The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(68)

He asked me to say a few words, which was such an honor, and I decided that I would tell everyone about my time with Prim. How she was such a tremendous force in our lives. But when it came for my time to speak, I wasn’t sure I could do it, trembling with nerves and sadness as I stepped up to the pulpit.

But then I remembered Prim. How she would want me to be strong.

“At my very first lesson in Prim’s house, we spoke about dying. She told me how she’d nearly died of malaria. She said that she didn’t mind the thought of death. That realizing you’re going to die actually makes life better as it’s only then that you decide to live the life you really want to live, not the one everyone else wants you to live. And to thoroughly enjoy every minute.”

I paused to pull myself together. The whole village was there, and some people from Litchfield, too. All waiting for me to speak. “It’s shattering that she’s gone, but she wouldn’t have wanted this service to be about her death, but to be a celebration of her life. She was the most vibrant person—the most energetic, the most real person—and she’ll always be alive to me.”

I began to cry, and Mrs. Tilling came to help me back to my seat. It’s just so hard to come to terms with the fact that her immense presence is gone.

Tears were pouring from our eyes as we sang “Come Down, O Love Divine.” Her fierce bravado will be sorely missed, and as I looked around the choir stalls, I wondered if it could have seeped into each one of our choir members. That just by being around her, we’ve become more fierce and brave ourselves, ready to take on the world in her place.





What happens when people die


Their souls may go to Heaven, where I might see them again when I die (although I’m unsure how they’ll look by that time)

Their bodies go into the ground where they become a feast for earthworms

Their presence lives on in everyone who knew them, as if we took that responsibility when we met them, without even being asked

Their essence is refracted into the universe, where it colors the air with their hues, eventually bleeding into the sunset with the other colors, a march of the dead every evensong





The question of who will lead the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir


At choir practice this evening, we had to work out what we’re going to do for Hattie’s funeral, which is tomorrow. Predictably, Mrs. B. quickly took charge in Prim’s place, but her busy hornet ways seemed so brisk and artless compared to the close memories of Prim.

“After our tragic week, we’re here today to rehearse for Hattie’s funeral,” Mrs. B. began. “As she was one of our leading second sopranos, we owe it to her to give it our very best.”

“It would be the very least we can do for her,” Mrs. Tilling chimed in, coming forward. “I can hardly bear for us to sing without her, but I know it is what she would have wanted. She would want us to give her the best funeral singing we’ve ever performed.”

There was a mumble of agreement, and then Mrs. B. called for silence. “Yes, yes, everyone knows that, Mrs. Tilling. Thank you for your thoughts. We’ll take that into consideration.” She ushered Mrs. Tilling to sit back down, but Mrs. Tilling was busy looking through some sheet music at the front, and Mrs. B., visibly bristling, continued. “After much thought, I think it would be best for us to sing ‘Ave Maria’ again for the funeral. We can try our best, with my leadership, to repeat our glorious performance in Litchfield.”

More kerfuffle. No one wanted to sing “Ave Maria” again. Somehow it seemed wrong to simply churn out something we sang to win the competition when this certainly didn’t feel in any way victorious. We looked to Mrs. Tilling, who was busy looking through a pile of music scores.

“We can’t sing that!” she declared, popping her head up from the music. “It’s completely wrong for this situation. No, we need something else. Something for Hattie.”

“Maybe we could try Mozart’s ‘Lacrimosa’ now that the special Memorial Service Prim was planning is…canceled. I know that we need to work on it, but it is meant for a funeral,” Mrs. Quail called.

“No, that’s not right either,” Mrs. Tilling sighed. “It’s too heavy and dramatic. Hattie would have wanted something simple, like a favorite hymn.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Tilling?” Mrs. B. snapped. “Tell us, pray, what you have in mind.”

“Well, the Vicar left us all the old music from the church, and it’s a bit dusty, but I’m sure we can find something in here.”

I went up and helped her look through. Some of the copies were very tatty, and sometimes there simply weren’t enough to go around, even if we shared one copy between three or four of us. We’d never be able to get more music in time.

“What about this?” I called, holding something up. “Handel’s Messiah?”

“A touch too celebratory perhaps, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said kindly, flipping on through. “Ah, here we have it, ‘Amazing Grace,’ one of the most moving pieces of music ever written.”

Everyone murmured, and it was generally acknowledged to be an excellent choice.

“Its beautiful anthem brings the whole of life together,” Mrs. Tilling said wistfully, then added decisively, “It is just the thing.”