The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. Jennifer Ryan
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nose look a little less beaky, I think. And he looks older too, even though he’s already nineteen – a real man, someone who’ll know how to take care of me. He didn’t seem to notice me watching, until Hattie drew me over to join them.
‘What a gorgeous dress, Kitty,’ she said, fingering the fabric. ‘Don’t you think so, Henry?’
‘Yes indeed. You look lovely, Kitty,’ he said, grinning, and I found myself dissolving into his eyes. But then he added, ‘You’ll follow in your sister’s footsteps soon and become quite the beauty.’ His eyes swept over to Venetia, who was holding forth in a crowd of men beside the piano. Why does she feel she has to get the attention of every man in the room, including Henry, when she’s not even interested in any of them?
‘I don’t want to look like her,’ I said, annoyed, making him look back to me. ‘I want to be a beauty in my own right.’ I felt Hattie let out a sigh, I have no idea why.
‘Of course you’re a beauty in your own right, Kitty!’ Henry declared jovially, putting his hand warmly on my upper arm and giving me a special smile. I felt a surge of heat where he touched me, like a flame lighting up my body. I waited for him to take me in his arms—
But suddenly I felt his attention melt away – Venetia was approaching. Her dress fluttered as she twirled from one man to the next, like a dazzling dragonfly soaring around in search of prey. Her blonde hair hung low over her pearly white shoulders, while a stream of pungent perfume oozed from her soft, white neck. Henry’s hand lost contact with my arm, which suddenly felt cold and lost, and when I looked up at him, he had turned to face her.
‘Come and sit down with me, Henry darling, and tell me all about your bombing raids,’ she chanted loudly, scrolling her fingertips under his chin and softly directing his mouth towards her carefully painted lips. ‘I hear you’ve been fighting over Norway.’
‘I thought you were busy with the other men,’ he said under his breath.
‘They don’t mean a thing to me,’ she said, pouting. Then she leant her head to one side, her thick blonde hair forming a shimmering curtain to conceal her from the rest of the room, and she whispered something into his ear, her long red fingernails barely touching the other side of his neck.
He responded by whispering something back, his hand moving her hair back as his lips hovered closely to her ear.
A man’s voice called her from the other side of the room, and she pulled away.
‘I’ll have to think it over,’ she said, a menacing gleam in her eyes, and spun off into the throng. Henry followed briskly, calling her name. ‘Venetia!’
And me? I was abandoned, alone, in the middle of the room, mutely holding the plate of cheese straws in my hand. How could she do this to me? And why did he follow her? Doesn’t he know that she’s using him, that she says he’s boring and his nose is like a giant wart? Doesn’t he know she doesn’t care a toss about anyone except herself, lining up the men to prove she’s top? But worst of all, knowing how I love him, she revels in keeping him away from me, another of her little tricks at keeping everyone else beneath her, preening over us like she’s some kind of vicious queen. It’s not fair.
She snaked her way through the throng to Mr Slater, who was looking as impeccable as ever, his dark hair smoothed, a detached manliness about him making David and his friends look like halfwit schoolboys. Venetia’s been fanatical trying to get his attention, but he seems immune to her charms – possibly the first man ever. She’s stepping up her game, or else she’ll lose her bet with Angela. And Venetia always has to win. She calls herself the empress of this little place, and she is determined to keep it that way.
I wandered over to Daddy, who had dragged himself away from his office and was looking ferociously at Venetia, with Mrs B prattling away beside him. He wants Venetia to marry Henry and inherit Brampton Hall, which is just plain ridiculous. I simply can’t imagine them together, and even more horrible is the thought of Henry being my brother-in-law. Whenever we’d see each other, the tension would be insurmountable. But we would never give way to our secret passions, holding them inside like tragic lovers. Perhaps there’d be the occasional moment when we’d meet on the veranda. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ he’d say, surprised to see me. ‘Henry, I didn’t think you’d be here—’ I’d reply, looking at the ground, then back towards the open French door, a white drape spilling out in the soft summer breeze. ‘Nor I. I just have to say—’ ‘No, don’t, Henry. Don’t make things harder.’ ‘But Kitty, darling …’ and so forth, until one of us dies.
Daddy was muttering about Mr Slater again. ‘That Slater’s a worthless coward for sitting out the war.’
‘Mr Slater is exempt from fighting as he is flat-footed,’ Mrs B told him pointedly. She’s taken a fancy to Mr Slater, imagining him a great artist ready for her to discover. Trying to prove herself frightfully cultured, she’s attempting to take him under her wing, Heaven help him. Although I have no idea whether he’s any good. I don’t think Mrs B has the ability to discern a masterpiece from a school art project.
‘Slater’s a down-and-out skiver shirking his responsibilities.’ Daddy gulped down his sherry. ‘Cowardly laziness, that’s what it’s all about. He doesn’t realise that it’s fighting that makes a real man.’
I thought of Edmund blown to bits in the North Sea, and poor David on the brink of a bullet in France, and couldn’t help wondering if it had less to do with courage and more to do with common sense. Sending people off to their deaths seems completely ludicrous. I’ve begun imagining what it’s like being blown up in a submarine, the radar blipping warning signals of one’s approaching death, everyone saluting and singing the national anthem, ‘God save our gracious King’. Then boom. Nothing. Only gnawed pieces of fingers and ears washing up on unsuspecting beaches.
As I watched Mr Slater, I couldn’t help thinking that he can’t be all bad. He helped Silvie home last week when she came off Amadeus. She should never have tried to clear Bullsend Brook. It was lucky he was there. Although I wonder what he was doing at Bullsend Brook. It’s the other side of Peasepotter Wood – the middle of the countryside.
Daddy’s eyes narrowed on Venetia, who was busy with Mr Slater, all witty replies and feigned boredom. Even though Daddy will have words with her later, he can’t control Venetia at all. Every time he tells her to leave Slater alone, she simply shrugs and smiles and says she’s ‘Daddy’s little poppet’, and then carries on as usual. It makes me sick.
Henry was standing behind Venetia’s shoulder protectively, trying to get into the conversation. He didn’t have to try hard as Mr Slater seemed pleased to include him, speaking to him directly, making jokes as they both laughed. It was as if he was avoiding Venetia’s attention. Henry put his hand on Venetia’s arm, and I saw his eyes glance at her face, her throat, her cleavage beneath the low-cut dress. She shook off his hand, but he stayed close, and I wondered why he let her play games with him. But then I remembered how clever he is – he must be playing some kind of game himself.
Then I realised I wasn’t the only one watching Venetia. David Tilling was gazing over at her from the window, leaning against the wall, engulfed by her presence. He’s been in love with Venetia since he was in breeches. I never thought it was so serious, but his eyes were like those of a big gulping fish, drinking her up. Venetia needs to watch herself there. David’s become a lot more forthright since army training.
‘Let’s get the piano out,’ Mrs Tilling called. ‘Can I dare Kitty with a song or two?’ Mrs Quail (whose colour is a cheery orange) plumped her very ample behind on the piano stool, while Mrs B grasped my elbow and marched me up beside her. Everyone knows I plan to be a singer when I grow up, so I’m always the first one called for a song or two. Prim gave me a special smile from the crowd, and I felt determined to make a good impression.
‘Come on, Kitty,’ everyone cheered, and I must confess I was touched and took the score. Mrs Quail had given me ‘Greensleeves’, that beautiful song that was supposedly written by King Henry VIII, although I bet he asked someone to