The solitary beauty of our unaccompanied voices soared up in the desolate, dim church, weaving in and out, climbing higher and more passionately until the breathtaking climax. It was magnificent, angelic, even I could tell.

My solo was up first, and I felt my throat dry to nothing as the chorus came to an end, marking the place where I came in. Prim’s eyes were on me, her baton poised, and then I opened my mouth for the first note to ring out. “Ave Maria.” I slowed slightly—my nerves were getting to me—but the top notes were firm, clear, crisp, lingering as all eyes were on me, and then I continued, as the notes swept down, and I suddenly felt an elation, as if the piece of music belonged to me, and I sang as if it were part of me, from some new reserve deep inside.

I came to the end, allowing the final note to slowly ebb away, catching Prim’s eyes, her nod, and I knew that it was the best performance I could have given. The best I have ever sung.

The chorus resounded beautifully around me, and we began looking at Mrs. Tilling as it was her solo next. She had been incredibly nervous beforehand, repeating that she didn’t want to let us down.

“But you won’t,” said Prim. “You have to trust your voice.”

The chorus drew to an end, and I watched Prim look at her, lift her baton, and bring it down. Mrs. Tilling’s voice was superb, the mellowness deep and rich like a late summer’s night. She paused slightly before the high note, making it even more poignant, even more beautiful, and after that the notes seemed to flow like gold from her, straight from her heart.

The rest of the choir joined in for the final chorus, the wonderful fullness of sound surrounding us again. Then came the calming lull of the slowly undulating final notes, dissipating into the eerie darkness.

There was a pause through the cathedral, only the drumming of the rain echoing through the apse.

Then the applause started, growing to a hearty surge, and I found a tear coming down my face. We had made it! I had made it!

Prim beamed a look of gratitude at me as we went back to our seats, and inside I rejoiced. I didn’t care if we won or lost. I had saved the day, as had Mrs. Tilling.

The nasal Bishop came to the front again. “I’m afraid that refreshments have to be canceled because of our diminishing candle supplies. So please could everyone keep their seats for a few minutes, and hopefully we can give you the results shortly.”

Everyone began whispering, except for Mrs. B., who loudly proclaimed that Mrs. Gibbs had sung off key for the entire performance and that, should we lose, we’d know where the blame should be placed.

“Either that or we’ll be eliminated for not having men,” she sniffed.

“We have nothing to worry about,” Prim smiled, and I suddenly began to doubt if she really knew the countryside, how attached everyone is to tradition around here. There’s something called conventional wisdom, which means we have to carry on doing things the same way, even when it doesn’t make sense. That’s what the countryside’s about. Litchfield especially.

A minute later, the nasal Bishop returned to the front, this time with the Mayor beside him to announce the winner. The Mayor began to give another speech, and then, thankfully, the Bishop leaned over and had a word in his ear, which was probably “Get on with it,” and he started to announce the runner-up.

“Litchfield,” he announced, as the choirmaster tottered up and received the certificate. That would mean, we thought, that the winners would be Riseholme, as surely no one would vote for Belton.

“And the winner, who will represent the Litchfield area in St. Paul’s Cathedral in the finals”—he rustled some papers annoyingly—“is the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.”

We leaped out of our seats.

Mrs. Quail gasped, “What did he say?”

Mrs. Tilling sputtered, “We weren’t eliminated?”

Mrs. Gibbs said, “Was that really us?”

Then Mrs. B. pushed her way through to the aisle. “Pull yourselves together. Of course we won. What were you expecting?”

We followed her up the aisle, where she was busy pumping the Bishop’s hand as if she were solely responsible for the entire thing. I looked around for Prim, and serene as ever, she was floating up the aisle after us, her long cloak flowing behind her like a great protective owl.

After we took a bow, we got together for photographs. Of course Venetia made sure she was center stage, hair perfect, which was funny as she was standing beside Mrs. Gibbs, who looked like an unhinged hen, with coats and scarves at all angles and hair like a bird’s nest.

There were some photographers there from the Kent Times and even a national paper—they’re grabbing any happy stories they can these days.

We filed over to shake hands with the judges, who were sitting at a fold-up table at the front. First was the Mayor and beside him Mrs. Mandelson, who is the rather severe Litchfield WVS leader. Then there was pompous Lady Worthing, who stood proffering her white-gloved hand as if we were diseased. Mrs. B. was doing her hideous false laugh at something she said, and we grimaced with embarrassment.

The final judge was the Head of Litchfield Park, a giant of a man who looked untidy even though he was in uniform. Mrs. Tilling whispered to Mrs. Quail that he’s the man billeted at her house.

“I didn’t realize he was the Head of Litchfield Park,” she muttered, irritated. “What a strange choice!”