Low and grimy was me.
She didn’t say anything, just nodded and occasionally creased her forehead, offering me sympathy, of all things. When I’d come to an end, she calmly patted my hand and told me they were expecting me at the Vicarage.
And you’d be surprised at me, Clara, as for once I was relieved. I needed to rest my hip, and Mrs. Quail is a down-to-earth sort. And a good cook.
“I thought it would be a good match for you,” she said, tidying my things into a bag. “At least until you find a place of your own.”
“And they don’t know about—” The truth seemed so open now, so loose and uncontained and out of my control.
She laughed, not a big laugh, but a laugh all the same. “No, no one else has ever suspected a thing.”
I let out a nervy kind of laugh, too, from pure relief, and that by some incredible stroke of luck I was still alive and free, that I had a roof over my head, a job.
I looked Mrs. Tilling square in the face and said, “Thank you.”
She must have known I meant it, as she put her warm thin hand on mine and squeezed it.
“Why are you being so helpful, Mrs. Tilling?” I asked, wondering what’s in it for her.
“We have to stand together and look after each other, Miss Paltry, or we’ll never have any chance against the Nazis.”
Funny, I’d completely forgotten about the war.
Leaving her looking on from her front door, I made my way up to the Vicarage. But as I limped up into the square, there was one thing I hadn’t been expecting. The sight of my old house, now a pile of rubble settling among the other piles of rubble that were once the houses on Church Row, lay strewn before me. My life had been in that place for years, and although I was never especially happy there, those were still my years.
A shiver of horror ran over me as I found myself drawn to the carnage. All that was left of my house was a mush of bricks and debris, pieces of wall still with my blue-striped wallpaper and those hideous green tiles from the kitchen. A fire had carried half the contents of my house to oblivion, and the ransackers took the rest.
There were still a few children out, nosing through the wreckage and showing off if they found anything. One of them held up a piece of a photograph, still clinging to part of a frame.
“Give me that,” I yelled, grabbing it from the little thief. “That’s mine. Now, get out of here.” I swatted them away, flailing around and giving them each a clip round the head. “All of you, get off my house.”
I have to confess that when they’d gone I slumped down and cried. Everything that I owned was in that house, now destroyed or burned or nicked.
I looked at the broken picture in my hand. It’s the one I have of you and me with Mum, less than a year before she died. You were about sixteen, and I was twelve, happy and innocent to this wretched world we live in. We were in the garden at Birnham Wood, I could see the house in the corner, the gables where the wisteria grew. Mum loved that wisteria. I wondered what had brought me so far away from that moment. How could I still be the same woman as the girl in the photograph? What has become of me?
After an hour or so of picking through my things, finding a fork and a spoon, some hairclips, a broken ornament, that dancing-couple statuette I always loved, I heard a voice behind me on the footpath.
“Miss Paltry, are you all right?”
It was the Vicar, come to take me home with him, and I realized that it had begun to rain without me noticing, fat drops of water splattering on and around us, getting harder as we made our way across the square to the Vicarage.
He showed me to the comfortable room they’d prepared, “especially for our midwife guest.” After I settled in, we had a fish supper, and then I sat listening to the wireless with news of the war, of the Battle of Britain, Nazi planes dropping bombs over the southeast, and I was suddenly struck by how precious it all is, how much we have to protect.
So here I am, in the most unlikeliest of places, writing this sitting up in my soft, warm bed, as the rain falls outside my window. I feel like I need to write it all out tonight so that I can start afresh tomorrow, move on to a new day, a new beginning.
I know that you will be cross with me, Clara, and I know you’re planning to come and give me a piece of your mind. But please stay away. My hip is sore, and I need to rest for a time, and then I need to earn a little money from a few births, find a small place of my own somewhere.
And then I will turn my attention to Ralph Gibbs. Make no mistake, Clara, I will get my money come hell or high water.
Until then,
Edwina
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Monday, 19th August, 1940
Dear Angela,
Since my office at Litchfield Park was obliterated by the bombs, they’re moving me up to London. The bombing was horrific, a lot of people’s homes destroyed, and a lot of those beautiful Tudor buildings. I feel terribly guilty for being excited to leave, but I need to be away to take my mind off everything that’s happened.
I do still pine for Alastair, but I can’t get over him leaving me like he did. The more I think about it, I feel that he was two different men, the one who was a villain and a spy, and the other Alastair—the one I knew—who was gentle and clever and decent. I wonder if he’s somewhere out there, thinking of me.
In the meantime, Kitty has got us involved in a singing concert for the people who were bombed in Litchfield. At first it was just us singing along to some gramophone records at home, but then Mama suggested that we make it for the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. I could make a joke about the Litchfield people needing cheering up, not burst eardrums, but I won’t as I’m sure they’ll love it. There aren’t a lot of good things you can give people these days, now that everything’s rationed or not allowed, but at least we can still sing. It’s amazing how much better it can make you feel. Prim always used to tell us it’s because of all the blood flowing through our bodies, the extra air in our lungs, making us feel alive. Poor Prim! It’ll be sad to have the concert without her here. She would have loved it.
Mrs. Tilling arranged for us to use a church hall in Litchfield this coming Saturday, and Kitty made some colorful posters to put up around the town. They think that over seventy people might come, and we’re beginning to feel quite nervous.
There was a practice this evening in the village hall, and we arrived wondering how it would all work out. Halls are nothing like churches, and the music we were singing was certainly not “Ave Maria.” But we’re terribly excited. What better way to cheer us up after cleaning up first Chilbury and then the rather larger job at Litchfield.
“Hello, everyone,” Mrs. Tilling said jovially. “Let’s start by getting into place then, shall we? Everyone up on stage.” She whisked her hands up to hurry us along, and then began to position us. “Sopranos on the right, altos on the left,” she called, and then began pulling the shorter people forward and pushing the larger ones—including a much befuddled Mrs. B.—to the back. Then she dashed back off the stage to admire her handiwork, coming back a few times to make small adjustments.
“Perfect!” she finally announced, and handed out a few pages to each person. These were Kitty and Silvie’s masterpieces. They had managed to fit the words of all twenty songs onto two sheets of paper, and then copied them out lots of times.
We began by singing along to the gramophone records, as we had back at Chilbury Manor, and there was a lot of stumbling over words.
“Not to worry if you haven’t got the words in time to the music yet,” Mrs. Tilling said. “Just muddle through for now. Remember that you can practice on your own at home, and we’ll have a full rehearsal on Wednesday.”
Kitty is singing a wonderful solo, “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” She sang it perfectly at practice, which is hardly surprising since we haven’t heard anything else in the house since Sunday.
Then Mrs. Tilling stepped forward and said, “I’d also like to ask V
enetia to sing a solo. Would you do that for us?”
I was bewildered. “Well, I’ll give it a try,” I said uncertainly.
She gave me the music for a song we sang at home last week, “Blue Moon.” My fingers began to shake as I looked over the words. It’s about a girl, like me, who is now alone, like me, and waiting for someone new. This last part is not like me, and my eyes began to water. I don’t want someone new, I want Alastair back. I know he’s a scoundrel, and that I should never want to see his face again, but I can’t get over him. I don’t want to get over him.
“You don’t have to sing it if you don’t want to, Venetia,” Mrs. Tilling said softly, putting her hand out to take the page away from me again.
“No,” I said, standing straight. “I can do it.”
And so I did. Mrs. Quail started the introduction, and I sang, clear and low, my voice filling the hall. Everyone clapped and cheered at the end, so I must have done a reasonable job. I have been practicing at home, and think it’ll work fine on Saturday.
After that, I shall be London-bound, and we shall have fun like the good old days, and hopefully I’ll begin to forget about Alastair. Would it be all right if I stay with you until I find a place of my own?
Much love,
Venetia
IVY HOUSE,
LITCHFIELD ROAD,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Tuesday, 20th August, 1940
Dear Maud,
It appears that my department is to be moved to London since a bomb neatly destroyed our entire office. My desk is woodchip, and I can hardly bear to imagine the state of me had I been sitting at it. They aim to start moving us up as soon as they can find accommodation. I have been told that we’ve been prioritized, so it may be as early as next week.
I have yet to tell my landlady, Mrs. Tilling. I’m sure she’ll be upset to have to find a new person for her room, although with Litchfield Park bombed and Kent on the front line, she may find herself spared the effort. I know she’ll miss having the company, though, and I rather worry about how I’m going to break it to her. We’ve become quite good friends, what with our makeshift dinners in the kitchen and our air raids together in the cellar. I must confess I’ll miss our little chats.
Nevertheless, the war carries on, and we must step to. I’ll write again once I have a new address for you. Send my love to the girls.
Much love,
Anthony
Wednesday, 21st August, 1940
The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir will perform again! We are to sing in a concert in Litchfield this coming Saturday. A lot of the ladies were very upset that the choir competition was canceled, and now we have our very own stage. What a marvelous idea it was of Kitty’s.
The rehearsal went quite well, although I am hoping that certain members put in some extra practice. Our plan is to begin at seven. We will perform for an hour by ourselves and then do songs that everyone knows and can sing along to, like “My Old Man Said Follow the Van,” and “Roll Out the Barrel,” and “We’re Going to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line.” The church said they may be able to find some tea for afterward, but I’m not counting on it. Following that, well, back home, and back to reality.
The Colonel has to move to London, probably next week or the week after. He told me over dinner last night, at the kitchen table. All we had was oxtail soup and some bread and butter, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d really rather stay here, you know,” he said, looking rather crestfallen. “I’ve grown to like it, and all that.”
“Yes, I suppose I’ve grown used to you being here, too.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you miss me, then?”
“Of course I will.” I carried on eating my soup, even though he’d put down his spoon.
“Will you write to me?” he asked carefully.
“Of course,” I replied. “I love writing letters. I do hope you’ll reply, tell me how things are in London, whether we’re going to win the war, that kind of thing.”
“No, I mean it,” he said more quietly, seriously.
“So do I.”
We watched each other for a few moments, the spoon midway to my mouth, and I suddenly felt like we were in some sort of battlefield. It was clear that he liked me and I liked him. We had grown to fit around one another, fill the gaps of space between us. The comfort and support, the lively conversation and banter, the fleeting feeling of passion, love even. I knew he felt it, too. It had woven its way around the pair of us together, in unison, each move of the one bringing the other closer, and vice versa.
He brought out a gift for me, “a thank-you-for-having-me-stay gift,” he called it. I took off the newspaper wrapping and beheld a new dressing gown, soft and blue.
“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed, thinking of my battered brown one, wondering how he’d come across such a lovely item in the thick of war.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just noticed that your old one was, well, old,” he murmured, also embarrassed.
After dinner we sat in the front room and listened to the news on the wireless, and then I put on a few gramophone records Kitty lent me from Prim’s collection. The first one was called “Cheek to Cheek,” that lovely dance number sung by Fred Astaire. Much to my surprise, within the first few bars, the Colonel was on his feet and asking me to stand up with him, right there in the front room.
At first I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not? When do we ever get to dance these days? In any case, goodness knows when we’ll get the chance again.”
I thought of him living in London, the chance that something might happen to him, too. His near hit in Litchfield had given me a bit of a jolt. I began thinking that one by one all the people I’ve ever cared for will be taken away from me. He must have seen my face, as he said: “Now stop thinking miserable thoughts and enjoy the moment.”
He hauled me up out of my seat and pulled me toward him, and began to gallantly waltz me around the small space. I laughed nervously. He was a surprisingly good dancer for such a large, cumbersome man, light on his feet and competently leading me around and around, one hand firm on my waist, the other clasping my slender hand. I’m medium height, or thereabouts, so my eyes were level with his chest. We must have looked quite comedic, spinning around the dim little room in our own world.
When it finished, we were left standing in the center of the room; the deep red glow of the curtains and rug was warm, close. He pulled away from me and looked down, bent his head a little to one side, and I knew he was about to kiss me.
I panicked, pulled back, started flustering. It’s not as if I’d never thought about him in this way. Or that I’d never dreamed about kissing him. I just didn’t ever see it actually happening. Now I panicked even more. Perhaps he mistook my panicking for not wanting to kiss him. What would happen if he never wanted to kiss me again?
So I stopped panicking, stepped up to him, reached my hands behind his neck, and pulled him down to kiss me. It was all a little clumsy, but we got there in the end, and it was well worth it. An incredible sense of bliss and fortitude drenched my body. I’d never thought that kissing was so divine. I suppose I must have forgotten, parceled it up in a storage box in my brain with a large label: Do not open.
Now it’s open. Well and truly exploded.
We continued kissing for quite a while. I think he must have been enjoying it as well, as he had a dreamy look in his eyes. It was a late night, with very little time spent studying the music for the concert.
What a strange turn of events. Perhaps he felt that since he was going, he needed to take stock of the situation. Perhaps he wanted to secure my affections. Possibly his near death in the Litchfield bombing made him realize something, too. Maybe he’s just never had the nerve to do it, and now, since he’ll be gone next week, it made it so much easier for him. All I know is I’m glad he did do it. Whatever happens in the future, last night will alwa
ys be ours, an isolated piece of heaven in this chaotic world.
Saturday, 24th August, 1940
The Litchfield Singing Concert
We hadn’t had enough rehearsals, at least two sopranos had come down with a nasty cough, and then when we arrived the hall was as dirty and dingy as a deserted mansion.
Our hearts fell.
“Well, it’s a good thing we got here early,” Mrs. Tilling said, looking in cupboards for some brooms. “And did anyone remember to bring decorations?”
Mrs. B. had brought along the colored bunting from Henry’s leaving party, and began handing it out and ordering people around. “We’d better hurry if we’re to make this place fit for a concert at seven o’clock.”
We scurried around, and I have to confess that by a quarter to seven the place looked a lot better. The red, white, and blue streamers really cheered the place up, and we made some newspaper chains to bulk it out. We set up the chairs for the audience, then went and took our places at the side of the stage, and waited, whispering last-minute tips for nerves.
But the place remained deserted.
“How many of those posters did you put up, Kitty?” Mrs. B. boomed over to me from the altos, as if it were entirely my fault that no one had turned up yet.
“A lot more than you did!” Mrs. Tilling snapped back at her. We all giggled. Fancy Mrs. Tilling getting the better of Mrs. B!
But the clock ticked on, and still no one was coming in. Our lines of chairs looked sadly out of place, with only the church porter bumbling around with a hammer doing some odd jobs. It was now five to seven. I couldn’t believe no one wanted to come to hear us. I’d plastered the city’s lampposts with my posters.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 31