There were four choirs in the competition, the other three being normal men-and-women choirs. We were to sing in order, followed by brief refreshments, and then the judging panel would announce the results.

I trembled in my shoes and looked over to Prim. She was looking very pleased with herself, her hands clasped across her rounded midriff, eyes twinkling and the little V of a smile on her lips. Even though I think she’s the best choirmistress in the whole country, I couldn’t help a nagging suspicion that maybe we weren’t ready for this. Maybe the countryside wasn’t ready for a women’s-only choir. But then she caught me looking at her and gave me a flicker of a wink, and I knew then that everything would be all right. With her at the helm, we’d be fine.

Heavy rain began, spattering the roof and engulfing us, as if we were all sheltering under the same umbrella. A clap of thunder echoed around the vaulted ceilings, and we huddled together, more in fear than anything else, while the other choirs trooped up to the front to perform.

All about our competitors

1. The small Riseholme Choir—sang a very nice “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”

2. The huge Litchfield Choir—incredibly good, and we agreed they were going to win (followed by more suggestions that we should back out)

3. The Belton Choir—not so good, which perked us up, thinking we might not be last

Next was us. My heart was clattering like castanets as the Bishop announced us. A series of murmurs echoed around the church, people questioning whether they’d heard right, no doubt.

“Did he say, the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir?” I heard someone behind us say with astonishment. We looked to Prim with anguish, but she was standing ready to file out to the aisle, beckoning us to follow suit.

We sat terrified, glued to our seats like a huddle of wild rabbits in hunting season.

But then, suddenly, a deafening crack of thunder came. The congregation stopped in unison and looked to the ceiling, as the lights blinkered, then blinkered again, and died. We were plunged into darkness, the kind of blackness that makes you feel like you haven’t got your eyes open when you know you have.

Everyone began frantically whispering.

“At least we can go home now,” Mrs. B. sniffed. “Escape this dreadful ordeal.”

Then came the nasal voice of the Bishop. “Don’t worry, everyone. Just stay where you are, and we’ll get some candles.” The whispers grew until, from behind us, a glimmer of light came from the vestry as a single candle was carried to the altar. It was a girl, maybe about ten years old, holding her hand around it to stop it from flickering as she moved slowly forward. Another girl came up behind her, a few years older, and then a woman, and then more people, each holding a lit candle, coming up the aisle, and dividing at the altar to place their candle in a new dark corner. After a few minutes, candles of different lengths and shapes had been placed around the massive ancient interior, some in candlesticks of silver and gold, others long pillars of angelic white. Soon the scent of the hundreds of glowing wicks wafted around, the shifting shadows bringing the ancient statues to flickering life.

“Will we still be able to sing?” I whispered. “What about the organ? It’s not going to work now we don’t have electricity.”

“We’ll do it without,” Prim said jauntily, as if it were a bit of a lark and not a colossal disaster.

“How will we know the right note to start?” I was panicking. We were barely ready to sing, let alone this!

“I shall hum the first note for the altos as they come in first, and I’m afraid the sopranos are going to have to use that note to find their own. Kitty, we will have to rely on your keen skills.” She grinned at me, and I was at once elated and terrified.

We got up quietly, the hammering of the rain drowning our chairs and feet as we worked our way to the front and took our places on the altar step. There was a slight rustle of papers as we found our music, hands shaking with nerves. Prim was holding her baton aloft, her eyes large and bright as she caught each of ours ready to begin. In the silence, we heard her hum a single note, flowing through the candlelight like a small, silver dart. I saw her catch Mrs. Tilling’s eye and nod—if Mrs. Tilling had the note, we knew the altos would be all right. Prim lifted her baton, eyes closed as if in prayer, and as she brought her arms down, Mrs. Tilling’s clear held note rang out through the church, surrounding the mass with glowing warmth. The other altos joined in for a wonderful full sound.

I was petrified. The sopranos would be counting on me to guide us in. I thought I had the note—knew I had the note—but did I have the confidence to sing it out? What if I just opened my mouth and nothing happened?

But the moment had arrived. Prim’s eyes narrowed on me. She raised her arms and then brought them down, both baton and forefinger pointing at me, and I heard our first note carrying through the flickering candlelight like pure-cut crystal. Someone else must have got it, I thought, until I realized that it was my own voice I was hearing. I looked over at Prim, praying I’d got it right. But she had her eyes closed, a smile of serene contentment on her face. The sound swelled as the other voices joined mine. I had done it! Me, Kitty Winthrop. I’d saved the choir. A surge of exhilaration gushed through me, knowing that Prim had recognized my talent, had faith in me. I had carried the choir through and made them proud of me.