But the clock ticked on, and still no one was coming in. Our lines of chairs looked sadly out of place, with only the church porter bumbling around with a hammer doing some odd jobs. It was now five to seven. I couldn’t believe no one wanted to come to hear us. I’d plastered the city’s lampposts with my posters.
“I’ll just have a word with the porter,” Mrs. Tilling said. “Perhaps the church canceled it and forgot to tell us.” She trotted down the steps at the side of the stage, down the aisle, and disappeared into the entrance hall.
“One would hope they would have the decency to let us know!” Mrs. B. said, sniffing slightly, as if the whole thing were very much beneath her.
All of a sudden from the entrance there came a frenzied commotion as a torrent of people surged through and into the hall, some racing to get a seat near the front. The porter must have forgotten to open the door. There was a cacophony of chattering, people calling to one another once they had reached some seats, or on recognizing a neighbor. There were a lot of people in military uniform, but predominantly it was women, as we’ve got used to these days. I couldn’t believe they were so excited. They’d all come just to hear us sing! I could feel butterflies exploding all over my stomach. Why had I agreed to do a solo? Was I really cut out for a life on the stage?
At last the hall was bursting at the seams, and the porter closed the door and indicated to Mrs. Tilling that it was time to begin. She got up and walked purposefully to the center of the stage, raising her arms to indicate that we were to stand up and take our places. After a little confusion and Mrs. Gibbs standing on Mrs. B.’s foot, we found our spots. Mrs. Tilling looked serenely around the massive hall, waiting for everyone to be silent. The voices lowered among some shushing, and then disappeared completely, especially as I could see Mrs. Tilling’s eyes focusing on one or two perpetrators to give them a what-for look.
Then she returned to us, raised her baton, and gently ushered Mrs. Quail to begin the introduction of our first song. It was a lovely lazy jazz song called “Summertime,” and we all began swaying a little as we sang, as it just seemed so dreamy. We were so enjoying singing that I think we almost forgot about the audience out there, hundreds of faces listening, some swaying, some tapping a foot, some forgetting for a moment about the bombs and the blood and the bodies.
At the end there was an eruption of applause, and even a few whistles. We beamed with delight and then saw Mrs. Tilling indicate that it was Venetia’s turn to sing “Blue Moon.” Venetia had wanted me to go first, but Mrs. Tilling insisted. “You have such a marvelous stage presence, Venetia,” she said. “I want you near the beginning.”
“Good luck,” I whispered as I went to stand at the side of the stage with the rest of the choir. “You can do it, Venetia.”
And then it was just Venetia, alone at the front of the stage. She looked nervous, in her beautiful way, her great blue eyes staring out into the crowd, her yellow dress trembling slightly, and her golden, curled hair rustling on her shoulders. Her carefully painted mouth was open slightly in fear, her chest flittering up and down with fast breaths. The introduction began, and she spread her fingers out down by her side and sang out the first notes of “Blue Moon,” at first quiet and nervous, but then growing in strength with the first few lines. She was doing it. She was singing in front of all these people.
I looked around the faces, smiling, enjoying it, and I felt her becoming more comfortable, letting her voice ring out to fill the great hall. Before I knew it, she was in the second verse, her hips swaying slightly as she sang, smiling at the audience.
Then I saw someone vaguely familiar.
He was standing at the back, slightly to the right. I couldn’t work out if it was really him at first. He looked different. His hair was shorter, his clothes less formal. Was he an apparition?
He smiled and winked at her, slow and measured, and I knew that it truly was him. That he was alive. Come to find her.
She stopped singing. Her words just petered out as she gazed over at him. I saw his mouth move, saying something silently through the air. I love you. And I love you, too, she mouthed back to him over the crowds.
Mrs. Quail had carried on playing, even though Venetia had stopped singing, and I quickly found my feet and darted across the stage to her, carrying on from where she left off. She turned and looked at me, trepidation in her eyes, and headed to the steps off the stage. I carried on singing as she made her way through the crowds, people parting to let her through, making a path for her, until she reached Mr. Slater.
There they stood, a few feet apart, looking at each other, until someone nudged her forward, and they fell into each other’s arms, kissing like people do in the movies. It was the most romantic moment I’ve ever seen. Everyone around them cheered, and soon the whole hall was alight with a roar of celebration. In this bleak world, there is at least one thing that we have left. Love.