A few of the other WVS ladies joined in, the Sewing Ladies tutting about it over their troops’ pajamas, 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 toward 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. “I’m proud to announce the creation of the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir.”
From one half of the crowd, a round of applause burst forth. I felt a warm glow inside me. This might become a reality.
But on the other side, Mrs. B., hands on hips, stood defiant, guarding her territory and supporters with a firm, unyielding presence.
Prim continued, her bright gray eyes bulging with purpose. “I know that everyone’s been feeling downcast at the choir’s demise, which is why,” she announced jubilantly with a flourish of her baton, “I proposed to the Vicar that the village’s dear choir should become a women’s-only choir.”
“And how exactly did you do that?” Mrs. B. asked in her usual condescending way.
“I explained that now that there’s a war going on, we’re far more in need of a choir than ever before. We need to be able to come together and sing, to make wonderful music and help ourselves through this dreadful time.” She paused, turning toward a tall candle beside her so that its flickers reflected thoughtfully in her eyes. “Some of us remember the last war, the endless suffering and death it caused. It is time for us women to do what we can as a group to support each other and keep our spirits up. Just because there are no men, it doesn’t mean we can’t do it by ourselves.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. B. stepped forward, her pompous form bristling up to the pulpit. She was dressed in her usual tweed shooting jacket and skirt, puffing out her chest in what her friends and neighbors know to be her fighting stance. “What will we do without the basses and tenors?”
“We will sing arrangements for female voices, or I will rearrange them for us. We don’t need the men! We are a complete choir all by ourselves!”
“In any case,” Mrs. Quail laughed from the organ, “the only bass we had was old Mr. Dawkins. And he hasn’t been singing in tune for at least two years.”
A few titters came from younger members, but Mrs. B. was not disheartened, looking around for her supporters to speak up.
“What will God think?” one of the Sewing Ladies piped up. “He couldn’t have intended women to sing on their own. Just think of the Hallelujah Chorus—where would that be without men?”
“There are plenty of male-only choirs, aren’t there?” Prim chuckled. “Think of the great choirs of Cambridge, not to mention St. Paul’s Cathedral. I can’t imagine any God would dislike a spot of singing.”
“But it goes against the natural order of things,” Mrs. B. said.
I felt like clearing my throat and telling her that she was wrong, and before I knew it, I was saying out loud, “Maybe we’ve been told that women can’t do things so many times that we’ve actually started to believe it. In any case, the natural order of things has been temporarily changed because there are no men around.” I glanced around for inspiration. “Mrs. Gibbs makes her own milk deliveries now, and Mrs. Quail has taken on the role of bus driver, like a lot of us taking on new jobs. The war’s mixed everything else up. Why shouldn’t it change the choir, too?”