“It’s modern art, darling,” he said, chuckling. “It’s all the rage in the continent, and London, too.”
Then I came across a smaller sketched image, a single nude, an almost transient figure blurred with charcoal as she flew wisplike across the page. “I say,” I said nonchalantly. “Who’s she?”
He pondered for a moment. “A girl I knew in London.”
She was well formed, agile, but there was an urgency about her, her head glancing back over her shoulder as if she were being pursued. He was staring at her, as if remembering something. Who was this girl?
You know me, Angie. I can’t bear a man to prefer someone else. So I hastily put the picture back in the collection and gave him a saucy smile. “Why don’t you paint me like that?”
The room had become stifling with warmth, sunshine bursting in through the little windows, sparkles of dust spinning endlessly through the air. “I want you to paint me, so you can always remember how I look right now, before I’m old. Come on.” I twirled in front of him.
He laughed. “Venetia, I really don’t think—it’s not what girls like you do. You’re the Brigadier’s daughter, after all.”
“Stuff that! If I say it’s all right, then that’s that.” I went to the mirror above the fireplace and let down my hair. “That girl did it. Why can’t I?”
“That girl was—” He paused, searching for the right word. “She wasn’t at all like you, Venetia.”
“You mean she wasn’t respectable?” I glanced over my shoulder at him, shaking down my hair.
“I mean she was different. She was a bohemian, mixed in different circles. She was older than you.”
“I’m eighteen, you know?”
“I know.”
“We don’t need to tell anyone, or show anyone,” I said. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“There’s a wild gleam in your eye, Venetia,” he said, coming and toying with a strand of hair on my neck.
“There always is.” I smirked. “It’s one of my greatest charms.”
You know how I get when I have my mind set, and there was something about his refusal that was goading me on, making me do and say things. I had to show him that I was just as daring, just as sophisticated as his city girls. And to be so incredibly naughty, posing nude is far more risqué than sex, don’t you think? Just imagine what my father would have to say!
I began slowly removing my clothes, first one shoulder and then the other, and before long my dress was flung to the floor. Then I began slipping off my petticoat and peeling down my stockings. I knew it was having an effect as he folded up his collection and watched me with a smile.
“All right, my little minx. You shall have your nude.” He attached a clean canvas onto his easel and began selecting the paints.
I draped myself on the thick crimson rug in front of the fireplace, lying on my side, my legs tucked slightly, somewhat modest and yet magnificently naked. It was such a freedom, lying there without a jot on, his eyes flickering over me every few moments, focusing on my body in a way that I’ve never encountered. Parts of my body normally clothed felt the softness of the rug, the freshness of the breeze from the window, the exposure. It was Heaven.
Yet as he painted, I felt his attention floating away, as if he were in a different world, listening to the news on the wireless, an intent frown over his face. For an artist and a pacifist, he takes an unhealthy interest in the war. His ears seem on continual alert for news, especially now that the Nazis are pushing us out of Norway.
Am I mad, Angie? Is this all too absurd of me, to go falling in love with an unknown stranger? Having my portrait painted nude? I laugh when I think of what Daddy would say if he ever found out, which of course he won’t. I wish you were here and you could see for yourself what an incredible man Alastair is. I know this started out as a little bet, but I never expected it would turn into—well, one never knows how these things end, does one? All I know is that he’s done something to me, Angie. It’s as if he’s reached deep inside me and grabbed hold of my heart.
Write again soon and give me more advice, Angie darling. Oh, I almost forgot to say! Mama has given birth to a very scrawny and highly vocal baby boy. Everyone’s ecstatic, as you would imagine, especially Daddy, who needed his male heir, and Mama, who needed to keep Daddy happy. But as a matter of fact, the little baby is a godsend for me, too—keeping everyone so busy that no one knows where I am and what I’m doing. From now on, Angie, I’m free to live my life to the full.
Much love,
Venetia
3 CHURCH ROW,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Saturday, 4th May, 1940
Dear Clara,
I’m as flustered as a bluebottle in a jam jar. I can’t believe it has all led to such a catastrophe! There I was late last night, settling in for the evening after an exhausting day, when there was a sharp knock at the door.
“Tell me how it happened.” It was the Tilling woman, storming over from Hattie’s house to accost me. “Why did the baby stop breathing?”
Reluctant to bring her into my house, where she might want to see the mechanical ventilator that wasn’t there, I insisted that we go round to Hattie’s to go over the details. She seemed to want to discuss it in private—accuse me, more like it!
“It’s only right that Hattie’s present if we’re speaking about her,” I said, shoving her back down the path. There’s no arguing with that, and I knew it.
Hattie was in a fresh pink nightgown, dividing her time between our conversation and the baby, whose name is Rose, I was informed.
“I’m rather tired, you know,” I said in a huffy manner, hovering close to the door of Hattie’s little sitting room so I could make a clean getaway. “Two births in one day, you see. Although the Winthrop baby was easier, it being her fourth.”
Mrs. Tilling was watching me in rapt interest, seeping up every gesture, scrutinizing it for any slip-ups. “Yes, and all on the day I was in Litchfield,” she snipped. Then she turned to Hattie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been here to help you through it all.” I could see that she felt genuinely guilty for taking the day off to go to the WVS meeting. “I shouldn’t have left you.” She looked back over to me, a storm cloud coming over her face. “Although I thought Hattie might have gone on another week or more.”
I felt a stab of panic that Hattie had told her about the brown bottle, the smell of the grimy green mulch lurking inside. “You can’t blame yourself. The WVS needs you, too. You do such marvelous work for us all.”
“But when I was gone there was an emergency,” she stammered. “And I couldn’t be here in your hour of need, Hattie.” I thought she might burst into tears, which would round off my day like a thwack around the ankles with a dead rat. “Tell me how it happened, Miss Paltry. Tell us how you got the baby breathing.”
“Well, when babies are born I usually give them a little smack and off they go, crying and all. But this little one—” I leaned across and stroked the soft little cheek in the crook of Hattie’s arm. “This little one didn’t cry at all. It really was incredibly fortunate that I was there and knew what to do. And of course I had the right equipment.” I swept my hands together, as if concluding that my experience was worth a hundred times Mrs. Tilling’s.
Silence hung in the air for a few moments, and then Hattie began weeping. I know that pregnancy and motherhood make women prone to tears, but Hattie has no thought for others. I wanted to give her a good hard slap and tell her to pull herself together. The baby’s fine now. She should be happy she got the pretty one.
Mrs. Tilling then insisted that I give her a blow-by-blow account of the long, laborious birth. She was new to the midwife game and appeared enthusiastic to learn, and I decided it was education that was driving her rather than gathering details against me.
Until the very end, that is. After we’d gone through the whole thing several times, I once again announced that I’d had a long day and really needed to be getting ho
me.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Mrs. Tilling said, getting up and leading the way into the hallway.
She held the front door open, and I walked out into the peaceful night air, thinking for a wondrous moment that the ordeal was over. It was dark, the ducks turning in for the night, seeking out a comfy spot on the edge of the pond. A cool grassy breeze made me pull my cardigan close.
“I have just one more question for you,” Mrs. Tilling said, stepping out behind me onto Hattie’s path. “I want to know about the medicine you gave Hattie this morning.”
“Oh, that,” I said. “It’s for tiredness, but I suppose she didn’t need it after all!”
“Could I have a look at it?”
“No, you can’t,” I snapped, and then, pulling myself together, added, “It was used up, so I threw the bottle away.”
“Can I see the empty bottle?”
“No,” I stammered, quashing down a panic that whipped up my throat like poisonous snake. “I think I must have left it at the Manor.”
She pondered. “Don’t you think it may have been the reason she went into labor? She wasn’t supposed to be giving birth for another week.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “She may have got her dates wrong. The baby is a fine size for her small frame, and perfectly formed. She was definitely ready to come out today, if not sooner. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, dates all mixed up.” I looked at her, smiling as if to emphasize my superior understanding of such things. “Especially with first-timers.”
I looked at my front door. “I really need to get home now.” I gave her a final pat on the arm, then headed down the path.
Once inside my own house, I leaned against the door for support and slid down onto the floor, lying there for a while, curled up in a question mark, exhausted, confused, and—I have to admit it—scared. It’s clear that the Tilling woman smells something fishy. I only hope she doesn’t speak to Mrs. Winthrop about her birth. Having two births the same day with the same minor emergency will almost certainly rouse suspicion.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Why didn’t I think of so many things? I was stupid enough to think this would be simple as cracking a rooster’s neck. I should have been planning, thinking about how I could cover my tracks. At least I know that proof will be almost impossible—she’ll have to piece a lot more together to make the whole story. It makes me feel all tied up in knots to think that I could be at the mercy of this wretched woman.
Or the Brigadier! I know he’d have to step in for me if the Tilling woman brings the law into it—after all, it’d be his moth-eaten backside on the line, too. But if he gets wind that Mrs. Tilling suspects, then I’ll never see the other half of my money, and I’ll have him on my back as well.
I’d had enough of it all, and tried to forget about it and get on to bed. Except I keep hearing Hattie’s cries in my head, screaming at me not to take her baby.
I will carry on as usual for now, keep my head down and wait for the money from the Brigadier. But the whole thing has given me the willies, and you must promise me to burn this letter as soon as you’ve read it. The walls have ears these days.
Until I have more news,
Edwina
Friday, 10th May, 1940
Today Germany invaded Holland and Belgium. I feel almost numb with horror, the sheer brutality and viciousness of these people. Now that they’re so much closer to us, they’ll almost certainly be using the air bases in Holland and Belgium to make raids over England, especially over us in the southeast. France will be invaded next, and after that?
Our Prime Minister, Mr. Chamberlain, has stepped down because he underestimated Hitler, tried to appease him, and it is said that Mr. Churchill will replace him. We all know that Churchill wants to take us into all-out war, regardless of the fact that they’re bigger and stronger and likely to win. Doesn’t he remember the millions of men killed in the last one? What about David? Will his life be wasted on a battlefield because of some idiotic notion that we have to try?
“Winston Churchill will be much better for this war,” Mrs. B. chortled when we met at the shop. “He’s such a ruthless old bulldog! The Nazis are petrified of him. He’s the only one who can win it.”
“But he can’t stop them. They’ll overrun us, like they’re overrunning everyone else. Surely it’s better if we negotiate peace now?”
“It’s talk like that that makes us look like cowards,” she said sharply. “Where’s your fighting spirit, Mrs. Tilling?”
I nodded weakly and studied the shelves of tinned peas for a few moments, before deciding to leave the shop without buying anything. You see, I don’t have a fighting spirit. The thought of all-out war overwhelms me. I feel like Britain is a bird wounded from the last battle, and there’s a savage crow right there, ready to push us out of our nest and take over.
I had to get on. Apart from my other visits, I had to check on Mrs. Winthrop and baby Lawrence. The Brigadier has been keeping me away, insisting that Miss Paltry is seeing to her, which is ridiculous as I’m just as well qualified. But today I heard that the Brigadier was going to London, which left the coast clear. I was desperate to hear about her birth story, find out how it fit in with Hattie’s. So I trudged determinedly up to the Manor.
Mrs. Winthrop was looking exhausted. “He can’t stop crying, poor lamb,” she sniffed. “Nanny Godwin says she’s never seen anything like it.”
“I’m afraid some babies are like that. It’ll pass with time.” I scooped him up to calm him down, his dark, scraggy hair glued to his scalp with the sweat of crying. “Now tell me about the birth. Did Miss Paltry give you some medicine at all?”
“Yes, some nasty green stuff. I thought I was going to be sick, but then the contractions started. It might even have brought them on,” she mumbled, almost as if she were talking to herself. “But the dreadful part was when the baby came and she had to rush him away to her house because of the breathing problem.”
What? I thought. Another breathing problem? “Did you see that he wasn’t breathing?”
“No, I hardly saw him before she took him away.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
She gushed forth about how Miss Paltry saved baby Lawrence’s life by whisking him away to her house to use the ventilating machine. It seems incredible that two babies had the same breathing problem in the same day. Perhaps it had something to do with the medicine? But no matter how many questions I asked, I simply couldn’t get to the bottom of it.
After I left, I had to deal with a billeting problem. Since I am the Billeting Officer in Chilbury, I’m responsible for finding spare bedrooms for evacuees or war workers, and because Chilbury is five miles from the Litchfield Park War Center, I’m continually getting called upon to find more beds for their people. Now they need another two rooms for senior staff. I tried half the village before giving up.
“But what about your David’s room?” Mrs. B. snapped as we congregated for choir practice. “He’s in France now. There’s no reason for you to keep his room empty when there’s so much need.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Quail stepped in. “Here you are foisting goodness-knows-who on everyone else, and you’re not even prepared to take one yourself.”
“David’s only just left. You can’t expect me to give up his room just like that?” I thought I was going to burst into tears but quickly pulled myself together. “In any case, I don’t see you giving up Henry’s room,” I retorted to Mrs. B.
“He’s an RAF pilot and comes home on leave.” She puffed herself up a little. I can’t bear how she goes on about RAF pilots and how they’re the crème de la crème of the military, as if David’s some little nobody worthy of a bullet or two.
“That’s not the point,” Mrs. Quail came to the rescue, but then turned on me again. “But, Mrs. Tilling, you can’t call yourself a Billeting Officer if you don’t billet yourself. It’s not fair.”
“Indeed. You said these new billets are f
or important bigwigs at Litchfield Park,” Mrs. B. snipped. “Ivy House is the perfect place for someone to stay whilst working their hardest to win this war. And you have a telephone, too, and there aren’t many houses in the village with one of those. It’s your duty, Mrs. Tilling, to take one in.”
“Don’t you have a telephone, Mrs. B.?” Mrs. Quail snipped back. “Surely you can find space for a bigwig?”
As if by magic, Prim swooped down the aisle.
“Ladies, it’s time to rehearse.”
Everyone fell quiet and went to their places, except for Mrs. B., who was still quietly smarting.
“We need to focus on ‘Ave Maria’ tonight for the competition. Let’s start at the beginning and take it to the end of the chorus.”
Mrs. Quail pounded out the introduction, and then we jumbled the entry and were off key and far too loud.
“What a muddle!” Prim said when we’d come to the end. “You’re all out of balance with each other. Now, let’s try a few arpeggios.”
We did some arpeggios, and then some scales, and sounded a little more together, but the argument had put us out of keel. During one of the scales, Mrs. B. thumped her music score down and marched off out of the church.
“Right, let’s try ‘Ave Maria’ again,” Prim continued, ignoring the departure.
It was better, but still not good.
“It’s simply too difficult,” Kitty whined.
“Perhaps we should pull out,” I said quietly.
“We’ll do nothing of the sort.” Prim said in a jovial way. “We’ll jolly well do our best and enjoy it, as will our audience. No, we may not win, but taking part is what counts. Being there, being heard. Being alive.”
She smiled, and I found myself smiling, too. And as I looked around me I realized that everyone else had cheered up. Prim was right. It’s not about winning. It’s about finding humanity in the face of this war. It’s about finding hope when everything around us is collapsing.
Including my own precious home.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 9
