The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(67)

“Someone has to open it eventually,” I said quietly. “And I’m quite sure Hattie would rather it was me and not Victor’s aunt, wouldn’t you think so?”

He harrumphed and then set about prying it open with a screwdriver. Once open, he handed it over to me, and I leafed through the contents.

“Don’t you feel like you’re rifling through someone’s private life?”

“No, I feel like I have no time for questions at the moment.” I carried on for a moment and then stopped and looked up at him. “I just want to make sure that the family loves the baby, loves the memory of Hattie. That they give her a welcome home.” I looked back down at the tin. “We can’t have them finding this love letter that’s not from their nephew,” I said, taking a letter and making a pile for things I’d keep to one side. “Or this one.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. How knowing of you.”

I stopped leafing through and looked up at him. “It’s only what I’d like someone else to do for me.” I thought I’d start crying, knowing Hattie like I did, knowing how she loved that baby, loved her husband. How ironic that she’d been so worried that something would happen to Victor, somewhere in the Atlantic, when it ended up being her who was killed.

“You’re a brave soul,” the Colonel said gently, and he put his big hand on my upper arm and held it there for a moment, oddly comforting in the stark new light of day.

There was a photograph of Hattie and the whole group: Venetia, Henry, Angela Quail, then my David and Ralph Gibbs from the shop. They were walking down the lane toward Chilbury Manor. Someone had taken the photograph while no one was watching, Victor maybe? They’d separated off from each other: Hattie and Venetia in the foreground, smiling and linking arms; David and Ralph laughing and pushing one another, looking so young and innocent before the war came and dragged them quickly into adulthood. And then, at the back, half hidden, were Angela and Henry, holding hands. She was whispering something into his ear, her other hand touching his arm, and he was laughing. They looked like lovers. I wondered why I hadn’t worked that out before. Angela was in love with Henry, but he was always infatuated with Venetia. If you look closely at the photograph, you can see that his eyes are on Venetia as she slinks ahead, while Angela’s eyes are directed sideways to him. I wondered if Venetia knew. Probably not.

“What are you going to do with them?” the Colonel asked, glancing at my pile.

“I’ll put them in an envelope and give them to Rose when she’s old enough to understand,” I said, straightening the small pile gently, as if it were to be a precious treat for the future. “She won’t know anything about her mother, growing up with just her father. These few items will help to fill in some of the gaps.”

“You can’t draw a picture of someone who’s dead,” the Colonel said plainly. “Believe me, I’ve tried. There’s so much that is intangible about a person, all those little details, their past, those annoying little habits, the way they speak, their natural perfume. It’s those things—and countless more—that gives them that fullness of life that you just can’t re-create. You can use photographs, portraits, poems, scents, everything you can find to remind you of them, but to convey that essence of a mother to her children is at best sketchy.”

“Did you lose your wife? I’m so sorry—” I must have blushed furiously as I thought of the horrid ways I’d treated the poor man, when really he was widowed, too. Just like me. And I’d never thought to ask him.

“Yes.” He glanced out into the garden where a breeze was catching the clematis, swaying the maturing violet blooms up and back. “My daughters were seven, nine, and ten when Vera died. They remember her as a sick woman, demanding, queasy, often quite scary. It’s a tough task persuading them that once she was a vibrant, beautiful person.” He picked up the photograph of Hattie and looked sadly down at her. “She, too, had vitality and dreams, just like this poor woman.”

I was quite struck by his words. I hadn’t known that he had a wife who had died, although he had mentioned his children in passing. I suddenly felt dreadfully sorry for him; after all, I knew how it felt to be all alone, bringing up the children, forging on.

“David was only eight years old when Harold died. We carried on by ourselves all right, became very close. Where are your children now?”

“They’re in Oxford with their aunt, my sister, and they’re older now: twelve, fourteen, and fifteen. I was thinking of renting a place down here and bringing them to live with me. I miss them, you see.” He coughed slightly to offset his bluntness. “But now—”

“Yes, they’re probably better off up there for now,” I said quietly, and I found myself struck by the fact that he had been thinking of leaving and renting a house instead of living here at Ivy House. Didn’t he like it here? Why hadn’t he told me? Maybe I should have made him feel more welcome.

So I made us both a fresh pot of tea, and as he sat with me at the kitchen table, I asked him all about his girls.





Monday, 5th August, 1940





Life without Prim


This evening we had a special choir practice, the first without Prim. I could hardly bear to walk into the cold church knowing she’ll never be there again. Our choir will never be the same. Many of us won’t be able to go to Prim’s funeral as it’s to be held in London, so the Vicar held a special Sunday service for her yesterday.