After luncheon I had to pop over to Hattie’s, where she tried to convince me that little Rose is the image of Victor, and I couldn’t help thinking it odd that she doesn’t look like either of them. In fact, baby Lawrence with his sprouts of dark hair looks more like Hattie, and then I remembered noticing at the christening that Rose had the same coloring as her godmother, Venetia. And that started me thinking about it all: the nasty medicine, the fact that both births happened on the same afternoon—the afternoon that I was in Litchfield. Then they both had the same breathing problem, both requiring resuscitation at Miss Paltry’s house.
And when I’d met Miss Paltry in the square that day, I’d imagined—ridiculously, I thought at the time!—that there was a noise coming from her bag. Could it have been a child? Could she have swapped the babies? I shuddered at the horror of the idea. I think I must have looked a little dazed as Hattie touched my elbow and said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Tilling?”
I pulled myself together sharply. I can’t have anyone suspecting anything until I have more time to think it all through. Until I have proof.
“It’s fine, dear,” I said, smiling. “I just remembered I need to hurry a little today because I need to check on Mrs. Winthrop’s little one, too.” I pondered a moment, then asked, “Do you remember when poor Rose had that breathing problem after she was born?”
“How could I forget it? It was the worst moment of my life.”
“Did you see little Rose at all before Miss Paltry took her away?”
Her eyes looked doubtful, questioning my question, and I had to quickly put her at ease.
“I mean, you should have at least been able to hold her before she was whisked away from you?”
Hattie’s thin face crumpled into tears. “No, I hardly saw her pretty little face before she was rushed out.” She looked down at the baby in her arms, and her shoulders relaxed. “She was gone a whole five minutes. I was beside myself. I pulled myself out of bed and hauled myself down to the front door, and Miss Paltry was back, with my precious little baby.”
She gave Rose a little kiss, their faces together and opposite, hers slim and delicate, the baby’s heart-shaped and blond, and I suddenly questioned the value of revealing any ideas I had. After all, wasn’t Mrs. Winthrop delighted with her boy, too? Didn’t they need a boy to keep the inheritance?
That’s when it dawned on me. Perhaps this wasn’t simply the whim of an unscrupulous midwife. Perhaps there was more to it than met the eye.
I took my leave and made haste to Chilbury Manor, where Mrs. Winthrop was at home. We sat in the drawing room, and she asked Elsie to bring some tea, and it felt almost as if the war had never happened. She looked tired and harassed, which must mean the Brigadier’s being unbearable again.
“I’m doing some studies on babies born with breathing problems, so I wondered if I could ask you a few more questions about Lawrence’s birth,” I began carefully. I didn’t want her to suspect anything fishy.
“I thought I’d gone through it all with you.” She sighed. “It was so distressing. I’m not sure I’m quite up for going through it again.”
“Just a few questions. Did Miss Paltry take the baby away straightaway, or did she let you see or hold him first?”
“No, she had to leave immediately. He was in great distress.”
Her story collaborated with my theory. I quickly pressed on.
“Was she carrying baby Lawrence in her black bag when she returned with him?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Winthrop exclaimed, and I realized I’d gone too far. In any case, even Miss Paltry would have the intelligence to take the baby out of the bag beforehand.
Elsie had come in with the tea, and I wondered if she’d overheard. She smiled a little. “Would you like sugar?”
I had to stay and talk about normal things for a while before I could get away, and then I rushed back home to sit and think it all through. It seems such a ridiculous notion, such a dramatic act for a person to do.
Unless someone was paying her.
Wednesday, 31st July, 1940
Prim had the most wonderful idea. We’re to have a Memorial Service for everyone to come together and help those grieving. I think Mrs. Tilling prompted her by mentioning Mrs. Turner, whose husband was killed in a bombing raid over Dover. And there’s poor Mrs. Poultice, too.
“It’s important for them to know that we’re grieving with them,” Prim told me in my singing lesson today, which was held in the church for extra acoustics. I sang the Lord’s Prayer, the fullness of the sound making my voice sound extremely professional. She said I could sing it as a solo for the Memorial Service, which is to be in a few weeks’ time.
I always arrive early for choir practice as it’s a wonderful moment, the excitement of singing, everyone glad to see each other, and today was no different, especially since we have the Nazis on our backs, ready to invade, so we have to make the most of everything while we can.
“I’ve been working hard all day preparing for the WVS meeting,” Mrs. B. was complaining. “Never getting a word of thanks or any rest.”
“You have to let us know how we can help,” Mrs. Tilling said.
“Unfortunately I’m the only one who can handle leadership around here.”
Mrs. Tilling began, “I could—”
“There’s no other way around it.” Mrs. B’s voice rose over Mrs. Tilling’s, like a tornado overwhelming a welcome breeze.
“And Mrs. Quail said she—” Mrs. Tilling pressed on.
“If you need something done,” Mrs. B. boomed, and we all knew what was coming, so we joined in: “You have to do it yourself.”
Prim arrived in time to hear the end of this, and to see Mrs. B. fuming as some of us giggled behind our hands.
“Let’s get organized, ladies,” Prim said, hiding a smile and handing around some new music scores. “We are to have a Memorial Service for the Chilbury community, to help us join together in our time of grief.”
Everyone quietly agreed and opened the music scores.
“I’ve chosen a piece from Mozart’s Requiem, ‘Lacrimosa,’ which means tearful, beautifully describing this heartfelt piece. It’s more complicated than our usual hymns and anthems, but I think we can give it a try. It’s one of my favorite pieces of music, a massive ocean of sorrow.”
We opened our music scores to see the complicated patterns of notes.
“Shall we try it out? Let’s all stand. Just try your best, feel the music take hold of you, and don’t worry if you sing anything wrong.”
The introduction began, and I knew exactly what she meant. The piece is like a series of waves gushing over you, becoming larger and more powerful as it goes on, until the incredible, strident Amen at the end, as if we have survived it all, stronger than ever.
“Lovely,” Prim said as she brought the finale to a close, sniffing a little with the emotion of it. “Let’s try it again, shall we? This time, let’s try to feel the sadness of it. Let yourself flow into the music. Let it speak your own grief.”
The introduction began again, this time slower, more thoughtfully, and then we came in with the first tentative notes.
As we sang, Mrs. Turner crumpled into the altos’ choir stall, her hands over her face, her hunched body shuddering with tears. Mrs. Poultice sat down beside her, putting her arm around her shoulder, beginning to cry herself. And a new dread crept into our singing, as if we were singing for them, for everyone who had lost someone, or could.
By the time we reached the powerful chords toward the end, we were almost crying with our song, louder, more raucous than before, until the final Amen, when we all stood together, firm in the power of our choir to face this war together.
“Let’s finish for tonight,” Prim said quietly.
We silently folded our music scores and went over to Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Poultice, putting our arms around them, holding their hands, whispering our condolences. People were putting their hands around Mama as well as she is still m
ourning Edmund, and Silvie, so far from her family, and Mrs. Tilling and the other mothers and wives, all worried about their loved ones in this horrific war.
“You always have us,” Mrs. Quail said to Mrs. Turner. “I know we can’t replace your husband, but remember we are here, all together. The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir stands with you.”
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Thursday, 1st August, 1940
My dearest Angie,
I was awake at dawn almost paralyzed with fear, as today I was resolved to follow Alastair. I knew that he was busy this morning with his so-called meetings as I’d tried to arrange something and he resolutely refused.
Of course I hardly slept a wink. I was so certain that I’d face probable death on this outing that I almost let myself off the hook, snuggling down under the counterpane for extra protection. What made me get up in the end was the thought that my pregnancy is becoming less of a possibility and more of a reality. I have to know what to do.
I got up around four, dressed quietly, and took one last look around me—would I ever see my dear bedroom again? Stealing softly down the back stairs and through the pantry, I stepped out into the still, dark air.
I slowly crept into the lane, feeling like the only person alive, although I’m sure some of the farmhands down in Dawkins Farm would have been hard at work in the fields. There was a light mist that lingered in the air, coating the village with a wordless hush.
As I reached the square, silver gray in mist, I almost collided with a small black van that was parked outside the shop, one of Ralph Gibbs’s black-market deliveries no doubt, which hopefully had nothing to do with Alastair. Had I noticed him speaking to Ralph? Not that I could recall. But did that mean anything? Did any of my recollections mean anything, or have I been living in a world that is only half complete, a dream within a dream?
I went round to my spying spot at the end of Church Row, where I could see both the front and back of Alastair’s house from behind a hedge. Then I began my wait. Sitting in the dark waiting for someone to appear is extremely tedious, especially as I was of two minds about whether this was a good plan after all, and I was just checking that my wristwatch was working properly at around six when finally he appeared on the path in the back garden, heading out of the little gate and into the pasture. Immaculate as usual, with a beige raincoat over his suit, he walked briskly away from me, pausing momentarily to smell the morning air—dawn had lifted the mist, and it had blossomed into a heavenly morning, all pale yellow and crisp with dew. How I longed for this wretched scheme to be over!
I hopped nimbly out from behind the hedge and crouched beside it as he stalked down the edge of the field away from me, going at quite a pace. After he’d gone into the next field, he headed toward the Manor, which I thought an odd route. I trotted after him, watching him take an abrupt detour through the bushes at the verge and dashing across the lane, and then making a couple of quick turns toward Peasepotter Wood. I was finding it hard to watch where he was going without being seen, and suspected his circuitous route had been created in order to avoid meeting people and lose any trailers.
He certainly wasn’t losing me, though.
Before he reached the wood, he crossed a very exposed field with no bushes or hedges on either side, and I had to stay at the bottom until he was virtually in the trees. It was there, as I was hiding in a rather prickly bush, that he turned to scrutinize the scene, and I felt that his eyes may have lingered on me for a split second before he vanished into the trees. I didn’t think that he saw me. Surely he would have come and got me if he had? But that brief moment made me draw breath. I had to be more careful.
I sprinted up the narrow path and plunged into the wood. I hadn’t been in Peasepotter Wood for years, and yet I still remembered all the tracks, the path to the Pixie Ring. Alastair was heading into the Chestnut Patch, the place Kitty and I used to play as children, their broad, barrel-like trunks as old and sturdy as the whole of England. I thought about her, and how we’d been friends, so long ago.
Alastair suddenly stopped in a clearing, so I darted behind one of the larger chestnuts, peeking my head around the side where I could watch through the shrubbery.
Then I spotted a man up ahead approaching him. He was stocky and powerful, built like a gladiator and dressed in an old suit that was obviously not his as it was too short in the legs and arms.
They spoke for a while in low voices, and I stared at the stranger. He must be a criminal in hiding, living rough, perhaps in the wood itself.
He was furious about something, that was for certain, and I was suddenly afraid for Alastair, afraid for our little village, and utterly petrified of what might happen if he found me there.
Alastair was calmly engaging with him, his hands gesticulating as if trying to pacify him. He took a small packet from his inside pocket and handed it over, and the stranger took it cautiously and went to put it in his pocket, but then changed his mind and wrenched it open, examining the contents. For some reason I’d expected it to be a wad of money, but it wasn’t. There were two little black booklets, and as he turned them over in his hands, I recognized first a ration book and then a passport. Alastair was helping this man to escape the country.
The stranger was getting more heated, flinging the booklets back in the packet and shoving it into his pocket, and as his voice became louder, snarling through the bracken, a flash of frozen horror shot through me as I realized that he wasn’t speaking English. The language he was using, without any doubt, was German.
What was he doing here? Was he a spy? How did he get here? Had he parachuted in? Why was he wearing odd clothes? Was he going to kill us all? We’ve been told to keep a lookout for the enemy, but I never imagined I’d actually see one.
Or that he’d be meeting with Alastair.
Straining my ears to listen for Alastair’s reply, I almost retched when I heard German words come out of his mouth, so alien from his normal English tones. I abruptly grasped the full weight of the situation. How little I really knew him.
After a few final enraged words, the man strode off into the wood, thankfully in the opposite direction to me. Alastair stood watching him leave for a minute, and then turned and, to my complete dismay, headed straight toward the place where I was hiding.
I sprang behind the tree and held my breath, pinning my back and arms to the sheltering trunk, listening to the rustle of his footsteps through the undergrowth as they came closer and closer. I didn’t have a clue whether he’d seen me, whether he was heading back out of the wood or coming in my direction to root me out. What would he do to me? I swallowed hard, fighting back a growing panic.
It was when he stopped next to the tree, on the other side of me, that I became certain that he knew I was there. I heard him again quietly treading around the tree, and saw him slowly appear, his finger on his lips. He eased his way around until he was beside me, his back next to mine against the broad trunk, and as we both stood there, his fingers moved over and found my fingers, and interlaced them softly between his. I felt heat surge up through my hand and arm and into my head. What is wrong with me, Angie? I was terrified he’d pull me against him and slit my throat, and yet I longed for him so badly I could hardly breathe.
He did neither. He just turned his head to look at me, and I could see a different look in his eyes, a melancholy I’d never seen in him before.
After a few minutes he broke his gaze, then pulled away and glanced around the side of the tree, and then, just like that, off he went, grasping my hand and pulling me after him, darting through the trees as fast as we could go. I almost stumbled a few times, but the tug of his hand dragged me onward. I was petrified and exhausted. What did he intend to do with me?
All of a sudden, we tumbled into a clearing, the golden morning sunshine tunneling through the gap in the treetops; it was as if the world had survived after all, glorious and resplendent in the pale early-morning glow.
&nbs
p; “Which way?” he whispered, panting in the warm air.
“Here,” I said, quietly, catching his hand, leading him down through the trees. “The edge of the wood is just down here, and then we can skirt the orchard down to Bullsend Brook. It leads to the back of Dawkins Farm, and you can go back to the village from the other side.” I was thinking of the fastest route to the fields where the men would be working, someone to hear my cry for help if need be.
As we came out of the orchard and entered the copse around the brook, we began to slow down. He still kept hold of my hand, his thumb brushing the back of my fingers. It was strange, as we never like to be seen together in public. I am cautious about Daddy seeing us, and he is, well, just cautious, which doesn’t seem surprising now. But there we were, hand in hand like young lovers, water trickling over the smooth gray rocks below as we walked through the glistening trees, in and out of the shade of the branches, in a strange juxtaposition between good and evil.
“You’re more than I bargained for, Venetia,” he said quietly.
“So are you!” I spluttered, not really knowing where to begin.
“Why did you follow me?” he asked.
“I couldn’t believe you were involved in the black market,” I replied. “And yet it seems to be the least of your ventures.”
He looked confused for a moment, then said, “Oh, Kitty must have told you,” as if that cleared up everything.
“I followed you because I had to find out more about the black marketing. Obviously I had no idea I’d find out you’re a Nazi spy, too,” I snipped. “Are there any illegal activities you don’t do, Alastair?”
He smiled. Yes, smiled, as if he were proud of himself. “Well, I don’t do many at all, unless you count house burglary. I dabbled in a spot of forgery once, which was quite interesting. I felt it improved my art actually.”
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 17
