The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(36)

Questions Elsie wanted to know about Henry


What’s his favorite food? Roast pheasant, of course, and spotted dick pudding

What’s his favorite sport? Shooting, fox hunting, and cricket

Does he like Venetia? No, of course not

Does he have a girlfriend at his base in Hampshire? No, of course not

What’s his favorite color? Azure blue

What does he like to do for fun? Picnics, parties, and he’s rather good at croquet



I think she was trying to help me win him over, although she wasn’t being terribly useful. Silvie nudged me, whispering that I shouldn’t tell her anything, although I have no idea why. Sometimes Silvie seems to completely misunderstand what’s going on.

After we’d sorted out the sandwiches, Silvie and I had the important task of choosing our dresses. I took Silvie to my room and found one of my old ones for her, the white one with tiny turquoise flowers, the one that I wore the time Henry proposed to me. It brought back the flood of memories—boating on the lake, Venetia storming off up the banks, Henry stumbling after her and landing me in the bracken, getting my dress muddy, him promising to love me forever if I forgave him, and then roaming the countryside with him, calling Venetia’s name until we found her on top of a hill sulking beneath a sprawling oak tree. She refused to speak to Henry and would only come back to the picnic with me, gloomily trudging back as I skipped for joy, thrilled that my future had been mapped out to perfection.

In the spirit of remembering, I decided that I should wear Venetia’s sky-blue dress, as that was the one she was wearing that day, and I stole into her room to borrow it. Although it was a little large, it was perfect.

Silvie and I sneaked into Mama’s dressing room to peer at ourselves in her big mahogany mirror. We looked impeccable. The sky-blue dress was just the thing for a picnic, and Silvie looked lovely, too, in the white frock. She’s a pretty girl, with her unruly dark curls always plastered behind her ears, although she hardly says a word. We used to think she was quiet because her English wasn’t very good, but now we know that her English isn’t bad at all—except when she misunderstands things, like the whole Henry situation. So when she doesn’t talk it’s simply because she doesn’t want to. I sometimes ask her about her secret, but she looks very alarmed and stops speaking immediately.

I often wonder what her life was like back in Czechoslovakia. The food was different, that’s for certain. She barely touched anything for weeks when she arrived and has been living on bread rolls and jam for the main part. Mama tries to tempt her with bacon or roast beef, but she won’t touch a thing.





The difference between Czechoslovakia and Chilbury, from what I can gather


Czechoslovakia has more chocolate (Silvie adores chocolate, and it’s rare here now the war’s on)

Chilbury has hills with fields and woods, whereas Czechoslovakia has more forests

They both have horses (Silvie loves horses)

In Czechoslovakia, Christmas is always snowy and there are magical Christmas markets

There was no war in Czechoslovakia, the Nazis simply took over one day

All Silvie’s belongings are in Czechoslovakia, in her big house with a veranda

All Silvie’s family are in Czechoslovakia, waiting for her by the front door, her mother wearing a white spring dress like the day she waved good-bye at the station, her father in his suit and hat with a big smile warming her chilling bones, and her baby brother, Mila, giggling in his blue blanket as she takes him from her mother’s arms for one final kiss



With a last look at our reflections in the glass, we decided we were ready, and dashed downstairs, scooping up the picnic basket as we raced through the kitchen and side door into the pale, clear morning.

The tall grass in the meadow was still wet from the rain last night, the multitude of droplets glistening like a thousand fallen stars in the thick field of the brightest green. There was that smell you get after a big storm, a new freshness as if the rain has washed away all the dust and dirt and horrid things that people shout at each other and are left reverberating in the air, waiting for the thunder to deafen it all out.

I decided that we’d go down to the little wooden bridge beside the Dawkinses’ beehives, as there are lots of wildflowers, and you can play stepping-stones across the stream. We went there on a picnic a few years ago when the motorcar wasn’t working.

No one got stung that time.

It was quite a walk, and when we got there, exhausted and ready for our picnic, we were rather peeved to find it already occupied. A boy was building a dam.

“Hello there!” he called. Standing shakily on a tree branch that was covering half the width, then steadying himself, he trotted over to the bank to greet us. He was older than I thought, tall and lanky like big boys are before they become men, his tatty shorts and rather unkempt appearance making him look younger from afar. He had a curious face, kind of spoon-shaped, his chin and forehead jutting out farther than the rest of it. Handsome. Not handsome like Henry, but still not bad-looking for a boy. Clearly enjoying himself, he grinned in the sunshine, putting a dirty hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as he hollered up the bank to us.

“Come down and join in.” His voice was thick and Cockney.

Since Silvie was already halfway down the slope, I felt obliged to add my protection, and we were soon beside him.