The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(75)

“I hate to leave you like this, Venetia. Please let me help you.” He kissed my hand in an old-fashioned way, his eyes flickering up to meet mine for an intense moment, before he smiled, said good-bye, and turned down the path. I leaned on the door frame and watched the back of him as he walked away into the late-afternoon haze. He looked so very manly in his uniform, all rational and not losing his head. It was hard to remember the boy he had once been, the time we had kissed by the river when we were both about fourteen. Of course it was forgotten quickly, and we never spoke about it again, but as I stood there watching him walk away, I wondered what it would be like to be Henry’s wife. Perhaps not so very bad after all.

I spent the rest of the night thinking long and hard about Alastair. Where has he gone? Why did he leave me? Even though he didn’t know about the baby, what about his love for me? Did I mean so little to him that he could just leave? And what if he was lost in the flames, or killed by Daddy or any number of spies or black marketeers? Or on the run from the police or the army or the intelligence service? What had I been thinking to fall in love with such a man?

And yet, when I recall the passion, the poetry—

But where has it gone, Angie? Where has he gone? How could he desert me when I need him most?

I began to look at it practically. If he is in hiding, or has vanished to a new safe haven, then he doesn’t care for me, and I have to get on as well as I can by myself, and if he is dead, well, I need to get on, too. Whichever way it is, I can’t sit here in my room and wait for him to return. I have a baby growing inside me. Soon it will be too late for me to deal with this.

Tonight I took off the St. Christopher medal and felt its lightness in my palm, and then I looked out my open window into the night and prayed on the first star that I saw, willing him to come back with all my might.

And so, dear Angie, it is with a heavy heart that I go to bed tonight. Perhaps tomorrow will come and he will be at my door, although as every day passes that chance seems to get smaller and smaller, like a distant star gradually dying to a tiny, unfathomable glimmer of a memory.

I will write again soon,

Venetia





Thursday, 8th August, 1940

I have taken to going round to Chilbury Manor every morning to see Venetia. She is not at all well, still terrifically pale and weak from the blood loss. Anyone can see she’s heartbroken. She hardly says a word without crying, and turns away most food, although Mrs. Winthrop is turning the county over to get her favorite meats and fruits. I worry that she will lose the pregnancy, although I sometimes wonder whether—well, I expect we shall see how things work out.

Mrs. Winthrop had a word with me as I left today, telling me that Henry had been to see Venetia. He is on leave and, with the RAF out every day fighting and fatalities growing, I can only imagine his purpose.

“Did he ask her to marry him?” I asked.

“No, but I think he may do so. Obviously he knows little about Slater, and nothing about the baby.”

“Will she accept?”

“I’m not sure.” She looked at me long and hard. “She knows she’s in a bind. She swears that Slater loves her, but where the devil is he?”

Back at home that evening, after we’d finished dinner and washed the dishes, I came to sit in the front room with the Colonel for a cup of tea while he was reading the paper. I sat close to him, waiting for him to pause so that I could talk. In the end he smiled and looked up.

“I know you’re watching me.” He laughed gently. “What is it that you want?”

“I need to ask you a question,” I said, thinking it best to be direct as possible. “I need to know about Mr. Slater. I have a feeling that you know what happened to him.”

He glanced over the paper at me, then turned the page noisily, making a big deal about folding the pages straight. “Now you know I can’t tell you that kind of thing, Mrs. Tilling,” he said calmly.

“Yes, but I really wonder if you might be able to break that, just this once, just a little. You see, there’s a young woman who is completely heartbroken on his account, and she is now on the brink of accepting an engagement from another.” I paused, wondering how I could put it to best effect. “I know you can’t tell me, but if you could perhaps give me some small indication as to whether he is alive, that would be very helpful.”

“Well, I can’t, I’m afraid.” He went back to studying his paper as if completely absorbed.

“Or perhaps you could simply turn the page of the newspaper if he is alive.” It was a chance. I was desperate.

He sat contemplating this for a few minutes, then turned the page of his paper.

“And is he in prison, or in some way unable to get to her?”

This time the page turned quickly, his eyes still glued to the text.

“So she shouldn’t be marrying this other chap, then?”

At this he pulled the newspaper down onto his lap and looked straight at me. “If Slater is alive, it’s because he is lucky. One day he will die, or land up in some prison somewhere. She stands a better chance at happiness with this other fellow, if you ask me.”

“But she’s not in love with him. She’s in love with Slater.”

“Well, it stands against all reason. He’s not the type of fellow one should fall in love with.” He pulled up the newspaper again, giving it a hard shake to straighten the pages, then resumed his reading.