He took her hand and led her through the crowds to the door, and they disappeared into the night together.
I carried on singing, thinking of being alone, the end of my future with Henry. How ridiculous it all seems now, that I was so smitten that I’d do something so stupid and childish.
But then I thought of all the wonderful people that I have in my life: Mama has suddenly become more herself, Venetia has become a friend, Silvie is part of our family for now, and Rose, too, and even Tom, in his small, adoring way, could be considered a new friend. And the choir, almost like a family of friends and neighbors all standing by each other. You see, I’m not alone anymore. None of us are.
The crowd roared with pleasure as the song came to a close. It took a minute for me to realize that they were clapping for me—I had quite forgotten my butterflies.
“Let’s go straight into your solo, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said, turning to Mrs. Quail for the introduction, and before I knew it I was smiling around the crowd waiting for the moment to come in. It was that wonderful, soaring song, “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”
After the sweeping low-high of the first notes, the audience cheered their approval, and I couldn’t help beaming a smile through the entire song, the words spilling seamlessly out of my mouth and filling the hall with a glowing, radiant hope.
At the end, the applause burst forth like thunder, with people calling and whistling. I felt my eyes fill with tears. My singing had been a success!
Soon I was surrounded by the rest of the choir, congratulating me and getting their music ready for the rest of the show. Mrs. Tilling took her baton and led us into the next tune, another jazz number, and we found ourselves swinging our hips to the rhythm, the crowds joining in. It was so much fun. Following that, we had the sing-along, finishing off with a very hearty version of “There’ll Always Be an England.”
“You were right, Kitty,” Mrs. Tilling said, as the applause continued and we took bow after bow. “There’s nothing like a good song to cheer us all up.”
“Thanks to you, Mrs. Tilling, for taking over the choir.”
The calls for “more” and “encore” continued, and Mrs. B. bustled forward and nudged Mrs. Tilling. “Shall we give them another one?”
Mrs. Tilling looked around at our eager eyes. “I don’t see why not,” she said, and raised her baton one final time. “Let’s sing ‘The World Will Sing Again.’?”
We’d only rehearsed it a few times, but it was one of the most tearful songs, thinking of the bereaved and filling them with some kind of hope. Mrs. Tilling waited for the hall to be completely hushed before holding up her baton and leading us in. We sang it plainly, letting the words speak for themselves, their intertwining mixture of despair and hope, of smashed dreams and brave smiles, of the blackest night quietly overcome with the new light of daybreak. It was a magic moment—you could have heard a pin drop, the audience was so quiet. Respectful, I’d say, of everyone there who’d lost someone, or with loved ones away, in danger.
When we finished, there was a long moment of silence, a prayer perhaps, before a slow applaud began, rippling around the crowded room like a growing tide. There were no cheers, no whistles, just the dense resonance of hundreds of people sounding their support to those who’d lost someone, to those who didn’t know how to carry on.
After it had died down, we went to see if there were any refreshments (which there weren’t) and meet people. All of Chilbury had turned up, including Henry (who Venetia and I have renamed Horrible Henry), who was talking animatedly to a uniformed woman who looked like an especially brutish bulldog.
“That’s Lady Constance Worthing, Lady Worthing’s daughter,” Mrs. Tilling whispered, a little laugh trembling her voice. “I am surprised Henry’s succumbed to Mrs. B.’s wishes.”
“Is he courting her?” I was amazed. She didn’t look like his type at all. I couldn’t even be jealous!
“Their union would make their families very formidable indeed. The Brampton money and the Worthing title.” She smirked, and I could see she thought the whole thing ludicrous. “But look over there!”
I followed her gaze to see Ralph Gibbs with none other than our former maid Elsie. “Are they courting?” I asked again.