Pray for me, Clara, that I might come out of this in one blooming piece.
Edwina
AIR BASE 9463, DAWS HILL,
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.
Monday, 12th August, 1940
My dear girl,
How terribly surprised I was to receive your letter, both for its actuality and, more strikingly, for its content. Please allow me to unburden you of any misapprehension you may have about my feelings toward you and the nature of our relationship.
Firstly, the “beautiful afternoon together” of which you speak is merely that, one beautiful afternoon. There was no intention on my part for it to lead to more beautiful afternoons. In fact, that was quite its beauty: that it was a single escape from the bounds of reality. Any references I might have made to your change of occupation were concerned with the growing need for women to join the war effort. Would it not be more correct for you to train as a nurse or join the forces instead of wasting your energies as a civilian parlor maid?
Secondly, it will consequently not be necessary to contact my mother, and I must tell you that should you choose to ignore my warning, her wrath will be overbearing, and your livelihood in the area will be at stake.
I wish you well in your new career.
Yours, &c.
Flt. Lt. Brampton-Boyd
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Monday, 12th August, 1940
Dear Angela,
Isn’t it strange that momentous things happen—catastrophe, sickness, death—and then a week or two later it seems that everything has gone back to normal. I went back to work today, catching the 7:40 bus to Litchfield and walking past the telephone box on the corner, the same faces, the same clouds settling above us. I headed for our old office. Elizabeth was there making tea and gave me the chipped cup as usual. I sat down at my desk and went through the new papers. I’ve only been away for a few weeks, yet it feels like eternity. No, actually it feels like I’m just a whole different person. The old Venetia left and now a new person has come who looks like Venetia, and remembers how to do Venetia’s job, but she isn’t the same person at all.
No one knows what happened, except for Colonel Mallard, who came and asked how I was doing in rather a lovely way. They know about me saving the baby, as that was in the papers. But they don’t know about me losing a different baby. I shudder every time a new person comes in to congratulate me. “Well done about the baby!” they say, or “You must want one of your own now!” I know they mean to be good-humored, but I have become quite annoyed at having to rush to the ladies’ every few minutes to check my mascara.
After work, Colonel Mallard gave me a lift to Chilbury, and I popped in to say hello to Mrs. Tilling and baby Rose. She’s such a cuddly baby, all plump and giggly. I sometimes get to feed her, too.
“I want to help look after her—it’s what I owe to Hattie,” I said, as I rocked her on my lap.
“Yes, I can understand that,” Mrs. Tilling said, smiling, and I found myself blushing at the selfish, snippy person I used to be—especially to Hattie.
“Perhaps I could have been a nicer friend to Hattie, but at least now I can help her child.”
“Well, you’ll have more of a chance, as your Mama has agreed to take her until Victor returns. So she’ll be living with you at Chilbury Manor.”
I beamed with joy, and held her especially tight. But then I remembered. “What about Daddy?”
“It’s all right, Venetia. You have nothing to worry about from him anymore.”
I remembered what Kitty said about Mrs. Tilling knowing something. How incredibly useful!
Overjoyed, I hugged Rose tightly. She is to come with her belongings on Friday, and I’ll be able to feed her every night.
Chilbury Manor remains terribly quiet for now. Kitty has been excruciatingly apologetic and really quite sweet. Daddy has been exceptionally absent and has thrown himself wholeheartedly into defending Chilbury from the Nazis. He has the Chilbury Defense Volunteers meet every other day to exert his authority. We’re incredibly relieved he’s found another focus for his energies.
Mama ordered me to rest as soon as I got home from work, realizing at last that she can leave baby Lawrence with Nanny and he’ll be just fine. After dinner, Kitty and Silvie decided to bring the gramophone into my bedroom to cheer us all up. We listened to the records Prim lent to Kitty before the bomb. She tried to give them back to Prim’s sisters when they came to collect her belongings—what was left of them. But they insisted that we keep them and enjoy them as much as we could in honor of Prim.
It was a cozy little evening, the four of us sitting around the player flipping through the records—there must be over forty of them, many of them from America. Mama brought up some tea and I had some biscuits from work, so we had a small party.
“This one is my favorite.” Kitty took a record out of its cover. “Prim told me it was one of her favorites, too, so I hope she’s looking down on us now, listening to her music.”
“What is it?” Mama asked.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she chimed, putting it on and lifting the needle.
The notes began, after a little crackling. It was a band playing a fast little American number, quite amusing. Kitty and Silvie have clearly been listening to it, as they knew all the words.
“Keep young and beautiful,” they sang, strutting around the room. Kitty scooped up a small towel, pretending it was a feather boa.
It was highly entertaining, and we fell about laughing. Then I found “Blue Moon,” so we put that on. It was sung by some sisters from America. We joined in, with Kitty singing a harmony, such a magical song.
Mama chose an older one called “Putting on the Ritz.”
“It reminds me of when Daddy and I went to dances. Sometimes people would do the Charleston. I always wanted to have a go,” she said shyly.
Kitty and Silvie got up and did a few dance steps, back and forth, pulling Mama up to join in. Silvie was rather good, but Kitty was so pathetic that I felt obliged to get up and show them how to do it properly. Mama, for once, didn’t tell me to get back into bed.
“Let’s do this next.” Kitty put on an English favorite that we all knew called “Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major.” We sang along, sitting in a line on the bed, linking arms and swaying from side to side, until Kitty swayed too far and fell off, collapsing with laughter on the floor.
“We should put on a show!” Kitty said, her little face lighting up. “We should learn all the words and put on a show!”
“Why don’t you write the words out, and maybe we can try and sing along another time,” I said, hoping Mama wouldn’t be a bore and say it was too much for me.
But she said, “What a lovely idea. Perhaps we’ll ask some of the ladies from the choir to come along, too.”
“Hurrah!” Kitty cheered, and Silvie clapped her hands, jumping in her seat.
“It could be our new resurrection,” I said. “The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir becomes a singing show!”
I’ll keep you informed about our show, and if it ever comes into fruition. I’m sure with Kitty at the helm it’ll be difficult to put her off.
Much love,
Venetia
Tuesday, 13th August, 1940
Hitler has clearly resolved to make a decisive air attack on England, as there’s been a frenzy of fighter formations hurtling across our skies the past few days. The Nazis have been targeting military places, and we’re petrified they may hit Litchfield Park or Parnham Airfield.
When I arrived home this afternoon, Carrington was there waiting for me, his slim form perched neatly on the whitewashed bench on the front veranda appreciating the orangey glow of the late afternoon. He was wearing his army uniform but had taken off his hat, holding it in his hand and enjoying the warmth on his face, closing his eyes against the golden sun.
He got up when he saw me, and hurried over to give me a hand with my bicycle.
“How
lovely to see you, Carrington,” I said, cheered to see his warm smile. “Is your leg doing any better?”
“Yes, it’s all right. They say I’ll never be able to run properly again, but these days I feel lucky to still be alive.”
“Come and have a cup of tea,” I said, leading him inside. “How is work at Litchfield Park?”
He followed me in, and we went and sat in the front room. “They’ve put me in intelligence, which is fascinating stuff. I’m hoping they might move me to London.”
I made some tea and brought it in, sitting down opposite him and waiting to hear if he had any news for me.
“I found out a few things,” he said after I poured the tea. “It took a little prying, but at last I found a lead, someone who knows how these chaps operate, and bingo! We have a few answers.” He looked jolly pleased with himself. “But, Mrs. Tilling, I must ask you to promise never to repeat what I am about to tell you to anyone. It really is top, top secret, and we will all be in trouble if anyone finds out this knowledge has been shared.”
“Of course,” I said quickly, knowing he should trust me after the dealings with Berkeley’s ring.
“Slater is a spy. One of the best we have. He came down to break a strong Nazi intelligence ring that was focused on Litchfield Park. He found one of the sources—someone’s butler, I believe—and escaped with him and another one to London, where he uncovered a complete network of Nazi spies. Bit of a hero, really.” He picked up his tea and sat back in the armchair while I absorbed this information.
So I’d been wrong about Slater all along. But at least I had been right about one thing: there most certainly was a lot more to him than meets the eye! All the things that the Colonel said to me last month came flooding back, about how much pain Venetia will go through when he puts his life at risk again and again, until he finally loses it. Of course, everything makes sense now.
“Did he leave the night of the bomb?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t to do with the bomb. It was because that was the night he abruptly left for London. They had reason to believe someone suspected them, a girl.”
That would be Kitty, I thought, remembering that night, her conversation with Colonel Mallard, his telephone call afterward, then the planes, the sirens, the bombs.
“Once in London they were put in touch with a senior organizer, and Slater nailed the whole ring. Some of them have been ‘turned double,’ so they’re back on the street but working for us.”
My head was spinning with questions. “If he was undercover, am I right in thinking he wouldn’t have been able to tell the woman in question anything about himself or what he did?”
“That’s right.”
“Which is why she was always so confused about it.”
“Indeed. Apparently he was involved with the black market to bolster his position. In effect, he was an intelligence agent pretending to be a Nazi spy, who was pretending to be a black marketeer, who was pretending to be an artist. Clever chap.”
“Why did he have to be a black marketeer?”
“He needed to get illegal papers for them so that he could provide food and ration books. He needed to give them a service, to prove he was one of them.”
“So what’s he going to do after he’s finished with this? Will he be able to tell her about it all?”
“They’re sending him away next. He won’t be allowed to tell her the details, but I’m sure he can explain a certain amount.”
The sound of the front door opening and voices came from the hall, so we quickly stopped talking, which was lucky as within a moment Venetia herself stepped into the front room, followed by the Colonel. She was looking a picture of beauty in a dress with lavender flowers. Her eyes still have that haunted look, and she’s altogether too slim, but strangely more striking now than she ever was before, when she was “empress.” She came in and perched on the arm of the sofa.
“Colonel Mallard gave me a lift in his motorcar, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello,” she said, smiling beautifully.
“This is Lt. Carrington. Perhaps you two know each other from Litchfield Park?”
Carrington, who had stood to attention when the Colonel came in, was looking at her, captivated. He was staring rather at her face, and then from head to toe. I thought it rather odd that he of all people might be in awe of her, but then I saw the look on his face. It was more one of complete and utter astonishment than admiration.
She stayed and chatted for a while, telling us about how they contrive to get some work done squashed into the long underground shelters.
“Everyone is washing themselves far more than usual as we’re in such close proximity and it’s easy to notice if someone hasn’t bathed.” She laughed and Carrington joined in politely, although I don’t think he was actually listening to a word she was saying.
After she left, I had to find out why he looked at her like that.
“Do you already know Venetia?” I asked.
He blushed and looked at his hands. “Did I stare rather? I’m so terribly sorry.” He smiled. “You see, my father recently procured a new painting for his office, and—” He hesitated over his words. “And it happens to be a woman who looks exactly like Venetia.”
“How marvelous,” I said. “I hope it does her justice.”
“Well, yes,” he said, covering a laugh. “You see, it’s a nude.”
I tried to stop myself from laughing, but couldn’t help it, and when the Colonel came down the stairs, he found the two of us, by the door, whooping with laughter.
“Slater must have painted her. How very funny. Where on earth did he get it?” I giggled, leading him out to the front path.
Carrington laughed. “He bought it from a rather thuggish-looking dealer called Gibbs.”
“Oh! I wonder how Ralph Gibbs got hold of it. I can’t imagine Slater gave it to him.”
“I very much doubt it. Although I must say I’m rather impressed with his artistic skills, for a spy that is.”
We were still laughing as we walked down to the road. He had left his bicycle leaning against the wall, beside my creeping roses.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, “and for the information, although Heaven knows what I’m to do with it. I suppose I’ll just keep it to myself and see if he shows up.”
“Yes,” Carrington said, climbing onto his bicycle. “Better to be circumspect.” He gave me the loveliest of smiles and a “Cheerio,” and was off down the road to Litchfield.
I wandered back into the house trying to absorb this news. Should I tell Venetia about Slater? I decided to leave it for the moment. She seems to be improving, and I wouldn’t want to build up her hopes again.
The Colonel gave me a knowing look as I walked into the living room.
“I didn’t know you were friends with young Carrington.”
“Yes,” I said, shooting him a sidelong glance. “It’s good to have friends in the right places.”
Thursday, 15th August, 1940
This Hideous War!
It all started early this afternoon when Silvie and I arrived back from riding, Silvie galloping headlong across the fields as if her life depended on it. Having let ourselves in the side door, we wandered through the kitchen to the hall, hoping to catch Mama having tea with maybe a few sandwiches to spare. The sound of her meandering voice, then Venetia’s languid tones, echoed crisply through the galleried marble hall, and Silvie and I exchanged small smiles. We were in luck.
How wrong could I have been! As we approached the door, I felt Silvie’s cold little hand touch my arm, holding me back. I looked back to her quizzically, but she put her finger to her lips. “Shh.”
“I know,” Mama was saying. “I honestly don’t know how to break it to her. Let me read you what he says.” She coughed slightly, then came the sound of paper unfolding—a letter. “ ‘We are sorry to say that Silvie’s parents have been found. For the last few months they were hidden in a neighbor’s barn, the Dornaks’.”
I looked at Silvie, and she nodded, whispering, “They’re our friends. I played with their daughter.”
“ ‘But they were found, the Dornaks taken out and shot dead as punishment.’ ”
Silvie’s eyes dropped from mine to the floor, her face as white as a sheet. With all this information flying at us through the open door, I decided to make our presence known and took her arm forward. But she held me back angrily, giving me such a hard look that I didn’t dare.
“ ‘Her parents were taken to a work camp for Jewish people in northern Czechoslovakia. There is no mention of her brother.’ ”
For a haze of a moment, Silvie’s face looked translucent, as if she was a pale ghost of a child here from antiquity, and then—quick as a wisp—she turned and fled. Out through the hall, through the kitchen and side door, and out into the wide open space of nature, the emerald and amber of late summer enveloping her, a tiny figure under the vast blue sky. In a few strides she was gone, into the thicket, into the wood, like a small creature under perpetual attack.
We spent the rest of the afternoon looking for her.
The first places I looked for Silvie
She wasn’t in the stables, cuddling up with Amadeus
All the horses were still there, so she hadn’t galloped off somewhere
She wasn’t at the dam in the stream, or by the beehives
She wasn’t at Old George’s bush in Peasepotter Wood
Mama and Venetia had hurried into the village to get help, and by the time I returned home, exhausted and worried, a group of ladies were being debriefed by Mrs. B. on the front lawn.
The Chilbury Ladies' Choir Page 28
