The Chilbury Ladies' Choir(95)
I pulled back and looked at her. “You’ll always know that your mother loves you and your brother. You’ll always remember that. And just think, when this dreadful war is over, we can go back to your mother’s friend and find him. Do you know where she lives?”
Silvie nodded.
“Let’s do that, then. This war can’t go on forever. We can’t let it take everything away from us.”
She nestled into me, and we sat like that, huddled together, looking out, as the clouds began to form above us, darkening the world like a grim shadow, and slowly, quietly, the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops began to sound around and above us.
A kestrel circled and swooped around in the rain, his wings like a great spread of hands, black and disheveled against the dark sky. And then, without any warning, he was gone.
Softly, Silvie began to chant, slowly in a whisper at first, but then more rhythmically, more lulling, her throat catching with tears as she repeated the Kaddish, as if mourning her own loss. I joined in with her where I could remember the words, and our voices echoed strangely around the deserted huts as if we might have been living today or a thousand years before, feeling the same horror of uncertainty.
It might have been twenty minutes later, maybe an hour, when the shouts and whistles of the hop pickers came from the hill. Soon a few boys raced in front of us down the scrub of land, Tom in the lead, slamming up to the last hut with a deft halt. He threw his hands in the air to declare victory, which was somewhat ridiculous as the other boys were at least a year or two younger. It was almost cheating.
“What are you two doing here?” He trotted over to us.
“We were out for a walk and took cover when it started to rain. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, course not,” he said, looking at Silvie’s red eyes, my arm around her shoulder. He perched down beside her, putting his big, thin hand on her arm. “You all right, girl?”
“They took her parents to a camp,” I said, unsure if I should be telling Tom, but as Silvie lifted her gaze to him, her lips pursed together with unhappiness, I remembered how much she liked him. How much we both liked him.
“We need to get home,” I said, starting to get up.
“I’ll come with you,” Tom said, his lanky body dancing around us like a skinny clown. “Try and cheer you both up a bit.”
Without a word, Silvie slipped her slim, white hand into his and let him help her up. Then, taking my hand, too, Tom led us back to the Manor.
True to his word, he entertained us with his news from the day, which amounted to someone finding a half-decomposed dead rabbit (which we heard about in gruesome detail), a boy who ate an apple that was full of maggots, and one of the families having to leave early because the mum’s having a baby.
We had cheered up somewhat by the time we got past the orchard, and as we rounded the side of Peasepotter Wood and onto the drive, we saw the crowd of women in front of us, back on the lawn, sitting on benches and drinking tea. Mrs. B. was striding around taking notes on her clipboard, until she spotted us coming toward them, announced something, and then they leaped up and began to clap and cheer.
“You found her!” Mrs. Quail shouted.
“Well done!” one of the Sewing Ladies chimed in, and someone even promised some sweets.
“Good to have you back, Silvie!” Venetia came over, relieved and smiling.
They heartily slapped our backs, and then Mama put her arms around Silvie, who promptly burst into tears again.
“You have to promise to stay with us,” Mama told her, crouching down to her level. “And never, ever run away again.”
Silvie nodded and buried her face in Mama’s neck.
“What about Daddy?” I whispered to Mrs. Tilling, who had come over to stand next to me. “He’ll never let Silvie stay.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, Kitty.” She smiled, as smug as a cat with her paw on a mouse. “He won’t be a problem anymore.”
I turned to quiz her, but she was gone, off to herald the return of Silvie, and I was left wondering what’s at the bottom of it all.
Tom bounded over, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re quite the hero after all.” He stood beside me, almost touching.
“Of course I am!” I huffed. But then I remembered about my recent mishaps with Venetia and Henry. “Do you really think so?”
He laughed and slapped me on the back, sending me lurching forward a few paces. “You’re the best, Kitty. The fair damsel who saves the day!” Then he took my hand and gave it a rough squeeze.
Sunday, 18th August, 1940
As soon as the all clear sounded, I was on my bicycle and heading through the darkness to Litchfield. I had to be there for the medical team, to help the wounded, but I was mostly worried about the people I knew. Venetia had started work again, and of course there was the Colonel. Might he have been careless enough to not go to the bomb shelter? He mentioned to me only last night how he was fed up with leaving his desk when he was busy, how he’d taken to staying put during the raids.
I cycled fast the whole way, praying he didn’t do so tonight: if there was one time he went to the shelter, please God, let it be this time.
As I came over the hill, I saw the blazes over Litchfield Park. You couldn’t miss them. Surging gusts of flame soared high into the sky, covering most of the main building, with more fires over what had been the outbuildings. I wondered how many people were trapped in the blaze, and I knew right then that, before I went on duty, I needed to see if I could find the Colonel.