The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(14)

There is a new choir and I am a soprano. Singing is good. Kitty helps me with the words. I like the horses, too. Amadeus is my favorite. I fell off at Bullsend Brook last week. Mr. Slater helped me walk home. He is the man Venetia likes. He spoke a little Czech. It was terrible. My English is much better.





Tuesday, 23rd April, 1940





David Tilling’s Leaving Party


Tonight Mrs. Tilling was throwing a party for David. He’s back from training and heading to the front in France tomorrow.

But I was much more focused on Henry, who was on forty-eight-hour leave from his aerodrome. One has to take advantage of these moments if one has eternal happiness in mind. I spent the afternoon perfecting my appearance. Floating around in Venetia’s lilac chiffon dress, I knew I would be the focus of everyone’s attention. People would say, “Is that Kitty? Who would have known she’d be so beautiful,” and, “She puts Venetia quite in the shade.” Henry would watch from afar, unable to tear his eyes away. Then, when the music started, he would take me in his arms and express the endless depths of his love.

Maybe it wouldn’t happen exactly like that. There might not be dancing, after all. But I was determined that this was the night that would secure our future together.

“The dress is too big,” Silvie muttered when I asked her how I looked.

I’d already padded myself up a little on top, but decided to throw an extra stocking down each one, just to be on the safe side.

“That’s better,” I said, smoothing down the dress in front of the mirror. “He won’t be able to resist me, don’t you think?”

Silvie sighed. “I think he likes Venetia.”

I laughed. Silvie’s definitely coming out of her shell a bit more, but I don’t know where she gets some of her ideas. I’m far more interested in hearing about her secret, and badger her to tell me all the time. But she just goes quiet and runs off.

Venetia wanted to make a late entrance so she stayed behind, as did Daddy, who was tied up with work. Norway is going horribly wrong, he says. The Nazis are walking all over us, and it looks like we might have to back out fast. Everyone’s worried they’ll invade Belgium and France next, although apparently we have all routes covered, so we should be fine.

So it was only Mama, Silvie, and I who plunged into the cool evening air. We beamed our torches around because it’s scary walking down the lane next to Peasepotter Wood. Just as we were saying that you never know who might be lurking in there, there was a crunch of bracken and who should appear but Proggett. He shook himself off, bid us good evening, and headed back to the house. How very odd.

We pressed on. As Mama is incredibly pregnant now, Silvie and I had to take an arm on each side to help her along, which made it rather jolly.

The sky was curdled with dimples of darkening dusk, and apart from the odd hoot of a barn owl, it was silent, like we were treading into an enchanted land. Tiny threads of pollen dusted the air, the sweetly scented yellow specks plunging me into a reminder of last summer, before this beastly war, when everything was just right—as it should be.

The Tillings’ home, Ivy House, is one of my favorite places in the village. Not as imposing as Chilbury Manor, nor as ornate as Brampton Hall, it has a quiet serenity about it, a flavor of Mrs. Tilling’s thoughtfulness lacing itself through the fairy-tale gardens, the tiny rosebuds growing over a series of pagodas, and a birdbath and feeder, as Mrs. Tilling loves all living creatures. She now has six hens for eggs, and a healthy vegetable patch to help the war effort. Ivy House used to be the vet’s office before Dr. Tilling died ten years ago, and there is still an air of purpose around the place, as if, at its very heart, it remains a haven for lost or harmed creatures.

As we opened the front door, a lively throng surged out into the garden, and we hurried in to avoid blackout fines. (Mrs. B. dishes them out like a strict schoolma’am—even if only a smidgen of light is let out for a split second she’ll slap a fine in your hand and bellow, “We don’t want the Jerries to see us, do we?”)

Inside, the house was merry with flickering candles and jaunty music, which sat oddly with the dreadful fear that David might not come back. Red, white, and blue bunting was draped across the walls, probably borrowed from Mrs. B. after the extravaganza she threw for Henry. The crowd of chattering villagers stood around gossiping, each clutching a rationed-out glass of sherry.

Venetia made her grand entrance not long after we’d arrived, bringing the room to a standstill by loudly proclaiming, “I hope I’m not late!” Standing out from the rest of us, she was wearing a dress of glistening green and gold, twirling it this way and that so that the sequins caught the light, trailing around her legs with a tempting fluidity. Within an instant, there was a crowd of men surrounding her, mostly friends of David’s on their way to war. She rewarded each with her special flirty attention, all pouty lips whispering little secrets into their ears. I wondered if I could craftily trip her up.

Before long Mrs. Tilling hushed us, sending a wave of shushes around the room, and went to fetch David down from his room. We cheered as he came in, dressed in full, pressed khaki uniform, looking terribly grown up. But as I watched, I realized with a flash of both relief and worry that he was still the same David—relief that a uniform doesn’t change a person, then worry that the clumsy lad was going to the front line. He was still the same foolish nine-year-old who’d got stuck up the cherry tree on the green, the same lanky twelve-year-old who I’d punched for pulling my pigtails, the same idiot fourteen-year-old who’d crashed the Dawkinses’ tractor into a perfectly innocent hedge. His color is yellow, although not for cowardice, but rather a kind of blindness to reality, and I couldn’t help but worry for him. Even now, the eager and dazed look in his eyes showed the way he embraced every challenge in life, with a tireless na?veté, like a fox gamboling into the hunt, half expecting to be caught, not thinking about how it all might end.