspicions. But this!

  I stormed off, but then I had to pull myself together for Rose’s christening, which was this afternoon.

  We’d done some extra practicing so that the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir could do something special, processing out of the choir stalls and surrounding Hattie and Rose, singing a gorgeous rendition of “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” When it reached the part that goes, “Each little flower that opens, each little bird that sings,” we were all gathered round them, and Hattie looked like she’d burst with joy.

  After the service, everyone went to Hattie’s house in Church Row for a small afternoon tea party, and I stayed to tidy up afterward, although I was more keen to get her advice about Alastair.

  “Kitty saw him in Peasepotter Wood with a black marketeer. He was doing business with him, Hattie!” I was getting a bit upset, pacing up and down the living room clearing the plates and crashing them into the sink.

  “Goodness,” Hattie said, moving Rose’s pram away from the activity—she’s getting frightfully mother-hennish. “Well, perhaps it’s time to give him up, Venetia. I don’t mean to be heartless, but I worry about you, and I don’t think getting involved with him will bring you any happiness.”

  “I don’t know.” I flopped down in a chair. “All I know for certain is that I can’t stop being with him without breaking my heart in the process. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t leave without getting to the bottom of it. It simply means too much to me.”

  “What does your mother think of all this?”

  “Mama is completely taken up with baby Lawrence, who still won’t keep down any milk. She’s also busy with Daddy as he’s become so volatile. Kitty’s running amok, and Silvie’s being looked after by Kitty and old Nanny Godwin from what I can gather. No one seems to care what we do or what’s happening.”

  “Well, don’t worry about them for now. T
hink of what you need to do.” She patted my hand gently. “Isn’t there a way you could find out more before deciding?”

  “I’ve made up my mind to follow him,” I told her with sudden conviction.

  She sighed a great sigh, and it dawned on me that she’s the only one who ever really looked after me. “Well, just be careful,” she said. “And please give up if it gets too dangerous, Venetia. You don’t always have to be the brave and daring one.”

  I went to the door and looked back, feeling such warmth and concern from her. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “You know I’ll always worry about you, Venetia,” she said, and I suddenly felt like crying. So I quickly turned and paced determinedly across the green, the ducks waddling fast to avoid my feet. I took a deep breath of the warm summer air, and prayed I’d come out of this alive.

  I’ll write as soon as I can and tell you how it all goes, fingers crossed.

  Venetia

  Monday, 29th July, 1940

  What an odd thought occurred to me today. I’m still trying to think it all through. The morning was quite usual, as I popped over to the surgery to help deal with everyone’s aches and pains. Since the war started, people come to see me when they’re out of sorts, even if there isn’t much wrong with them. Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in one of the air raids on Dover, has developed an ongoing cough with no apparent cause. She comes in most days to see me. I try to offer kind words, but she edges back as if unable to bear it, her face gray like a ghost’s. All we can do is make more tea and give her some aspirin. Mrs. Quail got her to join the choir, and although she remained silent for a full half hour, she finally managed a few lines of “Praise My Soul.” It was an oddly moving moment for all of us, as if we were trying to bring a crushed bird back to life with nothing but song.