“Miss Paltry, are you all right?”
It was the Vicar, come to take me home with him, and I realized that it had begun to rain without me noticing, fat drops of water splattering on and around us, getting harder as we made our way across the square to the Vicarage.
He showed me to the comfortable room they’d prepared, “especially for our midwife guest.” After I settled in, we had a fish supper, and then I sat listening to the wireless with news of the war, of the Battle of Britain, Nazi planes dropping bombs over the southeast, and I was suddenly struck by how precious it all is, how much we have to protect.
So here I am, in the most unlikeliest of places, writing this sitting up in my soft, warm bed, as the rain falls outside my window. I feel like I need to write it all out tonight so that I can start afresh tomorrow, move on to a new day, a new beginning.
I know that you will be cross with me, Clara, and I know you’re planning to come and give me a piece of your mind. But please stay away. My hip is sore, and I need to rest for a time, and then I need to earn a little money from a few births, find a small place of my own somewhere.
And then I will turn my attention to Ralph Gibbs. Make no mistake, Clara, I will get my money come hell or high water.
Until then,
Edwina
CHILBURY MANOR,
CHILBURY,
KENT.
Monday, 19th August, 1940
Dear Angela,
Since my office at Litchfield Park was obliterated by the bombs, they’re moving me up to London. The bombing was horrific, a lot of people’s homes destroyed, and a lot of those beautiful Tudor buildings. I feel terribly guilty for being excited to leave, but I need to be away to take my mind off everything that’s happened.
I do still pine for Alastair, but I can’t get over him leaving me like he did. The more I think about it, I feel that he was two different men, the one who was a villain and a spy, and the other Alastair—the one I knew—who was gentle and clever and decent. I wonder if he’s somewhere out there, thinking of me.
In the meantime, Kitty has got us involved in a singing concert for the people who were bombed in Litchfield. At first it was just us singing along to some gramophone records at home, but then Mama suggested that we make it for the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. I could make a joke about the Litchfield people needing cheering up, not burst eardrums, but I won’t as I’m sure they’ll love it. There aren’t a lot of good things you can give people these days, now that everything’s rationed or not allowed, but at least we can still sing. It’s amazing how much better it can make you feel. Prim always used to tell us it’s because of all the blood flowing through our bodies, the extra air in our lungs, making us feel alive. Poor Prim! It’ll be sad to have the concert without her here. She would have loved it.
Mrs. Tilling arranged for us to use a church hall in Litchfield this coming Saturday, and Kitty made some colorful posters to put up around the town. They think that over seventy people might come, and we’re beginning to feel quite nervous.
There was a practice this evening in the village hall, and we arrived wondering how it would all work out. Halls are nothing like churches, and the music we were singing was certainly not “Ave Maria.” But we’re terribly excited. What better way to cheer us up after cleaning up first Chilbury and then the rather larger job at Litchfield.
“Hello, everyone,” Mrs. Tilling said jovially. “Let’s start by getting into place then, shall we? Everyone up on stage.” She whisked her hands up to hurry us along, and then began to position us. “Sopranos on the right, altos on the left,” she called, and then began pulling the shorter people forward and pushing the larger ones—including a much befuddled Mrs. B.—to the back. Then she dashed back off the stage to admire her handiwork, coming back a few times to make small adjustments.
“Perfect!” she finally announced, and handed out a few pages to each person. These were Kitty and Silvie’s masterpieces. They had managed to fit the words of all twenty songs onto two sheets of paper, and then copied them out lots of times.
We began by singing along to the gramophone records, as we had back at Chilbury Manor, and there was a lot of stumbling over words.
“Not to worry if you haven’t got the words in time to the music yet,” Mrs. Tilling said. “Just muddle through for now. Remember that you can practice on your own at home, and we’ll have a full rehearsal on Wednesday.”
Kitty is singing a wonderful solo, “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” She sang it perfectly at practice, which is hardly surprising since we haven’t heard anything else in the house since Sunday.
Then Mrs. Tilling stepped forward and said, “I’d also like to ask Venetia to sing a solo. Would you do that for us?”