The room was full of musical instruments. There was a huge harp, an upright piano, a harpsichord, a stand with a clarinet, and a silver piccolo lying across the table like a fairy had just flown off after doing a spot of practice.

Prim perched the tray on a tiny round table and pulled over the piano seat, gesturing for me to sit on the harpsichord chair.

“Is that why you never married? Do you still love the butterfly collector?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled, pouring out the tea. “Sometimes we do things without fully understanding. You shouldn’t try to know everything, Kitty. Often it’s beyond our comprehension.” She put the teapot back on the tray. “Now before we start, I want you to sing me a note, as clearly as you can.”

I sang a long, high “laaaa.”

“Beautiful,” she said, picking up the cup and saucer again and handing it over to me. “Did you think about that too much before singing?”

“No,” I said, sipping the hot tea.

“Sometimes the magic of life is beyond thought. It’s the sparkle of intuition, of bringing your own personal energy into your music.”

“But don’t I need to worry about singing the right words to the right notes?”

“The most important part of singing is the feeling.” She leaned forward. “Remember, Kitty. I have faith in you.”

That afternoon we sang “Ave verum corpus” by Mozart, my favorite composer. I sang better and stronger than I ever have before.

“There is a tragic tale about Mozart,” she told me. “He wrote his Requiem, one of the saddest funereal pieces ever written, as he himself was dying, telling his wife, ‘I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.’ On the eve of his death, he and some friends sang it together, and it was at the most poignant song of his Requiem, the ‘Lacrimosa,’ that he let the papers drop and began to weep for his very own death. He died in the early morning. Can you imagine writing your own death music?”

I gasped. “That’s dreadful. Do you think the music made him die?”

“Perhaps it was that he knew deep down inside that he was dying, and put that fear into the music.” She looked back at the “Ave verum corpus.” “Why don’t you try this again, just like before, only this time, think about Mozart writing for his own death. Put your heart into it.”

She began the introduction, and I felt the sound of my voice come from deep inside, and I found myself thinking of the fear you must feel before you die.

A strange elation came over me when I’d finished, like I was a pure white dove’s feather being whooshed up into the air by the lightness of the breeze. And later, as I wandered home, I drew a deep breath of the crisp spring air, and I felt suddenly jubilant to be alive.

3 CHURCH ROW,

CHILBURY,

KENT.

Friday, 19th April, 1940

Dear Clara,

A large pile of crisp hundred-pound notes is now hidden in a secret hole under my floorboards, wrapped in an old envelope and done up neatly with a piece of string knotted twice. In less than a month, the deed will be done, the money will be double, and we can away, you and I, to our new life in Birnham Wood.

Yesterday I met the Brigadier for the exchange, the bundle of money gripped firmly in his sinewy fingers, the tight old git. To say he was reluctant to hand it over would be putting it mild. But I finally wrenched it away and fled, the money safe in my hands.

That was the easy part.

Now I have to deliver the boy.

You see, much to my infuriation, Mrs. Dawkins from the farm gave birth last Friday. I wanted to push its scrawny head back in, but then I saw that it was a girl, so it wouldn’t have been any good anyway.

Now my hopes are pinned on goody-two-shoes Hattie. She’s due a week after Mrs. Winthrop, so at least I won’t have any issues with early births. Problem is the Tilling woman’s hovering around like a bleeding fairy godmother. Now she’s gone and promised to be midwife at the birth, even though I tried to talk Hattie out of it. I mean, who would take a misery like Mrs. Tilling instead of an experienced, well-equipped professional like myself? But she was adamant, whining that Mrs. Tilling was the closest to family that she has in a pathetically sentimental way. God damn the girl!

Unspeakable as it was, I decided to befriend the nauseating Tilling woman. I had to persuade her out of it, or find out when she’d be out of town. If all else fails, I could give her a major injury, push her down some stairs or collide into her with my bicycle. I hadn’t wanted to go that route, frankly. There’s a fine line between a broken arm and manslaughter, after all.

As a first effort, I joined the new choir to cozy up next to her, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I walked in and spotted a place right beside her.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Paltry,” she said snootily, shuffling over. “It’s not often we see you in church.”

“I always come on Sundays,” I smiled warmly, although I bet she’s the type to count and see who’s absent.

There was a lot of kerfuffle about starting a women’s choir, which was patently ridiculous. Of course women can sing without men. I do it every week in the bath.

Then we sang some rather dreary hymns, and after practice was over, I saw my chance.

“I feel it my duty, Mrs. Tilling, to lighten your load and take over Hattie’s birth,” I began. “I live next door to her, after all, and you’re so incredibly busy these days. I have all the equipment and medicines at my house should anything happen. I even have a mechanical ventilator,” I lied.