The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(101)
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 Venetia 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.