CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Tuesday, 14th May, 1940
My dearest Angela,
I know you told me not to fall in love with him, but I just can’t help myself. It’s been only a few weeks, but we’re virtually inseparable. I’ve taken to popping out after dinner every evening so that Alastair can continue his work on my nude. We talk a lot, but he’s still extremely secretive, never serious, and changing the subject every time it’s about him.
“What inspired you to be an artist?” I asked him the other day.
“It’s a long and dull story, and I don’t want to bore you, sweet Venetia.”
That’s what he calls me. Sweet Venetia. I don’t think anyone has ever called me sweet before. It’s rather charming, don’t you think? Even so, I do worry that he thinks I really am sweet, all young and naïve. I keep telling him how I’m famed for my raciness, but he simply isn’t surprised by me, not in the way that the others are. He’s heard all my witty lines, and seems to have played this game a thousand times. It’s as if he sees the real Venetia inside. And do you know what, Angie? I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want to be the real Venetia, not just what’s fashionable or daring, but someone complicated and substantial. And he’s the one who’s opening it up for me.
Last night, we talked about poetry, and he made up a poem about his love for me, as beautiful as a summer breeze. I won’t bore you with the details, but honestly, Angie, there’s nothing like hearing the man you love expressing his adoration for you with such eloquence and fervor.
He always has more intellectual matters on his mind, talking about Greek philosophy or medieval politics. The wireless is continually on, sputtering out the latest war news, and once he surprised me by getting quite cross at something they said. The news was about the Nazi invasion of Belgium, which has caught our war chiefs by surprise. They used an indirect route while we were busy guarding the proper way, the one they’d used last time.
“What a military catastrophe!” he muttered under his breath.
“I thought you were a pacifist,” I said nonchalantly.
He picked up his brush again, as if remembering I was there. “Of course I am. But what a dreadful pack of idiots we are to underestimate the Nazis, eh?”
“Why don’t you sign up? See if you can do better?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, darling?” he replied in a playful singsong way. “Push me out of your life forever?”
He paused and looked at me again, stretched out before him. “Oh, Venetia!” he said with gentle amusement. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”
I must have looked at him in such a way, as then something came over him, and he put his brush down and came around the easel and lay next to me on the great red rug, pulling my naked body toward his fully clothed one.
“I need you, Venetia,” he whispered into my ear, so blunt and direct that I was taken aback. “I need you and you need me. We need to be together.” I shifted back and looked into his dark, cavernous eyes, finding an intensity that was disarming but crushingly compelling.
The whole thing was exhilarating, Angie, and in an odd kind of way a little frightening. As I returned his gaze, something new inside me seemed to explode open, like the cherry blossoms bursting open, and everything else seemed to dissolve into nothing, all the messing and the conniving and the boys, all the little games and affairs. I suddenly knew that this is what it’s for. I’ve finally met my match.
Now all I need to do is get to the bottom of him.
Meanwhile, more village news. Hattie named her baby Rose after her poor mother. She invited the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir around to her house to wet the baby’s head with a few glasses of sherry and one or two songs. We’re frightfully worried about the competition on Saturday, so quiet hopefulness rather than the usual squabbling seemed to be the dominant feeling, although Mrs. B. remains adamant that it’s all an embarrassing mistake. Kitty is being incredibly nice for a change, although that’s probably because she’s still gloating about her soloist victory.
Hattie brought the gorgeous baby out of her crib and sat down beside me on the sofa.
“She’s beautiful,” I said. And for once I meant it. Rose is the most gorgeous baby you’d ever see. Even you would think her a gem, with her big blue eyes and gurgling smile. “It’s odd seeing you all grown up with a baby now,” I said to Hattie. “It seems like yesterday the three of us were making that pact in the Pixie Ring, that we would stay together come what may. How funny it seems now.”
“It does seem a long time ago, doesn’t it?” She smiled, and suddenly I felt so very close to her again. “Venetia, I’d like you to be Rose’s Godmother. Victor and I talked about it in our letters over these last few months, and both knew that you were the right choice,” she said. “I know that Rose will grow to love you, as I do.”
“As I do you,” I said hastily, feeling immensely touched and overwhelmed. “Thank you, Hattie. I’d love to be her Godmother. What a wonderful idea. I’ll make sure no harm ever comes to her.”
I looked down at the beautiful child, and I must admit, Angie, that with such an old friend as Hattie producing an angel like Rose, it made me wonder about having a baby myself. I’m sure the magnificent Mr. Slater would make the very best of fathers, don’t you think?
Hattie’s being tremendously brave, but I know she’s terribly worried about Victor. He’s out in the Atlantic until next year, they say, and she hardly gets word from one month to the next. With news of ships torpedoed every week, I know she’s wondering if he’ll get back at all, if little Rose will grow up without a father.
Oh, wouldn’t it have been nice to be born fifty years from now, when all this is over, and we’ll be back to normal. Imagine what the world would look like then! Will we be married and happy, our children grown up with children of their own? Or shall we be famous for something or other, some daring deed or great invention? Obviously, that’s assuming we’ll still be here, and our dear country makes it through in one piece.
I know you think I’m silly to fall in love, but Angie, maybe I’m just not the same as you, busily seducing every man in London. Maybe I need to do my own thing. I’ll write again soon.
Venetia
Thursday, 16th May, 1940
The Litchfield Park bigwig who is billeted to stay in my house arrived this afternoon amid much confusion. He was supposed to come next week, so when I heard the doorbell I thought it was the postman and became flustered (the poor postman is the harbinger of sorrow these days). But when I opened the door, an extremely tall middle-aged man stood on the doorstep, in the pouring rain. His tan raincoat was soaked and clingy around his bulk, and his brown hair clumped wetly when he took off his sodden hat, exposing a big, squashy face with a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once.
“Oh,” I uttered, looking at him accusingly. “You’re not the postman.”
“No. May I come in?” he said bad-temperedly, barging past me into the hallway, trying to brush off some of the rain. He put his somewhat shabby suitcase down next to the stairs.
“May I ask who you are?” I said, rather crossly.
“Colonel Mallard,” he muttered.
“As in the duck?” I asked vaguely. He didn’t look like a colonel. He was wearing civvies and was frankly more than a little unkempt.
He nodded, his eyes flickering over the dilapidated hall. The servants’ dwindling has taken its toll on my poor house, although I was relieved when Mrs. Peck left, as I couldn’t work out who was in charge of whom any more.
“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry,” the Colonel said, turning toward the stairs.
I glared at him, wondering what on earth he was doing. “Well, I don’t know what you’re in a hurry about, or what it has to do with me, but I would be grateful if you could tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I’ve been billeted here.” After scrambling around through his pockets, he dragged out
a crumpled, soggy letter and handed it to me.
“Oh!” I had a quick look. “I was told to expect you next week. Your room’s not even ready yet.”
“Well, I’ll just have to make do with it the way it is, won’t I,” he said, looking at the stairs impatiently.
I led the way up, the man’s heavy footsteps following me. Hardly bearing the notion of him inside David’s room, I eased the door open, taking one last glimpse, one last breath of its peaceful air before it became someone else’s.
The Colonel was well over six foot, and the room suddenly seemed terribly small as he entered. I hurried back to the door, feeling a little claustrophobic. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” I said, and disappeared off before I became teary.
What a dreadful man! Although I suppose it could be a lot worse; he could smell of cow dung, or whistle, or even more dire, take up residence in my living room. It’ll be awkward sharing my house with a stranger, so unlike the soft warmth of David. I wondered what Colonel Mallard does at Litchfield, as I worry that the war may be lost if this is the general countenance of the people we have in charge. He hardly looks like one of Mrs. B.’s “important bigwigs.” He’s far too disheveled and disorganized, like a big old cardboard box.
As I began peeling the potatoes for dinner, thinking of going over to see Hattie as soon as I could get away, I heard the door upstairs open, and for a split second I thought it was David, and his cheery voice would carry down the hall, “I’ll be off now, Mum!”
The heavy tramp down the stairs jolted me back.
“Mrs. Tilling,” he called from the hallway.
“Colonel Mallard,” I replied, hurrying out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on my apron. “Will you be requiring dinner in the evening? If so, I’ll need your ration book.”
“No, I’ll eat at the canteen,” he said, and then added, “Thank you,” in an officious way.
He held out a tattered satchel. I recognized it immediately as David’s, realizing that I must have left it in the room when I began tidying everything away. I snatched it from him in annoyance. Why can’t he leave everything alone?
“Is that all?” I said, desperate for him to leave. But he stood for a moment looking through me, as if trying to remember if he had everything, and then turned and headed for the door, muttering a sullen “Good-bye.”
I closed the front door and wandered numbly back to the kitchen. From the window over the sink I can see the tumbledown tower of the church, and if you climb to the top of that tower on a clear day, you can see the yellow-brown turrets and pinnacles of Litchfield University. I stood and thought about how my dreams have become smaller over the years, from when I was young and yearned to study, to meeting Harold and dreaming of my own family, to Harold dying and my world circulating around David, the only light left in my sad little life.
And now all I dream is that he doesn’t die. Everything else, including the new intruder, means nothing.
To calm my nerves, I went for a brisk walk, and found myself in the church, sitting in the pew at the back on the left, piecing together the new world around me.
“All right there?” A voice came from behind, instantly recognizable as Prim.
“Yes, just coming to terms with a strange colonel staying in my house. He’s billeted with me.”
“Before I found my house in Church Row, I stayed with a lovely old gentleman. He still joins me for tea from time to time. Perhaps it’ll improve as you get to know each other.”
“He’s such a grumpy curmudgeon, I can’t imagine ever getting on with him. I’ll have to see if I can find another room for him somewhere else.”
“I’m sure that if you take the time to talk to him you’ll realize he’s just like you or your son, or anyone else. There’s a war on. Why not give him a chance?”
She had that twinkling little smile on her face, and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “That’s the ticket,” she said, and continued her hurrying in and out with various music stands and scores.
“Prim,” I began as she scuttled by. “You coming here and reinstalling our choir has been such a tremendous lift for us. Do you really believe that singing will help us get through this gruesome war?”
“Music takes us out of ourselves, away from our worries and tragedies, helps us look into a different world, a bigger picture. All those cadences and beautiful chord changes, every one of them makes you feel a different splendor of life.”
“I wish I had your enthusiasm for something,” I murmured.
“But you do, Mrs. Tilling. You do. Not for music but for other things. You only need to stand back and see.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I said glumly.
“Well, let’s start by cheering you up with a little singing.”
She took my arm and led me to the front. Standing me in the middle of the altar, she went back and plumped herself down on one of the front row seats.
“Now sing, Mrs. Tilling. Open your heart and sing. Just pick your favorite hymn.”
“Well, that’s ‘I Vow to Thee My Country,’ ” I said, the thought of this powerful hymn making me warm to the idea. “But I can’t just sing, here on my own.”
“There’s no one here except me. It doesn’t matter if you do it wrong.”
I imagined the organ introduction and softly began humming it, until I opened my mouth and began to sing the first poignant words, sending them echoing clearly through the apse.
I vow to Thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love.
The hymn was sung at my father’s funeral, as it was for so many of those men who died in the Great War. And then we sang it again at my mother’s funeral, and then at Harold’s. As I was singing it out alone in the church, it took on a new horror. I realized that I have been trapped by those deaths, that I had let them take over.
And I now see that it is time to let them go.
Saturday, 18th May, 1940
The Choir Competition
What an extraordinary evening! I am completely exhausted, dear diary, but I simply have to stay awake and write down everything, right from the very beginning.
We were on tenterhooks as our small huddle gathered on the green watching for the bus, which was late. Hardly noticing the first few bulging raindrops plunging around us, we worried whether we’d even make it on time, let alone sing well.
“We’ll be humiliated in front of the whole of Kent,” Mrs. B. kept saying, unable to get over the brass-bones fact that we’re a women’s-only choir now.
“But we’d be a women’s-only choir whether we wanted to be or not,” Mrs. Quail snapped. “There’s no men left. Or would you rather have no choir at all?”
“We are a group of upstanding ladies, Mrs. Quail. Not an unruly singing spectacle,” snapped Mrs. B., barging past her to be first in line as the bus swung dangerously around the square. “Lady Worthing will have plenty to say about it, not to mention the Archbishop.”
“Then why are you bothering to come?” Mrs. Quail climbed on the bus after her.
Mrs. B. swung around. “Someone has to witness the catastrophe.”
Mrs. Tilling looked like she was about to have her fingernails pulled out. “We simply haven’t practiced enough. I don’t know what the Litchfield Times will say about a ladies’ choir, but surely it would help if we were exceptionally good.”
“Better to give it a try, though,” I said, trying to rally everyone, but all I got was fraught faces and scoffs. Silvie sat glued to my side, whispering to me, “It will be fine,” in a very unconvincing way. She loves the choir as much as I do, and has been helping with my solo by being an appreciative, and only sporadically critical, audience. Only Venetia looked unaffected. She’s been in a world of her own since Mr. Slater came on the scene. She’s only doing the competition because the choirs have their photographs in the papers.
We finally arrived. Litchfield Cathedral is like a magical fairyland castle,
with its dwindling spires and ornate buttresses, and is surrounded by roses of the palest of pinks and yellows, incredibly grand yet impossibly romantic. The architect must have been in love. It’s where Henry and I are to be married, I have decided.
Today, however, the roses hung loosely as the rain battered down on us, and we joined the throng of people rushing in for the competition. Mrs. B. battled her way through the crowded vestibule to see the list that had been pinned to a noticeboard.
“We’re going last,” she announced when she huffed back to the group.
“That’s good,” Mrs. Quail said cheerily. “We can watch the competition and see who we have to beat.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Mrs. B. snapped. “Our voices will be quite ruined by that time of night. It’s becoming more of a disaster with every turn.”
Prim’s theatrical voice rang out. “We’ll end the evening on a high note.”
We took our seats in the old stone interior. The lovely stained-glass windows had been covered with blackout material, making us feel enveloped in a massive underground burrow.
As the place became full, the gnome-like Bishop of Litchfield walked to the front and asked for quiet in strong nasal tones, making me think that his wire spectacles were too tight. He quickly presented the puffed-up Mayor, complete in full red robes, who pompously began a lengthy speech about the joys of song in the horrors of war, and the terms “uplifting the spirit,” “heralding a new tomorrow,” and “striving onward” were all trotted out. Ever since Mr. Churchill has started broadcasting wonderful speeches, everyone else is trying it out.
There were four choirs in the competition, the other three being normal men-and-women choirs. We were to sing in order, followed by brief refreshments, and then the judging panel would announce the results.
I trembled in my shoes and looked over to Prim. She was looking very pleased with herself, her hands clasped across her rounded midriff, eyes twinkling and the little V of a smile on her lips. Even though I think she’s the best choirmistress in the whole country, I couldn’t help a nagging suspicion that maybe we weren’t ready for this. Maybe the countryside wasn’t ready for a women’s-only choir. But then she caught me looking at her and gave me a flicker of a wink, and I knew then that everything would be all right. With her at the helm, we’d be fine.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 10
