The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(103)

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 always 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.

“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.