Tuesday, 26th March, 1940

      First funeral of the war, and our little village choir simply couldn’t sing in tune. ‘Holy, holy, holy’ limped out as if we were a crump of warbling sparrows. But it wasn’t because of the war, or the young scoundrel Edmund Winthrop torpedoed in his submarine, or even the Vicar’s abysmal conducting. No, it was because this was the final performance of the Chilbury Choir. Our swan song.

      ‘I don’t see why we have to be closed down,’ Mrs B snapped afterwards as we congregated in the foggy graveyard. ‘It’s not as if we’re a threat to national security.’

      ‘All the men have gone,’ I whispered back, aware of our voices carrying uncomfortably through the funeral crowd. ‘The Vicar says we can’t have a choir without men.’

      ‘Just because the men have gone to war, why do we have to close the choir? And precisely when we need it most! I mean, what’ll he disband next? His beloved bell ringers? Church on Sundays? Christmas? I expect not!’ She folded her arms in annoyance. ‘First they whisk our men away to fight, then they force us women into work, then they ration food, and now they’re closing our choir. By the time the Nazis get here there’ll be nothing left except a bunch of drab women ready to surrender.’

      ‘But there’s a war on,’ I said, trying to placate her loud complaining. ‘We women have to take on extra work, help the cause. I don’t mind doing hospital nurse duties, although it’s busy keeping up the village clinic too.’

      ‘The choir has been part of the Chilbury way since time began. There’s something bolstering about singing together.’ She puffed her chest out, her large, square frame like an abundant field marshall.

      The funeral party began to head to Chilbury Manor for the obligatory glass of sherry and cucumber sandwich. ‘Edmund Winthrop,’ I sighed. ‘Only twenty and blown up