Now that we have two babies in Chilbury Manor, Mama and Nanny Godwin are busy all the time. Mama is overjoyed, of course. They’re like twins as they were born on the same day, except they couldn’t be more different—Rose all cheerful and angelic and Lawrence small and perplexing. Silvie has been helping to look after them, saying it reminds her of looking after her baby brother. She still has that wistful look but has been talking more, and has attached herself to Mama quite fiercely. Silvie and I have been busy planning our expedition across Europe after the war to find her parents and her brother. She said she’ll show me around her old house and neighborhood, and has begun to tell me more about her life. How lovely it was before this horrid war began.
News from the Shop
The village shop was bustling again with news this morning. Ralph Gibbs has bought the old mansion across the square, Tudor Grange. It must have cost a lot, and no one knows where he got the money, as surely the black market isn’t doing all that well. Quite the village lord he is now, with Mrs. Gibbs saying she’s to sell the shop. Elsie is glued to him, the attraction now more obvious. I can’t help wondering if it has something to do with the money that we found with Tom.
Tom’s Departure
Sadly, Tom is returning to London as his school is starting up again (as is ours in Litchfield). He promised to write to me, and if he doesn’t I’ll be incredibly cross as Silvie and I have both become quite fond of him. He says he’ll miss us, too, and he’ll be back next year, if not before for a visit.
The Newcomer
We have another newcomer to our village, and quite a character she is, too, with her shoulder-length wavy hair brushed back like she’s spent too long on a very windy cliff or has undergone a tremendous shock. She’s older than Venetia, maybe even thirty, and taller, too, wearing a tweed skirt and striding around looking at everything with determined interest like an unruly horse.
“I’m a journalist,” she told us in a nasal upper-class voice. “Endeavoring to root out the real stories behind the war. The stories of us women, left alone in these little places to fend for ourselves and deal with the devastation. How we all pull together to help the war effort.”
Obviously I introduced myself to her promptly. “Let me be the one to show you around,” I announced, taking her arm and marching her off to see the remains of Church Row. “You see, we’ve had quite a summer with it all!”
“Is that where the bombs hit?” she asked, putting on her black-rimmed glasses and taking a notebook out of a large leather handbag.
“Yes, two women were killed, and one badly injured. One of the dead was the magnificent new choirmistress, the other our wonderful schoolteacher. Luckily her baby was rescued.”
Her face snapped around to me. “How fascinating!” She glanced around and pulled me to the little wooden bench by the duck pond, the September sun sending a glowing golden hue over the gently yellowing leaves.
“Tell me about it. What time did it happen?” she asked.
“About half past eleven.”
“And a clear night?”
“A crescent moon, I think.”
She sat transfixed for a moment, murmuring to herself. “Clear black skies with a shimmering moon, the stars flickering like a thousand innocent bystanders.”
“That sounds beautiful,” I sighed. “It must be marvelous to write like that.”
“I can teach you if you have time,” she said, and I found myself transfixed as she rose from her seat and began pacing around the pond twiddling her pen. “But first I want you to tell me all about how the women are coping with war.”
“Well, I don’t think we were doing very well at all, until one spring day the new choirmistress arrived and got us singing again. She resurrected the choir, making it a women’s-only choir—the Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It seemed such an unthinkable idea at first, but then we won a competition and realized how much better we were, and how we could transform ourselves into a charity singing show, or anything we liked. Well, after that we all began looking around and realizing we could do a lot of things better by ourselves, or with the help of each other, and together we became stronger, better. A force to be reckoned with.”
The woman watched me, and then gazed over at the crumbling church.
“The Chilbury Ladies’ Choir. It has a ring about it.”
“Yes.” I nodded, smiling. “The most inspiring group of women you’ll ever meet.”