The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. Jennifer Ryan
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both women believe they gave birth to a different baby?’
‘Yes, damn it, woman,’ he shouted. ‘Or should I find someone else?’
‘I doubt you’ll find anyone as trustworthy.’ Then I added with a little laugh, ‘Although Mrs Tilling has midwife training, if you’d like to ask her?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he bellowed. ‘Just answer me. Will you do it?’
‘Depends how much we’re talking.’
He snorted like a disgruntled bull. ‘I’ll give you five thousand.’
I stopped breathing for a split second. Five thousand pounds is a vast sum – ten times what I earn in a year. But I wasn’t willing to leave it there. The old rascal is worth far more than that. I’ve seen the finery, the crystal chandeliers, the crown sodding jewels.
‘I wouldn’t be able to work again, and I’d need to leave the village afterwards,’ I said, looking as sorrowful as I could. ‘I’d need twenty to give it a thought.’
He was furious. ‘Eight thousand then. That should be plenty for a woman like you.’
‘A woman like me?’ My face shot up to meet his gaze, and I raised an eyebrow. ‘A woman like me can kick up a good storm, you know?’
‘Are you threatening me?’ he hissed. ‘If you are, I’ll deny it. They’ll never believe your word over mine.’
‘Don’t count on it, Brigadier,’ I said. ‘The days of you toffs being in charge are long gone.’
‘I’ll get you strung up for something, you mark my words.’
‘Ten and I’ll do it,’ I said resolutely. ‘Provided I get the money regardless if it works out or not.’
‘You’ll do exactly what I tell you, Miss Paltry, or you’ll never work here again. Do you hear me?’ He came up close. ‘You’ll get your money when I get my boy.’
‘You give me the money beforehand, and if no boys are born, there ain’t a jot I can do about it. But if there is a boy’ – I smiled with enticement – ‘I will make him yours.’
He clenched his fists. He hadn’t been bargaining for this. Since arriving here five years ago I have been careful to build a reputation of even dealings, especially following my miscalculations in that village in Somerset. (You’ll remember how they hounded me out after I gave wart patients the wrong ointment that resulted in purple-coloured nether regions. It caused three marriage breakups, a major punch-up, the disappearance of a young woman, and at least two angry men trying to hunt me down.) No, Clara. I’ve played my game carefully in Chilbury, hushed up my past, played by their rules.
Now it’s time to reap the rewards.
‘All right, you’ll get ten thousand. But it’ll be half before and half after,’ he roared. ‘And if Mrs Winthrop gives birth to a boy, you’ll settle with half.’ He looked me over scowling. ‘How am I to trust a woman capable of doing such a business?’
‘Women are capable of many things, Brigadier. You just haven’t noticed it until now.’ I gave a quick smile. ‘I will need the first half of the money, in cash, two weeks from today.’
He blustered around the scrub, and I suddenly realised how much this deal meant to him. I should have taken him for fifty. He would have done it. He would have done virtually anything.
‘You’ll get your money,’ he growled under his breath. ‘Come back here on that date at ten, and it’ll be ready.’ He came towards me, his eyes scrunched up like Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘And mind you keep your mouth closed, or the deal’s off. Not a word to my wife either. She is not to know. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you, Brigadier.’ I spoke quietly. ‘Loud and clear.’
With that I turned and strode out into the wood, leaving him pacing around, cursing under his breath.
Taking a deep breath of newly fresh air, I danced out of the bracken and onto the path. This will work, Clara. As a precaution, I have decided to get chummy with the nuisance Tilling woman. Keep my ear to the ground. This is big money, and my attention to detail merciless. I’ll write closer with details, just as you said you wanted in your letter. I know you think I’ll mess it up like usual, but I won’t let you down this time. You’ll be rich before the spring is out, I swear.
Edwina
Notice pinned to the Chilbury village hall noticeboard,
Monday, 15th April, 1940
Wednesday, 17th April, 1940
Prim’s notice in the church hall announcing a new ‘Ladies choir’ has caused uproar in our tiny community. Last night before the Women’s Voluntary Service meeting (or the WVS as we say these days), Mrs B told me she’d gone straight to the Vicar to find out the truth.
‘“Have you allowed this woman – this newcomer – to take over the choir and debase it beyond recognition?” I demanded of him, and do you know what he said? The Vicar, who is supposed to be a Man of God, told me, “Well, she was awfully forceful and I really couldn’t object.” I didn’t know what to say!’
‘Gosh,’ I said. I was rather excited about the whole adventure. At least we’d be singing again. I’d missed it. ‘I know it’s unusual, but why don’t we go along and see what Prim has to say. There’s no harm in it, after all.’
‘No harm in it?’ she bellowed back at me. ‘No harm in ruining the reputation of our village? I can’t imagine what Lady Worthing will have to say to me about it. She’s such a stickler for doing things the way they’ve always been done.’
A few of the other WVS ladies joined in, the Sewing Ladies tutting about it over their troops’ pyjamas, the canteen ladies unsure how it would work. So you can imagine my curiosity as I peeked into the church this evening, nipping in out of the rain.
I was one of the first to arrive, and the place looked enchanted, the candles at the altar throwing dark shadows around the nave. One by one the ladies began to arrive: Mrs Gibbs from the shop, Mrs B, Mrs Quail at the organ, and even Hattie, who’s heavily pregnant now but said she wouldn’t miss it for the world. Miss Paltry made an appearance – it seems she is turning a new leaf, even speaking to me at the end about becoming involved in the WVS. Kitty and Mrs Winthrop bounded in enthusiastically, bringing their evacuee, Silvie, who for once was almost smiling. Venetia strolled in, perfectly dressed in case she bumps into Mr Slater. She’s become astoundingly unpleasant. But maybe there’s hope for her now that Angela Quail’s out of proximity.
By seven the place was packed, in spite of the downpour, and a buzz of chatter and anticipation filled the chilly air; even Our Lady of Grace seemed to look down in readiness. Meanwhile, a firm contingent of naysayers clucked like a bunch of unhappy hens in front of the altos’ pew, urged on by Mrs B.
Suddenly, the massive double doors flung open, and Prim, majestic in her black, sweeping cloak, swooshed down the aisle towards us, her footsteps cascading through the wooden awnings, scaring a few bats in the belfry. She swirled off her cloak and shook off the rain, her hair looking especially frazzled. With a look of pomp and ceremony in her eyes, she plumped a pile of music on a chair and pranced theatrically up the steps to the pulpit.
‘May I have everyone’s attention, please,’ she called, her pronunciation resounding richly through the cloisters.