The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(57)

“Tell me then!” I pulled back, angry with him for ruining everything. “Tell me how it’s so very complicated.”

“I can’t,” he said simply, a look of utter remorse in his eyes. “I can only tell you that I love you, and that you need to believe me.” He put his hand into his pocket and pulled something out, a tiny pendant. There was no chain, no necklace, just the little silver object, the etching worn.

“Take it,” he said.

I was unsure whether to or not, but my curiosity got the better of me and I took it, turning it over in my palm. It was a St. Christopher medal, a good-luck charm.

“It’s from my grandfather,” he said softly, a memory making him smile. “John MacIntyre, the man I thought to be the cleverest in all the world.” He closed my hand around it. “Take it.”

“No,” I said, flashing my hand open again. “You’re the one who needs it.” I gave a frail laugh. “I’m sure you have dozens of criminals and spies after you, not to mention the police and military intelligence.”

“Losing you scares me more than any of them.”

There was something strange in his look, a look I couldn’t read; was it sadness or a kind of plea, a prayer?

I glanced at him, uncertain. “You never told me about your grandfather,” I said. It was such an odd moment, as if the world had stopped turning, all the air abruptly still, the silence complete.

“I don’t like to talk about myself,” he whispered, taking my hand in his. “But you know how I feel about you. When all this is over, we can be married.”

The wind blew through the branches, sending a chill over my neck and face. I felt tangled up with the enormity of everything, what might be ahead of me: the shame, the hatred, the poverty, the loss. The baby growing inside me. I took an unsteady step back.

“I need time to think about everything,” I said hesitantly, and then, on hearing my voice feeble and scared, added in a more bold way, “And I’m sure that you need time to get rid of the Nazi in the wood.” I shook my head in disbelief, trying to erase the image out of my mind. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll hand you in?” I asked, intrigued that he hadn’t brought it up.

“No,” he replied quietly.

“Golly, you’re mighty confident, aren’t you?” I blurted back. “Do you think you have me so smitten?”

“No, Venetia. I’m just not afraid of being handed in,” he said gently, his hand reaching up and picking up a fallen emerald leaf from the hair on my shoulder. “I’m far more afraid of losing you.” And there was a longing in his eyes that I knew would take me over if I stayed for much longer.

“I don’t know who you are, Alastair Slater,” I blustered, furious that he was being so evasive. “And I don’t know your game, but you can jolly well find yourself a new muse.”

With that, I turned my back on him and stalked out of the copse to the orchard, each gentle breeze shifting the delicate shadows of the branches, like life flickering between light and dark. Above me a great bird of prey circled, wings spread wide and powerful in the pale dawn light.

As I approached the edge of the wood, I couldn’t help but take one last glance back at him, and he was still there, standing at the edge of the glistening trees, silently watching me. Huffing, I turned away and marched up into the wood, beginning to run all the way home.

And so here I sit, confused and angry and not knowing what on earth to do. I long for him. And yet, how could I love a traitor? I may have his baby growing inside me, yet how could I ever trust this man who can betray our country, our world, our beloved little village? Everywhere I look, our choir, the Sewing Ladies, Mrs. B., Hattie and her little baby Rose, Silvie, even Kitty in her own way, are all so incredibly dear to me. How could he put us at risk? How could he aid our destruction in such a direct and final way?

Just as I was thinking the worst, I felt something in my pocket. It was the St. Christopher medal. I must have slipped it in when I was angry. I took it out and rolled it over in my hand, remembering the moment when time stopped, when he told me it was more complicated. When he told me to trust him. I want to, Angie. Yet how can I?

There was a small knock at my door. It was Kitty.

“I heard you crying,” she whispered as she stepped carefully into the room. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Well, I’m not, if you want the whole of it.” I suddenly felt close to her again, and beckoned her to come and sit on the bed with me. We huddled close, like we did when Daddy roared at us as children, and we would flee out into the woods, gripping each other for dear life.

“Can I do anything?” Kitty asked.

“Not really. It’s just that I don’t feel well, right down in the pit of my stomach.”

“You should go and see Mrs. Tilling. She always manages to make me feel better.”

And as we shared a moment of alliance, I decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to pay Mrs. Tilling a visit after all.

I promise to write soon,

Venetia





Thursday, 1st August, 1940

This afternoon as I returned from the hospital, I saw that I had a most unexpected visitor. The blue bicycle leaning against the whitewashed wall by the door belonged to Venetia, although there was no sign of her anywhere.