“I’ll just have a word with the porter,” Mrs. Tilling said. “Perhaps the church canceled it and forgot to tell us.” She trotted down the steps at the side of the stage, down the aisle, and disappeared into the entrance hall.
“One would hope they would have the decency to let us know!” Mrs. B. said, sniffing slightly, as if the whole thing were very much beneath her.
All of a sudden from the entrance there came a frenzied commotion as a torrent of people surged through and into the hall, some racing to get a seat near the front. The porter must have forgotten to open the door. There was a cacophony of chattering, people calling to one another once they had reached some seats, or on recognizing a neighbor. There were a lot of people in military uniform, but predominantly it was women, as we’ve got used to these days. I couldn’t believe they were so excited. They’d all come just to hear us sing! I could feel butterflies exploding all over my stomach. Why had I agreed to do a solo? Was I really cut out for a life on the stage?
At last the hall was bursting at the seams, and the porter closed the door and indicated to Mrs. Tilling that it was time to begin. She got up and walked purposefully to the center of the stage, raising her arms to indicate that we were to stand up and take our places. After a little confusion and Mrs. Gibbs standing on Mrs. B.’s foot, we found our spots. Mrs. Tilling looked serenely around the massive hall, waiting for everyone to be silent. The voices lowered among some shushing, and then disappeared completely, especially as I could see Mrs. Tilling’s eyes focusing on one or two perpetrators to give them a what-for look.
Then she returned to us, raised her baton, and gently ushered Mrs. Quail to begin the introduction of our first song. It was a lovely lazy jazz song called “Summertime,” and we all began swaying a little as we sang, as it just seemed so dreamy. We were so enjoying singing that I think we almost forgot about the audience out there, hundreds of faces listening, some swaying, some tapping a foot, some forgetting for a moment about the bombs and the blood and the bodies.
At the end there was an eruption of applause, and even a few whistles. We beamed with delight and then saw Mrs. Tilling indicate that it was Venetia’s turn to sing “Blue Moon.” Venetia had wanted me to go first, but Mrs. Tilling insisted. “You have such a marvelous stage presence, Venetia,” she said. “I want you near the beginning.”
“Good luck,” I whispered as I went to stand at the side of the stage with the rest of the choir. “You can do it, Venetia.”
And then it was just Venetia, alone at the front of the stage. She looked nervous, in her beautiful way, her great blue eyes staring out into the crowd, her yellow dress trembling slightly, and her golden, curled hair rustling on her shoulders. Her carefully painted mouth was open slightly in fear, her chest flittering up and down with fast breaths. The introduction began, and she spread her fingers out down by her side and sang out the first notes of “Blue Moon,” at first quiet and nervous, but then growing in strength with the first few lines. She was doing it. She was singing in front of all these people.
I looked around the faces, smiling, enjoying it, and I felt her becoming more comfortable, letting her voice ring out to fill the great hall. Before I knew it, she was in the second verse, her hips swaying slightly as she sang, smiling at the audience.
Then I saw someone vaguely familiar.
He was standing at the back, slightly to the right. I couldn’t work out if it was really him at first. He looked different. His hair was shorter, his clothes less formal. Was he an apparition?
He smiled and winked at her, slow and measured, and I knew that it truly was him. That he was alive. Come to find her.
She stopped singing. Her words just petered out as she gazed over at him. I saw his mouth move, saying something silently through the air. I love you. And I love you, too, she mouthed back to him over the crowds.
Mrs. Quail had carried on playing, even though Venetia had stopped singing, and I quickly found my feet and darted across the stage to her, carrying on from where she left off. She turned and looked at me, trepidation in her eyes, and headed to the steps off the stage. I carried on singing as she made her way through the crowds, people parting to let her through, making a path for her, until she reached Mr. Slater.
There they stood, a few feet apart, looking at each other, until someone nudged her forward, and they fell into each other’s arms, kissing like people do in the movies. It was the most romantic moment I’ve ever seen. Everyone around them cheered, and soon the whole hall was alight with a roar of celebration. In this bleak world, there is at least one thing that we have left. Love.
He took her hand and led her through the crowds to the door, and they disappeared into the night together.
I carried on singing, thinking of being alone, the end of my future with Henry. How ridiculous it all seems now, that I was so smitten that I’d do something so stupid and childish.
But then I thought of all the wonderful people that I have in my life: Mama has suddenly become more herself, Venetia has become a friend, Silvie is part of our family for now, and Rose, too, and even Tom, in his small, adoring way, could be considered a new friend. And the choir, almost like a family of friends and neighbors all standing by each other. You see, I’m not alone anymore. None of us are.
The crowd roared with pleasure as the song came to a close. It took a minute for me to realize that they were clapping for me—I had quite forgotten my butterflies.
“Let’s go straight into your solo, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said, turning to Mrs. Quail for the introduction, and before I knew it I was smiling around the crowd waiting for the moment to come in. It was that wonderful, soaring song, “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”
After the sweeping low-high of the first notes, the audience cheered their approval, and I couldn’t help beaming a smile through the entire song, the words spilling seamlessly out of my mouth and filling the hall with a glowing, radiant hope.
At the end, the applause burst forth like thunder, with people calling and whistling. I felt my eyes fill with tears. My singing had been a success!
Soon I was surrounded by the rest of the choir, congratulating me and getting their music ready for the rest of the show. Mrs. Tilling took her baton and led us into the next tune, another jazz number, and we found ourselves swinging our hips to the rhythm, the crowds joining in. It was so much fun. Following that, we had the sing-along, finishing off with a very hearty version of “There’ll Always Be an England.”
“You were right, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said, as the applause continued and we took bow after bow. “There’s nothing like a good song to cheer us all up.”
“Thanks to you, Mrs. Tilling, for taking over the choir.”
The calls for “more” and “encore” continued, and Mrs. B. bustled forward and nudged Mrs. Tilling. “Shall we give them another one?”
Mrs. Tilling looked around at our eager eyes. “I don’t see why not,” she said, and raised her baton one final time. “Let’s sing ‘The World Will Sing Again.’ ”
We’d only rehearsed it a few times, but it was one of the most tearful songs, thinking of the bereaved and filling them with some kind of hope. Mrs. Tilling waited for the hall to be completely hushed before holding up her baton and leading us in. We sang it plainly, letting the words speak for themselves, their intertwining mixture of despair and hope, of smashed dreams and brave smiles, of the blackest night quietly overcome with the new light of daybreak. It was a magic moment—you could have heard a pin drop, the audience was so quiet. Respectful, I’d say, of everyone there who’d lost someone, or with loved ones away, in danger.
When we finished, there was a long moment of silence, a prayer perhaps, before a slow applaud began, rippling around the crowded room like a growing tide. There were no cheers, no whistles, just the dense resonance of hundreds of people sounding their support to those who’d lost someone, to those who didn’t know how to carry on.
After it had died down, we went to see if there were any
refreshments (which there weren’t) and meet people. All of Chilbury had turned up, including Henry (who Venetia and I have renamed Horrible Henry), who was talking animatedly to a uniformed woman who looked like an especially brutish bulldog.
“That’s Lady Constance Worthing, Lady Worthing’s daughter,” Mrs. Tilling whispered, a little laugh trembling her voice. “I am surprised Henry’s succumbed to Mrs. B.’s wishes.”
“Is he courting her?” I was amazed. She didn’t look like his type at all. I couldn’t even be jealous!
“Their union would make their families very formidable indeed. The Brampton money and the Worthing title.” She smirked, and I could see she thought the whole thing ludicrous. “But look over there!”
I followed her gaze to see Ralph Gibbs with none other than our former maid Elsie. “Are they courting?” I asked again.
“It looks like it,” she replied. We watched as he leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and they both laughed. She took his arm, leading him back to the door. Whoever would have thought such a pretty girl would want to be with such an ugly thug.
People came forward to congratulate us, everyone saying how marvelous it had been, and how grateful they were. One woman told me about her ruined house. She and four children have been squashed into a neighbor’s house ever since. Quite a few people are still living in various halls, sleeping on floors. Blankets have become scarcer than pork chops. They’re becoming tradable commodities, like shillings or silver. I’ve decided to make a collection around Chilbury, and Mrs. Quail said she’d help.
Tom was there, his hair combed for once, and looking rather handsome. “You were incredible, Kitty. For organizing everything, and for singing so beautifully.”
“Do you really think so?”
“All the people here think so,” he said, and everyone around us began cheering. It was a little embarrassing.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Tom went on.
“What about?” I asked, wondering what was coming.
“You have become the big hero after all!”
I leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Then Daddy appeared out of nowhere. “What’s all this about?” he grumped. “Kitty, it’s time to leave. Come on. We haven’t got all day. What happened to Venetia and that blasted chap? I’ll have a few words with both of them when I find them. Should have shot him while I had the chance.”
“I didn’t know you’d come to hear us sing,” I said, wishing he hadn’t.
“I had to come to see how much of a mess you’d make of it,” he bellowed, then gave a snort of a laugh. “But you weren’t actually that bad.” He glanced around, eyeing the surroundings, possibly for Mama or Mrs. Tilling. “Although I do hope that your ambitions stop at local charity shows, young lady. It really wouldn’t do to have a Winthrop on the stage, you know.”
I smiled at him like the Cheshire Cat. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m still your little poppet,” I said, and skipped off into the crowd.
It seems Venetia has taught me a thing or two after all.
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Wednesday, 28th August, 1940
Dear Angela,
I simply can’t believe it! Alastair came back, he is alive! I am beside myself with incredulity, and keep having to shake myself to make sure it’s not a dream.
It all happened the evening of our concert. Can you believe, I was standing alone in the center of the stage singing “Blue Moon”? And everyone was enjoying it! The crowd was swaying along to the music, smiling, and I was beginning to get used to being up there, singing louder, when my eyes flickered over to a man standing at the back. At first I thought I’d dreamed it, and then I thought it must be someone who looked like him, but the more my eyes darted to his, the more I knew for sure.
It was Alastair.
He was watching evenly, a vague smile on his lips, like he always had, and I felt something inside me buckle up and snap. I stopped singing, stopped breathing, as if I’d seen a mirage. Mercifully, Kitty came up beside me and took over the singing, and I found myself walking across the stage, down the steps, and through the throng, as if the rest of the people in the room had vanished. It was just him and me, walking toward each other, our eyes connecting, and then him taking me in his very real arms.
We missed the rest of the show, as we disappeared outside to take a walk together. The evening was warm and balmy, the smell of burned-out buildings still settling in the air, an almost-full moon hanging mindfully in the purple hue above the horizon.
“Good choice of song,” Alastair said, taking my hand. I felt that extraordinary sensation of happiness flooding through me. I know I should have been cautious, but I simply couldn’t help myself. I had been deprived of something so crucial to life, and someone had just given it to me, reminding me of how it is to be happy.
“ ‘Blue Moon,’ ” I said, looking at the moon, a small smile escaping. “And now you’re here. Finding me alone. On a stage, of all places.”
“You were terrific,” he said, steering me into a small park, a pond with some benches, swans in pairs, curving their necks into their plumage ready for sleep. We sat down, holding hands, like an old couple on holiday.
“Alastair,” I said quietly, looking at his hand holding mine in my lap. “Where have you been?”
“I had a job to do, unfortunately,” he whispered, as he turned his head to nuzzle into my hair. “I didn’t want to go, nor did I realize that I was going to have to leave so quickly.”
“It was to do with the Nazi in the wood, wasn’t it?” I asked. “Were you worried you’d be caught?”
“No, Venetia.” He smiled and kissed my hand. Then he told me all about it, but swore me to secrecy, so I really mustn’t tell you, my dear! Suffice it to say, he is not the villain I thought him. Rather he is one of the good guys.
When he finished, I ran my fingertips over the collar of his coat, which was a little scruffier than the suits I was used to him wearing. “But why did you leave me?”
“I had to go. I had to follow Proggett. He led me to the others. I had to make sure I had them all.”
“And the shots in the wood that night—” I began.
“Yes, that was an altercation between Old George and Proggett. I saw it all as I was following Proggett.” Then he added with a smile, “Both are disastrous shots, though. Never stood a chance of harming each other. And after that they both fled.” He paused, looking down at my hand. “I never got to say good-bye, but I always meant to come back as soon as I could. Believe me, Venetia, I wouldn’t have left for anything less.”
“You’re a pretty good liar, though, pretending to be an artist. Was that part of your prep for the job? Like seducing local beauties?”
“Now, Venetia. It was you who seduced me, remember? I was trying to maintain a professional distance.” He gave me a knowing smile.
I suddenly felt that I didn’t know this man at all. Well, rather I know him in one sense, but not the details about him, and little by little he began telling me. He comes from Somerset and was sent to a boarding school and then went up to Cambridge, where he studied philosophy of all things. It was there that he was approached to “work for the country,” as he puts it.
“I moved to London, and have a flat in Bloomsbury for in between missions. It’s got much more intense since the war. We’ve had a feeling it was going to get rather messy for years before the war actually started, tracking the buildup of German military and espionage. Frankly the war seemed almost inevitable from about 1936. The Government never listened to us, of course,” he laughed. “But they’re listening now.”
I took this in with vague confusion, especially when he began to elaborate on the simplest details of his life: his parents being old and strict, his love for fishing, his twin brother dying in infancy, him never feeling quite right afterward, “as if there’s always someone missing.”
“That’s how I felt about you,
” I said, feeling estranged from this new man. “I don’t feel that I know who you are anymore. I mean, who is my Alastair Slater anyway, the man I loved?”
“I’m still here, Venetia,” he said, taking me in his arms. “I’m still the man who loves you, the real Venetia. I’m still the man who loves cooking candlelit dinners for you, and loves art and poetry and painting your portrait. I’m still the man who wants to love and cherish you from this day forward.” He paused, pulling back and looking at me. “But there is one thing you need to know.”
I pulled back again. “What now?”
“My name isn’t actually Alastair Slater. That was made up for me for the mission.”
“So what is your real name, then? Mr. Nobody?”
“No, it’s John—”
“John MacIntyre,” we both said together, then laughed.
“The same as your grandfather,” I said, and took out the battered pendant, on a necklace under my dress. “I’ve been thinking about him, you know.” Then I began to tell him about all that happened since he’s been away, and he was horrified and utterly guilt ridden.
“I wish I’d known, then you wouldn’t have had to go through it all. I am so incredibly sorry I wasn’t here, and that you were forced to go to that scoundrel.” The light from the moon reflected in his eyes. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?” Then he scooped up my hand, turned it over, and kissed my palm. “Venetia, my darling, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked, a seriousness in his eyes taking me back to that moment when we were hiding behind the tree, his fingers interweaving mine, his eyes so sad, so intense.
My heart broke, as I slowly shook my head. “There’s a war on, and we’ve both got lives to live. In any case, I need time to get to know you better, Mr. MacIntyre.” With that, I stood up from the bench and offered him my hand, and we continued our moonlight walk together, careful not to disturb the swans.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 32