The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. Jennifer Ryan
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That evening, when I’d stopped crying, I realised that this was a feeling I was going to have to get used to. Keeping busy, stopping my head from thinking the most abysmal things, never knowing where he is or whether he’s still alive.
David is all that I have. I know he must go and do his duty, even though I wish with every ounce of me that he might have been given a desk job or kept home to refuel planes. I can only pray that God is watching over him. I suppose I am just one of the millions of mothers around the world standing by a door, watching our children walk down the road away from us, kit bag on backs, unsure if they’ll ever return. We have prayer enough to light up the whole universe, like a thousand stars breathing life into our deepest fears.
I had to pull myself together for tonight’s choir practice, at once looking forward to expelling some pent-up feelings into the air, and also fearful that I’d collapse, breaking our silent vows to keep it tucked inside, keep spirits up.
I went to the church early, wandering up to the altar and thinking about the finality of death. Then a hand on my arm made me turn around, and there was Prim nodding her understanding. As if she knew, she saw straight inside me at the emptiness and fear.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Loneliness seems to follow me,’ I said with a sad smile.
‘It’s never the end,’ she said softly. ‘Love is always there. You just need to embrace it.’
‘But—’ I wasn’t sure what she meant. Where is the love when my family have gone?
‘You need to cherish your memories of people. You can’t ask anything more from them now.’
The door squeaked open and Kitty and Silvie dashed in, breaking up our talk with their chatter.
‘Did David leave today?’ Kitty asked, breathless from running.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘He left this morning.’
‘Did he remember everything?’
‘I suppose so,’ I replied stiffly, not wanting to talk about it.
Silvie’s little hand tucked into mine, and when I looked down, I saw her eyes large and fraught. The poor child’s seen far too much of this war. I can only pray it never comes here.
Soon the choir stalls were packed, people clamouring to hear news of the war from anyone who knew anything. A few of us remained quiet, listening in a half-tuned-in way as our thoughts were drawn away. Some of the women who also had loved ones away came to give me their sympathy, their scared eyes welcoming me into their haunted world.
Prim turned to the choir, requesting that we sing ‘Love Divine’ for Sunday. Gathering up the sleeves of her dramatic damask cloak, she held her baton high in readiness, and we plunged into it, bathing in the glow of song. At the end, Mrs Quail tottered to the front and had a word with Prim, to which she nodded and directed Mrs Quail back to the organ.
‘By special request, we’ll have a good old sing of “The Lord’s My Shepherd”.’ We gathered up our song sheets and looked towards her to begin. I knew Mrs Quail had done it for me. She knew it was one of my favourite hymns. I caught her eye to say thank you, and as the slow, methodical introduction began, I felt the blood pumping faster through my veins.
The most beautiful sound, the choir in full voice was singing softly, hesitantly to begin with, and then opening our voices straight from our very hearts.
The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
The volume swelled with passion and deliberation as we poured our emotions into every darkened corner of the church. Every dusty cloister and crevice reverberated, reaching a crescendo in the final chorus, a vocal unison of thirteen villagers that cold, still night, pouring out our longings, our anxieties, our deepest fears.
Letter from Flt Lt Henry Brampton-Boyd to Venetia Winthrop
Air base 9463
Daws Hill
Buckinghamshire
Thursday, 25th April, 1940
My darling Venetia,
I have felt little except the wild beats of my heart since we parted last Tuesday. The way you looked, the way you moved in that dress, I feel mesmerised, put under an enchanted spell by your elegance and beauty. When you told me that you would consider my offer of marriage, I could only rejoice in the knowledge that you might one day be mine. I only hope that I may survive this war long enough to know you properly as my wife.
I am not due back to Chilbury until July, and when I arrive, I hope you might have had time to consider my proposal. I have plenty to offer, after all, my darling. Brampton Hall will be yours, as will our illustrious family name, and my everlasting passion and devotion. Timely weddings are usual these days, and I am anxious to be wed as soon as you give the word. They give the newly wedded an extra few days’ leave. I have a good notion of the perfect place for our honeymoon, where we shall get to know each other in a wonderfully whole way. I truly cannot wait!
Wishing you all my love, my darling, and hoping that while I am away you remain mine, in the same way that I will remain completely and undeniably yours,
Henry
Letter from Venetia Winthrop to Angela Quail
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 skilfully 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 school children 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 school children,’ 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