I was bewildered. “Well, I’ll give it a try,” I said uncertainly.
She gave me the music for a song we sang at home last week, “Blue Moon.” My fingers began to shake as I looked over the words. It’s about a girl, like me, who is now alone, like me, and waiting for someone new. This last part is not like me, and my eyes began to water. I don’t want someone new, I want Alastair back. I know he’s a scoundrel, and that I should never want to see his face again, but I can’t get over him. I don’t want to get over him.
“You don’t have to sing it if you don’t want to, Venetia,” Mrs. Tilling said softly, putting her hand out to take the page away from me again.
“No,” I said, standing straight. “I can do it.”
And so I did. Mrs. Quail started the introduction, and I sang, clear and low, my voice filling the hall. Everyone clapped and cheered at the end, so I must have done a reasonable job. I have been practicing at home, and think it’ll work fine on Saturday.
After that, I shall be London-bound, and we shall have fun like the good old days, and hopefully I’ll begin to forget about Alastair. Would it be all right if I stay with you until I find a place of my own?
Much love,
Venetia
IVY HOUSE, LITCHFIELD ROAD, CHILBURY, KENT.
Tuesday, 20th August, 1940
Dear Maud, It appears that my department is to be moved to London since a bomb neatly destroyed our entire office. My desk is woodchip, and I can hardly bear to imagine the state of me had I been sitting at it. They aim to start moving us up as soon as they can find accommodation. I have been told that we’ve been prioritized, so it may be as early as next week.
I have yet to tell my landlady, Mrs. Tilling. I’m sure she’ll be upset to have to find a new person for her room, although with Litchfield Park bombed and Kent on the front line, she may find herself spared the effort. I know she’ll miss having the company, though, and I rather worry about how I’m going to break it to her. We’ve become quite good friends, what with our makeshift dinners in the kitchen and our air raids together in the cellar. I must confess I’ll miss our little chats.
Nevertheless, the war carries on, and we must step to. I’ll write again once I have a new address for you. Send my love to the girls.
Much love,
Anthony
Wednesday, 21st August, 1940
The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir will perform again! We are to sing in a concert in Litchfield this coming Saturday. A lot of the ladies were very upset that the choir competition was canceled, and now we have our very own stage. What a marvelous idea it was of Kitty’s.
The rehearsal went quite well, although I am hoping that certain members put in some extra practice. Our plan is to begin at seven. We will perform for an hour by ourselves and then do songs that everyone knows and can sing along to, like “My Old Man Said Follow the Van,” and “Roll Out the Barrel,” and “We’re Going to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line.” The church said they may be able to find some tea for afterward, but I’m not counting on it. Following that, well, back home, and back to reality.
The Colonel has to move to London, probably next week or the week after. He told me over dinner last night, at the kitchen table. All we had was oxtail soup and some bread and butter, but it didn’t seem to matter.
“I’d really rather stay here, you know,” he said, looking rather crestfallen. “I’ve grown to like it, and all that.”
“Yes, I suppose I’ve grown used to you being here, too.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you miss me, then?”
“Of course I will.” I carried on eating my soup, even though he’d put down his spoon.
“Will you write to me?” he asked carefully.
“Of course,” I replied. “I love writing letters. I do hope you’ll reply, tell me how things are in London, whether we’re going to win the war, that kind of thing.”
“No, I mean it,” he said more quietly, seriously.
“So do I.”
We watched each other for a few moments, the spoon midway to my mouth, and I suddenly felt like we were in some sort of battlefield. It was clear that he liked me and I liked him. We had grown to fit around one another, fill the gaps of space between us. The comfort and support, the lively conversation and banter, the fleeting feeling of passion, love even. I knew he felt it, too. It had woven its way around the pair of us together, in unison, each move of the one bringing the other closer, and vice versa.
He brought out a gift for me, “a thank-you-for-having-me-stay gift,” he called it. I took off the newspaper wrapping and beheld a new dressing gown, soft and blue.
“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed, thinking of my battered brown one, wondering how he’d come across such a lovely item in the thick of war.