What a dreadful man! Although I suppose it could be a lot worse; he could smell of cow dung, or whistle, or even more dire, take up residence in my living room. It’ll be awkward sharing my house with a stranger, so unlike the soft warmth of David. I wondered what Colonel Mallard does at Litchfield, as I worry that the war may be lost if this is the general countenance of the people we have in charge. He hardly looks like one of Mrs. B.’s “important bigwigs.” He’s far too disheveled and disorganized, like a big old cardboard box.
As I began peeling the potatoes for dinner, thinking of going over to see Hattie as soon as I could get away, I heard the door upstairs open, and for a split second I thought it was David, and his cheery voice would carry down the hall, “I’ll be off now, Mum!”
The heavy tramp down the stairs jolted me back.
“Mrs. Tilling,” he called from the hallway.
“Colonel Mallard,” I replied, hurrying out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on my apron. “Will you be requiring dinner in the evening? If so, I’ll need your ration book.”
“No, I’ll eat at the canteen,” he said, and then added, “Thank you,” in an officious way.
He held out a tattered satchel. I recognized it immediately as David’s, realizing that I must have left it in the room when I began tidying everything away. I snatched it from him in annoyance. Why can’t he leave everything alone?
“Is that all?” I said, desperate for him to leave. But he stood for a moment looking through me, as if trying to remember if he had everything, and then turned and headed for the door, muttering a sullen “Good-bye.”
I closed the front door and wandered numbly back to the kitchen. From the window over the sink I can see the tumbledown tower of the church, and if you climb to the top of that tower on a clear day, you can see the yellow-brown turrets and pinnacles of Litchfield University. I stood and thought about how my dreams have become smaller over the years, from when I was young and yearned to study, to meeting Harold and dreaming of my own family, to Harold dying and my world circulating around David, the only light left in my sad little life.
And now all I dream is that he doesn’t die. Everything else, including the new intruder, means nothing.
To calm my nerves, I went for a brisk walk, and found myself in the church, sitting in the pew at the back on the left, piecing together the new world around me.
“All right there?” A voice came from behind, instantly recognizable as Prim.
“Yes, just coming to terms with a strange colonel staying in my house. He’s billeted with me.”
“Before I found my house in Church Row, I stayed with a lovely old gentleman. He still joins me for tea from time to time. Perhaps it’ll improve as you get to know each other.”
“He’s such a grumpy curmudgeon, I can’t imagine ever getting on with him. I’ll have to see if I can find another room for him somewhere else.”
“I’m sure that if you take the time to talk to him you’ll realize he’s just like you or your son, or anyone else. There’s a war on. Why not give him a chance?”
She had that twinkling little smile on her face, and I couldn’t help but smile, too. “That’s the ticket,” she said, and continued her hurrying in and out with various music stands and scores.
“Prim,” I began as she scuttled by. “You coming here and reinstalling our choir has been such a tremendous lift for us. Do you really believe that singing will help us get through this gruesome war?”
“Music takes us out of ourselves, away from our worries and tragedies, helps us look into a different world, a bigger picture. All those cadences and beautiful chord changes, every one of them makes you feel a different splendor of life.”
“I wish I had your enthusiasm for something,” I murmured.
“But you do, Mrs. Tilling. You do. Not for music but for other things. You only need to stand back and see.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I said glumly.
“Well, let’s start by cheering you up with a little singing.”
She took my arm and led me to the front. Standing me in the middle of the altar, she went back and plumped herself down on one of the front row seats.
“Now sing, Mrs. Tilling. Open your heart and sing. Just pick your favorite hymn.”
“Well, that’s ‘I Vow to Thee My Country,’?” I said, the thought of this powerful hymn making me warm to the idea. “But I can’t just sing, here on my own.”
“There’s no one here except me. It doesn’t matter if you do it wrong.”
I imagined the organ introduction and softly began humming it, until I opened my mouth and began to sing the first poignant words, sending them echoing clearly through the apse.
I vow to Thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love.
The hymn was sung at my father’s funeral, as it was for so many of those men who died in the Great War. And then we sang it again at my mother’s funeral, and then at Harold’s. As I was singing it out alone in the church, it took on a new horror. I realized that I have been trapped by those deaths, that I had let them take over.
And I now see that it is time to let them go.
Saturday, 18th May, 1940
The Choir Competition