The Chilbury Ladies' Choir

by Jennifer Ryan

  I shuddered with fear as I crept over to the back stairs. The house was still, the hallway echoing with the mismatched tocks of the grandfather clock. I slid soundlessly up the back stairs and knocked cautiously on Venetia’s door. It was opened by Mrs. Tilling, who had gone straight over after morning surgery.

  “Kitty,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have to talk to Venetia.”

  “But what if your father sees you?” she said anxiously, pulling me inside the dark room.

  “I have to see Venetia.” I looked around me. The curtains were drawn tight, and only a small bedside lamp—Venetia’s purple one—shed a bruised light around the room. The place was cleared of the usual debris, the discarded clothes, the spilled perfume bottles, the books and the jewelry boxes. Even the dressing table was orderly, sterilized for a new tomorrow.

  Venetia stirred in the bed. Mrs. Tilling went to her side and explained that I was there, and she would make some tea for us.

  “Please let her wake slowly,” she said to me. “And remember what’s happened, Kitty. You are not foremost in her mind at the moment, so don’t get upset if she’s angry with you.”

  I stood where I was for a few minutes after Mrs. Tilling had left.

  “Come and sit down, Kitty,” a weak voice mumbled from the bed.

  I went and sat down.

  “Venetia, I’m very sorry. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about it. I know how wrong it was of me. I know now, you don’t need to tell me. I know that Henry was in love with you, and I understand that you meant the best for everyone. I know it all now, but I didn’t yesterday. I’m so sorry.”

  She lay still, and I wondered if she was well enough for this conversation. Her dazed eyes locked into mine, glassed over with thought or confusion or delirium. I couldn’t make out what she was thinking.

  “I despised you at first for telling Henry, do you know that?” she said in a croaky voice. “But I came round to thinking it wasn’t so very bad. I know you didn’t intend it that way. In any case, now we know that Henry’s a vile person, a cruel, unkind man, despite how handsome he looks on the outside. You deserve better, Kitty.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was just looking at her. Her face was emaciated. Her hair clung to her head and clumped around her shoulders. Even though someone had sprayed some lavender water around, it didn’t cover the smell of something bad, blood maybe. The bed was moist with tears and sweat. I had never seen her like this.

  I began to cry.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Tilling hurried in. “You need to get out, Kitty. Your father’s home, and he knows you’re here. He saw you walking up the drive as he pulled in.” She picked up my arm and yanked me up. “Go, leave now. He’s threatening to thrash you.”

  She pushed me out of the room, and I ran as quietly as I could for the back stairs. My heart was pounding, and I was feeling incredibly flustered, all fingers and thumbs, as I went to grab the banister. As soon as I reached the bottom, I clung to the side to make sure the coast was clear. The most hazardous part of my journey lay before me—the dash across the back of the hall to the kitchen, passing the door to Daddy’s study.

  I heard a movement in the study as the door stood ajar. I couldn’t see all the way into the room, but he was most definitely in there, looking through papers by the sound of the rustling. I decided that speed was of the essence, and counted silently one, two, three, and darted out across the bare marble floor. In my haste my foot slid off to the side, sending me crashing to the floor. I scrambled to get up and run forward but found myself barred by a violent and volatile man—my father.

  At the sight of me, he lunged down, his maroon face in a crazed snarl. His hands grasped toward my throat as if to strangle me outright. I backed away terrified, scrambling to my feet.

  “Ah, it’s the little traitor, is it?” he bellowed. “I want a word with you.” He grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into his study, where he dropped me on the floor in front of his desk. “I want to know precisely why you want to ruin our family’s name.” He strode around to the other side of the desk, picking up his horsewhip and coming back to where I was cowering, whooshing it rhythmically onto his boot, where it cracked with every step he took. Whoosh, crack. Whoosh, crack. Whoosh, crack.

  “Please, no,” I muttered, terrified. Once Daddy had whipped a horse to near death—it had to be put down as a result—and frankly I didn’t reckon my chances. “Please, let me talk. Let me explain. Stop!”

  But he had already started. In no particular place, and with no particular finesse, he lashed me as furiously as he could. I hunched forward so that my shoulders and back took the brunt, and I could feel the back of my dress being slashed and the sharp wince of pain when he broke through the fabric, then broke through the skin, the wet trickle of blood coursing down my back, mingling with the sweat and tears that I couldn’t hold back. I was sobbing, yelling, moaning, not knowing what to do. Every time I tried to rise, his foot would come out and boot me back down. I was completely at his mercy, and I tried to crawl toward his shoe and grip his ankle, pressing him to stop, but he shook me off, further enraged. “You worthless”—whip—“disloyal”—whip—“fickle”—whip—“miserable”—whip—“wretch.”

  Then I heard another voice.

  “Brigadier, what are you doing? Put that whip down at once.” At first I could hardly recognize who it was, so different was it from her usual soft enunciation. Today it rang out loud, strong, calm. A woman with power.

  It was Mrs. Tilling. She was standing at the open door, her demeanor upright and poised, like a disgusted school headmistress stumbling on the pranks of a naughty boy.

  “Get out, you nosy little woman,” he raged. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “I think it does,” she said crisply.

  There was a pause. Daddy turned around, as did I, and saw Mrs. Tilling, the gentlest and meekest of women, carefully closing the door and taking an authoritative step forward.

  “What are you talking about, woman?” Daddy bellowed, making a move toward her, the whip thwacking menacingly on his leg.

  “Don’t mess with me, Brigadier,” she said sharply. “You wouldn’t want to make an enemy of someone who knows so much about you and your immoral little deal.” Her voice clipped sharply like an efficient sewing machine drilling up an old hem.

  Daddy stopped in his tracks, fury over his scowling countenance.

  Astonished does not convey how I felt. Never in all my life have I ever known Mrs. Tilling to stand up to anyone, let alone Daddy. Now, in my hour of need, she had found the strength—the oomph!—to walk in here and save my life. I wanted to run and throw myself into her arms with love and gratitude, and warn her that we should get ourselves out as quickly as we could!

  “Don’t threaten me, Mrs. Tilling,” he spat. “You don’t know anything.” His eyes narrowed threateningly.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Brigadier.” Mrs. Tilling stood resolutely where she was, upright and composed, as if she had gained a new position of strength and righteousness. “I know enough to have a full investigation set into motion. If that’s what you want.” She said every word carefully. “All it takes is one small telephone call.”

  “Give the game up, Mrs. Tilling,” Daddy ordered. “You don’t know what you’re playing with. How irresponsible it would be for you to mess around with this. Put our little community in jeopardy, crush us in this awful war.”

  Daddy can be extremely frightening when he’s in this kind of temper, and I was worried for a moment that Mrs. Tilling would back down, ease herself out of the room, and the thrashing would be resumed without delay.

  But she stood firm. I could even see a flicker of a smile on her lips, a small, quiet kind of smile, the type you might see at a chess tournament when someone knows they’ve won a long time before anyone else realizes.

  “Don’t get all patronizing, Brigadier.” She took two steps toward him, so that she was only about a foot awa
y. “I have nothing to fear from you.” She lightly swept a little dust from his shoulder. It was a damning gesture, dismissive. “Quite the contrary, I assure you.”

  Daddy was visibly perturbed. He took a step back and looked across the room as if for inspiration, some kind of solid ground. His brow was fraught and his eyes darkened, and his thin lips drew down at the corners, a schoolboy thwarted.

  I cowered farther into the corner. That Mrs. Tilling could stand up to Daddy was one thing, but that she held something over him was quite another. I was unsure how he would react. He doesn’t like women at the best of times, merely tolerates Mama and us girls. What was it that she knew that could force him to back down? I’ve never known Daddy to concede defeat. Not once among his many, varied combats. Even Mrs. B. treads carefully around him, and we all know how relentless she can be.

  Mrs. Tilling looked over to me, beckoning me to get up.

  I got unsteadily to my feet, looked around at the small dark drips of blood on the parquet floor, and tried to straighten my shredded dress and tidy my hair.

  “Now say you’re sorry,” she calmly said to him.

  “Say you’re sorry, Kitty,” he bellowed at me.

  “Not her,” she shouted—yes, Mrs. Tilling shouting! “You say you’re sorry to her. She’s thirteen years old, and you’re battering her with a horse’s whip. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Now, Mrs. Tilling, I don’t know why—”

  “Apologize.” There was a look in her eye I had never seen before, like Justice weighing the balance and finding him wanting.

  “I’m sorry, Kitty, Mrs. Tilling appears to have gone quite mad,” Daddy said, a little embarrassed.

  “No, don’t apologize for my actions. Lord knows I am capable of doing so myself should it become necessary. Apologize for whipping her, of course.”

  “Sorry, Kitty.” He struggled, his hands scrunched in tightly knuckled balls, furious and not looking at either of us. “Now, I think you can go, Kitty, and I think you’ve done enough, too, Mrs. Tilling,” he said sharply.

  “No.” Mrs. Tilling came over and put her arm around me, guiding me to the door. “I think your family has had enough of your tyranny. They’ve put up with your cruelty for years, and I don’t see why they should put up with it for a minute longer.” She stopped in her tracks and turned toward him, pointing a finger to the window. “There’s a war going on out there. A real war. People are being killed defending our precious country, and all you can do is beat your own children into submission. Well, it’s not going to happen anymore. Do you understand?”

  She turned to me. “You can go and clean yourself up now, Kitty. He won’t be threatening you again, and if he does you’re to tell me straightaway.” She looked at him as she said this, making sure he understood. I nodded and scurried out quickly. Holding my breath, I leaped up the stairs two at a time and nipped quickly into Venetia’s room, quietly closing the door behind me.

  “Kitty, I heard the screams, what happened?” she whispered.

  I showed her my back.

  “Oh no! Not again!” She sighed, motioning me to bring a flannel from the dresser.

  I brought it over, with a cup of water to make it moist, and sat on the bed next to her so that she could prop herself up in bed and clean up my wounds. It was pitiable—one victim helping another. But it felt normal somehow, as if we were each other’s natural allies.

  I told her about the standoff.

  “Who’d have thought Mrs. Tilling would have it in her?” Venetia exclaimed, confusion over her face. “I wonder what she knows.”

  “Perhaps he’s having an affair?” I said. “Although I can’t imagine he’d be so worried about keeping it quiet—he has such little regard for Mama. Or maybe it could be his buying black-market gas from the man in Chartham, although I’m sure his status and army connections could override any manner of criminal offenses. He tells me everyone does it anyway. No, it has to be something else. Something much, much worse.”

  “Yes, it has to be something else.” She paused, still dabbing my wounds, making me wince with every touch. “Mrs. Tilling has been so different lately. It’s as if she’s discovered there’s more inside her.”

  “It’s the war,” I replied. “It puts everyone on a different footing, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Venetia said quickly, with a small laugh. “It’s us women in charge now,” she said in more of her old cavalier style. “The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir will rule the world.”

  Through all the pain as she cleaned my wounds, I found myself grinning, and through all the background noise and darkness surrounding us, I had a strange feeling that everything was going to be all right.

  CHILBURY MANOR,

  CHILBURY,

  KENT.

  Saturday, 10th August, 1940

  Dear Henry,

  I could dance for joy as you have made me the happiest girl in all of England, comfy and warm in the knowledge that I am now your girl. When I remember this afternoon, after you left the Manor and I walked you home and got you out of that horrid temper in the little outhouse in the wood, I can’t imagine such happiness could truly be mine. And no matter what happens, I’ll know that you’re there thinking of me, waiting to be with me again once this silly war comes to an end.

  So I’ve handed in my notice at Chilbury Manor, just as you said I was to do. I thought they’d ask what I meant to do next, but they didn’t seem bothered, which was just as well as I didn’t know how they’d react when I’d tell them that you and I were to be married. The Brigadier is so old-fashioned that he’d have a heart attack at the maid marrying one of the nobs. Now, that would be a sight!

  I’m a bit unsure where I’ll go for now. I have only to stay my notice period, and then I’ll have to move. I have a good mind to ask your mother if I can come and live with her, as we are now together. I know she won’t like the idea of you marrying me, but she’ll have to get used to it. I thought maybe you could write her a letter, telling her about us and asking if I can stay.

  That’s all for now, my love. I think of you all the time and our beautiful afternoon together. Please write soon.

  All my love,

  Elsie

  LITCHFIELD HOSPITAL,

  LITCHFIELD,

  KENT.

  Saturday, 10th August, 1940

  Dear Clara,

  I am lucky to be alive! Although I fear this may not be the case for much longer. I am terrified, Clara. Terrified, and unable to think what to do.

  In walked the Brigadier at morning visiting time, frothing at the mouth like a poisonous toad. Dressed in his usual army uniform, his medals and paraphernalia showing the world who’s boss, his shoulders forward ready for a fight, he looked around the beds of worried women until he spotted me, even though I was half hiding beneath the blankets. Striding over to my bed, he stood towering over me seething with fury, his face reddish purple and the veins in his throat and temples blue and throbbing like sinewy snakes.

  “What have you told Mrs. Tilling?” he roared at me. “I might have known you’d mess it all up, land us in trouble with your shoddy stupidity. I should never have trusted a woman.” He bent forward and leaned his fists on the bed, his face hovering just above mine, his breath like spoiled meat or some other animal flesh in a state of unrelenting decay.

  “I didn’t tell her a thing, you stupid man,” I whispered loudly to him, spitting the words out with pent-up anger. “She ruddy well guessed.”

  “How could she have guessed?” he shouted, standing back up and putting his hands on his hips, looking like a brutish dictator. “How could she have guessed unless you didn’t do the job properly?”

  I offered him a meaningful look at the nurse, who was sitting at her desk taking a keen interest in our exchange.

  “Hello, there.” I smiled at her cheerily, a small wave.

  His voice lowered to a brutish whisper. “How could Mrs. Tilling have guessed if it weren’t for you leaving clues everywhere?�
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  “The girl baby is the spitting image of Venetia,” I said matter-of-factly. “The other baby looks like Hattie. The rest of the pieces just fell into place. A lucky guess.”

  “She knows too much for it to be a guess.”

  “She has no proof of anything, and there is no conceivable way she can get any unless one of us tells her.”

  There was a pause, and he looked at his hands, pink and wiry, like some form of dried-out seafood, a shellfish crawled loose from its shell and left to crust over. Then he turned and sat on the bed with a defeated thump.

  “She’s threatening me,” he said quietly.

  “Bribery?” I asked softly.

  “Nothing as base as that. Trust your rotten mind to leap to such conclusions!” he muttered angrily. “Exposure.” He looked out of the window, at the hefty clouds collecting as if there might be rain later. “Prison.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to make sure we deny everything and admit nothing,” I said sharply. “No one has any proof. They’d have to get an admission from one of us. We have to stick together.” And, with this as my final conclusion, I turned to the nurse. “My companion is leaving now, and I need some help with my leg,” I said evenly, and she came round to see what I wanted in a most obedient manner.

  He shot me a look of disgust, getting up briskly. “I can’t think of anything worse than being stuck with the likes of you. Just you wait until you’re out of here, Miss Paltry.” Then he added, all menacing, “There’ll be a proper discussion about this waiting for you.” With which he turned on his heel, gave first me and then the nurse a vile growl, and strode purposefully toward the door.

  I let my heavy body fall back into the pillow, like a body launching off a great cliff and hurtling down toward a rocky sea.

  My only plan is to disappear the moment my hip is mended and they let me out of hospital. I’ll have to go to Chilbury first and try to get my money back from Ralph Gibbs. I know it won’t be easy, but I have my ways, Clara, and I’m desperate enough to bargain for half the way things stand. Then I can make my way to Birnham Wood and meet you there. It doesn’t fill my heart with joy, but all I’m asking is simply to stay alive. Lord, I’m livid that I got into this mess. I wish I’d had nothing to do with it.