The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(66)

I looked up at her. “But I need to find Alastair.”

She shook her head slowly. “Venetia,” she said in a way that made me erupt into tears, knowing what was coming. She patted my shoulder, holding me down, “If he was in that house, he wouldn’t have made it.”

I heaved a few great sobs. “What do you mean? Are you sure?”

“We don’t know for sure that he was there. Does he always wait for you, Venetia?”

“Well, mostly,” I lied. Quite often he wasn’t there, leaving me to wait. I would let myself in and lie back on his sofa, leafing through his poetry, or looking over my own nude with equal measures of awe and aversion, feeling the color and tone of the room change as he stepped through the door, the grays and browns transforming into golds and bronzes. I could be late, too, with difficulties getting away from Chilbury Manor, bad weather, interfering sisters, demanding fathers, and so forth. We were both willing to wait, wait as long as necessary.

“Well, in that case—” She wavered, unable to finish.

After a moment’s pause, I simply blurted out what had been going through my mind. “I think my father might have shot him.”

She stopped mopping my head for a moment, a look of anxiety covering her face. “Does your father know about the pregnancy?”

“Yes.” I looked up at her. “Someone must have told him last night, before he got home.”

“Could it have been Miss Paltry? Did you tell her?”

I gasped. “She wouldn’t have told him, knowing he’d kill me.” My mouth went dry. “Would she?”

Mrs. Tilling grimaced. “I’m not sure, my dear.” She shook her head with wonder. “I’m really not sure.”

She tucked me in and went to get me some hot milk to send me to sleep again. She’s worried that I’ll lose the baby, and it scares me, too, more than I can say. If Alastair is truly gone, either by the bomb or by the gunshots in the wood, then this baby is the only part of him I have left, and I know it sounds sentimental and ridiculous, but I miss him as if I were dying in some way, my insides melting into me, slowly dissolving into nothing. This baby, his baby, is my only hope, the one bright star in a body of hopelessness.

Oh, Angie, it’s so dreadful that you’re not here with me. Poor Hattie, I still can’t believe that our lovely, warm, bright-eyed friend has gone. I don’t know what I’ll do without her. I can hear her voice in my head saying, “Venetia, you need to learn to look after yourself.” As I listen to Rose’s gurgling, I feel a closeness to her, and have decided that I owe it to Hattie, who was like an older sister to me, to be an older sister to Rose.

Do write as soon as you can.

Much love,

Venetia





Saturday, 3rd August, 1940

What a horrific couple of days. I have a truly bad feeling about this war, that we will be overtaken, lose our country, our culture, our freedom. That we will give everything, all our fight, all our hopes and dreams, our very selves. Then the Nazis will come and there will be nothing left. We will be hollow skeletons, letting them walk all over us, leaving them to run our lives, our homes, our children—if there are any left.

According to Colonel Mallard, the bomber probably overshot Dover, got lost, and then had to drop its bombs in order to make it back over the Channel. It shouldn’t have struck civilians. All that loss and it was only a horrendous mistake, an afterthought.

Venetia went home this morning and still isn’t doing well. She’s lost a lot of blood, and I worry that she’ll lose her baby. The concussion was a bad one, and she’s not herself at all. She’s incredibly sad about Hattie, and is still talking about Slater as if he’ll come back. No body was found in what remained of his house, and she can’t seem to work out where he could be.

The square is now bereft of one side. We’ve been working hard—the women of the village—to clear it away, trying to make the best of the uneven pile of bricks and broken things, some of which are deeply unsettling, like Hattie’s familiar dresses, Prim’s broken gold ornaments. Meanwhile, a growing number of scavengers have been scouring the remains for jewelry or trinkets. Yesterday, I saw Ralph Gibbs pushing a woman aside to get to some treasure first, his eyes crazed with greed. This war has turned him into a monster.

Miss Paltry’s house was also wrecked, but luckily she was pulled out of the debris with just a fractured hip. They took her to Litchfield Hospital, so perhaps when I have time to visit I’ll question her about this curious baby affair.

Yesterday Mrs. Quail found the remains of Prim’s gramophone player and a few other items. The Vicar told us that we can give them to Prim’s sisters tomorrow as they’re to come for a special eulogy in the Sunday service.

We also found some of Hattie’s things, including a metal biscuit tin with Hattie’s letters. Everyone said I should take it with me to give to Victor’s aunt when she comes to collect the baby, so I brought it home and asked the Colonel to force it open as it had been melted closed.

“Isn’t that illegal?” he asked, all puffed up about doing the right thing.

“Open it,” I said. “I will take the responsibility if you have a problem with it. And I’ll find a way to open it myself if you don’t oblige.”

He looked at me as if I’d gone quite mad.