The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(85)
Mrs. Winthrop and I glanced at each other. It was as if the culmination of the whole situation had finally broken her inside.
The Brigadier was throwing a tremendous racket downstairs, as if it were yet another battlefield, the sound of crockery breaking and doors slamming in utter contrast to our quiet little corner of grief.
After eight, I trod sadly back to the village to get some rest before morning surgery, feeling light-headed from the lack of sleep. I reached Ivy House just in time to see the Colonel leave for Litchfield.
“Is she all right?” he asked, although I hadn’t mentioned it to him, and I have no idea how he knew where I had been.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’ll be fine.”
“And you?” He stopped right in front of me, his bulky mass hovering over me.
“I’m—” I began, about to say as usual that I’m all right. But it wasn’t true. “I’m tired. It’s all been rather traumatic, to be frank.” I looked at him and gave him a frail smile.
“Why don’t you go and lie down for a while.” He leaned his head down slightly. “I’m sure the surgery can do without you this morning.”
I could have cried on his large, friendly shoulder, but I just stood there, trying to be practical, holding in my tears. “But what about all the people waiting for me?”
He stood looking at me for a moment, and then he put both arms out, perhaps to put them around me, but then stopped himself midair, deciding instead to plant his hands firmly on my arms. “You need to rest for a while, otherwise you won’t be able to help anyone.”
“I’ll try,” I said, then pulled away, embarrassed by our closeness. “But where’s Kitty? I need to make her breakfast.”
“Kitty has already made me breakfast and, if you ask very nicely”—he smiled, raising an eyebrow—“I’m sure she’ll rustle up some for you, too.”
Friday, 9th August, 1940
The Sharp Light of Day
When I opened my eyes this morning, I found myself blinking at Mrs. Tilling’s small back room, and spent a few abysmal moments piecing together the gruesome events of the last day, my fast and furious demise into a pit so deep I’ll never be able to struggle out.
My Future
Daddy’s unleashed fury—I’ll have to leave home in disgrace
Venetia’s anger, and her unremitting torment
My utter and complete disgrace that will follow me like a shadow of death
My broken heart dissolving my insides into molten lava
My shattered dreams—the end of everything I’ve ever known and wanted
I wandered downstairs and into the kitchen to find some breakfast.
“Is Mrs. Tilling up yet?” I asked the Colonel.
“She’s still at the Manor,” he said, starting to poke through the cupboards for something to eat. “She’s been there all night.”
“Oh dear,” I muttered as I reached for the oats. “It must be Venetia. I hope she’s all right.”
As I made tea and porridge for the Colonel, I couldn’t stop thinking about Venetia, and how it was all my fault she had the dreadful row with Henry. He must have been furious with her. I shouldn’t have told him. I really can’t think how bad people can live with themselves and their guilt. I felt it lurking in me, like a poisonous slime slushing around my body, making everything I do or say come out all yellowy-brown and stinking of sick.
The Colonel sat down at the table, reading yesterday’s paper and giving me a running commentary.
“Well, it’s officially called the Battle of Britain now. The Nazis are bombing all our airfields and factories.”
“Really,” I said, not listening.
He glanced up at me as I slowly stirred the porridge. “Let’s see if they have something more cheery.” There’s always a couple of those humorous or nice-ending stories to lift spirits, and he read one out to me about an air raid warden who was paroling the village of Upper Leigh when he felt a gun in his back and thought the Nazis had invaded. He put his hands up quickly, and as he gradually turned around, he realized he was being held up by a huge heron—he had backed into the bird’s beak thanks to the blackout.
I smiled, but my spirits remained unlifted, and he gave me a heavy pat on the shoulder before leaving for Litchfield Park. I’m sure he wouldn’t be so nice to me if he’d heard the full story.
I went back to tidying the kitchen, and heard Mrs. Tilling come in. They spoke quietly as they passed in the hallway, and then I heard the front door close as he left.
“Hello,” Mrs. Tilling announced as she breezed into the kitchen. “The Colonel tells me you made him breakfast, which I must say was immensely good of you. Now put the kettle on and let’s have a little chat.”
“Is she all right?” I said hastily, busying myself with filling up the kettle.
“I think she’ll be fine,” she said, to my immense relief. “But she lost the baby.”
I know what that means. And I know that my telling Henry was the last thing she needed. She’s been so weak since the bombing. This must have tipped her over the edge. I plonked myself down on a chair, laid my arms on the table, and sank my head into them. “It’s all my fault.”