Henry

CHILBURY MANOR,

CHILBURY,

KENT.

Friday, 26th April, 1940

Dear Angela,

So much to tell! First of all, you missed David Tilling’s spectacular leaving party on Tuesday evening. Well, maybe more predictably pleasant than spectacular. You know how these Chilbury events are. Everyone was there, including Hattie and Mama, who are both taking pregnancy in such different ways, Hattie all excitement and joy, and Mama with a weepy hope that she’ll get a boy for Daddy.

Mr. Slater stubbornly refuses to be tempted by me. He skillfully redirects any questions and provokingly ignores any flirtation. Your idea of showing him some suitable landscapes might hold some opportunities. I am formulating a plan that cannot fail.

Henry asked me to marry him again. Obviously I was vague. I can’t bear to let the poor man down every six months. When will he get the message? Meanwhile, Kitty pathetically hangs on his every word. He politely fobs her off, which is rather cruel, don’t you think?

Hattie is preparing the schoolchildren for her departure when the baby arrives. In typical Hattie fashion, she’s enormously guilty about the whole thing, and feels that it’s frightfully selfish to be having a baby.

“Don’t be silly, Hattie. You’re a born mother. You can’t pass that up just to teach a few schoolchildren,” I tell her.

But she only says, “You don’t know how much they depend on me, Venetia. You don’t understand.”

Clearly I don’t.

The new choirmistress, Prim, made an extraordinary announcement at choir practice on Wednesday, and everyone’s up in arms once again. She surged in with her usual melodrama, but instead of handing out music scores, she quickly climbed the pulpit, and we knew something special was afoot.

“I have entered the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir into a public choir competition in Litchfield three weeks from Saturday.”

“What in Heaven’s name are you thinking?” Mrs. B. stood up and strode over with the determination of a tank. “We’re not parading any nonsensical women’s choir in a public competition. We’d be a laughingstock!”

“The competition is in aid of weapon production and is considered a tremendous boost for Home Front morale,” Prim said, jubilantly. “It’ll be in all the papers, cheering spirits across the country. I can’t imagine anyone will be thinking badly of us.”

“All over the country?” Mrs. B. thundered, the stained-glass windows jittering. “Our respectable, historic village will be dragged into the national press?” She took out her ticking-off finger and began wagging it fiercely. “Are we to find ourselves shut out of polite society?”

“Now, don’t be a spoilsport, Mrs. B.” I stepped forward, smiling sweetly. “Everyone will think us wonderfully modern.”

“And it would be so much fun to perform on a stage, wouldn’t it?” Kitty added.

“What complete and utter tosh,” Mrs. B. snapped. “We’ll look absurd. A bunch of women muddling along without any men! Where’s your sense of pride?”

Then a strange thing happened. Hattie came forward.

“I know you want everything to stay the same, Mrs. B., but there’s a war on and we’re trying to get on as best as we can. There are no rules about singing without men. In fact, there are no rules about anything anymore. So let’s be among the first to herald this new opportunity. It’s part of the home-front effort to keep spirits up, after all,” she went on. “So we’re doing our bit for the war simply by entering.”

“Count me in,” Mrs. Quail called over from the organ.

“I’m in,” said Mrs. Gibbs, and another voice spoke out, “Let’s give it a go!”

“Yes, let’s give it all we’ve got!” Mrs. Tilling said cautiously. “Just because we’ve never done something before, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

Mrs. B, pouting like a restrained child, wasn’t ready to step down. “Has everyone lost their minds around here?”

“Not at all!” Prim spread her arms wide with pride. “We may be a late entry, but I know that we have what it takes. We have some great voices—Kitty and Venetia are already first-class sopranos, and Mrs. Tilling is the mainstay in the altos. Everyone has a fine voice, but to compete against the big choirs we have to use our finest asset, the one that will mark us out as truly exceptional.”

She looked from person to person. “Music is about passion. It’s about humanity. We need to bring our own passions to our voices.” She wound her baton thoughtfully through the air. “We have to imbue every note, every word, with our own stories. Think of what our members can bring: Kitty’s exuberance, Silvie’s courage, Mrs. Quail’s joviality, Hattie’s gentleness, Mrs. Tilling’s diligence. Even you, Mrs. B., bring a gusto and verve to our singing. Every joy, every pain we are feeling from this war will be put to use in our music.” She paused momentarily. “That plus an extra practice on Fridays.”

Mrs. B. looked annoyed. “Where is the competition to be held?”

Prim leaned forward dramatically, speaking in a theatrical whisper. “Litchfield Cathedral, probably the most spiritual and inspiring edifice of them all. The acoustics are among the finest in the country. And if we win, we’ll be in the finals in none other than St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.”