The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(109)
“I’m a journalist,” she told us in a nasal upper-class voice. “Endeavoring to root out the real stories behind the war. The stories of us women, left alone in these little places to fend for ourselves and deal with the devastation. How we all pull together to help the war effort.”
Obviously I introduced myself to her promptly. “Let me be the one to show you around,” I announced, taking her arm and marching her off to see the remains of Church Row. “You see, we’ve had quite a summer with it all!”
“Is that where the bombs hit?” she asked, putting on her black-rimmed glasses and taking a notebook out of a large leather handbag.
“Yes, two women were killed, and one badly injured. One of the dead was the magnificent new choirmistress, the other our wonderful schoolteacher. Luckily her baby was rescued.”
Her face snapped around to me. “How fascinating!” She glanced around and pulled me to the little wooden bench by the duck pond, the September sun sending a glowing golden hue over the gently yellowing leaves.
“Tell me about it. What time did it happen?” she asked.
“About half past eleven.”
“And a clear night?”
“A crescent moon, I think.”
She sat transfixed for a moment, murmuring to herself. “Clear black skies with a shimmering moon, the stars flickering like a thousand innocent bystanders.”
“That sounds beautiful,” I sighed. “It must be marvelous to write like that.”
“I can teach you if you have time,” she said, and I found myself transfixed as she rose from her seat and began pacing around the pond twiddling her pen. “But first I want you to tell me all about how the women are coping with war.”
“Well, I don’t think we were doing very well at all, until one spring day the new choirmistress arrived and got us singing again. She resurrected the choir, making it a women’s-only choir—the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It seemed such an unthinkable idea at first, but then we won a competition and realized how much better we were, and how we could transform ourselves into a charity singing show, or anything we liked. Well, after that we all began looking around and realizing we could do a lot of things better by ourselves, or with the help of each other, and together we became stronger, better. A force to be reckoned with.”
The woman watched me, and then gazed over at the crumbling church.
“The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It has a ring about it.”
“Yes.” I nodded, smiling. “The most inspiring group of women you’ll ever meet.”
My jovial grandmother, Mrs. Eileen Beckley, always regaled hilarious stories from the war, most of them funny or racy, some of them touching on the horrific and sad realities. But through it all, her tales showed how the women came together, working hard and keeping cheerful, to form the solid Home Front that played such a crucial role in the war. My warmest gratitude goes to her and the women who fought on through the bombs and the heartache. This book is dedicated to them.
At the beginning of the war, an organization known as Mass Observation began, encouraging ordinary individuals to keep diaries and journals and send them into the headquarters, where some would be published in a newsletter. These diaries filled in many gaps in my understanding of the war years, notably one by Nella Last, and my thanks goes to her and her fellow writers for allowing us to look not only into their lives, but also into their minds and hearts. Letters, biographies, and memoirs have also provided details of the era, and my thanks go to their authors, as well as to those who spoke to me personally about the war. A wealth of books about women in the war has provided background, as well as books and articles written during the era. Henrietta’s War, by Joyce Dennys, includes wonderfully witty stories written by a journalist of the era, and was invaluable for gauging the voice and spirit of the time.
After this book became a work in progress, a multitude of people helped to see it through. Wholehearted gratitude goes to my beloved critique group, Barb Boehm, Emmy Nicklin, and Julia Rocchi, for providing excellent critiques and plenty of wine and warmth to help the process along. Thanks go to my teachers at Johns Hopkins, especially to Mark Farrington, whose intuition for plot, character, and narrative is legendary, and also to David Everett, Ed Perlman, and Michelle Brafman. Other people who added information, personal stories, or helped along the way, include Irene Mussett, Jerry Cooper, David Beckley, Chris Beckley, Louise and Charlie Hamilton Stubber, Cheryl Harnden, Colin Berry, Breda Corrish, Annie Cobbe, Elaine Cobbe, Lorraine Quigley, Seth Weir, Douglas Rogers, and Grace Cutler.
From the very first time I spoke to my phenomenal editor at Crown, Hilary Rubin Teeman, I was taken aback by her intuitive understanding of the book. Her vision and exceptional editorial skills have made Chilbury into the book it is today. Thank you so much for all your work and expertise. My thanks go to the publisher, Molly Stern, and all at Crown, including Annsley Rosner, Rachel Meier, Maya Mavjee, David Drake, Kevin Callahan, Rachel Rokicki, Amy J. Schneider, Patricia Shaw, Heather Williamson, Sally Franklin, Anna Thompson, and a special mention to Rose Fox for all her help. Thanks also go to Mick Wiggins for the stunning jacket illustration.
Cassie Browne, my excellent editor at Borough Press, has blown me away with her ability to bring a book to its true potential. Thank you for your invaluable perception and insight. Big thanks also go to Kate Elton and Suzie Dooré, and the wonderfully welcoming and enthusiastic team at HarperCollins: Sarah Benton, Katie Moss, and the excellent Charlotte Cray. And for the ingenious cover, my gratitude goes to renowned illustrator Neil Gower.