A few claps went round, as well as one or two cheers of “Hear, hear!” and “That’s the spirit!” I still couldn’t believe I’d stood up and spoken, and to Mrs. B. as well, who was watching me in a highly disapproving way.
“Indeed, Mrs. Tilling?” Mrs. B. snipped. “I don’t know which part of that address shocks me the most! The notion of having to lower our moral standards because of the war, or the fact that you, my dear, seem to have joined the fray.” She turned to the group, clustered on the altar between the two choir stalls. “We will end this once and for all with a show of hands. Whoever agrees with this preposterous notion, please raise your hand.”
Now, Mrs. B. is not a spirited loser. Even as she counted and recounted the hands that went up, an indignant frown took form. She glowered at us as if we were somehow beyond reproach. “Don’t think this won’t have its consequences. I’ll be watching. Carefully.” And with that she huffed off, making a great show of it, and then, not being able to quite leave, plonked herself down in the last pew. She obviously felt she could guilt us into changing our minds, but as the voices around me grew, I knew she had no such chance.
“What a jolly idea,” Hattie said. “I can’t think why we didn’t come up with it before.”
“Yes, and such a splendid name, too,” Venetia declared. “The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It has a ring about it.”
I hadn’t thought of it before, but now I found myself wondering why we’d been closed down in the first place, why the Vicar had so much say over us. And, more to the point, why we’d simply let him do it.
Prim passed around some copies of “Be Thou My Vision.” “Let’s get ourselves organized. Stand in your usual places in the choir stalls, or wherever you’d like to be, and try to sing along with your part.”
We muddled around, and Mrs. B. huffed into the altos beside me. “I need to be here to see what a mess she’s going to make of the whole thing.”
“It’ll be just fine,” I said, but I was holding my breath, praying that we’d do well. I didn’t want it to fall through right from the start, for Prim to be disheartened by our terrible voices. We needed to show her that this could work.
With a look of confidence on her face, Prim lifted her baton, looked to Mrs. Quail to begin the introduction, and then brought us in. The sound of our voices filling the space, echoing through the little stone church, brought a burst of joy inside of me: the thrill of singing as a group again, the soft music of intertwining voices, for once staying in tune. I wondered if everyone was putting in a little more effort. Trying to make this work.
“That was wonderful,” Prim gushed when the final tapering of the last notes ebbed away into the still air. “We’ve got some talented singers here!”
We all smiled and hoped she was talking about us. Even Mrs. B.’s little group seemed to come under the spell of the music, forgetting the objections.
Mrs. B., however, wasn’t ready to give up the fight. “I’ll have to speak to the Vicar about this,” she announced, and flounced down the altar and out of the double doors. I’ll hear soon enough how that goes.
Afterward, I wandered home in a trance, trapped between the euphoria of song and the pinpricks of fear reminding me that David is leaving soon. The Nazis invaded Norway last week, and we’re sending a force to try to push them out. I hope they don’t send David there.
Slowly, softly, I began to sing to myself “Be Thou My Vision.” Everything was black in the moonless night, the blackout rules forcing all the light out of the world. But with a cautious smile, I realized that there are no laws against singing, and I found my voice becoming louder, in defiance of this war.
In defiance of my right to be heard.
Thursday, 18th April, 1940
What a breathtaking day! My first singing lesson with the superb and masterful Prim took place at her house on Church Row at five o’clock. I have never been more excited, and arrived a whole ten minutes early, waiting for her to get back from the university.
Prim arrived on her bicycle, her cloaked body balancing precariously on the narrow frame. “You’re here early,” she chortled. “I always say that enthusiasm paves every path with a shining light.” She climbed off and leaned the bicycle against the front of the house. “Come in, and we’ll make some tea before we start.”
The small house was exactly the same size and shape as Hattie’s, except it was completely filled with extraordinary things and smelled as musty as an antique shop. In the corner, a gold elephant stood on his hind legs. On the wall above were paintings of distant mountain peaks, and the burnt oranges and reds of a desert sunset. A small table was crammed with decorated boxes of different shapes and sizes, covered with shells or brightly colored silks—peacock blue, emerald green, cerise.
“Open one,” she said, as she watched my eyes flitting over everything.