The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  I’m still very weak. Mrs. Tilling comes to see me every day to tut over me as she doesn’t think I’m making enough progress. Mama has been wonderful, helping me through with lots of soup and good food. I worry that she has been giving me her rations, and Kitty’s, too, probably, as I’ve had eggs every day and bacon at least three times this week. My father is furious with Mama for being so nice to me but has stayed away, for which I can only be grateful. I think he’s playing a waiting game, lurking quietly in the wings until I become well enough to deal with his wrath.

  He expects me to marry someone else quickly so that I can pretend that the baby is my new husband’s—by which we all mean Henry, even though no one’s saying it. Sweep it under the rug once and for all. It never dawns on him that I might not want to marry anyone else. I just want Alastair back. I keep wondering if he’s out there somewhere, and if he is, why he’s not coming back to me. I imagine him walking through the door, putting his arms around me as if nothing happened. I know I should be loathing him right now, but I can’t. I feel that I love him even more, with every ounce of strength I can muster. It’s as if the bombs have made everything transparently clear: now all I want is him.

  But it’s been five days since the bombs, and with every day the chance that he is alive gets slimmer, as where might he be otherwise? There are three things that would account for his disappearance, none of them good. The first is that he was shot in the woods, either by my father or by a member of his underworld, and now lies dead in a ditch, and the second is that he was bombed in his house, although they tell me that no remains were found in the wreckage. The third option is that he left the village that evening, after our argument, and has not returned.

  I wear his St. Christopher medal every day, slipping the tiny sliver beneath the front of my dress so that no one can see. It makes me think he is out there somewhere, thinking of me, whether it’s here on earth or from some kind of heaven, looking down on me.

  Meanwhile, Henry was back for Hattie’s funeral and came to see me this afternoon. I’d seen him after the funeral, of course, where we spoke about Hattie, and I must confess it was rather nice to have him there, another one of our old childhood gang. He is so gentle these days. It’s hard not to warm to him. Although he seems less keen than he was in the spring, and I wondered how much he’d been told about Alastair. Mrs. B. is such a belligerent gossip, although I’m sure she doesn’t know the intimate details of what happened between Alastair and me. Henry’s bound to disapprove of me spending time with him, but obviously he’d never show it.

  Mama begged me to come downstairs to see Henry, and I leaned on her arm as she brought me into the drawing room, which seemed so light and airy and formal compared to my little room. She’d opened the door to the patio, and a fresh scent of grass cuttings wafted in with a cool breeze. The sunlight reflected in the great silver mirror above the fireplace, and shimmered around the pale walls and furnishings, and I wondered how lovely it would be to live in a past era, one where people were civil and poised, one where everything made sense. One where innocent people didn’t get killed by bombs, or vanish into thin air.

  “Henry,” I said carefully, giving him my hand to shake and sitting on the taut gray sofa. I felt rather nervous for some reason, and had put on some lipstick and brushed my hair. He was looking excessively proper and respectable with his uniform so tidy, his handshake so measured.

  “Hello, Venetia,” he said, smiling into my eyes. “Wonderful to see you.” He glanced around the room, selected a settee opposite me, and sat down, taking off his hat and placing it on the seat next to him. “I heard that you’re quite the hero in these parts.”

  “So they say.” I laughed a little with embarrassment. “It was rather stupid actually, running into an exploding building.”

  “But it was terribly brave of you. Not everyone would have risked their own life so readily. People are saying how well you did, with your wounds and so forth.”

  I flinched at the “and so forth,” wondering if for some mad reason he knew about the pregnancy. No, of course he doesn’t. Not even Alastair knows about the pregnancy. I saw him register my movement and hastily pulled myself together.

  “A lot of fuss, that’s all.” I smiled, trying to find another topic of conversation. “And you, too. Mrs. B. tells us you’re to get a medal.”

  “Well, Mama has a lot of notions, and I’m not sure if I’ll get a medal, but I have been shooting a lot of the enemy down, which is the main thing.”

  “We owe so much to you pilots, fighting back against the Nazis. They would have invaded by now if you hadn’t frightened them off.” I was trying to sound bold and strong, but the words came tumbling out all smattered with potholes.

  I could see him taking in my attempts to be normal, as if I were less beautiful, more unkempt. As if he were thinking about how much I’d changed. And I have changed. But somehow I didn’t want him to think that. I wanted him to think I was exactly the same.

  “I’m looking a bit of a mess, I’m afraid,” I said, tossing my hair back as I would usually, putting more of a swing into my voice. “I haven’t been so well since the air raid.”

  “Yes, I heard,” he said warmly. “I hope I’m not putting you out, getting you up like this?”

  “No, it’s nice to see you. In any case, you’ll be gone in a few days, and I wouldn’t want to miss you.”

  “It’s funny being back, after all that’s happened. The air raid, Prim and Hattie, the disappearance of that fellow, what was his name again?” He stood up and went to the mantelpiece, interested in the craftsmanship as he ran his fingers over the elaborate white edging.

  “Slater,” I said quickly, trying not to put any inflection on the name. “Mr. Slater. No one knows what’s happened to him.”

  “I heard that you were going to his house the night of the raid.” He didn’t turn around, just continued studying the mantelpiece. “I wondered if you were having a liaison of sorts.”

  “Well, I was, as a matter of fact,” I said boldly. I could hardly lie when it was now common knowledge, but I confess I really didn’t care to discuss this with Henry. I didn’t want him to know. It wasn’t his business, and I somehow didn’t think it would be useful. “But it wasn’t a big thing. Just a spot of fun.”

  “Oh, I see.” He turned and looked at me, straight in the eyes. “I wondered, that’s all.” He walked toward me and sat down beside me on the sofa. A worried look had come over his face. “Are you all right, Venetia? I mean, are you really all right? Deep down inside?”

  I nearly burst out crying.

  Of course I’m not all right. The man I love has gone, and I have his child growing inside me. I’m scared to death I’ll lose the baby, and I try to stay in bed all day. I’m petrified of what’s going to happen.

  “I’m fine,” I said quietly, rearranging my skirt on my lap. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “You just look so different, not the same Venetia as you were. You seem, well”—he paused in thought—“lost.”

  I had to get up. Being so close and him being so terrifically frank with me was all too much. It would be too easy for me to cry my eyes out on his shoulder. We’ve known each other since we were children. He is one of my best friends, but I know that revealing everything would do me no favors. I walked over to the piano and began straightening out the music, which was all higgledy-piggledy on top.

  “I lost a lot of blood, that’s all. It’s been rather exhausting, frankly.”

  “Yes,” he said, but he seemed to be dwelling on something quite different. “What can one do?” Our eyes met, and I know he was trying to read me, trying to get inside. He must have seen me let my guard down, as he got up swiftly and took a step toward me.

  “Venetia.”

  I don’t know if he was coming to take me in his arms or kiss me or just to be close, but I stepped back, keeping him away.

  “How awful of me not to offer you tea.” I darted for the door. As I left, I registered
his disappointment—or was it annoyance—at my escape, and remembered uneasily that I had been encouraging him the few times we’d last met. An awful vision of David’s leaving party scorched through my head. Why had I played those ridiculous games with him?

  When I returned some minutes later, he was standing by the patio door looking down over the yellowing lawn, the unpruned roses, the fountain turned off to save water. He had changed his tone completely, becoming charming and impersonal, an RAF pilot on a jaunt, keeping his buddies up to date with amusing stories. He’s so terribly witty these days, getting me laughing about some prank his friend got up to asking too many girls out at the same time. I know the pilots are incredibly popular with the girls, and I imagine he has more than his fair share with his amiable bonhomie, but I somehow missed that tense moment from before, and tried in vain to recapture it, but he resolutely kept up his light and impersonal banter.

  That is, until he left. I had walked him to the front door, and we stood together on the brink, the sky fading to a darker shade of its former brilliance, the sound of a barn owl piercing through the still air from the wood. He turned to me, his eyes boring into me again, his hand reaching out for mine.

  “I hate to leave you like this, Venetia. Please let me help you.” He kissed my hand in an old-fashioned way, his eyes flickering up to meet mine for an intense moment, before he smiled, said good-bye, and turned down the path. I leaned on the door frame and watched the back of him as he walked away into the late-afternoon haze. He looked so very manly in his uniform, all rational and not losing his head. It was hard to remember the boy he had once been, the time we had kissed by the river when we were both about fourteen. Of course it was forgotten quickly, and we never spoke about it again, but as I stood there watching him walk away, I wondered what it would be like to be Henry’s wife. Perhaps not so very bad after all.

  I spent the rest of the night thinking long and hard about Alastair. Where has he gone? Why did he leave me? Even though he didn’t know about the baby, what about his love for me? Did I mean so little to him that he could just leave? And what if he was lost in the flames, or killed by Daddy or any number of spies or black marketeers? Or on the run from the police or the army or the intelligence service? What had I been thinking to fall in love with such a man?

  And yet, when I recall the passion, the poetry—

  But where has it gone, Angie? Where has he gone? How could he desert me when I need him most?

  I began to look at it practically. If he is in hiding, or has vanished to a new safe haven, then he doesn’t care for me, and I have to get on as well as I can by myself, and if he is dead, well, I need to get on, too. Whichever way it is, I can’t sit here in my room and wait for him to return. I have a baby growing inside me. Soon it will be too late for me to deal with this.

  Tonight I took off the St. Christopher medal and felt its lightness in my palm, and then I looked out my open window into the night and prayed on the first star that I saw, willing him to come back with all my might.

  And so, dear Angie, it is with a heavy heart that I go to bed tonight. Perhaps tomorrow will come and he will be at my door, although as every day passes that chance seems to get smaller and smaller, like a distant star gradually dying to a tiny, unfathomable glimmer of a memory.

  I will write again soon,

  Venetia

  Thursday, 8th August, 1940

  I have taken to going round to Chilbury Manor every morning to see Venetia. She is not at all well, still terrifically pale and weak from the blood loss. Anyone can see she’s heartbroken. She hardly says a word without crying, and turns away most food, although Mrs. Winthrop is turning the county over to get her favorite meats and fruits. I worry that she will lose the pregnancy, although I sometimes wonder whether—well, I expect we shall see how things work out.

  Mrs. Winthrop had a word with me as I left today, telling me that Henry had been to see Venetia. He is on leave and, with the RAF out every day fighting and fatalities growing, I can only imagine his purpose.

  “Did he ask her to marry him?” I asked.

  “No, but I think he may do so. Obviously he knows little about Slater, and nothing about the baby.”

  “Will she accept?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looked at me long and hard. “She knows she’s in a bind. She swears that Slater loves her, but where the devil is he?”

  Back at home that evening, after we’d finished dinner and washed the dishes, I came to sit in the front room with the Colonel for a cup of tea while he was reading the paper. I sat close to him, waiting for him to pause so that I could talk. In the end he smiled and looked up.

  “I know you’re watching me.” He laughed gently. “What is it that you want?”

  “I need to ask you a question,” I said, thinking it best to be direct as possible. “I need to know about Mr. Slater. I have a feeling that you know what happened to him.”

  He glanced over the paper at me, then turned the page noisily, making a big deal about folding the pages straight. “Now you know I can’t tell you that kind of thing, Mrs. Tilling,” he said calmly.

  “Yes, but I really wonder if you might be able to break that, just this once, just a little. You see, there’s a young woman who is completely heartbroken on his account, and she is now on the brink of accepting an engagement from another.” I paused, wondering how I could put it to best effect. “I know you can’t tell me, but if you could perhaps give me some small indication as to whether he is alive, that would be very helpful.”

  “Well, I can’t, I’m afraid.” He went back to studying his paper as if completely absorbed.

  “Or perhaps you could simply turn the page of the newspaper if he is alive.” It was a chance. I was desperate.

  He sat contemplating this for a few minutes, then turned the page of his paper.

  “And is he in prison, or in some way unable to get to her?”

  This time the page turned quickly, his eyes still glued to the text.

  “So she shouldn’t be marrying this other chap, then?”

  At this he pulled the newspaper down onto his lap and looked straight at me. “If Slater is alive, it’s because he is lucky. One day he will die, or land up in some prison somewhere. She stands a better chance at happiness with this other fellow, if you ask me.”

  “But she’s not in love with him. She’s in love with Slater.”

  “Well, it stands against all reason. He’s not the type of fellow one should fall in love with.” He pulled up the newspaper again, giving it a hard shake to straighten the pages, then resumed his reading.

  “We can’t all choose who we fall in love with,” I said, rather annoyed at his insensitivity.

  He pulled down the paper and looked at me for a moment, suddenly thoughtful, then replied, “You’re right.”

  I poured out the tea. “So should I tell her to wait for him?”

  “That depends on how much time she has,” he said quietly, then added as an afterthought, “and how much pain she’ll go through when he puts his life at risk again and again and again, until he finally loses it.”

  And that’s all I could get out of him. He utterly refused to tell me anything else, even though I tried my most conniving methods. What a stubborn man!

  I began pondering other ways I could find out more about Slater, and remembered Carrington, who also works in that department now. Perhaps he could find out about Slater for me. He of all people would know that I’m trustworthy.

  I called his number, even though it was getting late.

  “Parnham House,” pronounced the officious tones of the butler.

  “I’d like to speak to Lt. Carrington, please,” I said, trying to keep my voice confident and firm.

  “He is not available.”

  “It is a bit of an emergency,” I said quickly.

  There was a pause and a small cough. “I shall inquire. Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Mrs. Margaret Tilling, from Chilbury.”

/>   A minute later I heard the soft upper-class tones of Carrington, whispering in the echoey room. “Hello there.” He seemed pleased to speak to me, which was a good sign. “Hope you survived the Chilbury bombs all right?”

  “I did, but a friend of mine is in a spot of trouble. It is a matter of the heart. I was wondering if you could use your connections at Litchfield Park to find out about someone?”

  “I’ll try,” he said quickly. “I can’t promise anything. Who is the person?”

  “A Mr. Alastair Slater. Could be a black marketeer, could be caught and in prison, could be dead, but almost certainly is known by your lot. I just wanted to know his story. Whether my friend should hold out for him or not.”

  “Yes, quite agree. I’ll be onto it straightaway,” he said cheerfully, obviously disguising the nature of our conversation. Then he paused, and I heard voices in the background. “Look here,” he whispered. “I’m afraid I have to leave now, but I know what you’re after and I’ll ask a few questions and telephone if I find anything. Cheerio.” And he was off the line.

  The Colonel came downstairs and eyed me suspiciously, so I picked up my duster and gave the telephone a quick dust, beaming a cheerful little smile at him.

  Thursday, 8th August, 1940

  The Money

  This morning, Silvie and I went to have a look at the massive pile of broken buildings in the village square. Lots of people have started digging through it, some helpfully trying to find the things of the people who lived there, but most are looters, stealing anything they can find.

  Much to our surprise, we found Tom there. Hands on hips, he was standing on top of a heap of debris, dirty as a bandit.