What? I thought. Another breathing problem? “Did you see that he wasn’t breathing?”

“No, I hardly saw him before she took him away.”

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

She gushed forth about how Miss Paltry saved baby Lawrence’s life by whisking him away to her house to use the ventilating machine. It seems incredible that two babies had the same breathing problem in the same day. Perhaps it had something to do with the medicine? But no matter how many questions I asked, I simply couldn’t get to the bottom of it.

After I left, I had to deal with a billeting problem. Since I am the Billeting Officer in Chilbury, I’m responsible for finding spare bedrooms for evacuees or war workers, and because Chilbury is five miles from the Litchfield Park War Center, I’m continually getting called upon to find more beds for their people. Now they need another two rooms for senior staff. I tried half the village before giving up.

“But what about your David’s room?” Mrs. B. snapped as we congregated for choir practice. “He’s in France now. There’s no reason for you to keep his room empty when there’s so much need.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Quail stepped in. “Here you are foisting goodness-knows-who on everyone else, and you’re not even prepared to take one yourself.”

“David’s only just left. You can’t expect me to give up his room just like that?” I thought I was going to burst into tears but quickly pulled myself together. “In any case, I don’t see you giving up Henry’s room,” I retorted to Mrs. B.

“He’s an RAF pilot and comes home on leave.” She puffed herself up a little. I can’t bear how she goes on about RAF pilots and how they’re the crème de la crème of the military, as if David’s some little nobody worthy of a bullet or two.

“That’s not the point,” Mrs. Quail came to the rescue, but then turned on me again. “But, Mrs. Tilling, you can’t call yourself a Billeting Officer if you don’t billet yourself. It’s not fair.”

“Indeed. You said these new billets are for important bigwigs at Litchfield Park,” Mrs. B. snipped. “Ivy House is the perfect place for someone to stay whilst working their hardest to win this war. And you have a telephone, too, and there aren’t many houses in the village with one of those. It’s your duty, Mrs. Tilling, to take one in.”

“Don’t you have a telephone, Mrs. B.?” Mrs. Quail snipped back. “Surely you can find space for a bigwig?”

As if by magic, Prim swooped down the aisle.

“Ladies, it’s time to rehearse.”

Everyone fell quiet and went to their places, except for Mrs. B., who was still quietly smarting.

“We need to focus on ‘Ave Maria’ tonight for the competition. Let’s start at the beginning and take it to the end of the chorus.”

Mrs. Quail pounded out the introduction, and then we jumbled the entry and were off key and far too loud.

“What a muddle!” Prim said when we’d come to the end. “You’re all out of balance with each other. Now, let’s try a few arpeggios.”

We did some arpeggios, and then some scales, and sounded a little more together, but the argument had put us out of keel. During one of the scales, Mrs. B. thumped her music score down and marched off out of the church.

“Right, let’s try ‘Ave Maria’ again,” Prim continued, ignoring the departure.

It was better, but still not good.

“It’s simply too difficult,” Kitty whined.

“Perhaps we should pull out,” I said quietly.

“We’ll do nothing of the sort.” Prim said in a jovial way. “We’ll jolly well do our best and enjoy it, as will our audience. No, we may not win, but taking part is what counts. Being there, being heard. Being alive.”

She smiled, and I found myself smiling, too. And as I looked around me I realized that everyone else had cheered up. Prim was right. It’s not about winning. It’s about finding humanity in the face of this war. It’s about finding hope when everything around us is collapsing.

Including my own precious home.

CHILBURY MANOR,

CHILBURY,

KENT.

Tuesday, 14th May, 1940

My dearest Angela,

I know you told me not to fall in love with him, but I just can’t help myself. It’s been only a few weeks, but we’re virtually inseparable. I’ve taken to popping out after dinner every evening so that Alastair can continue his work on my nude. We talk a lot, but he’s still extremely secretive, never serious, and changing the subject every time it’s about him.

“What inspired you to be an artist?” I asked him the other day.

“It’s a long and dull story, and I don’t want to bore you, sweet Venetia.”

That’s what he calls me. Sweet Venetia. I don’t think anyone has ever called me sweet before. It’s rather charming, don’t you think? Even so, I do worry that he thinks I really am sweet, all young and na?ve. I keep telling him how I’m famed for my raciness, but he simply isn’t surprised by me, not in the way that the others are. He’s heard all my witty lines, and seems to have played this game a thousand times. It’s as if he sees the real Venetia inside. And do you know what, Angie? I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want to be the real Venetia, not just what’s fashionable or daring, but someone complicated and substantial. And he’s the one who’s opening it up for me.