The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  According to Colonel Mallard, the bomber probably overshot Dover, got lost, and then had to drop its bombs in order to make it back over the Channel. It shouldn’t have struck civilians. All that loss and it was only a horrendous mistake, an afterthought.

  Venetia went home this morning and still isn’t doing well. She’s lost a lot of blood, and I worry that she’ll lose her baby. The concussion was a bad one, and she’s not herself at all. She’s incredibly sad about Hattie, and is still talking about Slater as if he’ll come back. No body was found in what remained of his house, and she can’t seem to work out where he could be.

  The square is now bereft of one side. We’ve been working hard—the women of the village—to clear it away, trying to make the best of the uneven pile of bricks and broken things, some of which are deeply unsettling, like Hattie’s familiar dresses, Prim’s broken gold ornaments. Meanwhile, a growing number of scavengers have been scouring the remains for jewelry or trinkets. Yesterday, I saw Ralph Gibbs pushing a woman aside to get to some treasure first, his eyes crazed with greed. This war has turned him into a monster.

  Miss Paltry’s house was also wrecked, but luckily she was pulled out of the debris with just a fractured hip. They took her to Litchfield Hospital, so perhaps when I have time to visit I’ll question her about this curious baby affair.

  Yesterday Mrs. Quail found the remains of Prim’s gramophone player and a few other items. The Vicar told us that we can give them to Prim’s sisters tomorrow as they’re to come for a special eulogy in the Sunday service.

  We also found some of Hattie’s things, including a metal biscuit tin with Hattie’s letters. Everyone said I should take it with me to give to Victor’s aunt when she comes to collect the baby, so I brought it home and asked the Colonel to force it open as it had been melted closed.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” he asked, all puffed up about doing the right thing.

  “Open it,” I said. “I will take the responsibility if you have a problem with it. And I’ll find a way to open it myself if you don’t oblige.”

  He looked at me as if I’d gone quite mad.

  “Someone has to open it eventually,” I said quietly. “And I’m quite sure Hattie would rather it was me and not Victor’s aunt, wouldn’t you think so?”

  He harrumphed and then set about prying it open with a screwdriver. Once open, he handed it over to me, and I leafed through the contents.

  “Don’t you feel like you’re rifling through someone’s private life?”

  “No, I feel like I have no time for questions at the moment.” I carried on for a moment and then stopped and looked up at him. “I just want to make sure that the family loves the baby, loves the memory of Hattie. That they give her a welcome home.” I looked back down at the tin. “We can’t have them finding this love letter that’s not from their nephew,” I said, taking a letter and making a pile for things I’d keep to one side. “Or this one.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. How knowing of you.”

  I stopped leafing through and looked up at him. “It’s only what I’d like someone else to do for me.” I thought I’d start crying, knowing Hattie like I did, knowing how she loved that baby, loved her husband. How ironic that she’d been so worried that something would happen to Victor, somewhere in the Atlantic, when it ended up being her who was killed.

  “You’re a brave soul,” the Colonel said gently, and he put his big hand on my upper arm and held it there for a moment, oddly comforting in the stark new light of day.

  There was a photograph of Hattie and the whole group: Venetia, Henry, Angela Quail, then my David and Ralph Gibbs from the shop. They were walking down the lane toward Chilbury Manor. Someone had taken the photograph while no one was watching, Victor maybe? They’d separated off from each other: Hattie and Venetia in the foreground, smiling and linking arms; David and Ralph laughing and pushing one another, looking so young and innocent before the war came and dragged them quickly into adulthood. And then, at the back, half hidden, were Angela and Henry, holding hands. She was whispering something into his ear, her other hand touching his arm, and he was laughing. They looked like lovers. I wondered why I hadn’t worked that out before. Angela was in love with Henry, but he was always infatuated with Venetia. If you look closely at the photograph, you can see that his eyes are on Venetia as she slinks ahead, while Angela’s eyes are directed sideways to him. I wondered if Venetia knew. Probably not.

  “What are you going to do with them?” the Colonel asked, glancing at my pile.

  “I’ll put them in an envelope and give them to Rose when she’s old enough to understand,” I said, straightening the small pile gently, as if it were to be a precious treat for the future. “She won’t know anything about her mother, growing up with just her father. These few items will help to fill in some of the gaps.”

  “You can’t draw a picture of someone who’s dead,” the Colonel said plainly. “Believe me, I’ve tried. There’s so much that is intangible about a person, all those little details, their past, those annoying little habits, the way they speak, their natural perfume. It’s those things—and countless more—that gives them that fullness of life that you just can’t re-create. You can use photographs, portraits, poems, scents, everything you can find to remind you of them, but to convey that essence of a mother to her children is at best sketchy.”

  “Did you lose your wife? I’m so sorry—” I must have blushed furiously as I thought of the horrid ways I’d treated the poor man, when really he was widowed, too. Just like me. And I’d never thought to ask him.

  “Yes.” He glanced out into the garden where a breeze was catching the clematis, swaying the maturing violet blooms up and back. “My daughters were seven, nine, and ten when Vera died. They remember her as a sick woman, demanding, queasy, often quite scary. It’s a tough task persuading them that once she was a vibrant, beautiful person.” He picked up the photograph of Hattie and looked sadly down at her. “She, too, had vitality and dreams, just like this poor woman.”

  I was quite struck by his words. I hadn’t known that he had a wife who had died, although he had mentioned his children in passing. I suddenly felt dreadfully sorry for him; after all, I knew how it felt to be all alone, bringing up the children, forging on.

  “David was only eight years old when Harold died. We carried on by ourselves all right, became very close. Where are your children now?”

  “They’re in Oxford with their aunt, my sister, and they’re older now: twelve, fourteen, and fifteen. I was thinking of renting a place down here and bringing them to live with me. I miss them, you see.” He coughed slightly to offset his bluntness. “But now—”

  “Yes, they’re probably better off up there for now,” I said quietly, and I found myself struck by the fact that he had been thinking of leaving and renting a house instead of living here at Ivy House. Didn’t he like it here? Why hadn’t he told me? Maybe I should have made him feel more welcome.

  So I made us both a fresh pot of tea, and as he sat with me at the kitchen table, I asked him all about his girls.

  Monday, 5th August, 1940

  Life without Prim

  This evening we had a special choir practice, the first without Prim. I could hardly bear to walk into the cold church knowing she’ll never be there again. Our choir will never be the same. Many of us won’t be able to go to Prim’s funeral as it’s to be held in London, so the Vicar held a special Sunday service for her yesterday.

  He asked me to say a few words, which was such an honor, and I decided that I would tell everyone about my time with Prim. How she was such a tremendous force in our lives. But when it came for my time to speak, I wasn’t sure I could do it, trembling with nerves and sadness as I stepped up to the pulpit.

  But then I remembered Prim. How she would want me to be strong.

  “At my very first lesson in Prim’s house, we spoke about dying. She told me how she’d nearly died of malaria. She said that she
didn’t mind the thought of death. That realizing you’re going to die actually makes life better as it’s only then that you decide to live the life you really want to live, not the one everyone else wants you to live. And to thoroughly enjoy every minute.”

  I paused to pull myself together. The whole village was there, and some people from Litchfield, too. All waiting for me to speak. “It’s shattering that she’s gone, but she wouldn’t have wanted this service to be about her death, but to be a celebration of her life. She was the most vibrant person—the most energetic, the most real person—and she’ll always be alive to me.”

  I began to cry, and Mrs. Tilling came to help me back to my seat. It’s just so hard to come to terms with the fact that her immense presence is gone.

  Tears were pouring from our eyes as we sang “Come Down, O Love Divine.” Her fierce bravado will be sorely missed, and as I looked around the choir stalls, I wondered if it could have seeped into each one of our choir members. That just by being around her, we’ve become more fierce and brave ourselves, ready to take on the world in her place.

  What happens when people die

  Their souls may go to Heaven, where I might see them again when I die (although I’m unsure how they’ll look by that time)

  Their bodies go into the ground where they become a feast for earthworms

  Their presence lives on in everyone who knew them, as if we took that responsibility when we met them, without even being asked

  Their essence is refracted into the universe, where it colors the air with their hues, eventually bleeding into the sunset with the other colors, a march of the dead every evensong

  The question of who will lead the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir

  At choir practice this evening, we had to work out what we’re going to do for Hattie’s funeral, which is tomorrow. Predictably, Mrs. B. quickly took charge in Prim’s place, but her busy hornet ways seemed so brisk and artless compared to the close memories of Prim.

  “After our tragic week, we’re here today to rehearse for Hattie’s funeral,” Mrs. B. began. “As she was one of our leading second sopranos, we owe it to her to give it our very best.”

  “It would be the very least we can do for her,” Mrs. Tilling chimed in, coming forward. “I can hardly bear for us to sing without her, but I know it is what she would have wanted. She would want us to give her the best funeral singing we’ve ever performed.”

  There was a mumble of agreement, and then Mrs. B. called for silence. “Yes, yes, everyone knows that, Mrs. Tilling. Thank you for your thoughts. We’ll take that into consideration.” She ushered Mrs. Tilling to sit back down, but Mrs. Tilling was busy looking through some sheet music at the front, and Mrs. B., visibly bristling, continued. “After much thought, I think it would be best for us to sing ‘Ave Maria’ again for the funeral. We can try our best, with my leadership, to repeat our glorious performance in Litchfield.”

  More kerfuffle. No one wanted to sing “Ave Maria” again. Somehow it seemed wrong to simply churn out something we sang to win the competition when this certainly didn’t feel in any way victorious. We looked to Mrs. Tilling, who was busy looking through a pile of music scores.

  “We can’t sing that!” she declared, popping her head up from the music. “It’s completely wrong for this situation. No, we need something else. Something for Hattie.”

  “Maybe we could try Mozart’s ‘Lacrimosa’ now that the special Memorial Service Prim was planning is…canceled. I know that we need to work on it, but it is meant for a funeral,” Mrs. Quail called.

  “No, that’s not right either,” Mrs. Tilling sighed. “It’s too heavy and dramatic. Hattie would have wanted something simple, like a favorite hymn.”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Tilling?” Mrs. B. snapped. “Tell us, pray, what you have in mind.”

  “Well, the Vicar left us all the old music from the church, and it’s a bit dusty, but I’m sure we can find something in here.”

  I went up and helped her look through. Some of the copies were very tatty, and sometimes there simply weren’t enough to go around, even if we shared one copy between three or four of us. We’d never be able to get more music in time.

  “What about this?” I called, holding something up. “Handel’s Messiah?”

  “A touch too celebratory perhaps, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said kindly, flipping on through. “Ah, here we have it, ‘Amazing Grace,’ one of the most moving pieces of music ever written.”

  Everyone murmured, and it was generally acknowledged to be an excellent choice.

  “Its beautiful anthem brings the whole of life together,” Mrs. Tilling said wistfully, then added decisively, “It is just the thing.”

  She handed out the sheets, and everyone began humming the music. We went to our places and looked up ready to begin.

  “Are you going to lead us, Mrs. Tilling?” I asked. She was the obvious person as she can read music and has a very good voice, too.

  “Yes, are you going to conduct?” a voice from the altos called.

  “Well,” Mrs. Tilling stammered. I could see she was uncomfortable, slipping into the shoes of Prim—such a unique presence and authority—when she’d only been dead a few days.

  “Go on, Mrs. Tilling,” Mrs. Quail called from the organ. “You’re the only one who can.”

  Mrs. B., who had remained at the front, moved to the center and said, “Now, I don’t think we should force poor Mrs. Tilling. After all, she only stepped forward to help us find the right piece of music, and now that has been done, she is very much needed in the altos.” She smiled benevolently at Mrs. Tilling, her hand outstretched to guide her back into her place in the choir stalls.

  For a moment, Mrs. Tilling looked as if she was about to head back to the altos, but then something held her back, and she stood up straight and smiled at Mrs. B.

  “I can do it, I think,” she said. “It won’t be the same as Prim, but we all have to do our best. I’ll be able to lead us in and keep us in time, and make sure the crescendos and rallentandos are done just right. I’ll do it.”

  “That’s the spirit, Mrs. Tilling,” Mrs. Quail called, among the other voices and nods. “You are the best we have. You’ll do a fine job!”

  I watched Mrs. B. walk back to her place, head held high to conceal her annoyance. I’ve never seen her vanquished like that before, especially by her usually loyal supporter, Mrs. Tilling. The tables are turning.

  Mrs. Tilling didn’t have a baton, but she raised her arms and nodded to Mrs. Quail at the organ to begin. Then she looked straight at me, as if she knew that I would lead the sopranos in, and a few tears began to form as I remembered lovely Hattie, a girl who’d always been part of my world, which was slowly but surely breaking up, dissolving in a way that can never be reversed.

  Venetia is the hero of Chilbury!

  The village square is in chaos. The shop is closed. But worst of all, Venetia is the hero of the hour! I can’t go anywhere without being bombarded with questions about Venetia. How did she save the baby? Did she get the cake Mrs. Quail baked for her? Was she going to receive a medal of bravery? It’s all “Poor Venetia” and “Well done, Venetia.”

  She was lucky to be in the right place at the right time. Anyone would have done as she did. I most certainly would have had I been there. Then I would have been the hero.

  But Venetia is pregnant!

  Our maid Elsie told me this morning, making fresh scones to tempt me into the kitchen.

  “Did you hear the latest news?” she said softly, lavishing butter onto another for me, proffering a dish of strawberry jam in my direction.

  “What news?” I said through a full mouth.

  “About Venetia having a baby.” She turned away so that I couldn’t see her face, her apron swooshing out around her narrow frame like a ballerina. She has that tall, picturesque look that looks wonderful from a distance, only close up you get to see the sullen bitterness in her eyes. It quite ruins the effect. Today she was looking happier, howeve
r, a twinkle in her great green eyes like a sorcerer’s cat on the prowl.

  “I heard about her rescuing the baby,” I began. But she butted in rudely.

  “No, her own baby.” She turned toward me and pushed her pointy face into mine. “Mr. Slater’s baby.”

  I took a step back. “Venetia’s pregnant?”

  “Shh,” she quickly said. “Don’t tell anyone I told you.” She must be scared someone will say she’s been gossiping, or causing trouble. She turned and dashed out of the kitchen, leaving me confounded, then dismayed.

  Suddenly everything makes sense!

  Why Daddy is furious with Venetia

  Why Venetia is not speaking to Daddy

  Why Mama is excessively concerned about Venetia’s health

  Why Venetia is extremely upset that Slater is missing

  Why everyone is acting very oddly and, worst of all,

  Why no one is telling me a thing about it

  Yet it seems strange that Elsie should be the one to mention it. She hardly speaks to me at all—I’ve often wondered if she has a chip on her shoulder about being a servant. Venetia says that’s why getting staff is so difficult these days. No one wants to be bossed about. Maybe Elsie was getting her own back on us, especially now that she has twice as much work since Proggett left. We hadn’t seen him for a day or so, and forced open his room. It was completely cleared out. He must have left the night of the bomb. We’re all baffled, except for Daddy, who’s completely livid.

  I decided to find Mama to ask why she hadn’t told me about Venetia being pregnant, but when I found her in the nursery with whining Lawrence, I chose not to say anything. Sometimes it’s best to carry on as usual so that no one suspects that I know. I’ve been thinking about it all day, though, turning it over and over in my mind. I can’t help relishing the idea that this will surely be the end of Venetia.